Harry Harrison & Robert Sheckley - Bill the Galactic Hero 3

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Bill, the Galactic Hero on the Planet of Bottled Brains

HARRY HARRISON

ROBERT SHECKLEY

Bill, the Galactic Hero on the Planet of Bottled Brains

A Byron Preiss Book

VGSF

Special thanks to Kirby McCauley, Nat Sobel, John Douglas, David Keller and Alice Alfonsi

VGSF is an imprint of Victor Gollancz Ltd

14 Henrietta Street, London WC2E 8QJ

First published in Great Britain 1990

by Victor Gollancz Ltd

First VGSF edition June 1991

Second impression June 1991

Jacket art by Michael Kaluta and Steve Fastner

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 0-575-05004-7

Printed and bound in Great Britain

by Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold,

hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover

other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being

imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Chapter 1

"Gather round, folks," Brownnose said through the loudhailer he had stolen from the drill sergeant. The

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built-in circuitry made his voice sound gravelly and disgusting just like the sergeant's. "It's the event

you've all been waiting for — the unveiling of Bill's new foot now growing from an implanted foot bud.

Only ten bucks a ticket to see this unique and possibly revolting event."

The barracks where the unveiling was to be held was filling up fast. Most of the enlisted men in Camp

Diplatory wanted to attend the unveiling of Bill's new foot bud. The foot bud had been implanted in Bill's

stump three days previously, on the medical satellite BRIP 32 situated at Point Less. After implantation,

Bill had been shipped to Diplatory, the large military establishment on the planet Shyster. He had to wait

three days before he could unveil his transplant. Time-controlled bandages ensured that he would follow

medical orders. There had been difficulties with time-controlled bandages, but luckily Bill didn't have

any. At least as far as he knew.

There wasn't much to do for the fifty thousand Space Troopers stationed in Camp Diplatory. The camp

was set on a hundred semi-submerged acres in the middle of Unholy Bog, the largest and wettest swamp

on the planet Shyster. Why the camp had been built in the middle of a bog was a mystery. Or maybe it

wasn't. Some said it was an accident, probably made in Central Headquarters back on Helior. Others said

that the location had been picked deliberately because tough conditions produce strong men, if they don't

kill them. Or maim them. Or drive them mad.

"And if they do, there are more where those came from."

That is the motto of the Fighting 69th Deep Space Screaming Killers, the unit to which Bill was presently

attached.

"So take off the bandage," Kanarsie said. "Let's get a look."

Bill looked around. The barracks was full. At ten bucks a head, which Brownnose was collecting at the

door for him, Bill figured he'd made enough to buy himself some new combat boots. The rate at which he

accumulated foot operations made this necessary, since the military wouldn't reimburse him for

constantly having to turn in shoeware that wasn't even worn, or just didn't fit the present disgusting shape

of Bill's wounded foot.

Brownnose waved enthusiastically that he could begin. He was enthusiastic about everything, kind,

reverent and obedient. And wanted to help his buddies all the time. Which is not the troopers' way and

that is why they hated him. And called him Brownnose. Bill liked him because he reminded Bill of Eager

Beager who had acted the same way. But of course he had been a Chinger spy. And a robot too.

"Here goes," Bill said and grabbed the bandage. An alarm sounded and an electric shock stung his

fingers. "Ouch. Not quite time yet." The bandage buzzed hoarsely and the end dropped free. "Time now,"

he said and unwound one turn of the bandages and the spectators all leaned forward. They emitted a

collective sigh as Bill unwound the second layer. Their faces got all flushed and nervous, and their breath

came in short pants, exceedingly uncomfortable, and some could be seen nervously wringing their hands

as Bill threw off the third layer of bandage. Bill's foot wasn't exactly big box office, but in a boring,

despicable, uncomfortable dump like this even a cockroach fight was an event the stature of naked ladies

wrestling in jello.

Excitement, or whatever it was, reached a fever pitch as the eighty or so burly and scarred military men

of low rank and lower IQ crowded into the smoke-filled plastic Quonset hut and leaned forward blinking,

as Bill threw off the fourth and final fold of bandage.

