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“Oh, thanks very much,” Inskipp growled, cutting Coypu off in midsuggestion. “I never would have thought of that myself.”
“I can do it,” I told him, and enjoyed the way the whites—or really the reds—of his eyes appeared as he rolled them in my direction.
“You? Succeed where all of our forces have failed?”
“Of course. I will abandon modesty and tell you that I am the secret weapon that will win the war.”
“How?”
“Let me talk to Coypu first. A few questions, then all shall be revealed.”
“We’re going after Mom and James?” my son asked.
“You betcha, boy. Top priority on the list, and at the same time we shall save the civilized galaxy from destruction.”
“Why do you bother me when I must work?” Coypu screeched from the comscreen, sputtering saliva and as red-eyed as Inskipp.
“Relax,” I cajoled. “I will solve all your problems for you, as I have done in the past, but I must enlist your aid to do so. How many different species of alien have you discovered so far?”
“Three hundred and twelve. But why…”
“I’ll tell you in a moment. All sizes, shapes and colors?”
“You better believe it! You should see my nightmares.”
“No thank you. You must have discovered the language they use to communicate with each other. Is it difficult?”
“You already speak it. It’s Esperanto.”
“Come off it, Coypu!”
“You can’t scream at me in that tone of voice!” he said hysterically. Then got control of himself, took a pill and shuddered. “Why not? They obviously have been watching us for a long time, learning all about us before they invaded. They would have heard a lot of our languages, then settled on Esperanto just as we did as the simplest, easiest and most efficient form of communication.”
“You’ve sold me. Thank you, Professor. Get some rest because I’ll be over there and you are going to outfit me to slip into the alien HQ and discover what is going on and to rescue my family, and maybe the admirals if I get a chance.”
“Just what the hell are you talking about?” Inskipp snarled, with Coypu’s screened image echoing the same words in an equally repellent tone of voice.
“Simple. At least for me. Prof Coypu is going to manufacture an alien suit, complete with built-in slime-dripper, and I am going to get inside of it. They will welcome me as one of their own. It will be a new kind of loathy who has just heard of their crusade and who is rushing up to enlist. They’ll love me. I’m on the way, Professor.”
The technicians did a fast but excellent job. They stuffed the computer full of disgusting alien details, tentacles, claws, eye-stalks, feelers, everything, then programmed it to draw pictures of variations. Wow! Even Bolivar was impressed. We put a couple of them together and juggled the result around a bit and came up with one that would suit.
“That’s my dad!” Bolivar said, walking around the thing and admiring it from all angles.
It looked roughly like a miniature tyra
“The forearms are only lightly powered and fit over your own arms,” Coypu said. “But the heavy legs are servopowered and follow the movements of your legs. Watch out for them, those claws can tear a hole in a steelwall.”
“I intend to try that. What about the tail?”
“Automatic counterbalance and it wags as you walk. These controls will enable you to thrash it about when you are not walking, make it look realistic. This switch is the automatic twitcher, that moves the tail about a bit when you are sitting or standing for a long time. Watch out for this switch—it controls the recoilless seventy-five mounted in the head just between the eyes. The sight is here on your nose.”
“Wonderful. What about grenades?”
“The launcher is under the tail, of course. The grenades themselves are disguised as you-know-what.”
“A pretty touch. I see you have the warped kind of mind for this sort of business. Now let me close the zipper and you step back while I try it out.”
It took a bit of practice to move the hulking thing about naturally, but after a few minutes I got the knack. I stalked about the lab leaving a trail of slime wherever I went, gouging ruts in the steel deck with my claws, swishing my tail and knocking things about, and even poked my head into the firing range to let go a few shots with my headgun. Recoilless or not, I decided, as I took pills for the headache, to save this gun for real emergencies. As I went back to the lab a small treaded robot came out of a doorway and ran over my tail.
“Hey, get rid of that thing,” I called out as the PAIN IN TAIL signal flashed on my readout board. I aimed a kick at the robot which it easily dodged. Then it stopped in front of me and the turret with the optic lenses popped open and I found myself staring into Bolivar’s smiling face.
“Is one permitted to ask just what the hell you are doing in that thing,” one asked.
“Sure, Dad. I’m going with you. Servant-robot to carry your gear. Isn’t that logical?”
“No, it is not.” I marshalled my arguments and knew, even as I began, that this was one argument I was going to lose. I lost it—and was secretly glad. Although I feared for his safety, I could sure use someone to back me up. We would both go.
“Where?” Inskipp asked, looking with disgust at my alien suit when I climbed out.
“To that armed planet where they took the admirals. And, probably, Angelina and James as well. If it’s not their headquarters or main base or some such it certainly will do until the real one comes along.”
“You wouldn’t care to tell me how you plan to get there, would you?”
“Delighted. In the same patrol boat that we arrived in. But before we go I want the hull blown open fatally, then roughly patched. Knock it about inside a good deal, crunch some of the nonessential equipment to make it look good. Get plenty of blood from the slaughterhouse and sprinkle it all over. And, I don’t like to suggest this, but realism is what counts—do you have some spare human corpses?”
“Far too many,” he answered grimly. “And you want one or two of them, in uniform, aboard?”
“They may save our lives. I am going to go blasting in with that ship, radio blaring and lights flashing, and volunteer myself and my planet of creepies to the noble cause of humanity-destruction.”
“Which you just happened to find out about when your people captured this ship?” “You catch on quick for someone your age. Get it done at once, Inskipp, because I want to leave about five minutes ago.”
Since this mission seemed to be the single ray of hope in the unmitigated gloom of the losing war, we had the best of service. The battered patrol boat was loaded aboard a combat cruiser that blasted off the instant we were aboard. They ferried us to our destination, the nearest safe area to the enemy stars, then chucked us out. I navigated us around a massive cloud of dust, skirted a black hole or two to blur our trail, then scuttled into the arm of the galaxy that held the enemy.
“Ready, son?” asked, poking my head out through the slit in the alien’s neck.
“Ready when you are, Slippery Jim,” the robot responded as the turret clacked down and locked into place.
I sealed up and reached out a clawed arm and shook his tentacle. Then got to work. Extra lights had been installed on the hull, of ugly, alien construction, and I switched these on so that we looked like a space-going Christmas tree. I then started the tape of the recently written anthem of my imaginary home planet and began broadcasting it at full volume on 137 wave-lengths. Thus prepared we headed leisurely for the armored planet, wafted there on the strains of delightful groaning music.