On the Starry Road

The only way station listed on the star charts between the far Pellucids and the outer rim was this podunk little heap of rock called Zorago's Paradise. A bit of false advertising if ever I heard one. But I was running low on fuel, and so I coasted in. There were a couple large tankers in a low orbit. Apparently the only habitation was the port itself. No tower, not enough traffic to warrant one. No tarmac, you just had to land on a big stony shelf. There were half a dozen small ships there, all of them about as dirty and beat-up as mine was. Who else would be so far out in the middle of nowhere?

I made arrangements for refueling and then headed into the port complex. Ramshackle and rudimentary, the typical type of frontiersy outpost you saw out there on the fringes. Mostly Alsatian Wrigglers--slug-like creatures whose torsos come up to about your shoulder. They look a bit like the hookah-smoking caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland, except that they don't really have a face, just a gob hole surrounded by a swarm of wriggling mini-tentacles. They'd been the first inhabitants in this whole sector of the galaxy, and nobody else had ever cared enough to contest them.

The bazaar was hot and dusty, more of a junkyard than anything else. If you were lucky, you might be able to scrounge up a condenser coil or a fusion plug with enough life left in it to let you limp back to civilization. A string of sun-bleached Alsatian banners fluttered like tattered prayer flags. A faded storefront advertised top quality protein meal, carbon- or arsenic-based. There wasn't a soul in the street, although a couple wrigglers were cooling their tentacles under the shade of an awning. And sitting with them, as you might have expected out there on the fringes, was the inevitable terran agent, scruffy, ill shorn, but no doubt conversant in all the local customs. No doubt able to hook you up with at least a rough local approximation of whatever it was you were in need of. He got lazily up and sauntered out into the sun.

"Whatcha looking for?" he asked by way of greeting. He was sporting a threadbare Villanova T-shirt.

"Whatcha got?" I asked by way of reply.

He sized me up, squinting in the glare. "I don't suppose you're here for the snail baths. Or the local cuisine. The only thing really worth seeing is Zorago's Zoo. Zorago's the head wriggler. The zoo's his pride and joy." He gave me a particularly lecherous sneer. "It's a pettin' zoo. You can tell your kids about it."

The zoo was over at the edge of the complex. A low fence enclosed an unexpectedly pleasant exo-botanical garden of scarlet barrel cactoids and fluttering purple welwitschia. If you looked closely enough you could see that the whole area was crawling with tiny centipedes. The sandy ground was pocked with little burrows, from which small furry owls poked their heads up from time to time to take a quick look around.

Beyond the garden was a large building of whitewashed adobe. Inside, it was quite extensive. There were cages and terrariums and pens and even a large aviary. Some of the specimens were familiar, some bizarre, but they all seemed healthy and adequately cared for.

We came to an enclosure whose sign read "Homu Sapu." Stretched out upon a raised bench was a fleshy biped with a lush golden mane. She was very obviously female. In fact, she looked for all the world like a naked human girl, lounging there on the bench as languidly unselfconscious as any feline I'd ever seen. Her enclosure was only surrounded by a low railing, but she was leashed to a stanchion on the wall by a strap connected to a collar around her neck. The way she was lying you could see the full curve of her hip and her lush genital slit. She made no effort to hide herself from our stares, but the eyes with which she gazed back at us held an uncanny spark of intelligence.

"Pretty choice specimen, ain't she?" Villanova insinuated. The homu kept her eyes glued on me, making a point of ignoring him.

I'd certainly heard of homologs before, although I'd never actually encountered one in real life. They were believed to be the descendents of a first-wave colony out in Taurus somewhere who had devolved mentally while retaining their outer human characteristics. So now you had creatures like this one, pets essentially, who could pass for an alluring temptress if you glimpsed her in a smoky bar, but who had the mental capacity of a chimpanzee. Not that chimpanzees don't have the animal cunning to get what they want, or even to be devilishly tempting. But you might grow tired of their monosyllabic grunts and hoots before the night was over.

There was a commotion behind us, and the homu shifted her gaze. A group of wrigglers was wriggling up. A particularly plump one with bright orange belly mucous seemed to be in charge. He was click-talking to the others like a tour guide to his flock.