You'd think, of course, that Bill would be the one to have the first glimpse of his new foot, since it was

his, after all. You would be mistaken, however, for Bill superstitiously looked elsewhere as he cast the

bandage away. He had been having some strange feelings in that foot over the last day.

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He looked at the watching faces around him, their eyes glued on his foot.

The crowd made a sort of tittering sound. That was odd, not at all what Bill had expected. And then they

started laughing. Not polite, appreciative laughter, such as you might expect at the unveiling of a foot

bud, but loud, heavy, guffaw-guffaw type laughter of the joke's-on-you variety.

Bill glanced down. Then he glanced away. Then he glanced down again, winced, considered glancing

away again, pulled himself together, looked.

"You know, Bill," Kowalski said, "I thought this foot unveiling of yours was going to be a rip-off. I

mean, what could there be under that bandage; you plant a foot bud, you get a foot, right? Wrong. Bill, I

want to thank you. That is the funniest thing I've seen since the CO got fragged."

Bill stretched his clawed toes experimentally. "Seems to work OK," he said.

It should have worked OK. But it would have worked better on an alligator, since it was a fine, green,

scaly, abundantly clawed alligator's foot that was now growing on the end of Bill's ankle.

What had those doctors done? Were they experimenting, trying to turn him into a reptile? He didn't put it

past them. Since he had recently had a giant mutated chicken's foot for a foot he knew that anything was

possible. Probable — in the Troopers. And the foot after that had been nice, maybe too many toes but that

wasn't bad, and he had really enjoyed it until it withered and dropped off.

It was a small green foot, but it was workable. And it would probably grow into a much larger foot. The

envy of any passing alligator he thought, gloomily. Bill did not stop to consider the miracle that man's

ability to do this represented. By any standard it was an act of genius. A little useless, perhaps, but genius

all the same. But this was lost on Bill who, like many before him, was mad as hell.

Bill stumped down the corridor, listing slightly to the left to favor his clawed and knobbly left foot. His

new alligator foot had not grown out to full size yet, so there was little more than an inch difference

between his left and right feet. The foot itself was perfectly sound and able to bear his weight, though the

claws scratched the floor when he walked.

His immediate destination was the small cubicle on level twelve of the main concourse of the base. He

got there slightly out of breath, since walking on a taloned alligator's foot takes practice before you can

do it smoothly.

The cubicle was ten feet to a side. It was divided into two parts, one a reception and waiting room, the

other the place of the computer. The military base on Shyster was run by this Quintiform computer, not

the latest model, but one believed to be just as good, almost.

Bill went in and took his seat in the waiting room. He was the only person there. That was unusual, since

the computer usually had a line of people waiting to consult it.

No sooner had he sat down than a metallic voice with plenty of vibrato said to him: "Hello, I am the

Quintiform computer; please step inside and show me your dogtags."

Bill did as he was told. The inner room of the computer station was painted computer beige. There were

banks of switches and dials on the four walls. There were speakers set into the wall up high. One of these

was broadcasting a program of sambas.

Bill presented his dogtags and the Quintiform computer hissed and clicked its approval. "Yes, Bill," it

said, "what seems to be the trouble?"

"The foot doctors on Aesclepius, the medical satellite, gave me a foot bud implant," Bill explained. "Look

what it grew into!"

The Quintiform exuded a metallic pseudopod with a blinking glass eye at the end of it and inspected

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Bill's foot.

"Wow!" the computer said. It began to chuckle.

"It's no laughing matter," Bill said. "And anyhow, robots aren't supposed to laugh."

"Sorry about that," the computer said. "Just trying to put you at your ease. Now then, I suppose you want

the doctors to fix your other foot so it will match the clawed one?"

"No! I want two normal human feet, like I started with."

"Ah, of course," the computer said. It hummed and buzzed for a while, presumably going through its

memory banks looking for the correct solution to Bill's problem. After a while it said; "Go to Room 1223-

B on level Verdigris, Section Vector-Vector 2, and they'll fix you up."

