Sfstory Log 008

=========================================================================
Subject:     Wherin the plot gets even more complex
From:        Eric Alfred Burns (enll6ac at bostonu)

     Muck-Luck clambered back from the pile of women he had just succeded
in "enlightening" when he realised, quite by accident, that the universe
had not ended on schedule.
     For those recent to the story--Muck-Luck is the most enlightened man
in the universe.  He knows all, sees all, hears all, and accepts most major
credit cards.  The all-Omnipresent Muck-Luck.  Muck-Luck hates his name,
but being hyper-enlightened, realises that it is beneath himself to HATE
anything.  Realising that all the space warps bouncing around this often
silly but generally tax-deductable csnews story would soon shatter it,
he chose to end it all in a wild orgy on the Nether-Space Nympho beach--
currently also inhabited by Ralph.
     However, that the universe had not ended meant that either the situation
had changed...or Muck-Luck had been wrong.
     Muck-Luck was NEVER wrong.  He had matter-annialated the last person
to even accuse him of being mildly incorrect, so that the person ceased to
exist even on the atomic level.
     But how could the situation have changed?  Even God couldn't do that
(although Muck-Luck could, except that he had no intention of it and besides,
the union of philosophers would boot him if he got involved with anything.)
     Muck-Luck returned to his artificial sattilite which orbited a small
world near the intergalactic core, and began to activate his all-seeing, all-
knowing, bitnet accessable Vax account with his brain.  (Note--not manufactered
by IBM).
     The first thing the account (SUPERBRAIN at ORACLE2) noticed was the presence
of a minor temporal vehicle sitting three feet away from Muck-Luck's command
chair (styled after Captain Kirk's in the original series of Star Trek).
    "What the flying }}}NERAG|HHAK*{{{ is THAT doing here,"shrieked Muck-Luck,
not pleased at all, as it turned out.
     The Vehicle, which looked just like a keg of Brador Malt (which Muck-Luck
would never assume was out of the ordinary) revolved and disgorged a man wearing
a blue jumpsuit and carrying a lightsabre shaped flashlight.  "Ah, good,
you're here," he said.  "Right, into the TARDIS with you, old chap!"
     It must be mentioned that the next words out of Muck-Luck's mouth were
spoken in such an awe inspiring way that Pat Robinson would convert to it, or
even vote Democrat if it told him to.  He said, in this increadible voice....

"EXCUSE ME????"

     Well, you really have to hear it to get the full effect.
     The man sighed, and said, "Look, I have work to do, and you are my assigned
companion, so get going!"  The man then stepped back into his keg and
disappeared.
     Muck-Luck stared for a moment, considered using his acct to divine just
what was going on, but instead logged off.  He felt like doing this the hard
way, the universe and its precarious position slipping his mind momentarily.
     "Excuse me, but could I see some form of proof?"  Muck-Luck smiled.
     The man emerged again, obviously impatient, and walked over to Muck-
Luck.  He then handed him a sheet of vellum.  Muck-Luck unrolled it and read...

******************************************************
*                                                    *
*   INTERSTELLER UNIVERSITY ASSIGNMENT #4            *
*   (for completion of a Masters in                  *
*   outer space heroics, with an                     *
*   emphisis on Time Lord activities)                *
*                                                    *
*      --Engage Muck-Luck as Companion               *
*      --Track down missing student Mark             *
*        Hyperthrust and bring him back.             *
*      --Complete any field assignents of            *
*        Mark Hyperthrust                            *
*                                                    *
*     }}}}FOR EXTRA CREDIT{{{{                       *
*         Prevent destruction of universe            *
*                                                    *
******************************************************

     "Well?"  the man said, hands on hips.
     Muck-Luck sighed.  As a sage, he was supposed to remain detached,
but old Intersteller U. was his own Alma Mater, and they had just confered
an honorary degree in knowitallesness--how could he refuse?
     "Well, what do I call you," Muck-Luck said, climbing out of his chair
and into the beer keg TARDIS.
     The man straightened up and said in a clear voice, "You may call me...
the INTERN!!!!"

WILL MUCK-LUCK CALL HIM THE INTERN?????
WILL MARK HYPERTHRUST GET PUT ON PROBATION FOR CUTTING CLASS?
WILL THE UNIVERSE BE SAVED?
WILL RADAR EVER GET MARK IN THE SACK AGAIN?
WILL LINDA EVER GET IN THE SACK AGAIN?
      The last two questions were asked by the Intern and probably will not
be in the next edition of Sfstory

***** Entry appended 14:05 on Mon, 02/22/88 by enll6ac at bostonu   # 091 *****
=========================================================================
Subject:     The happy gang in the mass of spam that was once Portland
From:        Eric Alfred Burns (enll6ac at bostonu)

     After cleaning up the mess that Steve Vogal had created when
he vomited, the little group set about the tasks they knew best.
Linda immediatly began to comfort Steve with words and touches
and occasional toungings.  Natch began to wonder just what had
happened to that insect guy and his harmonica.  Mark had practiced
gallent postures for a few moments, then rummaged though the
wreakage of the HMS Goodguy (agonizing--losing one's ship meant a
whole letter grade!!!) for supplies and a change of shirt.  Radar,
a confirmed Spamologist, and part time strip-tease artist, began taking
runners off of the Goodguy and converting them to spamshoes.
     After a few moments of this, the shoes were ready, and Mark had
found a food source--twinkies.  So, armed with crude spears and
hotess cakes, the intrepid band began to make their way to Boston,
and Radar's apartment.
     In deep space, a curious pair rode photon steeds across the solar winds.
These two were smarter, stronger, braver, and less expensive than even
Marshel Bravestar or the Voltron force.  They were intergalactic
paladins with a mission in life to protect the living and to insure
rent controlled apartments for all.
     Unfortunatly, they collided with the town of Freeport, Maine.  It
was currently traveling at warp two.  They collided with L.L.Beans and were
thrown into Ben and Jerry's.  This narrowly altered Freeport's course so that
it did not collide with the blue-white star as they had thought, but instead
shot on, towards its destiny.
     Portland, on quite a different course, had yet to notice anything beyond
theri difficulty in reciving Home Box Office on their sattilite dishes.

WILL CAPTAIN VOGEL, RADAR, LINDA, NATCH, AND MARK MAKE IT TO BOSTON?
WILL ANYONE DOING ANYTHING, FIND ANY REASON, TO GO ON?
WILL FREEPORT FIND A PLACE WHERE A BASS SHOE OUTLET ISA BIG DEAL?
WILL PORTLAND FIND A MOVIE CHANNEL TO CALL THEIR OWN?


