. . ah, there. This had always worked with the creature before. He leaned over cautiously, shoved the object toward the Beachball, and squeezed it.
It was a tiny gray mouse with pink ears and a big pink nose. It made satisfying squeaking sounds. These didn't seem especially erudite to Pinback, but maybe they were close to Beachball talk. He squeezed it again.
"Here, boy . . . want the mousey? Nice mousey, pretty mousey . . ." This was a helluva occupation for a grown technician. "Want your mouse? Here, boy."
The Beachball didn't appear inclined to move any closer, but the violent pulsing seemed to lessen. Pinback dropped the rubber toy just in front of it. Again the claws tapped on the floor in imitation (or was it imitation?) of Pinback.
Coming to some Beachballian decision, the alien took a short hop forward and covered the mouse. Non-twittering sounds began to issue from it—crunching, swallowing sounds. Pinback interpreted them correctly. The alien was eating the mouse.
"Idiot!" he screamed, and reached down to recover the mouse's remains.
The Beachball lunged forward again and this time made contact with Pinback's bare hand. There was a searing sensation as if he had waved his hand over a low flame, and the alien almost hissed at him. Pinback jerked away, holding his hand and sucking at the injured member to try and lessen the pain—a purely reflexive, not too bright action on his part. Fortunately, the substance had already sunk into the skin and so didn't transfer to his tongue.
So much for subtlety and psychology. Now it was time for less Freudian approaches.
He disappeared inside the alien-holding room, and reemerged moments later hefting the broom firmly in one hand. It would have been easier with someone else to help herd the Beachball, but Boiler would only have laughed and he doubted that the oh-so-superior Doolittle would have bothered.
It didn't matter. He could handle the alien by himself. He'd show the others he could. Turning up the corridor, he prepared to give it fair warning . . . and stopped.
The alien had disappeared.
It still wanted to play? All right! He started up the corridor, looking behind him at every odd second. You had to watch out for the alien. It was tricky. Not intelligent, but tricky. There was a definite animal cunning in that Beachball. It reminded him of Boiler.
He slowed as he approached the turn in the corridor, edged cautiously up to it—and peered quickly around the bend. Not . . . something grabbed his ankles, and he screamed. But this time the alien had made a mistake. While it had a solid grip with both clawed feet, its muscular system was weak and it couldn't put much into the grip. Certainly not enough to topple Pinback.
The sergeant turned at the waist and swatted downward with the broom, catching the alien squarely.
It twittered and let go, backing away down the corridor, back, back. Pinback followed, continuing to swat at it. He had driven it halfway back to the holding-room entrance when the Beachball apparently decided it had taken enough.
Timing its leap in midswing, it caught the broom handle right at the base of the plastic straw and yanked it from Pinback's grasp. Now, using its semi-flying ability, it showed its imitative tendencies once again by flailing violently at Pinback, forcing him back down the corridor.
"No, no . . . you idiot . . . ow, yowch!" Something caught his feet and he stumbled, the broom crashing down heavily on the back of his neck.
"No, no!" Pinback continued to flail about for a couple of seconds until he suddenly realized that the broom was no longer in belligerent motion. He grabbed at it, glanced up, and saw the alien disappearing around the far end of the corridor.
It was moving back toward the engine-service area, the rear of the ship.
Not that he was worried about anything as theatrical as a suddenly sapient alien taking over the ship, but if the mischievous monster got itself entangled in any delicate machinery . .
It was a tiny gray mouse with pink ears and a big pink nose. It made satisfying squeaking sounds. These didn't seem especially erudite to Pinback, but maybe they were close to Beachball talk. He squeezed it again.
"Here, boy . . . want the mousey? Nice mousey, pretty mousey . . ." This was a helluva occupation for a grown technician. "Want your mouse? Here, boy."
The Beachball didn't appear inclined to move any closer, but the violent pulsing seemed to lessen. Pinback dropped the rubber toy just in front of it. Again the claws tapped on the floor in imitation (or was it imitation?) of Pinback.
Coming to some Beachballian decision, the alien took a short hop forward and covered the mouse. Non-twittering sounds began to issue from it—crunching, swallowing sounds. Pinback interpreted them correctly. The alien was eating the mouse.
"Idiot!" he screamed, and reached down to recover the mouse's remains.
The Beachball lunged forward again and this time made contact with Pinback's bare hand. There was a searing sensation as if he had waved his hand over a low flame, and the alien almost hissed at him. Pinback jerked away, holding his hand and sucking at the injured member to try and lessen the pain—a purely reflexive, not too bright action on his part. Fortunately, the substance had already sunk into the skin and so didn't transfer to his tongue.
So much for subtlety and psychology. Now it was time for less Freudian approaches.
He disappeared inside the alien-holding room, and reemerged moments later hefting the broom firmly in one hand. It would have been easier with someone else to help herd the Beachball, but Boiler would only have laughed and he doubted that the oh-so-superior Doolittle would have bothered.
It didn't matter. He could handle the alien by himself. He'd show the others he could. Turning up the corridor, he prepared to give it fair warning . . . and stopped.
The alien had disappeared.
It still wanted to play? All right! He started up the corridor, looking behind him at every odd second. You had to watch out for the alien. It was tricky. Not intelligent, but tricky. There was a definite animal cunning in that Beachball. It reminded him of Boiler.
He slowed as he approached the turn in the corridor, edged cautiously up to it—and peered quickly around the bend. Not . . . something grabbed his ankles, and he screamed. But this time the alien had made a mistake. While it had a solid grip with both clawed feet, its muscular system was weak and it couldn't put much into the grip. Certainly not enough to topple Pinback.
The sergeant turned at the waist and swatted downward with the broom, catching the alien squarely.
It twittered and let go, backing away down the corridor, back, back. Pinback followed, continuing to swat at it. He had driven it halfway back to the holding-room entrance when the Beachball apparently decided it had taken enough.
Timing its leap in midswing, it caught the broom handle right at the base of the plastic straw and yanked it from Pinback's grasp. Now, using its semi-flying ability, it showed its imitative tendencies once again by flailing violently at Pinback, forcing him back down the corridor.
"No, no . . . you idiot . . . ow, yowch!" Something caught his feet and he stumbled, the broom crashing down heavily on the back of his neck.
"No, no!" Pinback continued to flail about for a couple of seconds until he suddenly realized that the broom was no longer in belligerent motion. He grabbed at it, glanced up, and saw the alien disappearing around the far end of the corridor.
It was moving back toward the engine-service area, the rear of the ship.
Not that he was worried about anything as theatrical as a suddenly sapient alien taking over the ship, but if the mischievous monster got itself entangled in any delicate machinery . .
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