Finding your way around the base was no easy matter, since the main structure was the size of a middle-

sized city and contained over three thousand rooms, torture halls, meeting places, contraceptive

dispensers, intravenous feeding cafeterias, storage facilities, and the like, spread over ten different levels.

Troopers had been known to wander through it for days at a time. Almost any time you went through you

could see troopers sleeping in heaps of camouflage clothing at the intersections. It was notorious that you

should take along provisions and a full canteen of water when you were going anywhere in the base. As

Bill set out, a vehicle the size of an electrified golf cart pulled up beside him.

"Hello, Bill," the golf cart's voice box said. "I have been sent by the computer to take you to your

destination. Care for a drink? Nothing too good for our boys in uniform."

Bill thought the golf cart sounded entirely too affable. But he got in. It was a lot better than walking the

interminable miles he'd have to cover to reach Room 1223-B.

They whisked along down the olive, drab corridors, the golf cart humming a cheery little tune to itself.

They passed through Maintenance and Communications to a section called Planning.

"This doesn't look like a medical section," Bill said.

"Don't worry about it," the golf cart said. "I know where I'm going."

It swept up a ramp, doubled down a corridor, and made for a door at the end. Bill winced, because the

golf cart had gathered speed and the door was closed. He cowered back in his seat as the golf cart hurtled

itself at the door. Bill closed his eyes and buried his head in his hands. When he looked up again, they

were on the other side of the door, which had opened by an electric eye arrangement and was now closing

again.

He was in some sort of officers' lounge, which had been gotten up to look like an old Earth-style saloon.

There were Tiffany lamps and dark furniture made of genuine plastic. There was a long bar with white-

shirted bartenders working behind it. There was a jukebox playing vintage rock on fake original ancient

instruments like synthesizers and electric guitars, some of them looking several hundreds of years old,

though they had probably been made last week. There were about a dozen uniformed officers of either

sex present. They all had drinks in their hands. They cheered when the golf cart speeded into the room,

made a neat circle in the middle, and came to a stop.

"Excuse me," Bill said. "Is this the Medical section?"

That brought a good round of hearty laughter. Men crowded around and congratulated Bill on his wit.

One woman, a majorette, no less, with fluffy blonde hair and a pert nose and giant boobs, sat in Bill's lap

and kissed him soundly. Somebody else asked him what he'd like to drink. Bill was so rattled he just said

yes. So they brought him a stirrup cup filled with a mixture of that day's alcoholic beverages. The taste of

rum was most prominent, as well as a tang of horse from the stirrup, and Bill drained it gratefully, having

learned never to look a gift drink in the goblet.

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The lady major who had kissed him got out of his lap and into his face. With her nose no more than

millimeters from his, she looked long and deep into Bill's eyes. Then she said in a thrilling contralto voice

with a faint whiskey burr to it, "You're just like I imagined you'd be."

"Well," Bill said, "I try."

"What a clever remark," one colonel murmured to another.

"He's obviously a clever chap," said a white-haired colonel, who appeared to be the ranking officer. "Get

him a cigar, somebody. And no more of that rotgut; pour him some of the good cognac we liberated at the

sack of the Main Base after the attack."

A cigar in one hand, a glass of cognac in the other, and a smirking grin on his face, Bill wasn't prepared

for the next question.

"Tell me, Bill," a foxy-faced major with the crossed question-mark flashings of Intelligence Directorate 2

on his shoulders, "what do you think about the Tsurisian situation?"

"Does it have anything to do with the medical services here?" Bill asked. "If so, I have a complaint."

"My dear fellow," the foxy-faced major said. "Haven't you been briefed yet on the planet Tsuris?"

"I've only been here three days, sir," Bill said, gurgling deeply of the drink to drown his suspicions of all

this officerial kindness. Deep down he knew it wasn't natural. Even deeper down he wanted to get blind

drunk on the good booze.

"And what have you been doing in your time here?"

