Alan Dean Foster - Space Opera

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Space Opera

By Alan Dean Foster

The biggest drawback in the gleaming functional desk, Commander Cleve

reflected, was its damnable impervi-ousness. Since it was composed of

diamondlike silicone plastic, his nails could only scrape futilely across the

smooth surface, and at the moment, he was in the mood to mark something,

On the other side of the desk, Lieutenant Vander-

WITH: FRIENDS LIKE THESE . ..

meer shifted slightly in his seat. He recognized the commander's mood and was

uncomfortably aware of the convenient target he made for any localized mayhem

the commander might choose to commit.

Cleve stopped trying to make an impression on the desk and looked up.

"I won't let that pipsqueak do it. I refuse!" "Yes sir," said Vandermeer.

Vandermeer was a fine lieutenant. He always said just the right thing.

"Exceptional stupidity requires foresight, .planning, and careful preparation

to be properly effective. But this fellow. Himpel . . . Hurmal . . ." "Hinkel,

sir."

"Yes, this Hinkel's talent for improvising really remarkable idiocy on the

spur of the moment is astonishing. And I fear the Council may support it!

Perhaps I shall simply join his sphere of insanity. It may be the only

solution." "Yes sir." "What?"

"I... I mean, no sir."

Cleve sighed and slumped in his genuine starfox, red and silver hand-rubbed

mahogany swivel chair. "It's not an unreasonable request, is it, Lieutenant?

After all, this is the third expedition to Titan. It's not as if anything

really newsworthy were happening. We're only here to set up a small

life-support station for the next three expeditions. And for the miners. A few

simple solidosemis, habitats, an oxy-conversion plant . . . stuff like that.

Why bring along a big newscast crew with a caster as big as Hurkel?"

"Hinkel, sir. As I understand it, the ISA and Admiral Howard thought it would

give us some excellent publicity, sir. What with the current furor over

funding and all, a few dramatic location shots of exotic Titan and Saturn,

added to Hinkel's prestige, should produce ratings that—"

"Ratings!" Cleve roared, purpling. "I'm deathly sick of hearing about Hickey's

goddamn, God-awful, got-verstunken, gder... gef...1"

Space Opera

"Easy, sir. You know what Dr. Galeth said about your blood pressure,

particularly in a low-grav environment."

"Yes, Lieutenant, yes, yes. It's just that I cannot, I purely cannot, permit

this man to interfere in any way with the negotiations. The Murrin are an

utterly unfamiliar quantity. They could react in an infinitude of ways to

anything we say, do, bint at, or even the way we walk. I cannot risk

jeopardizing man's first meeting with an intelligent alien race for the sake

of ... of ratings." The last word was given the accent usually reserved for

ultimate loathsomeness—most often senators who voted against ISA funding and

apricots, to which the commander was violently allergic.

Bronislaw Hinkel chose that moment to present himself.

Vandermeer intercepted the diminutive telecaster at the door, blocking him

from the commander's view.

"Ah, good morning, Peter! Is the commander busy?"

"Actually, sir, regulation four-two-six-el-ay governing watches between

oh-nine-hundred and—"

"Oh, let him in, Lieutenant! Could anyone mistake that dulcet warbling, the

pride of post-quickies, the cereal packed in total vacuum, and Channel Three?"

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Alan Dean Foster - Space Opera

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