An article from "Sagas, Sagas, Sagas" the monthly magazine published by the Society for the Appreciation of Prose

"Synopsis of the Mountie's Action to Date" by J Lawrence JingleRood, III, editor.

Fellow lovers of great writing, serious works, great epics, is it not exciting to be alive and kicking in this great age? Once again the pen name of Dudley Do Ride has attracted another talent. Not a poet this time, and maybe that is good because we had so many of them, no, this time it is a great writer. We are not sure who. We are just grateful that whoever he/she is, we are being fed a steady stream of great writing in installments, building up to what we know will be a treasure that our culture will surely ensconce along with its most valued works.

It is difficult for even a professional, such as myself, to evalute this work. It is complex. For example, there is no title. We have to look to the story itself for a clue as to what it is all about as the author has not made it explicit. This means that people will have different opinions. A natural and wonderful thing about writing and criticism.

The plot is fairly involved. At this point in the action we seem to have three distinct threats, or evil forces, depending upon whether you count this newly introduced and strange entity The One as good or evil. I am not quite sure as to the status of the lectroids at this point. After some sabre rattling and a surprise take-over they seem to have vanished from the story line. But the Poohawks are clearly menacing and needing to be resolved if the hero character is to proceed to the triumphal conclusion of this type of work.

The number of characters involved in this story is quite large. This makes us wonder if there will ever be sufficient development of all of them. Our author is in quite a difficult position in that regard which of course makes watching him try to resolve it the more educational.

As to the fundamental issues, the great metaphores, well this is where of course analysis is the most difficult. Many of my colleagues refuse to even comment on such things until the story is completed. As writers are notorious for surprises and table turning. This one is no exception. He seems to enjoy taking the plot in wildly new directions instead of slowly and elegantly following a line. We try not to hold that against him.

As for the theories and claims made in the areas of Philosophy, Anthropology, Human History, Economics, etc we will merely state that we are amazed by them but do not feel qualified to comment upon them. I am sure that the journals in each of these fields will demand papers to be submitted since there is so much debate occurring about them in the hallways and corridors of our finest educational institutions.

Writing is critical for the advancement of human thought as we see by example from examining this great work in progress. We are pleased to see our society still produces such serious engagement with the great mysteries, looming problems, and the fundamental issues of our time.

So while we are frankly baffled by much of what is going on in this story at this time. So while we are unable to produce a nice synopsis, despite what the title of this article has implied. We nevertheless doff our hats in praise and support of this master writer and beg him to continue ardently on his noble quest...












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The mountie paused before entering the room. It was the point of no return. The plan was made. The war was about to begin.

In his breast pocket he had a scrap of paper. Lyrics from a song made so long ago by a heart once tender and now so cold. He might have cause to use these lyrics, if he lived long enough, and if his enemy did too. Her eyes now so clouded with hate would still recognize her own words. But would there be any effect? Even as her mind grappled with the thought of an early grave for one of them?

He lit the fire on his rogue roaster. In his mind the words from the song seemed to swell, he let them. He needed something to give him a mood as he sent some evil monstrosities to the undiscovered country.

'Oh Dudley boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountain side
The summer's gone, and all the roses falling
'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.
But come ye back when summer's in the meadow
Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow
and I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow
Oh Dudley boy, oh Dudley boy, I love you so.

But when ye come, and all the flow'rs are dying
If I am dead, as dead I well may be
ye'll come and find the place where I am lying
And kneel and say an "Ave" there for me.
And I shall hear, tho' soft you tread above me
And all my grave will warmer, sweeter be
For ye shall bend and tell me that you love me
And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.
Oh Dudley boy, oh Dudley boy, I love you so.'

Yeah you didn't need anything else to remind you she was a Gaul. And those weird things on the other side of this door were about to find out that the old man still knew how to handle his tommy.

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If you were to make this into a movie, Dudley, who would star in it?


The mountie paused before entering the room. It was the point of no return. The plan was made. The war was about to begin.