"Growing a new foot, mostly," Bill said. "That's what I want to ask —"

"Time for that later," the major said. "Tsuris is a planet not too far from here. It is sometimes referred to

as the Mystery Planet."

"Oh, sure, I've heard of it," Bill said dimly through the growing alcoholic fog. "That's the place which

broadcasts the weird radio messages, isn't it?"

The major explained that the military base on Shyster had been given the job of clearing out Tsuris, a

nearby planet of considerable mystery. Literally nothing was known about this planet. No decent

photographs had ever been taken through the heavy cloud layer. There were breaks in the clouds, and the

planet seemed to get plenty of sunshine, but when the military snoop ships maneuvered to take pictures

through an opening, it always closed before they could get lined up.

"That's weird," Bill said. "Almost like someone is directing it, huh?"

"Exactly. Have another drink," the major said. "As you've mentioned, radio messages seem to emanate

from Tsuris, but they never make sense. But the worst of it is, ships even traveling in the vicinity of

Tsuris have been known to vanish, only to appear again millions of miles away with no explanation as to

how they got there."

"Sounds like a good place to steer clear of," Bill said with alcoholic sincerity, nodding and drinking at the

same time. Which didn't work too well.

"Ah, if only we could," the major said. "But we can't, of course. We are the military. We go where we

please."

"Hear, hear!" cried the other officers, hastily tossing down their drinks.

"And anyhow," the major said, "if something on Tsuris can deflect a ship millions of miles off its course,

that's a force that would be of considerable importance to us. We need to know how it works, and if the

Tsurisians or whoever lives down there intend to use it against us."

"If so," the white-haired colonel pointed out, "we've got to kick the crap out of them Tsurisians before

they get a chance to do it to us."

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"Maybe it would be safer," a captain of Shock Troopers said, "to kick the crap out of them even if they

don't have any bad intentions."

"Hear, hear!" the other officers chanted.

They all looked at Bill, waiting for him to say something. Bill tried to look intelligent, even though he

was feeling very dim. "Have you tried putting a scout ship on the planet? That way you could look

around and things."

The major concealed his disgust with a fake smile. "Many times, my dear trooper," he said. "As you

might very well imagine, they never come back, never report."

"That's not so good," Bill bubbled alcoholically. Then he was seized by bloodthirsty ambitions. "Why not

just stand back and wing atomic torpedoes at them until one gets through? Blast them! Destroy them!"

"We thought of that ourselves," the major said. "But it is against the rules of war, that is what the commy

lefty papers say, and our bleeding heart candidates in the up and coming local elections wouldn't like it.

They need to have it all legal. Declaration of war and all that nonsense. As soon as they are not elected

we go back to doing just what the hell we want, but for the moment our hands are tied. Our missiles in the

silos. Our noses in our glasses drowning our sorrows."

"Well..." Bill thought for a while. "Why not declare war on them?"

The officers nodded at each other in approval. "You've got the right instincts, trooper. But not until after

the elections. Then we can bomb the mothers into the next dimension. But until that happens we have to

give some illusion of lawfulness. But the trouble is that we can't even find anyone to talk to on Tsuris. In

fact, we're not entirely sure there's anyone there."

"Then the answer is plain," the colonel said. "I'm sure you thought of it yourself. If we can get a drone

scout ship down to the surface of the planet, with someone aboard carrying a message from the Admiral-

in-Chief, at least we could get the Tsurisians talking. Then we could make demands which they'd refuse.

And then we'd have a chance to plead 'irreparable insult demanding unctuous apology' as a cause of war."

"Unless the Tsurisians are able to apologize fast enough to forestall the invasion," the colonel said.

"Speed is everything in modern warfare," the major pointed out. "What do you think, Bill?"

"Sounds like a good plan to me," Bill said. "Now, if you could direct me to the Medical section..."

"No time for that now, trooper," the major said. "We want to congratulate you, then explain how your

drone ship works."

"Wait a minute," Bill said. "What has this got to do with me?"

"My dear fellow," the major said, "by walking through this door you have volunteered for the job of

going on the drone ship to Tsuris."

