Instead of the classic Old Master paintings, such as Sad-Eyed Clown, Little Girl With Big Round Eyes, or Dogs Playing Poker, the walls were covered with computer screens, holovision tanks tuned to the news channels, and funny-looking rectangular objects that looked like they were made of paper. (“Books,” someone explained later. “Like comix, but without pictures.”)
Behind the desk was the biggest surprise of all. There sat another of the twins.
Bill blinked.
No, not quite a twin. This man wasn't as imposing as the others; less muscular, not as well groomed, not as good posture. But he definitely looked a lot like the bodyguards.
“You're the despicable Grotsky?”
“Yes,” the man said, “I suppose I am.”
“You started this war,” Bill said sociably, between swigs of beer.
“In a manner of speaking, I suppose so,” the madman Grotsky said. “It wasn't really my idea, but, well, yes, I guess I can take the credit.”
Bill thought about it. “General Weissearse said that everything was your fault.”
“The General is a generous man,” the misguided Grotsky said. “Would you like another beer?”
“Sure.” Bill sipped and thought some more. “The war wasn't your idea, you say?”
“No, not really.” The evil Grotsky leaned forward in his chair and spoke confidingly to Bill. “We're not very good at this war stuff. Not much practice.”
Bill tried to reassure the Eyerackian President. “You're not doing badly for beginners. I mean, you've lasted four days now against the military might of the Empire and the genius of Wormwood Weissearse...”
“Yes, yes,” the despicable Grotsky interrupted. “We get the press briefings live on cable holovision here, too. Actually, I'm not sure who's shooting down more of your ships, you or us.”
“Well,” Bill explained, “I can't say about any of the other ships, but you guys definitely got the Heavenly Peace. That was my ship.”
The madman Grotsky brightened. “Really? That is good news. Our own lads shot you down? The Heavenly Peace? I remember hearing that name somewhere. Wasn't that the lead ship in the attacks?”
“You bet,” Bill said proudly. “The General said I was god's own tail gunner on the ship, even if he never quite explained which god.”
“The General?” The misguided and evil Grotsky looked thoughtful. “He wasn't on the ship, by any chance, when we shot it down? Gee, I would so like to meet him, you know. I'm a big fan of Stormy Wormy.”
“Really? I never would have guessed. But it's too bad — he was on the ship when it got hit, but his escape pod got away. It was very heroic, for an officer.”
“Yes, too bad.” The slightly less-despicable Grotsky put another bottle of beer up on the desk to replace the empty one Bill had just put down.
Bill got a bright idea. “Why don't you just surrender? Then you could meet General Weissearse, and the war would be over, and I could go home to Camp Buboe and my foot locker. I really miss my feet.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“My feet,” Bill explained, lifting the Swiss Army Foot onto Grotsky's desk. “This is the only one I have with me, but I have a whole collection of them back at my base. You wouldn't happen to have any spare right feet lying around in the morgue or something, would you? Much as I like my snap-ons, a real human foot would be nice.”
The mildly maladjusted Grotsky started playing with his computer. Bill kept sipping at his beer. Bill made better progress.
“Gee, I'm sorry, Bill, but we haven't had enough people blown apart to have a ready supply of feet. Maybe in a few more days.”
“That's OK,” Bill said generously. “I'm pretty much used to it by now.” But something niggled at the most distant recess of his mind — a recess that was getting more distant with each swig of beer.
“I'll tell you what,” Grotsky said, “I'll put you on the priority list for feet. Gee, that's your right foot, isn't it?”
“THAT'S IT!” Bill
Behind the desk was the biggest surprise of all. There sat another of the twins.
Bill blinked.
No, not quite a twin. This man wasn't as imposing as the others; less muscular, not as well groomed, not as good posture. But he definitely looked a lot like the bodyguards.
“You're the despicable Grotsky?”
“Yes,” the man said, “I suppose I am.”
“You started this war,” Bill said sociably, between swigs of beer.
“In a manner of speaking, I suppose so,” the madman Grotsky said. “It wasn't really my idea, but, well, yes, I guess I can take the credit.”
Bill thought about it. “General Weissearse said that everything was your fault.”
“The General is a generous man,” the misguided Grotsky said. “Would you like another beer?”
“Sure.” Bill sipped and thought some more. “The war wasn't your idea, you say?”
“No, not really.” The evil Grotsky leaned forward in his chair and spoke confidingly to Bill. “We're not very good at this war stuff. Not much practice.”
Bill tried to reassure the Eyerackian President. “You're not doing badly for beginners. I mean, you've lasted four days now against the military might of the Empire and the genius of Wormwood Weissearse...”
“Yes, yes,” the despicable Grotsky interrupted. “We get the press briefings live on cable holovision here, too. Actually, I'm not sure who's shooting down more of your ships, you or us.”
“Well,” Bill explained, “I can't say about any of the other ships, but you guys definitely got the Heavenly Peace. That was my ship.”
The madman Grotsky brightened. “Really? That is good news. Our own lads shot you down? The Heavenly Peace? I remember hearing that name somewhere. Wasn't that the lead ship in the attacks?”
“You bet,” Bill said proudly. “The General said I was god's own tail gunner on the ship, even if he never quite explained which god.”
“The General?” The misguided and evil Grotsky looked thoughtful. “He wasn't on the ship, by any chance, when we shot it down? Gee, I would so like to meet him, you know. I'm a big fan of Stormy Wormy.”
“Really? I never would have guessed. But it's too bad — he was on the ship when it got hit, but his escape pod got away. It was very heroic, for an officer.”
“Yes, too bad.” The slightly less-despicable Grotsky put another bottle of beer up on the desk to replace the empty one Bill had just put down.
Bill got a bright idea. “Why don't you just surrender? Then you could meet General Weissearse, and the war would be over, and I could go home to Camp Buboe and my foot locker. I really miss my feet.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“My feet,” Bill explained, lifting the Swiss Army Foot onto Grotsky's desk. “This is the only one I have with me, but I have a whole collection of them back at my base. You wouldn't happen to have any spare right feet lying around in the morgue or something, would you? Much as I like my snap-ons, a real human foot would be nice.”
The mildly maladjusted Grotsky started playing with his computer. Bill kept sipping at his beer. Bill made better progress.
“Gee, I'm sorry, Bill, but we haven't had enough people blown apart to have a ready supply of feet. Maybe in a few more days.”
“That's OK,” Bill said generously. “I'm pretty much used to it by now.” But something niggled at the most distant recess of his mind — a recess that was getting more distant with each swig of beer.
“I'll tell you what,” Grotsky said, “I'll put you on the priority list for feet. Gee, that's your right foot, isn't it?”
“THAT'S IT!” Bill
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