In his breast pocket he had a scrap of paper. Lyrics from a song made so long ago by a heart once tender and now so cold. He might have cause to use these lyrics, if he lived long enough, and if his enemy did too. Her eyes now so clouded with hate would still recognize her own words. But would there be any effect? Even as her mind grappled with the thought of an early grave for one of them?

He lit the fire on his rogue roaster. In his mind the words from the song seemed to swell, he let them. He needed something to give him a mood as he sent some evil monstrosities to the undiscovered country.

'Oh Dudley boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountain side
The summer's gone, and all the roses falling
'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.
But come ye back when summer's in the meadow
Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow
and I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow
Oh Dudley boy, oh Dudley boy, I love you so.

But when ye come, and all the flow'rs are dying
If I am dead, as dead I well may be
ye'll come and find the place where I am lying
And kneel and say an "Ave" there for me.
And I shall hear, tho' soft you tread above me
And all my grave will warmer, sweeter be
For ye shall bend and tell me that you love me
And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.
Oh Dudley boy, oh Dudley boy, I love you so.'

Yeah you didn't need anything else to remind you she was a Gaul. And those weird things on the other side of this door were about to find out that the old man still knew how to handle his tommy.





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If you were to make this into a movie, Dudley, who would star in it?




Then began the long "casting" process. What a headache for DGM (DoRide Grandiose MovieWerks)

Before they could even think about actors they had to decide upon the director. What a problem. No single director seemed right for every act of this colossal play. There was some talk of a committee but saner heads prevailed before that dubious idea took on any life.

*sigh* Historians have often shed tears at what directors have done to history for the sake of story. Biographers and especially autobiographers have pulled out large swaths of their hair at the creative instinct gone amok. A carefully designed script leaves the film making process having somehow jumped to another family tree with not even the remotest relation to its originator - a birth of a new species.

Yet each one of these valid points also has to be balanced with the fact that makers of the most factual, most faithful films often have very little grasp of art, how to mix music, mood, and character to create something that evokes something deep in us. Instead they often create uninspired works of surprisingly low bandwidth of information even though what they supply is factual. If they just cranked up the information rate then at least the viewer would be entertained by the sense of knowledge washing over him in a stream too fast to be soaked up in one sitting. There would be a reason to remember the work and to see it again. Instead there is an appalling tradition of wasting long segments of time showing a still image and playing some banal music or having 3 or 4 talking heads talk very slowly, saying fairly obvious things, just for the sake of getting some names up there on the screen.

But there are exceptions. In history one often finds the most compelling representations on film in the realm of historical fiction. Soap operas, if you will, set in historical times with a mix of real, famous characters and made up characters. Some take great care in getting the period just right. The best, like soap operas, seem to take many many episodes and actually work better on TV perhaps than film.

We here at DGM want to foster experiments in this area. Every selection of director and script will be done for the sake of holding to, equally, balanced, truth and art. Our deviations into legend, into fun, will be faithful to the true. We will not change our characters to suit some fashion. We will not hire some prima donna and let him/her hijack the film. We are all about our creation, not the money.

We have never broken faith with you our noble viewer and we never will. Quote

And so it was that wild Dudley to the dark tower came. And heaped electric death in great quantities on reptilian beings from Planet 10. And resoved finally, if bloodily, the issue of the favorite model.

But before recording this event in the requisite detail. Before chronicalling just how the lectroids came to be under the sway of The One. Before giving some idea as to the fate of the infamous Emilio Lizardo. Before giving an update on the maneuvering at the start of the long and bloody Poohawk War IX. We must make something clear.

What characterizes the Good, the Just, we feel is a great reverance for life. This seemingly obvious belief to us in this time was by no means so obvious to our ancestors. Even now many state doctrines, philosophies of rule, governing ethics, fail to raise this up to the highest level, the primacy, that we feel it merits. The individual. Not the state. Not some invisible being of suspicious existential character. Not some metaphor or half formed idea. Each living breathing organism that struts out its brief existence in this vale of tears. Whether that individual was raised in a swamp on Planet 10, has scales on his green skin, and hangs out in greasy spoons eating something like live frogs when on his R and R.