    THESE QUESTIONS, AND MANY MORE MANDATED BY THE MASSES, WILL BE
AVOIDED AT ALL COSTS BY CONGRESS AND THE US CONSULATE--BUT TUNE IN
TO SFSTORY ANYWAY!!!!!!!!!!

***** Entry appended 15:11 on Mon, 02/22/88 by enll6ac at bostonu   # 092 *****
=========================================================================
Subject:     Far, far, far away...
From:        The Cowboy (THC8650 at TNTECH)

Meanwhile, on a planet far, far, far away, a human-looking person sat watching
an illegally intercepted broadcast of ESPN (Extra Sensory Perception Network).
He was mildly suprised to find that the universe had not ended while he was
passed out drunk.  He cranked up his IBM PS/23 and re-ran the simulation,
which came out exactly as before.  Washing down a handful of aspirin with
another beer, he stumbled over to the telecom.

"We're sorry," came an annoying nasal voice from the speakers, "but that
number has been disconnected for the last 412 years."

Cursing at no one person in particular, he punched in the proper time
correction formula from memory, and dialed the number again.

"Time Police, may we help you?" came the overly cheerful response.

"Put me in touch with G.X.P. Varneyloop LXVII immediately, you little twitch!"
he requested nicely.

"Sorry, but Mr. Varneyloop has left orders not to be disturbed."

"Disturb him anyway.  This is Time Agent 357 and I demand to speak to him."

"Just a moment," said the girl, obviously shaken.  It should be noted by the
reader that the speed of the girl's response, along with her sudden lack of
resolution to follow her superior's orders, are not a mere plot contrivance,
but rather indications that this agent 357 is a bit more than meets the
eye.  The girl spoke again.  "Sir, Mr. Varneyloop is currently in deep space
with a Second Lieutenant Zark Flyby.  Shall I ring him?"

"Never mind.  Just give me the number and I'll do it myself."  After
scribbling down the number on the side of his paper cup, and spilling beer
all over his lap, 357 decided he had best take a shower before calling.

357 had just lathered up and was swinging into the second chorus of "On a
Bisexual Built for Two" when his shower was interrupted by the shouts of a
strange looking man, who had just materialized head-down in the commode.
357 almost hung himself on his soap-on-a-rope helping the man assume an
upright position.  "Who the f*ck are you?" he asked.

The man threw off the agent's supporting grasp, and announced "I am Satan,
Prince of Darkness and Duke of Smelly Feet.  I was sent into the future by
that traitor Sagemo, but I shall soon find my way back and seek my revenge!"

"Like hell you will," answered 357, who had just taken a powerful handgun
from the medicine cabinet.  With a reflexes seldom found in one so drunk, he
whipped the gun around and blasted Satan, sending him several hundred more
years into the future.  357 began to think things were a little worse off
than he had imagined.

A few minutes later he dialed the number he had copied earlier, expecting to
be answered by either Varneyloop or Flyby.  Instead, he was answered by a
clean-complexioned man in a SPAMologist jacket.  "Call back later," ordered
the man, "I'm busy at the moment."

357 began to know things were worse than he had imagined.  He, of course,
had recognized the man as Doctor Bing Von Spleen, the founding father of
SPAMology, as he (357) had bought his time machine from him (Doctor) several
years before (or, from the viewpoint of the Doctor, several years in the
future).  Now what was Dr. Spleen doing on a Time Police vessel?  357
decided to go find out for himself.

After staggering out to the garage, he cleaned off the complex looking time
machine.  Pausing only long enough to throw a few cases of musty SPAM into
the trunk, he hopped in and sped off into the ether.

Who is Agent 357, and why did the writer decide to throw him in?
Will he rescue Zark Flyby and G.X.P. Varneyloop LXVII?
Will Satan ever stop getting thrown through time?
Did Quooth bite it during the big battle, or is he still around?

For the answers to these and more exciting blah blah blah...

***** Entry appended 17:37 on Mon, 02/22/88 by THC8650 at TNTECH    # 093 *****
=========================================================================
Subject:     Still far away, but not as far as before
From:        The Cowboy (THC8650 at TNTECH)

        ************************************************
        * Gargavix  Oolavant's  Pocket  Guide  to  the *
        * Space-Time Continuum  says that  Time Police *
        * Agent 357 retired from  service about twenty *
        * standard  years ago,  which doesn't  tell us *
        * much,  as he quickly  bought a time  machine *
        * and left the  known galaxy.   His partner in *
        * investigations  was  G.X.P. Varneyloop LXVII *
        * who later  left to become  a free-lance  ego *
        * inflator.   Or perhaps G.X.P.  quit his free *
        * lance job to work for the Time Police. These *
        * things get  confusing,  as Time Police often *
        * break the Laws of Time instead  of enforcing *
        * them.                                        *
        ************************************************

Travelling through nether space, Time Agent 357 (retired) was sleeping at
his controls when an alarm sounded.  With unbelievable reflexes, he grabbed
his alarm clock and through it threw -er, threw it through the window.  By
the time he had patched the resulting hole and repressurized the cockpit, he
had hit the snub-space anomoly the alarm had been warning him of.  His exact
words cannot be repeated hear, but let it be known that they could have
coddled an egg at twenty paces, probably before the chicken had laid it.

He attempted to regain control of his time machine, which was bucking like a
cheap waterbed under teenage newlyweds.  He had just gotten control when he
landed (or should I say, had a less than totally disastrous crash) on a
bizzare piece of matter in nether space.  Surveying the damage, he pressed
the "Repair all Damage by end of next Commercial" button and stepped outside
to look around.

Outside, he was greeted by an elderly man, a weasel, and the spirit of an
overweight New Yorker.  357 began to wonder if the universe not ending was
such a good thing.

"Hi!" said the weasel, "Welcome to Nether-space."

"Where are we?" said the New Yorker.

"Where's ma truck?" asked the old man.

After a quick discussion, Agent 357 learned that the Weasel's name was
Ralph, the New Yorker's name was Bubba, and that the old man's name was Joe.
He introduced himself to the group, which was not impressed.  After drawing
his Zapomatic pistol, they began to be just a little impressed.

"Bubba," 357 began.  "Bubba," 357 began again.  "Bubba," 357 began for the
third ti-BUZZAM!!!!BOOM!!!!KABLOOEY!!! [The remainder of this entry will be
presented in dialog, as 357 just killed the narrator for interupting.]

Bubba, did I hear you correctly when you said you were there at the final
battle?

Sure, I wuz there.  Played a central part in it, according to some sources.

What happened, exactly?

Duh.... I'm not sure.

