Bill, The Galactic Hero 6 - on the Planet Of The Hippies From Hell by Harry Harrison
Authors: Harry Harrison
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of Harvard.” He scratched his head. “Or was that Yale! I confess, this blasted sun has been getting to me lately! Buffalo Billabong! My medicine!”
“Yes, oh Chief Thunder Bluster!” yapped a short, stocky man, wearing a nine-and-a-half-gallon hat with an ostrich feather stuffed in the top and corks dangling from bits of string all around the rim, as he stumped up to his master's horse. Around the medicine's man shoulder was hung a pouch, and from the puffy leather thing he drew out a bottle of sickly green fluid. “Here you go, cobber. And g'day, lads! And by the way, Chiefie — that was Kalamazoo Business Institute where you got your chief's skin.” The red-nosed man then pulled himself up a gigantic can of Foster's lager and sprayed the assembled mightily as he opened it. “Oh well. Another one of these to'dai will probably make me chunder. But what the bloody hell!”
The man lifted beer to lips and guzzled, his Adam's apple and his corks bobbing with equal enthusiasm.
Bill's eyes bugged. Boy, he wanted that beer! However, more than even beer, Bill desired to keep his carotid artery unsevered and to prevent his blood from spurting willy-nilly about the desert floor.
“You see what I mean, Bill!” said Elliot. “A classic Indian medicine man! I estimate that we must indeed be in the American Southwest — oh, about 1885, I'd say!”
“Again I must inquire,” said Chief Thunder Bluster. “Who are you? Quickly, before I slice open your bellies for those vultures' antipasto!”
“We are travelers in time, oh Great Chief! Servants of Truth and Right and Great Tonto Fans!” said Elliot in his most obsequious tone.
“We're looking for a dirty, hairy hippie back here who wants to change the very fabric of time from 100 percent cotton to 50 percent polyester and 50 percent rayon!” said Bill, and instantly shook his head and wondered why he had said it. The heat! It was getting him.
“Yes, and the entire Universe of the future has turned Nazi and only I, Elliot Methadrine, and my boon companion Bil—”
“That's with two Ls.”
“— only two-L'ed Bill and I can save it by apprehending that history-hammering hippie. Now then Chief ... what do you say? You don't want to see a universe dominated by goose-stepping sausage suckers, do you? To say nothing of foul-smelling zoned-out herbiage-smoking rebels?”
“50 percent polyester and 50 percent rayon!” said Chief Thunder Bluster. “Why, that's the exact content of my wigwam!”
“That's far out!” husked the medicine man, downing one of the buzzards with his empty Foster's can. “In fact,” he continued as he pulled out a huge peace pipe and tamped great amounts of suspiciously green shag into the bowl, “I should say it's bloody well cosmic, mates!”
“Gee —” sottoed Elliot, sotto voce to his companion. “You don't think, Bill, that the hippie might have come back to score some grass and accidentally changed history?”
“I think I'd like to score one of those beers, myself,” Bill said hoarsely.
“Say, noble Chief,” Elliot whined invitingly. “Why don't we take this pow-wow back to that bargain wigwam of yours, perhaps share a view of your brews and talk this over mano a red mano!”
“Silence!” ordered the Chief. “In a word — no! Since we do not know what is to be done with you strange dung-beings from Beyond, then we must bring it before Higher Authority!”
“Ah! You mean there's a delegation of the United States Cavalry here then!” said Elliot. “You know, Bill, my history teacher always said that the Cavalry always came to the rescue in these sort of tight spots back in the West. Except, of course, in the case of Custer's Last Stand.”
“Custard? Eating? Booze?” said one-thought-on-his-brain, maximum two, Bill.
“What I mean, repulsive strangers, is that we shall bring you up before the Altar of the Gods, where it shall be decided what shall be done with you!”
“Altar of the Gods,” whimpered
“Yes, oh Chief Thunder Bluster!” yapped a short, stocky man, wearing a nine-and-a-half-gallon hat with an ostrich feather stuffed in the top and corks dangling from bits of string all around the rim, as he stumped up to his master's horse. Around the medicine's man shoulder was hung a pouch, and from the puffy leather thing he drew out a bottle of sickly green fluid. “Here you go, cobber. And g'day, lads! And by the way, Chiefie — that was Kalamazoo Business Institute where you got your chief's skin.” The red-nosed man then pulled himself up a gigantic can of Foster's lager and sprayed the assembled mightily as he opened it. “Oh well. Another one of these to'dai will probably make me chunder. But what the bloody hell!”
The man lifted beer to lips and guzzled, his Adam's apple and his corks bobbing with equal enthusiasm.
Bill's eyes bugged. Boy, he wanted that beer! However, more than even beer, Bill desired to keep his carotid artery unsevered and to prevent his blood from spurting willy-nilly about the desert floor.
“You see what I mean, Bill!” said Elliot. “A classic Indian medicine man! I estimate that we must indeed be in the American Southwest — oh, about 1885, I'd say!”
“Again I must inquire,” said Chief Thunder Bluster. “Who are you? Quickly, before I slice open your bellies for those vultures' antipasto!”
“We are travelers in time, oh Great Chief! Servants of Truth and Right and Great Tonto Fans!” said Elliot in his most obsequious tone.
“We're looking for a dirty, hairy hippie back here who wants to change the very fabric of time from 100 percent cotton to 50 percent polyester and 50 percent rayon!” said Bill, and instantly shook his head and wondered why he had said it. The heat! It was getting him.
“Yes, and the entire Universe of the future has turned Nazi and only I, Elliot Methadrine, and my boon companion Bil—”
“That's with two Ls.”
“— only two-L'ed Bill and I can save it by apprehending that history-hammering hippie. Now then Chief ... what do you say? You don't want to see a universe dominated by goose-stepping sausage suckers, do you? To say nothing of foul-smelling zoned-out herbiage-smoking rebels?”
“50 percent polyester and 50 percent rayon!” said Chief Thunder Bluster. “Why, that's the exact content of my wigwam!”
“That's far out!” husked the medicine man, downing one of the buzzards with his empty Foster's can. “In fact,” he continued as he pulled out a huge peace pipe and tamped great amounts of suspiciously green shag into the bowl, “I should say it's bloody well cosmic, mates!”
“Gee —” sottoed Elliot, sotto voce to his companion. “You don't think, Bill, that the hippie might have come back to score some grass and accidentally changed history?”
“I think I'd like to score one of those beers, myself,” Bill said hoarsely.
“Say, noble Chief,” Elliot whined invitingly. “Why don't we take this pow-wow back to that bargain wigwam of yours, perhaps share a view of your brews and talk this over mano a red mano!”
“Silence!” ordered the Chief. “In a word — no! Since we do not know what is to be done with you strange dung-beings from Beyond, then we must bring it before Higher Authority!”
“Ah! You mean there's a delegation of the United States Cavalry here then!” said Elliot. “You know, Bill, my history teacher always said that the Cavalry always came to the rescue in these sort of tight spots back in the West. Except, of course, in the case of Custer's Last Stand.”
“Custard? Eating? Booze?” said one-thought-on-his-brain, maximum two, Bill.
“What I mean, repulsive strangers, is that we shall bring you up before the Altar of the Gods, where it shall be decided what shall be done with you!”
“Altar of the Gods,” whimpered
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