Each life form has to grapple with the jest that is Life. No matter the color of the blood or other fluid that is the primary vehicle of the biological cycles required for him/her/it to exchange gases, nutrients, and reproductive modules with his/her/its environment. No matter how many orbits on average the fairly stable nuclear reaction that heats up his/her/its home world takes before that being has to lie down, conceding the game is up, and return to wherever it came from. A great respect for any being, its situation, the long difficult path it was to even produce such a being, all the things that could have derailed it and its kind from ever seeing the sky of its home world is essential.

It levels the most light of hearts to consider how many times the bloody path was chosen when some simple empathy could have produced much better results. How many worlds, cultures, societies were undone by letting fanatical rulers, oversimple ideas, goad them to do destructive, unthinkable deeds.

So out of respect for the sanctity of life and the primary lesson of history, I must assure you that Dudley came to this pass after exhausting all other possibilities. Do not hold it against him. The real culprits, a long series of them, died and were buried years ago in the fetid swamps on the dark side of Planet 10...



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The iron door blew open, the hinges flew through space and embedded themselves deep within the stone walls. Lectroid guards, dressed in some bizarre sex paraphenelia, no doubt under strict orders from The One, barely had time to turn toward the sound before their central nervous systems were disconnected, in a most permenent way, from their spinal columns. They exited the stage via the downward path, the floor catching their green spill. An unusually dry floor for lectroid tastes. But soon Ride would fix that.

Men have assaulted towers for centuries. Their methods have remained much the same even as their weapons have steadily become more and more powerful. For Ride it was simple. He didn't care about the structure. There wasn't a soul in here he had to protect. No possibility for collateral damage. He lobbed nasty looking grenade like bombs left and right. He played his particle beams through walls, cutting support columns, taking out lectroids in neighboring rooms, before leaving this one.

Wires spat sparks. Metal groaned. Fires flared. Klaxons went off all round him.

He was dressed in light body armor. Shrapnel cut into composites but did not touch skin. Eyes were protected by goggles that deflected particles and filtered out the most deadly of gamma rays.

The song played through his mind as if there were a sound system here cranking it out. But there wasn't. Just screams. Groans. Orders barked out in the gurgling lectroid language.

He went from room to room. His strike team was still en route. He was just softening up things a bit. The lectroids always did have a weak, single adversary defense.

Now he was pinned down. And had to wait for relief. As beam weapons vaporized heavy metal screens near him he calmly did some weapon maintainance. Excellent progress. There were many lectroid dead scattered in various striking exit poses. Fangs loosely hanging from slack mouths. Eyes open and staring. Now regretting they had ever left Planet 10. But more importantly he had done enough recon to know that all of Team Banzai's assumptions were correct - The One was here, she was trapped, she had left herself too vulnerable this time.

"I'm coming for you bitch." he thought. "Now you'll see how I treat my exs.' and laughed an easy laugh.

He was in his element. For as difficult the modern world was in peace time, how complicated, deadly, deceptive... he always found the confusion of war much more easy to get his mind around.

He looked in sort of a detached way at the result of a near miss. One that had ripped a huge tear in a steel wall. "Tch, tch. You missed me by at least a millimeter and a half. Nerves got your paws quaking?"

Some large, loud blasts that made the whole tower sway announced the arrival of his team.

"This baby isn't going to go for much even in a seller's market." he thought and laughed. And in a moment was back into the fray removing the lectroid scourge quickly from the lower levels of the looming monument to one woman's thirst for power.

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Little girl being tucked in by grandpa again: "Grandpa, it seems like there is a lot of stuff missing from the story."

Gramps: "What do you mean?"

Little girl: "Well, I really don't know why he's in this tower, where that is, or who The One is supposed to be."

Gramps: "Really? Maybe you were asleep when I was reading some earlier chapters."

Little girl: "Noooo! Don't try to trick me. I have been awake the whole time!"

Gramps: "I believe you. And you are a very sharp young lady too. So don't be surprised that I agree with you."