You'll have to forgive my friend here.  His memory is not what it used to
be.  Having your brain die five minutes before your body will do that to
you.  Perhaps I can help you?

I guess so, Ralph.  How long have you been in Nether-space?

I'm not sure....  What year is it?

Where's ma truck?  I've got some deliveries to make!  I can't just sit
around here doing nothing.  Why, I oughtta-

Hold on, Joe.  I'll get you outta here as soon as my time machine repairs
itself.  I'll need all the help I can get.  I've been outta touch myself for
a few years.

Will Agent 357 succeed in removing himself from nether space?
Will he be able to take Joe, Bubba, and Ralph with him?
What are Zark and G.X.P. up to?
Will the Doctor build a new ABPSAR, or will he let sleeping SPAM lie?
What kind of grade will Mark Hyperthrust get out of all this?
What kind of grade will I get if I keep spending all my time typing this stuff?

For the answers to these and much more, tune in to th-BLAMMM!KABLOOEY!!

***** Entry appended 19:04 on Mon, 02/22/88 by THC8650 at TNTECH    # 094 *****
=========================================================================
Subject:     Wherein I expand our plots and ignore the last two entries
From:        Eric, Lord Sabre (enll6ac at bostonu)

     Meanwhile, back in the neo-spam ruins of Portland Maine....

     MArk Hyperthrust was exhausted.  I mean, completly, totally,
100% exhausted.  Remember, three semesters ago, when you were
up for that geology final (the one you had to get a 99 on to
stay in school?)  Remember chain sipping forty-four cups of coffee
and popping nodoze like M&Ms for sixty seven hours while studying?
Remember how you felt when all that caffine wore of (ten mionutes into
the exam?)
     Mark Hyperthrust was more tired than that.
     You have to understand Mark's predicament.  First off, his ship
(the HMS Goodguy), on loan from Intersteller U's Space Hero department,
was completly roached--what little parts that remained were tied to
his and his friends' feet to prevent them from sinking into the neo-spam.
     Secondly, his grade for his assignment--aid and assist at least
one and possibly more damsels-in-distress (DiD) in a quest of suitably
impossible nature--had been completed, sort of.  He had rescued Steve
Vogal from the nether reaches of the universe and re-assembled him.
The catch was...Mark didn't really do anything more than piss off
a lot of hyper-powerful beings while various other people put Steve back
together.
      It was looking more and more like flunk city for the lad.
      Furthermore--his two main squeezes, Radar and Linda, were both
seeming less and less interested in Mark.  Radar was too busy showing
off her intellegance and generally doing what she felt like.  Linda
was spending a lot of time waddleing between Steve, whom Mark was carrying
(as he was still dazed) and Natchwald--the other crewmember of the starship
[hey, does anyone remember the name of that starship?  Thanks, |-}-------]
whom the group found in a TARDIS escape pod.
      Steve looked up at Mark, and said in a child's voice, "Daddy, are
we there yet?"
      Mark looked back down at him.  "God damn, you ARE a looney."
      Radar looked over her shoulder.  "Don't call my brother a looney!
Remember, mister Space Hero, he's been through a tramatic experiance!"
      Natch looked back.  "Yeah, bigboobs, but he's also believed
he was Mister Rogers, Captain Kangaroo, Optimus Prime, Voltron, and
the majority of the Flintstones since we started walking!  All in all,
he's operating at one quarter impulse!"
      Linda put her hands on her hips.  She was a kind person at heart
(if mildly annoying) and hated inter-party strife.  "Come on, this won't
get us to Boston any faster!"
      "Shut up!!!!!!!!!!"  everyone else shouted.  They were really sick of
the twit.

***** Entry appended 11:12 on Wed, 02/24/88 by enll6ac at bostonu   # 095 *****
=========================================================================
Subject:     oops
From:        Eric, Lord Sabre (enll6ac at bostonu)

oops, forgot my teasers

WILL MARK EVER GET RESTED?
WILL NATCH AND RADAR EVER STOP ARGUING?
WILL STEVE'S BRAIN FOREVER RESEMBLE JELLO PUDDING?
WILL I EVER INVOLVE MYSELF WITH THE MAIN PLOT?
JUST WHAT IS THE MAIN PLOT?
DOES ANYONE KNOW THE MAIN PLOT?
GOOD LORD, NO ONE REALLY KNOWS WHATS GOING ON!!!!!!!!!!

Oh for god's sake, just keep tuned in to Sfstory disscussion

***** Entry appended 11:28 on Wed, 02/24/88 by enll6ac at bostonu   # 096 *****
=========================================================================
Subject:     Back at the ranch
From:        Eric, Lord Sabre (enll6ac at bostonu)

     The TARDIS rocked and pitched through the vortex of time,
uncontrollably hurling itself along.  Inside its control room,
the Timelord Space HEro Teaching Assistant known only as the
Intern and his omnicient companion Muck-Luck (who bears a
remarkable resemblance to Gene Roddenbary mated with Gandai)
tryed desperatly to hold on.
     "What is this damn thing doing?  Its trying to kill us!"
Shouted Muck-Luck to the Timelord.
     The Intern scowled.  "You're the omniscient one, you tell me!"
     Muck-Luck, having forgotten his basic infallibility, looked
slightly embarrised as he concentrated and re-established his
link to his computer-vax omniscience account (superbrain at oracle2).
     "Ah, it would seem our destination is hip-deep in neo-spam,
and the TARDIS cannot reenter normal space there."  Muck-Luck's
voice had the quiet, reasoned sounds of a man who knows
everything and enjoys showing it off.
     "Neo-Spam?  Damn, we must be too late!"
     "Too late?  How could it be connected to our assignment?"
     "Trust me, if all of Portland, Me, is now hip deep in
Neo-Spam, Mark Hyperthrust is DEFINATLY involved!  Right, I'll
reset the Time Rotar to place us as close to it as possible
so i can initiate repairs."

