CHAPTER 17

Total confusion, Pilgrimworld, was a little two-rocket ship town just this side of Nowhere and well to the Galactic South of Somewhere. It was a well-known place for colonists to stop off to wet their feet in the sort of trials and tribulations they could expect on their respective chosen colony worlds, and maybe wet their whistles on some of the famous homegrown moonshine. The theory was, if you could survive Pilgrimworld's 'shine, you could weather various and sundry conditions on whatever hunk of wasted intergalactic rock you'd cast your lot with.

Bill found himself in the midst of the air, above a sidewalk here in Total Confusion, dropped, as it were, from the very fluff of Time. It was a cement sidewalk, real hard, and Bill had erupted into existence about six feet above it. He went down and hit hard but — experienced Trooper that he was — turned the fall into a shoulder roll that canceled out most of the impact. He climbed to his feet and brushed himself off. Cursing under his breath, he looked around. Not much of a place.

The sky was green.

In the green sky were two — no, three suns.

A few of the passersby, he noted, were not human. Indeed, they completely ignored him and acted as though Galactic Troopers falling from the sky were an everyday occurrence.

Gigantic flowers grew from the conical tops of buildings. A sweet and sour musk, like hair oil and vinegar, was in the air. In the distance, a rocket landed on a pillar of flame.

"Hmm," said Bill. "I wonder what part of Earth's history I'm in now." He glanced around. "A weird part, that's for sure!"

Walking down the road was an old man. Bill called out to him. "Say, Pops — you couldn't tell what era of Earth's history is this?"

"You drunk or something, sonny?"

"No — but I wish I was. It's a simple question, isn't it?"

"Nope. Because this ain't Earth, sonny." The old man spit out tobacco juice. It was a big target but he managed to miss the street and got Bill's boot instead. "This here is Total Confusion!"

"Story of my life," Bill muttered, looking at the brown stain.

"But wherever you go, sonny-boy, you won't be on Earth. Because this here's Pilgrimworld. The Year of Our Heinous Emperor, Stardate 234152!"

Bill blinked. "Why, that's about a year before I was born. But this is totally another part of the galaxy from Phigerinadon II."

"You talk like you've lost your marbles. War wound?"

Bill scratched his head. Why, he'd been catapulted through space and time to a completely new place. But why? It just didn't make any sense! But then, what in life of late really did? Except, of course, one steady reliable Reality.

"War wound, something like that," said Bill. "One more question — a real easy one. Is there a bar around here?"

"Yep. Reckon so. Just 'round the corner, on Utter Nihilism Street, we got a real nice establishment, name of Sally's Saloon. Tell 'em Willie-Boy sent you!"

"Thanks, Willie-Boy!" said Bill, waving to the old geezer as he hobbled over toward the Saloon.

"Hell, I ain't Willie-Boy!" the old man snapped as he staggered away.

But Bill didn't hear him. Visions of beer bottles danced in his head.

Bill rounded the corner marked "Utter Nihilism" and immediately saw the tell-tale neon sign crying out SALLY'S SALOON. He needed a couple drinks before he found out how to get back to Barworld, save the universe from the hippies from Hellworld and the Nazi menace and that kind of thing. He walked into the saloon, which was his kind of bar — dark, damp, smelling of stale beer and dead butts. He grabbed a stool directly in front of a bored-looking bartender with arms the size of Aldebaran hams.

"Willie-boy sent me!" said Bill.

The bartender immediately punched him in the face.

When Bill managed to scrabble his way back up onto the barstool, he had his own fist cocked back to deliver a punch himself.

He found himself looking at the biggest shot glass he'd ever seen, filled with amber fluid that could only be whiskey, alongside a healthy-sized draft beer.

"What?" Bill muttered, head ringing with confusion.

"Code for a practical joke, friend," said the bartender. "All newcomers on Pilgrimworld get it. This is a frontier world, fella. We get kinda rough, but we're good-hearted people too. Enjoy your free drinks."

Bill did not need a second invitation. The whiskey was rotten but alcoholic, the beer flat but cold. But what the hell, this was the frontier. As he sipped and looked into the mirror behind the bar, he saw that Elliot Methadrine was coming through the door. Elliot smiled and pulled up a stool next to the shocked figure of Bill.

"Barman, I'll have whatever my friend here is drinking. And tell him to close his mouth before he catches some flies."

"Ergle!" Bill ergled and clacked his jaw shut. "But you're dead, shot to death in the subway."