"But I didn't know! The computer told me to come here!"

"That's right. The computer volunteered you."

"Can it do that?"

The major scratched his head. "I don't know, really. Why don't you ask it?" He chuckled evilly as Bill

tried to leap woozily to his feet and felt the automatic shackles lock hard around his ankles.

Brownnose looked terrible. It was true that he had been through a lot recently, having had all of his

buddies beating him up because he was so helpful and considerate of others, and that is not the troopers'

way. The first lesson a real trooper learns is that it is always Bowb-your-Buddy week. The military

psychiatrist had diagnosed him as having a severe case of the Shmidas Touch, the mirror opposite of the

Midas Touch where everything you touch turns to gold. But one of the psychiatrist's colleagues, Major

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Doctor Smellenfuss, disagreed. He said that Brownnose presented a classical case of Loser Psychosis,

complicated by self-destructive tendencies. All Brownnose knew was, life kept on getting worse for him.

And all he wanted to do was make people happy!

Take now, for example. Of course he didn't look good. What man could look good pushed back against

the uncomfortably hot boiler in the laundry room where Bill, ham-like fist raised in the air, was

threatening to take him apart?

"Bill, wait!" Brownnose cried as Bill's eyes narrowed, preparatory to driving Brownnose's head through

the half-inch mild steel of which the boiler was composed. "I did it for you!"

Bill hesitated, fist poised for the killing blow. "How do you figure?"

"Because volunteering you for this mission will bring you a medal, a sizeable bonus, a year's supply of

VD pills and most important, an immediate honorable discharge!"

"A discharge?"

"Yes, Bill! You could go home!"

Bill was visited by a wave of nostalgia as he thought of his home world, Phigerinadon, and how much he

wanted to see it.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Of course I'm sure. Just go to the recruiting officer when you get back. He'll set everything in motion for

you."

"That's just great," Bill said. "The only trouble is, this is a suicide mission and I'm unlikely to come back

from it. And if I don't come back, no discharge, right?"

"You will come back," Brownnose said. "I guarantee it."

"How do you figure?"

"Because, after I volunteered you, I also volunteered myself. So I could look after you, Bill."

"You can't even look after yourself," Bill pointed out. He sighed. "I guess it was pretty nice of you to

want to help me, Brownnose, but I wish you hadn't."

"I realize that now, Bill," Brownnose said, extricating himself from Bill's grasp and slinking away from

the boiler, which had been growing uncomfortably torrid. He could see that the moment of immediate

danger was over. Bill got hot under the collar sometimes, but if you could just avoid instant mayhem, he

soon cooled off again.

"Anyhow," Bill said, "how could you volunteer me? Only I can volunteer me."

"You've sure got a point there," Brownnose said. "Maybe you should take it up with the computer."

"Hello again," the military computer said. "You were in here recently, weren't you? Excuse me for asking

but the old eyesight's not what it used to be. My image orthicon is wearing out. Not that anyone or

anything cares." It snivelled mechanically, a repellent sound.

"I came in here about my foot," Bill said loudly, disgusted at all the electronic self-pity.

"Your foot? I never forget a foot! Let me see it."

Bill displayed his foot to the computer's vision plate.

"Hooee," the computer said. "That's a beauty of an alligator's tootsy. But I've never seen that foot before.

I told you, I never forget a foot."

"Of course you remember it," Bill whined. "Because you looked at it when I was in here before. What

kind of computer could forget that?"

"I didn't say I forgot, computers can't forget, it's just that I haven't thought about it lately," the computer

said. "Just a minute, let me consult my data banks. I never forget a reference to a foot, either.... Yes, here

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it is. You're right, you did say something about your foot. And I directed you to the Officer's Ready

Room."

"That's right. And the officers there said that by coming in I had volunteered for hazardous duty."

"Yes, that's all correct," the computer said. "When they asked me for a volunteer, I sent them the first one

who came in."

"Me?"

"You."

"But I didn't volunteer."

"Tough titty. I mean I am so sorry, but you did. Inferentially."