     In a small room of Danielson Hall at Boston University, a
young scholor, for the first time in his twenty years in this
life (his previous life was as a blender), had a slightly
intoxicated, very aroused nymphomanic who he had ALMOST covinced
to go to bed with him.  The man (whose name is Matthew DeForrest,
no relation to D. Kelley) was not ugly, and was fully fit, but
was a bit...well...geeky.  He also had this incredible nice
streak that was the bane of his existance.  As a result, girls
who would gang-rape dobermans ended up considering him their
older brother, and MAtt MAstribated quite a lot.
     "Oh, Matt.  I'm not sure...*pant, pant*...you seem so...
clean cut....*pant*"
     "I know, Heather, but, well, when would be a better ti--"
     The girl, serious hormonal imbalences finally pushing
her though the feeling that it was all but incest to sleep
with Matt, thrust her tounge down his thoat, letting her hand slip
down, down to Matthew's....
     Right about now, the lights in the room flickered, and a
wheezing, enginlike noise boomed from all around them.  Heather
jumped off of Matt's lap at ran, screaming.  Matthew didn't
come out of his swoon for a couple of seconds, and by that time, a
Brador Malt Liquor beer keg appeared out of nowhere and the noise
stopped.
     "What the?  Oh no...oh God DAMN IT!!!!!!!!!!"  MAtthew said,
apparently a bit tiffed at the intact state of his virginity.
     Up in heaven, St. Peter, Gabriel, and God (in the form of
Optimus Prime) bellowed with laughter.  Sometimes, people who
were insufferably good tended to have the worst things happen to
them.  Matt was one of them.  Yes, he was the butt of massive
divine practical jokes.
     The Beer Keg opened, and the Intern and Muck-Luck stepped
out.  The Intern glanced down at the keg and mumbled "well, it
would seem my Chamelion circut is a might damaged."
     Matt stared at the two of them, utterly at a loss for words.
     "Oh, cheer up," Muck-Luck said, smiling at the lad.  "I
can guerentte you that you will be marryied four times and adopt
fifteen children and will STILL die a virgin."
     "Oh, great!" said Matt.


WILL MATT DIE A VIRGIN?
IS GOD PLAYING A PRACTICAL JOKE ON YOU TOO?
DO YOU REALLY WANT TO KNOW?

THE ANSWERS MAY SOMEDAY APPEAR HERE, SO WHY NOT KEEP READING
SFSTORY?

***** Entry appended 14:00 on Wed, 02/24/88 by enll6ac at bostonu   # 097 *****
=========================================================================
Subject:     Getting closer
From:        The Cowboy (THC8650 at TNTECH)

Back in Nether space, Time Agent 357 was beginning to think that the
universe not ending was not as good a thing as he had thought, not the first
time he had had such a thought, but rather the second or third, or possibly
the fourth.  (Deep breath.)  After dropping Joe off at the right place and
time, he set his ship off in pursuit of Doctor Bing Von Spleen.

Back in the cafeteria, Ralph was amusing himself with a ukulele he had found
somewhere, while Bubba was trying enthusiastically to drink every bit of
alcohol stored on the ship.  He was halfway through the beer when 357
dropped by.

"Bubba," he said, "Thanks to a contrived plot device we will catch up to
Doctor Von Spleen very shortly.  The question is this:  Should I pursue the
Doctor or should I first try to locate Zark Flyby and my old partner, G.X.P.
Varneyloop LXVII?"

"Huh?" said Bubba, looking for a corkscrew.

"Perhaps," said Ralph, stashing his ukulele in his backpack, "You should go
after the Doctor.  He'll probably know where to find Zark and G.X.P.  He'll
also know where to pick up some good pills."  Wink...Nudge...

357 was not interested in pills, as he had sworn off all drugs but alcohol
some time ago.  He opened his mouth to speak just as the proximity alarm
sounded.

"Nice," said Ralph,"but I saw your lips move."

357 dashed to the control room, where he saw that he was rapidly closing on
the Doctor's stolen vessel.  He hastily attempted to establish
communications, but all he got was "Hello...I can't come to the phone right
now, but if you'll leave your name and number at the beep..."

He therefore changed modes of communication.  The small nuclear device he
detonated off the Doctor's bow was sufficient to gain the Doctor's attention,
along with wiping out all intelligent life in a nearby star system.  The
Doctor's reply consisted mostly of four-letter words unknown to 357, but he
got the gist of the message.  Another nuclear device knocked out the
Doctor's engines and life support, which suddenly made the Doctor much more
talkative.

"Yes?" he said cheerfully.  "What can I do for you?"

"Doctor, this is Time Agent 357.  What are you doing aboard a Time Police
vessel?"

"Well," the Doctor stammered, "Y'see, there was this surplus sale and I
bought this vessel for a song.  It's in amazing condition.  I was thinking
of re-selling it in the Antares system, but if you're interested..."

Unfortunately, 357 was not as stupid as most members of the Time Police.  He
immediately ordered the Doctor to immediately surrender or immediately be
destroyed.  Immediantly.  The Doctor's wordless reply involved a complicated
hand gesture consisting of holding up the middle finger of the left hand.
357 made a decision.

"Okay, Doctor, no more mister nice guy" he mumbled, and let loose with all
the weapons at his command.  The Doctor's ship was completely disintegrated
approximately 0.4 seconds after firing began, which didn't bother the
Doctor, as he had teleported off the ship at the 0.2 second mark.  357's
sensors noted this fact, and informed him off it two minutes later while he
was reloading the mega-blazer.  It was, of course, too late to track the
Doctor.  357 took out his frustration on the Space Trooper who tried to give
him a ticket for creating a navigation hazard.

A few seconds later, the Doctor materialized.  His first reaction was that
of suprise, as he materialized several feet off the ground. His second reation
was that of pain, as he landed in a tree.  His third was suprise again, as
the tree dumped him onto the ground of its own accord.  Pain followed, along
with several seconds of profuse swearing.  The tree which just dropped him
picked up its roots and walked away, revealing the two men who stood behind
it.

Zark Flyby smiled as he drew his gun, an action that always brought a smile
to his face.  G.X.P. Varneyloop was a bit less bloodthirsty, but, having
been a servant of Satan at one time, was used to seeing people blown away
for no good reason.  Only the Doctor seemed worried about his impending
demise, and this fact worried him even more.

Will Zark Flyby blast the Doctor into oblivion?
Will 357 ever find out what's going on?
What is Steve Vogel doing now that he has his brain back?
How can a weasel play an ukulele?

For the answer to these questions, write your own entry to SFSTORY!