Little girl: "That's a sentence fragment you know..."

Gramps: "Grammar is meant to serve us my child. Not the other way around."

Little girl: "I tried explaining that to my teacher, she didn't like that."

Gramps: "Well... anyway. Writers often play games with the plot. Telling things out of sequence. It is a device."

Little girl: "I see. So we'll eventually learn everything."

Gramps: "Well, they sometimes leave things a little mysterious too."

Little girl: "Soooo, part of the suspense is not knowing if you'll ever know anything?"

Gramps: "Yes. I've noticed in some ways that this is similar to how a mafioso thinks."

Little girl: "You talk a lot about mafiosos."

Gramps: "Well, I guess I do. I guess it might be because their stories are colorful."

Little girl: "And because you like speaking in Italian? (making some gestures) And going like this with your hands."

Gramps: (laughing) "Yes. You do that very well."

Little girl: "eyyyy, we are ah nota havin' soma kinda moment here. Getta on with the story old man... Capice?"

Gramps: "Si, si, madam. Presto, presto."





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The tower walls were shaking, there was a major firefight going on throughout Level 4, the main lectroid nesting area. But Ride had penetrated far beyond this� to the Dark Model�s inner sanctuary.

One more door to throw open. And he�d face his greatest foe, at least in this tower. Subtle. Clever. Wily. Cold - blooded. Who knew his weaknesses like the back of her own pallid, black �polished hand - with nails kept trim by running over lectroid spines in the heat of passion. Lost to the wild side. More interested in the thrills of mating with dangerous new species than with warm, loving, human contact.

She now stood for everything he was against. She lived and breathed only to do him ill. Her delight was his downfall. Her heart felt joy only in his destruction.

It was fortunate he had never married her. He shuddered to think of how warped and twisted a mother she would be for any child. Teaching the poor thing only how to serve her and doing her best to develop her spawn into the most dangerous creature the forces of Good had ever faced.

He noticed his hands were shaking a little. And he was disturbed to find that his mind had lost a little focus by conjuring up an image of her in a tight fitting, oh so stylish, tight fitting dress. He couldn�t help it. The simple truth was that the sex with her was unlike any he had had with any other being. Exquisitely intense. Spectacularly passionate.

Unbelievable. What a joke the gods had played on him. Making his heart weak for such a foul, twisted, creature. He tried to focus on his anger with them. His cold, cold, clock of a mind really wanted this day to spell the end of her. It wanted the peace, the satisfaction, that dispatching a dangerous villain should invariably produce for any hero.

He put on his peril sensitive shades� They went oh so very black. He smiled. She couldn�t conquer that which couldn�t see her. Her foul words would not be prettied by the image of her. Her evil undertones would not be hidden by the swish of her perfectly rounded form through the room. Her words, her voice, would be her doom. He would hear her immense ego crystal clear, her disdain for all other life, and be able to blast her back to her maker, far, far below the deepest reach of any deranged soul crafter in existence.

The gods had failed in their joke. For his ears were tied faithfully to his rational being. And his rational, cold, judgemental side had passed the death sentence on her.

He kicked open the expensively, but light, wooded door and entered with guns leveled�




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ah but it is funny how a man's mind works at such times...

As he went in he caught a vision of sunshine. Of a far different woman. So lovely. As sunny as this one was dark. sweet, beautiful Kate. So sexy. So right for love in the warm afternoon. How his heart longed for her.

mmmmm his vision. Her lace negligee. Her smile. Lively eyes. Her laugh. Her slim sexy form. Her lively, light love.

Such beautiful love. Wild but pure fun. How could he ever have been lured into the orbit of the dark sun? The lightless love? The animal frenzy?

Only the gods knew...

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Threshold crossed...

Guns blaze, flash once, then space starts to bend...

a shrill voice: "Poppies" (echoing) "Poppies Poppies."

deep and deadly female rasp: "I draw thee mountie"

Whirling realities...