"It's the boss," Villanova whispered. "Zorago himself. He likes to show off his zoo to visiting wrigglers."

The entourage oozed up to the homu pen and began click-talking amongst themselves in obvious excitement, swiveling their eye stalks back and forth between the homu and me. Villanova chuckled.

Zorago clicked out what must have been a joke at my expense, and the other wrigglers wiggled their tentacles with great amusement. Then he turned to me, bowed deeply, and clicked a little more politely.

"Yeah," said Villanova. "He says he's delighted to meetcha. He hopes you're enjoying the zoo."

I bowed myself. "Very educational."

Zorago clicked back. "Yeah," translated Villanova with his lecherous grin. "So, the visitors have noticed a zoological resemblance. His Wriggliness would like to remind you that this is a petting zoo. He wonders if you'd like to go in and pet her."

I wasn't so sure that I would. In the first place, I wasn't sure it was safe. From what I knew, homus threw their feces. And they bit. But more than that, the idea of petting a creature that looked so eerily human kind of creeped me out. The homu herself was watching all this with a certain detached amusement.

Villanova unlatched the gate and swung it open. "Word of advice," he smirked. "One terran to another. When His Wriggliness proposes something, it's wise to comply."

I still hesitated. Zorago kept on clicking. The wrigglers quivered with anticipation. "In fact," Villanova snickered, "if you would be so kind as to remove your clothing, his Wriggliness would like to point out to his fellow gastropods a few of the anatomical differences between the humanoid genders."

One of the wrigglers slithered up a little closer. He didn't have the air of a sight-seer. I took him to be one of Zorago's hench slugs. He looked a lot more muscular than I'd ever imagined a mollusc could be.

"In fact," Villanova continued, "his Wriggliness would be remiss not to mention that humanoid copulation involves an interesting interplay between snail-like engorgement and oystery accomodation. It's a mating dance that's not to be missed. More exciting than the feeding of the bears. The guests are quite intrigued."

I didn't like the way this was going. I was outnumbered, and I didn't figure I could count on much help from Villanova. The hench slug slithered into the enclosure and detached the homu's strap from the wall. Then he slithered back out and fastened it around my neck, leashing the homu and me together.

"So she doesn't try to get away," Villanova snickered. "Although she won't. She likes being petted."

What exactly was going on here? Was Zorago's interest really only pedagogical? Or was he claiming me as another specimen for his zoo? To complete the set. So that he could put humanoid copulation on the daily schedule, right before the feeding of the bears.

I didn't see any way out. I stepped out of my boots. I slipped off my jumpsuit. Nobody was looking at the homu anymore, they were all looking at me. Including the homu herself. I thought maybe I could keep my underpants on, but the hench slug slithered forward to kindly assist me with them as well. The visitors snigger-wriggled with delight. Zorago pointed out my snail-like protuberance and the homu's oystery invagination.

The homu was checking out my protuberance with considerable interest herself. She lolled over on her back, clearly aware of what was in store. Her posture was one of defenseless surrender, but the way she opened her legs made it clear she had no honor left to defend. In fact she seemed to emanate not just an acceptance, but a downright biological craving for coupling. A procreational enthusiasm seemed to be surging through her nubile body, flushing her capable nipples and pouting her increasingly lubricated lower lips.

Her eminations were certainly having their effect on me. My protuberance was engorging itself all right, stretching itself right out toward those glistening, beckoning, oystery lips. Much to the Alsatians' amusement. The hench slug pulled on the strap to hasten things along. Zorago and the visitors gathered in closer. Villanova had secured a choice vantage point himself.

The homu looked me right in the eye, her defenselessness having turned to blatant desire.

And then the floor shook. I was thrown against the shelf amidst a thunderous rumble of collapsing masonry. An earthquake! A big one. The wrigglers held their ground better than I did, but they were looking around themselves in panic. Villanova was down. Taking advantage of the chaos, the homu scrambled out of the enclosure and jumped over him. Leashed together as we were, I had no choice but to follow. Perhaps the whole structure was in danger of caving in!

She didn't run back the way I'd come, but deeper into the establishment, past a ferny display of stoic pangolins and a lagoon of frightened crocodiles. She ducked into a side door, through some kind of work room with puddles on the floor, and out into the blazing sun of Paradise. She stopped to catch her breath and only then realized that I was still leashed to her.