***** Entry appended 14:10 on Wed, 02/24/88 by THC8650 at TNTECH    # 098 *****
=========================================================================
Subject:     On neo-spam and TARDIS trips
From:        Eric, Lord Sabre (enll6ac at bostonu)

     Dawn slowly graced our spam-smelling heros.  It did this until
Natchwald pulled out his ultideath killer zap gun and threatend dawn
with ultimate termination if she didn't get a move on.  Therefore it
lurched immediatly into midmorning, just before all the malls open.
     The five people were seated in the back seat of a pick-up that had
collected them from the edge of the neo-spam circle around Portland's
remains.  Steve, once a promenent starship captain, was busy singing
"Pzzzzzzzthp in the Furher's face" at the top of his lungs, and cackling
maniaclly.  Radar was snuggled up to Mark, shivering and biting at his...
well, you get the idea.  Linda was sitting as far away from everyone
as possible, trying to understand just what was going on.  Natchwald was
fingering his pistol and looking at Captain Vogal with obvious murder
in his eyes.
    The pickup turned onto Storro Drive just outside Boston, and after a
bit of confusion, deposited the group outside of Linda's Bay State
Road student housing, and her apartment.
     "Thank you for the lift," Linda said, smiling the smile that had
lead to several abortions during high school.
     The man, a Farmer from Aubern who was less than enthused with the group
after listening to Steve's musical atrocities, snorted.  Mark pulled
out his type-two phaser and nuked both him and his car.
     "Was that very smart, heroguy?" Asked Natch, hand on ultizap killer
death gun.
     "Leave me alone!  Sure, phazing that guy was -10 on morality, but
it was at least +20 on style!  C'mon, lets go in and shower!"
     "Together?" asked Natch, who was pelted by multiple sets of spamshoes.
     Getting inside, Radar sat down at her computer terminal.  "Lemme check
my e-mail," she said, logging into system.
     The others proceeded to help themselves to the majority of Radar's
beer--with the exception of Steve, who ate one of Radar's bean boots.
     "WHAT????" shrieked Radar, at her terminal.
     Mark jumped through the door (smashing it utterly) and proceeded to shoot
up the majority of the far wall and her neighbor's room before he bellowed
"IS SOMETHING THE MATTER?????"
     Linda peeked out of the kitchen through the (splintered) door and said
in a small, timid voice.  "Don't mind her, whenever she gets in that room,
she shrieks rather a lot."
     Radar shook her head back and forth, muttering, "that's it, we're all
going to die!  The end is nearer...."
     "And Leon's getting LARGER," said Steve, doing Ape impressions.
     Not fifteen blocks from them, in Matt's Danielsen dorm room, Matt
was sipping a Manturian Deep Indigo wine cooler Muck-Luck had given him
from the Intern's mini-fridge.
     "What do you think?" asked Muck-Luck.
     "Well, it tastes...sort of...off-white."
     "Excuse me?"
     "Off-white."
     "Oh yes, that's what I thought you said.  Well, if our lord and master
would finish his repairs in that sawed off trash barrel, we could be off."
     "OUR Lord and MAster," Matt asked.
     "Hm, oh, of course.  Rule seventeen of Time Lord encounters.  Any
non-Time Lord whose evening is ruined by the sudden, unplanned appearence
of a TARDIS is automaticlly made a companion for the duration of at least
one season."
     "Companion?  COMPANION?  No no no no no no no!  I have GOVERNMENT meetings,
I tutor in the morning...I have...had...a date with Heather tomorrow...you
come in here, quite unannounced, RUIN my chances to get a beautiful girl...you
know..."  MAtt blushed an unnatural color.  "NOW your telling me that I'm
going to be his COMPANION?"
     Muck-Luck appraised the young man.  "I was right, you do have unnatural
tendencies to assume the trival aspects  of your life are worth missing
social occasions for.  None of your friends has much of a life, do they?"
     "WHAT?   WHAT????!!!!!!"  Matt's blush deepened.  "Well, now that you
mention it, they are pretty dull."
     "Right you two," the cheerful voice of the Intern came from the keg.
Moments later, he appeared.  "In you go, and I'll finish repairing the
hypercosmic systematic, bright orange thingy."
     "Such technical terminology," Matt muttered, pulling his awfully nice
and reasonably expensive bomber jacket around his shoulders and stepping into
the TARDIS.  Muck Luck followed.
     The TARDIS interior was well lit and pretty nice, althogh nothing like Matt
would have expected.  Of course, coming from Earth, what could he have possibly
expected.
     A bright red button began to blink incessantly then, beeping as it did
it.  Figuring to do his civic duty, Matt pushed it.
     The keg door cycled shut, sealing the Intern out.  "What?" he asked,
showing his gallifreyen intelligence to its fullest.  He then began to pound
on the door, yelling "let me in, you cosmic space-twits!!!!!"
     Muck-Luck shouted "One moment," and put his brain back on-line with
his omniescient computer vax-account, to decypher the controls and open the door
     Matthew went to a different school of logic than Muck-Luck, however.
(Boston University, as opposed to Intersteller University.)  This logic told
him that if one button locked the Intern out, another button would let him in.
So thinking, he pushed a nice, big Blue one, that was clearly marked emergancy
temporal jump.
     The Intern watched his TARDIS fade away.  He looked down in his hand, at
the hyperimportant orange thingy, without which, there was no temporal
navigation capacity in the TARDIS.  He also thought of the Time Rotor, which
had had all of its power suppresors and safty interlocks disengaged for
testing purposes.
     "Oh shit," he said, proving the higher plane of existance he lived on.

WHAT IS RADAR SO NERVOUS ABOUT?
WILL MARK COME OUT OF THIS WITH ANY SORT OF GRADE AT ALL?
WHERE IS THE TARDIS HEADED?
WILL MUCK_LUCK RIP MATTHEW"S VOCAL CORDS OUT AND WEAR THEM AROUND HIS NECK?
WILL I EVER GET ON TO RESOLVING SOME SORT OF POINT TO ALL THIS?

These questions and several not even relevent will be answered in the next
WASHINGTON WEEK IN REVIEW!!!!!!!!

***** Entry appended 20:30 on Wed, 02/24/88 by enll6ac at bostonu   # 099 *****
=========================================================================
Subject:     In Space/Time
From:        Eric, Lord Sabre (enll6ac at bostonu)