Vision of ... a pink flower... so beautiful... a universe contained in it... so very essential... nothing... more... important...

contemptuous, cold, female voice "You have forgotten the face of your father..."

Bright light... Painful, so space filling... Heatless... But so very bright...

Man's deep voice... so far away... "I started out as a child..."

All women...

All legends...

Simultaneously realized...

Horizontal velocity expanding...

********************** poof **********************************************





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A phone rang loudly in the dead of night. A black night. No stars. No moon. People in neighboring apartments rolled over grumbling. But no one actually woke. It was that time of the night when most people require maybe a million volts direct, with chilled electrode, to return to their cares in full, bleary eyed consciousness.

But one man was up. Mind working. Every light in his place on. Hearing his phone ring and simply choosing not to do anything about it.

"I'm corrupting the measurement. I'm influencing the result. Dammit! Who thought the Uncertainty Principle applies here? Who knew it would go like this?" he whispered with tense hiss for the gratification of his straining ears.

Now with a cold sweat breaking out all over his tense, quivering body, he became aware of the metallic scrape, the hum and chirp, deep and resonant at first, that meant the end for him and those within a few blocks of his place.

"Jello. If only I had just one lousy bowl of Jello." But he didn't. It was too late. Much too late now.

(bump bump... bump bump...)

The pulse he knew would come came. He had maybe a 2.5 seconds to say goodbye to this world.

The universe paused for a moment. Tipped its hat. And then went on with its business...


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(bump bump... bump bump...)



Sexy Kylie was the first to go.

It was so unexpected.

She was having fun. Laughing, smiling. Enjoying the traffic in her happy room.

Someone had changed the words of that Eagles song, you know, the one about that strange hotel in California. They had changed it to flatter her. So she was having fun, chirping the words to it, taking great pleasure in the phrase "Hotel Kyliefornia".

*sigh* Such a lovely lady. Such a carefree day. Everybody having fun. Relaxing. Feeling good about life and themselves.

Then the phone rang. Kylie picked up without missing a beat. But her gorgeous eyes soon went from bright and easy to wide and terror - filled.

"It... it is coming... It is here! Oh my god! I don't have any jello!"

Few would bet that this phrase, even with minor embellishments, would be their last words. It would perhaps be a good time to stop now, briefly, and practice our favorite phrases for that time, that oh so final time of our lives. Just so that if we are caught as far off guard as poor Kylie was, we still might succeed at mumbling out whatever we have prepared. If Kylie had made such preparation it had been completely driven out of her reeling mind by the full magnitude of whatever it was on the other end of the line...

The universe didn't pause this time. It knew this was going to be a fairly common thing in this part of existence. So it decided to take a grim, stoic, approach to the whole horrid business. It even managed to whistle a few notes as it went about its morning chores.

Yep... mankind had better get some Jello... ASAP!



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little girl: Grandpa... Are you sure this is the same story? Or did you start something new? Let me see the book! (reaches for it)

grandpa: (smacking her hand away, eyes blazing) Stop that! I cannot believe how careless some storytellers are. Showing the book, the progress. I certainly won't.

(then more calmly) You will know when it is complete my child, I think. Or perhaps not. It depends upon the purposes of the author and your attention to the task.

little girl: ok ok, geez. I didn't know this was such serious business.

grandpa: It is and it isn't. Did you know that the Spartans too told stories?

little girl: well of course.

grandpa: Then you should know that there is discipline even in this.

little girl: Are the Spartan stories any good?

grandpa: I am a narrator not a critic dammit!

little girl: (rolling eyes) ooooooooooooooooh kaaaaaaaaaaaaaay.


grandpa: All right, all right, that's enough for today.

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Jello... Jell-O...

The Hittites knew it as JaHaLo. The Egyptians as Jehe-lo. The Hebrews as J-LL-. The Hawaiians as Ja a hu pai wa ei no.

Every race. Every planet. Throughout the universe. All had/have/will have called this jiggly wonder-substance by similar names and have taken very similar attitudes toward it. All have unknowingly owed it a great debt. Loving it but not understanding just how crucial its role in the universe has always been and always will be...