She regarded me warily, then started running again, out toward the barren flat that surrounded the outpost. She wasn't just fleeing the falling masonry, she was taking advantage of the opportunity to escape from the zoo altogether. Seeing as how I was on the verge of being conscripted into that institution myself, I could see her point.

But the logic of heading out into the open desert escaped me. Maybe we could find a rill or a cactus patch to hide behind, but not for long. We had no food or water, not to mention clothing. If we were going to escape, we had a much better chance of doing it by spaceship.

"Hey," I yelled, pulling on the strap to get her attention. The space field was over to the left, and I gestured toward it. She was savvy enough to catch my drift and changed her course. She kept up her pace, though, forcing me to keep running too, no matter how much toll the rocky ground was taking on my bare feet.

It was about a half a mile to the space field. I could soon see that the ships were all still standing, they hadn't been toppled by the quake. I was afraid that Zorago might have sent guards to the field to find us, but when we got there there wasn't a soul around. The fueling of my ship appeared to have been completed. My ident card was back in my trousers at the zoo, but I was able to key in the manual code and open the hatch. I let the homu climb up first. The frank cleft of her naked rump looked as humanoid as any rump cleft I'd ever seen.

I secured the hatch, swept all the junk off the co-pilot seat, pushed the homu down into it, and buckled the harness. What the hell was I going to do with a runaway homu? But she was attached to me by a strong strap, and I figured Zorago would get organized sooner or later and come after us. It would be better not to be there when he did. I switched on the avionics and the plasma pump. The fuel gauges both read full. I started the fusion oscillator.

I pushed in the interlock to start the matter compactor. Nothing happened! No click, no whir. Nothing! Fucking shit! Had they disabled the electrical? No, the computer was working, the lights were on. Had they sabotaged the motor? Or was the damn thing just stuck? There was a bald spot on the commutator, and sometimes when the armature stopped at that exact spot the brushes didn't make contact. The only solution was to manually rotate the damn thing. It didn't take much, just a fraction of a degree, but it was a severe pain in the ass.

I didn't dare risk setting up the outside scaffolding in case anyone was prowling around. So that meant going below deck. Christ, I hated that. Barely enough room to get the wrench down where it needed to go. Often as not I ended up bumping something that was better off not being bumped.

I unfastened the floor panel and pulled it open. I got out the wrench. I knelt down gingerly, never having wormed my way down there without wearing a jumpsuit before. But just then a tremendous shake rattled the whole ship. An aftershock! The ship jostled, but it didn't tip.

The homu shrieked. I pulled myself up to see if she was all right.

"Trida gin!"

Her expression presented a remarkable facsimile of attempted communication. I didn't know that homus could vocalize. I presumed she was mimicking something she'd seen another hominid do in a similar situation.

She gestured toward the console. "Maybe the shaking nudged the thingy."

It wasn't gibberish. She was speaking real words. Maybe the shaking had nudged the armature. Maybe the compactor would start now if I tried it again.

I scrambled up and pushed the button. The compactor whirred to life, reassuringly loud through the open floor panel. I fiddled the panel back into place, latched it down, and wedged the wrench under my seat. The homu was watching me, the spark in her eye considerably amused by my discombobulation.

The ascension control panel is between the two seats, and it's better to do it standing up. The compactor revved to thirty, then forty. I engaged the flue. I checked the monitor to make sure everything outside was reasonably clear. The jet pressure indicator stuck the way it always does, and I gave the side of the panel a good whack to dislodge it. I throttled the engine and it began to roar. Clouds of steam appeared outside the viewport. The ship rattled and jerked. It listed, throwing me against the co-pilot seat, but then it righted itself and slowly began to lift us skyward.

"This rattletrap actually flies?"

The homu was looking at me with a crinkle of wry amusement. She wasn't just parroting random phrases. She was talking.

"I swear to God," she said, unbuckling her harness, "I didn't think you could find these things even in museums anymore."

She wasn't a homolog at all. She was a bonafide human being. All those glints of intelligence that her eyes had been flashing had been the real thing.

"It's still got a few light-years left in it," I said.

