ILLEGAL ALIENS

"But surely you don't plan to live in the ship," he questioned the hairy youth.

"WHY NOT? IT'S CERTAINLY LARGE ENOUGH. A BIT OF PAINT, SOME POSTERS, AND IT WILL BE MOST COMFORTABLE. ANYTHING THAT WE HAPPEN TO NEED I AM SURE YOU WILL BE HAPPY TO DELIVER PROMPTLY."

Following that statement, a bolt of blue fire spat from the ship and a stand of trees in the park violently disintegrated.

"CORRECT?"

A shaken Rajavur could only nod. "We'll start assembling your tribute immediately."

"DO NOT FORGET THAT PARDON YOU MENTIONED EARLIER."

Automatically, the diplomat corrected him, "You mean amnesty. A person can't be pardoned for a crime unless first he's been convicted."

"NO TRICKS! WE WANT A PARDON!"

"Its yours! It's yours! No problem."

"SIGNED BY THE GOVERNOR."

"In triplicate!" the professor contributed, trying to appease the ganglord.

"THAT'S THE TICKET. OH BY THE WAY, THERE IS ONE MORE THING WE WANT."

Maintaining his poker face, the man sighed. Oh, what now?

"HOW ABOUT SOME LUNCH?"

The leader of the FCT picked up a pencil from the tray near his high security hot lines. He hadn't done anything like this since his college days. "Shoot, I mean, go ahead."

"A PIZZA WITH EVERYTHING, AND I DO MEAN EVERYTHING. FORGET THE MUSHROOMS AND I LEVEL ENGLAND. NO ANCHOVIES AND GOODBYE GERMANY."

* * *

Trell touched Drill on the arm. "Excuse me, sir, but how far away are these places?" he asked curiously.

"Thousands of miles," Drill answered, vaguely remembering a geography lesson he had once accidentally attended. "They're other countries."

The alien shook his head. "Then I'm afraid we can't do it, sir. The Proton Cannon only has a range of 100 ship lengths."

"Shut up fool," Hammer snarled softly. "Do they know that?"

Ah, mighty clever, these humans.

* * *

"PLUS A CASE OF IMPORTED BEER. COLD, MIND YOU."

There was a changing of personnel on the communications monitor.

"GREETINGS PEOPLE! I, THE MIGHTY DRILL, DO HEREBY DEMAND A DOUBLE ORDER OF RIBS FROM LOUIE'S BAR-B-CHEW OVER ON EAST 42ND STREET. TELL HIM THEY'RE FOR ME. OH YES, ADD A CASE OF CHIVAS REGAL."

Dr. Wu's laser printer started whining at that moment, and with the flick of a finger she put it into hush mode. "At least the alcohol with help cut all that grease from his system," she commented, as an aside.

"So he dies of a heart attack in 10 years. Who cares? Our problem is living until tomorrow," Bronson growled. "Wrap it up quick. We've got company coming."

In confusion, Rajavur blinked. Company?

"HELLO, MY NAME IS CHISEL. HEY MA, LOOK! I'M ON TV! I'LL HAVE A TRIPLE CHEESEBURGER, A COLA WITH NO ICE, AND A SMALL FRIES."

* * *

"That's what you order?" Hammer stormed, brandishing a clenched fist at the boy. "Don't embarrass me, ya creep!"

* * *

"MAKE THAT LARGE FRIES. OH, AND A BUCKET OF CHICKEN, EXTRA CRISPY, PLEASE. THANK YOU."

Now a new face came on the monitor.

"GREETINGS, DIRTLINGS."

The FCT straightened at their consoles as Trell appeared. So at least one member of the alien crew had survived the transition of power. That explained how an uneducated street gang was operating a starship.

Green and hairless, noted Wu, typing some additional medical notes into her computer file. Some sort of plant life? No, not with those teeth. He was an omnivore. Curious.

Mohad tried to locate the alien's ears, Courtney studied his clothes, Bronson and Nicholi drew diagrams of the control room behind the alien.

"What can we get for you, astronaut?" Rajavur asked in his most gregarious manner.

It seemed obvious that the greeting pleased Trell. Star voyager, he liked the sound of that! "HAVE YOU ANYTHING WITH A DOUBLE BENZENE RING, SLIGHTLY RADIOACTIVE AND ENRICHED WITH ELEMENTAL BERYLLIUM?"

That stopped the professor for a second. "Ah, no.