It has been present at every great event in the cosmos. Shaping the course of life. Protecting it at its most vulnerable moments.

Humbly... tirelessly... with style and grace...

Matchless...

*sigh*


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Yes... what an end to a perfect day...

Euphorie sank her head contentedly into the brawny shoulder of her new-found hand: Pecos. She had always dreamed of landing a hard-bodied cowboy with a heart of gold and big dreams.

The sun was sinking in the west. They were driving to his (their) new spread. Carved out of the land with his large, strong hands. She was thinking of the woman's touch she would add. The vittles she would cook. The little feet that would soon be scurrying around the freshly cleaved, hardwood floor of their love nest.

He squeezed her reassuringly. His steely eyes locked on the road, reins in hand, confident, serene. Feeling such a master of his (their) destiny.

He couldn't help but laspse into song:

"I kin feel the day grooooooowing ooooooooooolder...

waaaaaayth a sleepy head on maaaaa shooooooooooulder...

Nodding...

Drooping ...

Close to my shoulder 'till it faaaaaaaaaaaaaaalls kerplop!

The suuuuuuun is swimming on the riiiiiim of the hill...

The mooon is sticking her heeeeeeeead up...

The moose is bugling from the edge of the marsh...

The laaaaaaaaark is crooooooooooning in the meeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaadooooooow...

(hears the clippity clop of the hooves) Don't ya wish it could go on forevuh. Don't ya wish it could go on forevuh.

Don't ya wish it could go on forevuh aaaaaaaaand neeeeeeeever stop....

Don't you hurry in the little surrey with the friiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinge

on the tooooooooooooooooop."

Euphorie was taking in a big, big breath to lay into her part with gusto when all of a sudden she heard the fateful:

(bump bump)

followed by the equally ominous:

(whoooooooooosh swish)

And in one horrible, tragic, fast-breaking moment... two people's dreams and happiness, yea and their very lives, went the way of the dodo.

A Poohawk raiding party, waiting to ambush them further up the trail, heard the horrific sounds and skulked prudently the other way. Yep, the Poohawk perhaps better than anyone else in this part of the galaxy knew what the score was. Every man, woman, and child of them carried a medicine pouch filled with pemmican Jello.

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Light...

Heat...

Dust...

Wind...

Pain... "Good." thought the mountie, "I must be alive."

His mind snapped to quickly. His eyes focusing fast and starting their habitual roving... keen, fierce, piercing.

Sooooooooo the Model in Black had drawn him here. There was more to "her" tower than met the eye. It was kind of ... fundamental to things... he thought and then laughed the easy laugh of the honest man who had no fear.

With a grin on his face he straightened up and stood on the sand. Surrounded on all sides by desert. An unfamiliar sun beat down on his uncovered head... a very strange red color for what passed for noon in this ... brave new world.

He reached easily down and to his right. Felt the familiar feel of steel and leather. He raised his revolver out of holster and spun the chambers.

"Ah gunslinger" he drawled and laughed. "Where are the lobstrosities?"

Laughing as he went he started his decision making progress. He picked a direction and moved off with a purposeful stride.

His mind appreciated the chance to work undisturbed while his body settled into the long haul. Images. Words in alien tongues. Tales of the ancients. He had touched many worlds in a brief instant and his mind had struggled to grab all it could. Many characters jostled in his thoughts, demanding their chance to impart their wisdom, pass on their experience. Philosophies warred for his consideration.

The universe was out of balance he knew. But his world had not moved on. Nor would it.

This desert would be passed. The world deserted and a way home found.

The tower could go hang itself.

A certain pulse would be quieted. A lurking menace dispatched.

And the Model? Well... even for this there was a plan...


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Many, many hours later. A dust covered Ride swaggered a little unsteadily into a three-shop town in the middle of nowhere.

With a surprising amount of dignity considering the circumstances he dropped to his knees and drank out of a water trough that was designed for some kind of ride, probably an octoped based upon what he thought he saw from afar as he moved toward "civilization".