"Beg pardon?"

"I inferred that you would have volunteered if asked. We have special circuits that allow us to use

inferences."

"But you could have asked me!" Bill shouted angrily.

"Then what would be the use of inferential circuitry with which I have been fitted out at great expense?

Anyhow, it was clear to me that a fine upstanding military type like you would be happy to volunteer for

hazardous duty, despite the minor impairment to your foot."

"You were wrong," Bill said.

A ripple passed across the computer's vision plate, almost like a shrug. "Well," it said, "mistakes happen,

don't they?"

"That's not good enough!" Bill shouted, thumping the computer's vision plate with a large fist. "I'll tear

out your lying transistors." He thumped the vision plate again. This time it flashed red.

"Trooper," the computer said in a gruff voice. "Stand to attention."

"What?" said Bill.

"You heard me. I am a military computer with the veritable rank of full colonel. You are an enlisted man.

You have to address me in a respectful manner or you'll be in a lot worse trouble than you are already."

Bill gulped. Officers were all alike, even when they were computers.

"Yes sir," he said, and stood to attention.

"Now, since you don't think the procedure was fair, what do you suggest we do?"

"Let's draw for it," Bill said. "Or you pick a volunteer at random from all the men in the base."

"That would satisfy you?"

"Yes, it would."

"OK, here goes." The computer's vision screen lit up in a jagged lightning bolt of conflicting colors.

Names flashed by on the screen. There was a sound like a roulette ball rolling around a croupier's wheel.

"OK," the computer said. "We got a winner."

"Fine," Bill said. "Can I go now?"

"Sure. Good luck, soldier."

Bill opened the door. Outside there were two extremely large and beetle-jawed MPs. They took Bill by

either arm.

"As you may have gathered," the computer said, "you won the second drawing, too."

Not long after that, a large trooper with a small claw at the end of one foot, could be seen struggling in

the arms of two MPs. The trooper was brought to a reviewing stand where several generals were

standing, waiting for something to review.

Bill opened up his mouth to scream. One of the MP's drove his elbow into Bill's kidneys.

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The other MP went for the liver.

When Bill recovered consciousness a few seconds later, in response to having his nose tweaked violently,

the first MP leaned over him and said, "Look, buddy, you're going on that ship. The only question is, do

you go on in one piece or do we cripple you first so you won't make a scene in front of the brass?"

"They hate scenes," the second MP said. "We do, too."

"They blame us when the volunteers make a fuss," the first MP said.

"Maybe we should just cripple him and not take any chances," the first MP said.

"Maybe we could just fracture his voice box."

"No, he could still make obscene gestures."

"I guess you're right." Both MPs paused to roll up their sleeves.

"Don't bother," Bill said. "Just put me aboard the ship."

"First you got to go up to the reviewing stand and shake the generals' hands and tell them how glad you

was to volunteer."

"Let's get it over with," Bill said.

The drone ship was small, about the size of a launch, built of cheap plastic and aluminized cardboard

since it was not expected to return. One of the MPs pulled open the main hatchway and growled in anger

as the handle came off in his hand.

"Never mind that," the other MP said. "The inner parts still work all right."

"Why don't they build them better?" Bill whined, then shrieked with pain. He was being carried in a

crunched and uncomfortable manner by the two MPs.

"Why should they bother?" the first MP said. "These ships are specially constructed for one-way trips to

only the most dangerous places."

"You mean I'm not expected to return?" Bill whimpered, wallowing in self-pity.

"I don't mean anything of the sort! Well, maybe. Anyhow, the real crafty advantage of sending a

volunteer, is that, if you should not return, as is confidently expected, the military will probably send a

fully-fledged expeditionary force to Tsuris, even declare war as they sincerely want to."

"You said probably?"

"It has to be probably, since the military can always change its teeny-tiny mind. But that's what will

probably happen."

"Yipe!" Bill yiped. "What the bowb are you doing with my ear?"

"I'm fastening a translating device to your ear, so if you find any Tsurisians on Tsuris you can talk to

them."