    Meanwhile, back in the TARDIS, Muck-Luck had MAtthew in a hammerlock
around the throat.  If you think such a wrestling move is catagorically
impossible, you should see the things omniscient people do to fight
dirty.
     "NNNNNGGGHHAHHHHLLLGG!"  Matt said, with moderate conviction.
     Muck-Luck was still online to his Omniscent Comp-Vax account, so
he knew instinctivly what Matt said.
     "Apologies aren't enough, Hypersnot!  How are we gonna turn this
thing around?????!!!!!"
      "NNAGGGGGGAAAALLLGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!"
     "Hmmmm, you're right, my total universal knowledge probably
includes TARDIS operation.  Good enough, but whatever you do, don't
push any more buttons."  He let Matt go.  MAtt  slumped to the floor
and panted while Muck-Luck walked over to the TARDIS console.  He
glanced at the time rotar, rising and sinking into the console as
all these TARDIS controls were wont to do.  He then locked his
acct into a simple retrval program, and chatted for a while on RELAY
while waiting for it to produce the proper instrutions to pilot the
telechronal vehicale back to Matt's room.
     After a moment, he said, "ah, that's got it," and pushed a few
switches.
     The rotar accelerated and the machine flew back to the year
7990453234 BC, just over Altair III.
     In a very raspy voice, Matt said "gee, maybe this isn't what we
want, huh?"
     Muck-Luck fixed Matthew a glare that wasn't ordinarily used on
anything less than facist armys who have just slashed open your sister.
Matt shrank down in the corner as much as possible.  "All right then,"
he said, trying desperatly to sound crass, "if your so smart, what's
wrong with it?"
     "If you'll give me a moment, I'll tell you, sap-for-brains."  Muck-
Luck re-engaged the computer account.
     "Hmmmm, the time rotar saftey systems are dysfuntional, and the
telechronal navigational orange thingy is currently in the Intern's
left pocket, where it won't do us any good.  Also, the Chamelion circut
is still jammed in the image of a beer keg.
     "So to be inconspicous, we'd have to land in an MIT fraternity?"
     "Precisly.  Hold on, I'm going to attempt to figure out suitible
replacement parts, after kit-bashing, to reengage navigational control.
Again, don't touch anything, and get me a beer and some barbituates from
the mini-fridge."
     Ten minutes and several mind-altering substances later, the program
reported its results.
     "We need the following items to replace the system and return to the
Intern," Muck-Luck announced.
      "fifteen feet of fiber optic cable, a touch tone telephone, a hairpin,
a penny from 1957 or later, Lisa Bonet, any speed blender, four pounds of
plutonium, Radar Vogal's black  lacy bra, and a twinkie."
     At the mention of RAdar's lingerae, Matt blushed a deep indigo.  Then
he looked puzzled.  "Wait a minute--I know Radar Vogal!  She's on the
Council of Presidents at BU's Dorm meetings!"
     Muck-Luck looked suprised.  "She's the president of a dorm?"
     "No, she appointed herself acting first lady and has systematically
seduced--"
     "I get the picture."
     "Even the women...."
     "Yes, yes, now then--"
     "Except ME!"
     Muck-Luck looked at MAtt.  "That goes without saying."
     Matt sat back down on the floor and began to pout.

DOES IT GO WITHOUT SAYING?
WILLTHEY COLLECT THE EQUIPMENT?
WHY DOES MATT BLUSH SO MUCH

Etc. Etc.

***** Entry appended 17:20 on Thu, 02/25/88 by enll6ac at bostonu   # 100 *****
=========================================================================
Subject:     Not all that far away
From:        The Cowboy (THC8650 at TNTECH)

Time Agent 357 swore loudly.  He swore at the ship around him.  He swore at
the stars he flew by.  He swore at the asteriods he blasted just to have
something to do.  Most of all, however, he swore at Doctor Von Spleen, who
had escaped him.  Nothing can be done about it now, he thought, blasting
some more asteroids.

He was interupted from his fun by Ralph, who came into the cabin looking for
new strings for his ukulele.  "Got any Vitamin E?" Ralph asked.  357's reply
was cut short by a transmission coming in over the radio.

"To any Time Police vessels in the area," came a voice that any reader of
this CSNOTICE would have recognized as belonging to Zark Flyby.  "This is
second lieutenant Zark Flyby."  See, I told you.  "HELP!"  The transmission
ended abruptly.  357, however, quickly pressed the "Home in on that signal"
button and the ship shot off toward Zark Flyby's location.

At Zark Flyby's location, Zark Flyby was located.  Also, G.X.P. Varneyloop,
free-lance ego inflator was there.  Cowering on the ground before them, was
Doctor Bing Von Spleen, the galaxy's foremost Spamologist (only because he
killed the other threemost).  Cowering was not in the Doctor's nature, but
then, neither was being shot to death.

"Any last words?" asked Zark, happier than he had been in years.

"Nope," said the Doctor, banking on Zark's limited intellect.

"You won't confuse me with that word again," Zark snorted.  "I've come a
long way since you last outsmarted me.  Why, I can.... Hey!  Where'd he go?"

"He walked away while you were making your speech," stated Varneyloop.

"And you didn't stop him," Zark growled, swinging his lotz-o-deth pistol
around to point at a new target.

"Well," choked Varneyloop, "I was so impressed by the lassitude shown by
your oratory capabilities that I was temporarily incapacitated."

"Duh...." said Zark, who took a full three minutes to realize that he was
confused.  His brain, so absorbed in the problem at hand, forgot to tell his
body to maintain an upright position, so for a fourth time his face gained an
intimate knowledge of the ground.

G.X.P. Varneyloop looked in disgust at his acquaintance for a moment, then
strode off toward the horizon, where he saw a ship landing.

Will Doctor Bing Von Spleen get off the planet?
Will Zark Flyby take the rebate option and get a new brain?
Who is flying the ship landing on the horizon?
Why aren't Jeff or Scott appending anymore?

All this, and less, next week on Star Trek: The Next Generation!

***** Entry appended 20:54 on Thu, 02/25/88 by THC8650 at TNTECH    # 101 *****
=========================================================================
Subject:     Wherein we find out the state of the universe
From:        Eric, Lord Sabre |-}----------- (enll6ac at bostonu)