He then walked a good deal more steadily into the first shop.

"Revolver" he croaked to the store owner, a short, nervous-looking green fellow with eyes on long stalks.

His words were understood. Language was not the barrier you might expect in the more enlightened universe beyond the backwaters of Earth. And this was not the first time that Ride had found himself on a different world than his birth.

With trembling, long fingers the store owner pulled out all kinds of revolvers and laid them out on the counter top.

Ride picked up a few and with expert hands picked them up, assembled them, inspected them... then after a short time set them down and said, in a frog voice with a little dust coming from his mouth, "The good stuff!"

The shop owner took out a key, and opened a special cabinent. Here in this three-shop town in the middle of such large empty spaces.

Now Ride worked with more care. Checking alignment. Checking mate. Moving parts from one to another. Listening with sharp ears. Observing with sharp eyes. Applying oil.

He took his own revolver, removed a piece from the firing mechanism, and replaced it with one piece from the counter.

Then his eyes lit upon a straw hat with wide brim. He took it off its hook and immediately put it upon his head.

"Bullets" he croaked.

Again an assortment was laid out before him. There were frags, bennies, Vogon flesh renders, smarties, whistlers, blinders, and more. He loaded up with a fairly standard balance between classic stopping power, effects, and moving around corners.

"Rations" was the last croak.

A much smaller assortment was presented now. One kit that consisted of Spam and dehydrated water. But to a hungry man that was a bonanza of course.

Now Ride presented his Galactic Express traveler's card. Accepted everywhere but the most primitive worlds. He now moved easily along the street of the town, tipping his hat with a smile to the curious denizens of that place. He found his optopod dealer, on the opposite side of town, and was quickly on his way.

It is not such a horrible thing to be drawn. If you are not a rookie traveler in this odd universe we dwell in.





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Animal path became footpath. Footpath became road.

The miles clicked by.

Without seeing any other beings it was still clear that he was slowly moving from the boondocks into more populated territory. But where? Though he had seen a lot of land, though he had seen the stars at night, he could not deduce which world he was on.

Oh he knew he was somewhere on the other side of our galaxy. Far out from center. He knew he was in a solar system with just a few planets and one star. He knew this planet was much larger but less dense than Earth. He knew it was a naturally formed world as opposed to factory-made. It was orbited by a couple of non-descript moons. These moons did not appear to have any significant man-made structures, at least not visible from inter=planetary distances.

Now he saw an interesting figure before him. An old man. Short of stature. Patiently working his way up the road on foot. A very odd thing. Risky for one so rich in years to be out in wild country alone and unmounted.

The closer the mountie rode, the more he saw of the old man, the more interesting he became. He exuded power. It was difficult to say how. The way he carried his old frame partly. The high quality and nattiness of his attire. The choice of weapon that he allowed to be displayed on hip. The way he kept moving even as a rider approached from behind, showing in subtle ways that he was aware of it, but that he did not need to face the rider whoever it may be.

The mountie rode near and dismounted. He removed his hat and strode forward to talk to the man. The man turned slowly. He did not have a kind face. But did have quite a crafty face. What an honor. In a trice Ride knew he was one of the few outsiders to meet the deadly, the powerful, the formidable Lotsa Luck face to face.

All kinds of revelations came to Ride just from this villain appearing in this out of the way place. The Poohawks were in league with the Model in Black. There must be some grand alliance of evil in place. A noteworthy accomplishment given the volatile personalities, tribes, conflicts of interests involved. They were clearly well-funded and intent on playing for keeps this time. They even had a plan and at the moment it was looking like a pretty good one.

Ride moved quickly. Away from his chief adversary. Knowing he would not be able to reach his mount so merely finding cover as fast as he could move. There were Poohawks to the left. Poohawks to the right. Poohawks coming up from behind. Death was waiting for him in front. Ride looked with a grim smile upwards, hoping to see one direction that was clear, and was dismayed to see Poohawks even from above - mounted on strange flying creatures that were unfamiliar to him.

