Bill 4 - on the Planet of Tasteless Pleasure by Harry Harrison Page B

dimensional plane had been unpleasantness piled upon misery, dismay stacked upon dismal disaster.
    First, the questers had discovered that not only was the landscape fraught with odious smells, twisted sights and infernal noise, it also was populated by creatures who made the Chingers on Empire Propaganda posters look like dewy-eyed lambs. Fortunately, Clitoria and Ottar had a way with their broadswords and cut a nasty swath through the fiercely fanged teddy bears and the clawed giant plush animals — but it was only a matter of time before they stumbled across a mythical monster that was their match and more.
    Second, it took only a few hours of slogging through the muddy swamps and nasty moors to discover that all of the staunch band of brothers, and one sister, uniformly loathed and detested one another. Even Rick and Bill — the best of buddies on board the starship named DESIRE — had words with each other, arguing about gagging, or possibly murdering, Hyperkinetic to eliminate his constant balladeering. It appeared that Rick actually enjoyed it and even joined in with a verse or two. Bill, though he'd loved Rick's ballad, found Hyperkinetic's songs ear-gratingly off key and poorly rhymed — i.e. “bowb” and “duck”; “bowb” and “fit”; “bowb” and “mugger.”
    Thirdly, their liquor was rapidly running out, and they were all sobering up and realizing that agreeing to this journey across the twisted glandscape of the human psyche had been an incredible mistake of disastrous proportion.
    A gigantic dragon squirming out of its cave and promptly chomping down on one of their members was the last thing their practically destroyed morale needed.
    “Say the secret word and win a hundred dollars,” said the dragon, confidently puffing away on its after-dinner cigar.
    “Hack!” said Clitoria, waving her sword.
    “Destroy!” roared Ottar, his own weapon windmilling above his head.
    “Sorry. Neither of them correct. So how about you Three Morons standing over there with your jaws gaping adenoidally? Any takers?”
    The barbaric duo, swords still awave, roared and were about to charge, but Rick, his eyes suddenly gleaming, a candle almost glimmering above his head (no lightbulbs here — no high technology) caught hold of his belt, dodged the outraged swipes of their swords, and whispered something in their ears. Grumbling, but nodding their heads, they lowered their weapons and stepped back a pace.
    Maybe Rick's clever mind was going to get them out of this jam, thought Bill. He certainly hoped so.
    Hyperkinetic plucked cacophonically upon his lute and lifted his head in song:
    "The supernal Rick said, 'What the bowb.
    Secret word? I'll try my luck!'"
    “Would you be so kind as to please shut up,” Bill suggested as he grabbed the man by his throat and throttled out an expiring gurgle.
    “No, Bill, leave him be,” said Rick, prying Bill's fingers loose. “He may be off-key — but he's quite right.” Rick the Supernal Hero swung around to face the leering, cigar-smoking dragon. “Well then dragon. Arrr! The secret word, then. But if we say this secret word, will you let us pass unmolested?”
    “Sounds fair to me. I've had my dinner.” The dragon rubbed his protuberant tummy happily and belched another cloud of smoke.
    “All right then, but dragon — there must be all of several hundred words in your vocabulary! Low odds on picking the right one!”
    “Please!” huffed the dragon. “I know one hundred and thirty-three thousand words at least — and that just in English!” He burped. “That, for an example, was an 'eructation.'”
    “Sounds like an old fashioned belch to me,” mumbled Bill. His nerves were getting frayed. And, more important, he was becoming uncomfortably sober.
    “Marvelous,” Rick marveled. “Which means that the odds on my choosing the secret one are truly astronomical.” Rick paced back and forth, pursing his lips and clearly thinking very hard. Suddenly, his