     At the moment, in the smoking remains of Radar Vogal's BU
apartment (smoked by Mark Hyperthrust who overreacted in the heroic
tradition), Linda, Mark (see above), and Natchwald were crowded
around Radar herself.  Radar sat in front of a computer terminal
screen where she had just read something that had made her decide
that all space/time was quickly planning on ending once and for
all.
     "So, um, just what is going on, Bigboobs?" asked Natchwald.
     Steve Vogal, sitting on the floor, began to loudly devour Radar's
pet hamster, but no one noticed.
     "Before Linda appeared in my room and Mark picked me up to find
my brother Steve, where we found you and eventually fought a war in
heaven," said Radar, carefully clueing in people who haven't read
this discussion for long on what was going on, "I was a graduate
student in Spamology here at Boston University.  I had just, um,
sent Dr. Bing Von Spleen to a different space/time continum.  To
take his place as the world's foremost authority in spamology, I had
invented the Spam Systematic Reintergator (or SSR) and activated it,
having its results report to my computer account."
     Natchwald, obviously overwhelmingly impressed, said "so?"
     Linda, who though cute as a button was mind bogglingly stupid,
said "huh?"
     Steve, who had had the government invest millions of dollars to
make him a top flight starship captain, said "ARRRRRR!!!  LITTLE TINY
LIZ TAYLORS ARE RUNNING ALL OVER MY SPLEEN!!!!!  NEEDLEWARP!!!!!"
However, he was ignored again.
     "Well, all of the events surrounding the uses of Dr. Von Spleen's
ABASER had unraveled the universe, but my SSR was holding it together."
     "Oh," said Natch,"that's good, I take it."  Natch was beginning
to wonder if he could get a job writing for David Letterman.
     "No, because the SSR is now causing random events of cosmic
importance to occur.  Sooner or later, all that exists will be destroyed
in a firey apocolypse the likes of which Steven Spielberg would give
his left foot to get on film!  We have to stop it!"
     Right about now, the computer beeped its annoying computer beep.
As Radar turned to look at it, a strange blue glow started to form
around Mark--looking for all the world like the transporter effect of
the Star Trek movies, though not either of the television series.
As Linda shrieked and pointed, he faded away.
     Radar, not looking up (after all, her apartment wall had been
disintergated and her brother had eaten one of her shoes--how important
could this be?), said in a panicked voice,"Yes, the SSR just caused a
spontaneous matter teleportation of some poor sap!"
     "So it would seem," said Natchwald.
     Right then, the front door (the only door still intact in the
apartment) shattered inward as a man carrying a lightsabre shaped
flashlight and wearing a blue jumpsuit lept in shouting "ALL RIGHT,
I AM THE INTERN!!!!  I NEED TO FIND MARK HYPERTHRUST IMMEDIATLY!!!!
WHERE IS HE?????!!!!"
     "Er, you just missed him...." said Linda in a quiet voice, even
as Steve started to lick the back of her right knee.


WILL STEVE GET NAUSIATED AT ALL THE GUNK THAT"S COLLECTED ON LINDA"S
  PANTS?
WILL THE INTERN *EVER* FIND MARK HYPERTHRUST?
WHERE HAS MARK HYPERTHRUST GONE TO, AND DOES HE HAVE HIS AMERICAN
  EXPRESS CARD?
I AGREE WITH THE COWBOY, *WILL* ANDY AND JEFF EVER POST TO THIS THING
AGAIN?

     The answers to these and many far less relevant questions will
hardly be considered in most of the next few editions of SFSTORY

***** Entry appended 14:43 on Fri, 02/26/88 by enll6ac at bostonu   # 102 *****
=========================================================================
Subject:     Where, oh where, has my little Mark gone....
From:        The Cowboy (THC8650 at TNTECH)

Mark Hyperthrust flew through space without the benefit of a spaceship,
protected only by the strange glow of a Star Trek-like transporter beam.
Some idle thought caused him to check his wallet, which did contain his
American Express card as he had hoped.  He suddenly saw a strange and
powerful looking ship ahead, and feverently prayed to God that it was not
his destination.

Up in Heaven, God, in the form of Optimus Prime, heard the prayer and, in a
rare show of compassion, redirected the transporter beam to a different part
of the galaxy, into a slightly smaller and even more powerful ship.

Time Agent 357 was enjoying a glass of beer and watching re-runs of the 24th
Annual Nude Volleyball Championship Playoffs.  On screen, Radar Vogel had
just scored her 3rd point when the Intruder Alert Alarm sounded.  The force
of the alarm caused the glass of beer to slide off the control panel and
fall towards the deck.  Calling upon his superhuman reflexes, he managed to
place his mouth between the beer and the floor.  He quickly gulped the beer
and spit out the glass, and casually reached for the "Destroy Intruder"
button.  He was stopped by the image on the screen, which showed Radar
scoring her 4th point and accidentally landing spread-eagle on the judges'
table.  357 pressed "pause" and decided to check on the intruder personally.

Back in the aft hold, the intruder was attempting to remove himself from the
shaft in which he had materialized.  He was hindered rather than helped by
the large weasel playing the ukulele in the corner.  357 entered just in
time to see Bubba, Death merchant from Hell and all around nice guy, rip
open the bulkhead and free the intruder.  The intruder began to mumble to
himself.

"Aw, man," he mumbled to himself.  "Getting stuck in a shaft and having to
be rescued.  That's an automatic 10 point penalty on style."

"You'se welcome," snarled Bubba, biting of the top of another bottle of Jack
Daniels with his teeth.

"Who are you?" asked 357, waving his Blastomatic menacingly.

"I'm Mark Hyperthrust," said Mark Hyperthrust, holding out his American
Express card as proof.  "How the Hell did I get here?"

"On this ship I ask the questions," 357 snapped.  "How the Hell did you get
here?"

"I don't know," whined Mark.  "We were just discussing ABPSAR's and SSR's
and the next thing I know I'm here.... Sir..."

357 began to think.  Calling on his immense knowledge of time and space,
along with a copy of the last entry, he came to a conclusion.  "Apparently,"
he stated with some certainty, "The SSR was constructed to conteract the
affects of a ABPSAR which was later destroyed.  Without an ABPSAR to work
against, the SSR ran wild and started doing wierd things."

"How did you know that?" asked Ralph, storing his ukulele.

"Simple, I used my ship's time travel abilities to go ahead two minutes and
read the next paragraph."

Bubba took this moment to pass out and throw up, not necessarily in that
order, giving us a good excuse to move along to another scene.

Back on a planet where trees walked around and dogs strayed rooted to the
spot, G.X.P Varneyloop LXVII, free-lance name-maker and former (or future)
member of the Interstellar Time Police, was making his way toward a ship
that had landed on the horizon.  He arrived in the clearing and looked
around, having to trip over the beer keg to notice it.  The side of the keg
opened and Varneyloop, having little else to do, stepped inside.

Zark Flyby, in a mad race to overtake his only link with civilization,
arrived in the clearing just in time to see the beer keg dematerialize.  He
fired his Lotz-o-deth blaster at the dissapearing beer keg several times,
which made him feel a little better.  He also fired it at a tree, which had
walked up to him and was sniffing at his leg.

This was all observed by Doctor Bing Von Spleen, who was watching all from
atop a nearby hill.  He chuckled softly and went back to work on his ABPSAR
(Automatic Beet Peeler and SubAtomic Re-integrator) Mark II, which he felt
could rescue him if he could find some Spam.  If not, it would sure make
fixing dinner easier.

Will Zark Flyby ever get off the strange planet?
Will the Doctor finish building his BAPSAR Mark II before the end of the
next entry?
What will 357 do with Mark Hyperthrust?
Scott has been sick.  What's Jeff's excuse?

Etc, Etc, and Etc....