"Tsuris! The place nobody ever comes back from?"

"You catch on fast. That's the whole point of the operation. Your non-return will give us the excuse to

invade."

"I don't think I like this."

"You don't have to like it, trooper. Just follow orders and shut up."

"I refuse! Cancel the orders!"

"Shut up." They wrestled Bill into the ship and strapped him into the pilot's command chair. It was

beautifully padded and comfortable. Bill was not. He opened his mouth to protest again and the neck of

an open bottle was shoved into it. He gurgled and gasped.

"What...was that?"

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"Apathia 24. With a double shot of Extasis Tricarbonate. One hundred and fifteen proof." The MP

nodded as Bill gurgled down some more. "That's the stuff. You can keep the bottle."

It was really good stuff. So good that Bill never noticed when the MPs left and the hatch closed. The ship

must have taken off, he could not remember when, because he saw by the vision plate that he was in

space. Lots of little stars and such. And what looked like a planet down below. He admired the great

storms sweeping across its surface as he drained the bottle. Lightning crackled balefully through the

purple-black clouds and his radio crackled with static.

Radio? He fiddled with the knobs until a voice came through clearly. At least it sounded clear although it

did not make much sense.

"No gliggish in hut overstep galoshes."

He sneered at this and was reaching to turn it off when a voice buzzed in his ear. He blinked rapidly at

this — then slowly remembered the translator had been attached just inside his left ear. "What did they

say?"

"Just a minute," the translator said testily. "All right, I think I've got it now. They're definitely speaking

Tsurisian. The question is, is it High Garpeiean dialect or Someshovish."

"Who gives a bowb?" Bill muttered, trying to get the last drops of metabolic poison from the bottle.

"An interesting problem in linguistic analysis," the translator said. "In the former dialect it means, 'Please

don't throw the eggshells on the grass.'"

"And in the other one?" Bill asked, feigning interest.

"In the other it translates to, 'Tickle knees on the Steppes.'"

"Sounds a lot of bowb either way."

"A cogent observation that is entirely possible," the translator agreed.

Well, he could figure out what they were saying later. For now, he was entranced by the sights below

him. Looking through the transparent hull of his drone ship, he could see bright flowers of enormous size

blossoming from the surface of Tsuris.

"Pretty nice shtuff," he said, wishing he had another drink.

"Aren't you going to take evasive action?" the translator asked him.

"Why bother? Ish nice to look at the flowers down there."

"Flowers my silicon ass!" the translator said with great agitation. "Those red things are high explosives.

They're shooting torpedoes at us!"

That's all it took to bring Bill out of his stupor, cold sober and in a cold sweat. Shooting at him? Suddenly

he remembered the mission. Then his little drone ship bucked violently.

"Mayday. Mayday!" screamed the translator. The ship started to plunge and careen and cartwheel and

spin and tumble, all the things that spaceships do when they're hit. Bill grabbed for a stanchion and

missed, he still wasn't that sober, and hit his head. The darkness of unconsciousness instantly descended.

Which was not such a bad thing, considering what happened next.

Bill's ship disintegrated under the impact of atomic torpedoes.

"A gravchute," he muttered when he stumbled back to consciousness. "That's nice."

As he dropped gently through the clinging mists, which of course were the clouds that forever veil Tsuris,

especially if you're trying to take pictures of the planet, he looked down and saw that the ground seemed

to be coming up very fast. Was the gravchute working properly? Weren't there supposed to be controls on

it somewhere?

He fumbled and cursed but before he could find them the ground came up and struck him and merciful

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Bill,theGalacticHeroonthePlanetofBottledBrainsHARRYHARRISONROBERTSHECKLEYBill,theGalacticHeroonthePlanetofBottledBrainsAByronPreissBookVGSFSpecialthankstoKirbyMcCauley,NatSobel,JohnDouglas,DavidKellerandAliceAlfonsiVGSFisanimprintofVictorGollanczLtd14HenriettaStreet,LondonWC2E8QJFirstpublishedinGre...

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