"Gee, Bill, you carry the dumb act a long way. Have you forgotten Sir Dudley the Time Portal? He whisked me back to the factory that made the old body, and they ground out another one. He's waiting outside and said to drink up because we have to get going."

"Where to?"

"I'm glad you asked." He took a pair of dark glasses from his pocket and put them on. "You like the shades? They are required where we are going next," said Bgr-Elliot.

"Don't tell me," said Bill. "We're going to a really bright planet."

"No," said Elliot-Chinger. "Actually, Earth has a very low IQ. That's where we must go. Earth. Hollywood, California, Bill. Twentieth century! To see a film producer named Slimeball Sid. Who has his own movie production company."

They downed their drinks, waved to the barkeep — who snarled back — and exited.

"Jolly good to see you chappies again," Sir Dudley said. "I think I've worked out the coordinates correctly this time. Shall we leave?"

For once Sir D. got it right. Their feet thudded down on a carpeted floor — and before them was a glass door with the inscription ESS-ESS PRODUCTIONS on it. Elliot hauled it open and marched in.

"You got an appointment?" the receptionist yawned, filing a sharp point onto a stiletto fingernail.

"I don't need one. I am Elliot Methadrine."

"Phone first, come back later, get lost."

"The same Elliot Methadrine who sent your employer a check for five hundred thousand bucks."

Her chair crashed to the floor as she hurled herself forward and kissed both of his hands. "In! He's waiting! What a wonderful film it will be! If you will be so kind as to be seated, I will remove Mr. Sid's present appointment and usher you in."

The receptionist hurried down the hall, rotating her rump quite attractively as she walked on her stiletto heels. Bill watched until she was out of sight, then dropped into a chair. All this rushing about was getting pretty tiring.

"What's this movie stuff about and what happened to the Time Nazis?" asked Bill. "And what about our mission?"

"After we lost you, it hit me," said Elliot-Bgr. "We got all the time there is! I mean, I've got a Portable Time Portal at my disposal! We could deal with the Time Nazis from the future at our own pace. I went back and put the kibosh on the Bloomsbury writers, turned them off the horny-porny books that they were grinding out."

"How'd you do that?" asked Bill.

"That would be singularly difficult to explain to you since I doubt if you have ever even heard of Bloomsbury. The hardest part was reading the copy they produced before the time change started them writing horny-porny. What I did was prey on their weakness for obfuscation and self-indulgence. Slipped them some material on deconstructionism and they were up and running."

"Wasn't there a god involved, helping them along?"

"You smoking something I don't know about? Wait, I did hear something about that on the Deified Network. Creaky old deity named Zoroaster nosing about. We sent him packing. Don't worry any about him."

"Well I'm glad the Nazis are gone — so what's all this about a movie?" said Bill, stretching languorously on the couch.

"Simple." The alien lizard in the Elliot disguise paced on the puce rug. "Bill, you know how long I've been trying to stop human beings from warring with us Chingers, right?"

"I suppose you have. But you can't blame us. You are heathen alien monsters!"

"Bill, I'm surprised at you!" sniffed Elliot-Bgr, a tear in the corner of his eye. "After all we've been through! After everything I have tried to tell you about peace and no more war. For shame."

"Okay, I forgot. I guess that was just the Trooper brainwashing talking. I should think better of you since you very recently saved my life in the subway."

Elliot nodded. "That's more like it. I do think highly of you, Bill. In fact, it occurred to me that you're just perfect for my plan!"

"Your plan? Oh, this movie-star thing. Right."

"Imagine, Bill! With the right technology and a Time Portal like Sir Dudley, I can film the Truth! I'm going to call it THE HUMAN-CHINGER WAR — starring you, Bill. Why, I might even name it after you. BILL, THE GALACTIC HERO. It's going to show you humans for the crazed, warmongering killers that you are — and it's going to make millions here on Earth. Not only will it make millions but it will cost next to nothing to make. All the special effects, the blood and drama and death will be real. I have a super CD disc here with miles of real footage of real space battles. Kind of a quasi-documentary, Bill! And you're going to be a star. You won't have to be a Starship Trooper anymore! You'll make enough money to buy a whole planet!"

"Barworld?" breathed Bill hopefully.

"If that's what you want," said Elliot Bgr, "that's what you get. Sounds pretty good, huh?"

"Sounds incredibly fabulous," a rotund man with a big cigar in his yob shouted as he came through the door. "Come in and be famous as well as rich. I'm Sid."