***** Entry appended 17:04 on Fri, 02/26/88 by THC8650 at TNTECH    # 103 *****
=========================================================================
Subject:     In which we find out about Quooth and another surprise
From:        Scott McGuire (89SGM at WILLIAMS)


     The name of the planet Stix usually meant one of four things to
people, and was thus usually misspelled:

    (a) related to Death ('Styx')
    (b) a very dull boring place ('the sticks')
    (c) little pieces of wood ('Sticks')
    (d) gets stuck to your shoes (also 'Sticks')

In any case, due its name most people stayed away from it.  And even if
its name hadn't been enough to put off the more determined galactic
hitchhikers, its grey color, which reinfoced all of the above
misinterpretations of its name, succeeded.  Thus it was not a place one
would go looking for great cosmic events, a healthy trading economy, or
even nifty postcards.

    It was on one of the old rickety docks on one of the shores of a
murky lake on the planet Stix, under an overcast sky, that there was a
flash of misplaced time/space energy.  Out of it skittered a
grasshopper-like alien, waving its six arms agitatedly and clutching a
harmonica in its mouth.  It was a Wzaxtil, a strange sort of being
which had four sexes: male, female, neuter, and none of the above
(although sometimes all three).  This particular Wzaxtil was of the
latter kind, and in attempt to avoid some confusion, that kind owned
its own set of pronouns.  These were, for instance, that the Wzaxtil
was 'phim' and was clutching 'phis' harmonica.  And for those of you
haven't guessed it yet, phis name is Quooth.

    Quooth had been on a quest to the planet Wiph, which phe realized
after a harmonica had landed in phis lunch of Gorwiz legs.  Phe'd been
aided and abetted by Mark Hyperthrust, and had inadvertantly been drawn
into that nasty Heaven business which really hadn't been related to
phis quest.  Steve Vogel's body hadn't been phis quest either, but
phe'd never been able to make those silly humans understand that.  But
at least when they'd found it eternal happiness had seemed to come to
them, so phe was pleased to have played a small part in it.  The
explosion at the end of the battle in Heaven (caused in part by Zark
Flyby, see above) seemed to have tossed phim off on phis own, however.

    With which phe was perfectly happy, for phe still had phis perfect
harmonica with which to continue phis quest, and a new planet to try.
Wiph had been a disappointment.  But it mattered not how many planets
phe had to travel to - phe was convinced that phis quest was of
ultimate importance, and that not only would phis own eternal happiness
result from it (although, phe reflected, phe hadn't really been unhappy
before), but several other people might find eternal happiness and the
result might generate a few nifty postcards.

    Phe looked at the grey wood of the dock and the grey water of the
immense lake.  The environment suited phim; he was grey too.  The lake
was surrounded by gentle hills covered with greyish-green vegetation;
at the shore were houses made of a dark grey wood.  Phe noticed some
humanoids a few docks over making strange noises as they fell off their
water transport into the water and met a water being with a fin.  There
was much scrambling to get back in the boat and swim around the
fin-being.  Quooth decided they must be playing with it.

-------------------------------

    Another thing which made Stix a fairly unpopular planet was that
within a fifty-light year neighborhood of it, a star was going
supernova.  This made for very bad local star travel conditions; much
worse than an asteroid shower and almost, but not quite, as bad as a
Spam-induced space warp.  Currently, however, two individuals, in a
display of appallingly bad sense, were travelling in the direction of
the supernova itself.  In fact, they rocketed through space and found
themselves inside the heart of the supernova itself.  It might be
supposed that they were not in control of their destination
coordinates.

    Probably little could be said about most beings after they had
arrived in the heart of a supernova.  But these two beings, as it
happens, were of such power that something can be said of them.  They
were the dual immortals, Omegas and Sagemo, also flung out from the
disaster at Heaven, and they were still locked in battle, and still had
enough power to stand the intense nuclear furnace.  Not enough to
completely ignore it, though.

    Their grips on each other remained as they stared at all that stuff
you and I only get to see represented symbolically on a physics
textbook page:  hydrogen atoms combining to form helium and a small
puff of energy, helium atoms combining to form beryllium, and that
extra-special supernova fusion of heavy atoms like germanium and silver
to form gold.  If they looked closely enough, they could even see the
little arrows pointing out the direction of the reactions.

    "I'll still kill you," Sagemo said determinedly, although since his
hands were fused to Omegas's wrists even he really had no idea how he'd
do that.

    "Oh, stop and look at the pretty explosions," Omegas said, his
battle instinct having completely given in to his goodness instinct.
Then he noticed his hands had become fused to Sagemo also, one to an
ear and the other to a knee.  "Hey, we've got kind of a problem."

    "I know," Sagemo growled, "but give me a moment and I'll think of
some way for me to escape."

    "You don't have enough power," Omegas said.

    Sagemo had just arrived at the same disturbing conclusion.  "How
did you know?"

    "Because I don't," Omegas replied.  "It seems we will both die.
Well, I hope you die painlessly."  He smiled reassuringly.

    Sagemo snorted.  He tried to think in the few nanoseconds he had
before his atoms started to fuse with the other atoms nearby.  Anything
would be better than death.  Could he force his atoms to bond into
something salvagable, from which in some way he could later emerge?
Why, he could even use Goody-two Shoe's atoms.  Yes, let's see if he
could somehow manipulate them...

    The nanoseconds were practically up when a bright lightbulb
appeared over Omegas's head.  "Hey, if we fused together, we might
survive..."  The lightbulb was atomized as the nanoseconds ended.  But
Omegas's words were conveyed to Sagemo's dissolving conscious, which
was still following his orders to manipulate Omegas's atoms in some
way.  Much to Sagemo's dissolving emotion's displeasure, his
consciousness took this suggestion.  And as the star exploded, a
reintegrated and slightly-singed Omegas was spewed forth from the
nova...

-------------------------------

    Quooth was preparing to leave phis dock.  Whatever game the
humanoids and the fin-being had been playing, the fin-being had
apparently won.  Phe turned to depart, but the dock in front of phim
was smashed to splinters by a being falling from the sky and crashing
through it.  Quooth crouched down and looked through the hole at the
being, who was boiling off the waters with his re-entry heat.

    Omegas, charred from supernova, reintegration, and reentry, and
also now full of splinters and waterlogged, and very nearly powerless,
gazed up at the bobbling head in the hole, and snarled, "Don't just
gawk!  Take that harmonica out of your mouth, and help me up!"


Will Quooth help Omegas, or will phe let Omegas play games with the
    fin-beings?
If Quooth does help Omegas, will they make good travelling companions?
Does the planet Stix embody the completion of Quooth's quest?

All this and more... next time in SFSTORY CSNOTICE!

***** Entry appended 23:09 on Fri, 02/26/88 by 89SGM at WILLIAMS    # 104 *****