Her eyebrows let me know she had her doubts. She drifted out of the seat and up toward the viewport. The strap was long enough to let her reach it. She looked out at Zorago's receding Paradise and the starry firmament beyond. Her unselfconscious posture presented me with another striking view of her perfectly humanoid ass.

"So where are we going?" she asked.

"Getting the hell out of Dodge," I replied, easing off on the throttle.

"Oh, you're not worried about Zorgy are you? His click is a lot worse than his bite."

"Won't he want us back?"

"Not if it means having to exert even the slightest bit of effort. Specimens come and specimens go. He's got his money's worth out of us. All he'll be concerned about now is getting his precious compound patched up."

The ship had settled into a standard out-of-system trajectory. I slumped back down in my seat.

She gave the strap--and my neck--a gentle tug, pulling herself back down to the deck. Her breasts and pudendum seemed sleeker now--more aerodynamic--than they had at the zoo. They were no longer so blatantly emanating any particular biological urge.

"So I take it you're not a homolog?" I said.

She gave a surprised laugh. "Sorry to disappoint you."

"It's just that your... sign..."

"It's just that Shithead doesn't know how to spell. The bastard."

"Shithead? The agent?"

"Shithead the shithead. The bastard."

"And how did you... come to find yourself in that particular situation? If you don't mind my asking."

"Pfff. My ex-boyfriend--quote, unquote--traded me for sixteen barrels of rocket fuel. The bastard. And he never came back to get me, the way he said he would. The bastard."

"And what were you doing out here in the middle of nowhere in the first place?"

Her eyes narrowed just a little. "Well," she said. "I might ask you that very same question."

In other words, we both knew that there was only one reason why anyone would ever come this far out. And as if to underscore that assertion, she drifted over to take a look at my instrument rack. My magnetometer. My mass spectrometer. My radar densitometer.

Well, regardless of what either of us was doing out there, one thing was for certain. I now had a passenger on board. That was something I wasn't really set up for. There would probably be enough oxygen and provisions, as long as we didn't deviate too far from my original route. As far as sleeping accommodations, I could probably rig something up. At least she wasn't a feces-throwing homolog. As far as the ship's general state of bachelor untidiness, well, that was something she'd just have to put up with.

But there was one thing that was kind of calling attention to itself, and that was our lack of clothing. We were both still as naked as jaybirds. And even though her lubrication and my engorgement had subsided, I was a little self conscious about having to navigate in front of a nubile female passenger with my dick hanging out. That was no way to run a spaceship.

"So, listen," I said. "I'm afraid I've only got one spare jumpsuit. You're welcome to wear it if you want."

She was twiddling the vernier of my densitometer. "Oh, don't worry about me. My ex-boyfriend and I never bothered much with jumpsuits between ports. The bastard. And I didn't wear that much at the zoo, either."

Still, though, in the interest of shipboard morale, I rummaged around in the skivvy bin and pulled out a couple pairs of underpants and a couple T-shirts.

"How about this at least?"

She shrugged. She chose the light gray boxers and stepped into them, leaving me the tighty whities. But the T-shirts were problematic because of the strap around our necks. I felt to see if I could unfasten it, but it had been fused back onto itself without a detectable seam. I got out the tin snips, but they didn't make a dent. The hacksaw didn't do any better.

"Alsatian silk," she said. "They secrete it from their gobholes. It's pretty tough. Diamond shears might work."

"If I had any."

She just shrugged again and pulled the T-shirt on over her collar, trapping the strap against her side down to her waist. I did the same. Suboptimal, but at least we weren't so blatantly naked any more. We were still yoked together, a little closer now in fact, but we were getting used to maneuvering around each other without getting too tangled up.

She went back to the instrument rack and noticed my local system scanner. "Are you kidding me? An RX87? What's the readout come out in? Morse code?"

I took advantage of her distraction to check our course. In point of fact, she was right about what I was doing out there. And I had to assume that she was there for the very same reason. Technically, that made us competitors, although it was hard to take her too seriously in her current condition. She didn't have a rock hammer to her name, let alone a belt loop to hang it from. Still, though, the destination I was headed for was one I was hoping would prove lucrative. The fewer people who knew about it the better.