So Ride exited the scene the only way he could. Down. Straight through the ground below him. It was an old mystic's trick that he picked up while crossing a high pass in the Andes. He simply arranged his free charge and inner atomic spacings, by a quick, well - practiced mental procedure, and slid down through the empty spaces. Using his charge to push against the particles making up the hard surface of the desert he had formerly been standing upon. He could get down into the ground quickly but once there could only move very slowly. Kind of like the drift rate of current. But he couldn't wave. His molecules had to move through others instead of passing some kind of disturbance through all.

He had to hope that the Poohawks had no idea of how his trick worked. Because they could simply dig down quickly and , with a little care, sort the earth to shake him out like some kind of hidden artifact.

Fortunately for him they didn't know this secret. They moved off.

And once again Ride had demonstrated that there was value to learning some of the old ways no matter how strange they seemed to be. For not only could he survive and even thrive, but in fact could now get the drop on his, to first appearances, unbeatable adversaries.







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Humans are such short-sighted, silly creatures...

If you look closely at their history this is what you have to conclude. Even humans themselves many years later can see how foolish their ancestors acted. How their great steps forward were due to the goading of a few of them who chanced to find their way slightly off the beaten path and were foolish enough to risk the ire of their brethren(and sisterhens) by continuing on.

Vaguely they understand it. But cannot keep from repeating the mistakes of their elders.

Yet when one stands back ten paces and looks at the whole confusing bramble of mistakes, blind alleys, tragic misconceptions, and wasteful enterprises... the gross inefficiencies, the terrible wastes, the staggering cruelties... once sees... yes one does... progress... advancement... a tendency toward enlightenment.

Slowly, surely, if sometimes painfully, mankind has come to finally understand its proper relation to the rest of the universe. To see how it fits into the greater scheme of things. How individual lives compare to the greater whole of it all. To let go and think beyond itself as the end of all things. To admit how vast the universe is... How poorly it understands reality.

There are individuals among the highly advanced species, that nonetheless are quite immature, who actually pipe in broadcasts from Earth for their entertainment. Not the shows that humans watch for fun and to relax. But the science and "discovery" shows. These rather sad creatures sit around eating junk food, in their underwear, laughing at just how far off Earth's brightest minds are from the latest and greatest theories in vogue in the trendiest and most enlightened cities throughout the universe.

They take great joy in pointing out the flaws in the intellectual achievements that man has the most pride in. The guffaw at man's problems with the singularity at the start of time. They chortle at his selection of "elementary" particles. They wink and poke ribs at his conception of light and the explanation he gives for its odd behavior at the limits of intensity, or room to propagate around in. Human Philosophy has actually caused deaths on distant worlds from treats accidently inhaled down the wrong orifice due to uncontrolled laughing.

Ok so it is a tough crowd out there. But this is nothing that a well adjusted species can't learn to cope with and even turn to its advantage. Mankind will learn how to win over the hearts and minds of the rest of creation by showcasing its virtues. For one of the most surprising facts uncovered by the brightest minds in the universe was just how much potential is in the human species.

Despite its flaws, all agreed it was one of the most important species to watch over and to nurture in all the universe...


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Men's voices, just discernible above the sound of wave against metal. But these were familiar sounds... for Melany. She was below deck. Captain's quarters. Doing a mixture of tidying and snooping. Standard fare for a pirate chief's wench.

What a hectic time. The captain had decided to go rogue. To no longer pay to show respect, for protection, from the lord in Corfu. He no longer wore the ornate golden earring of the Micronesian Hoard.

He had set up his crew, and wench, to raid the route, infrequently sailed, through the deep Pacific east of Tahiti. They had to work harder for their living now. But they were free. At least they had lost all of the higher levels of masters and were governed only by their captain. Lost to the world in the center of nowhere.

The technology was much better now. They had modern comforts. But in many respects they were very much like those of their ilk that came before them. They even sang the old shanties, lovingly preserving the old pronunciation. But radar antennas scanned the sea surface above the bridge, motors aided sails, and missile launchers replaced heavy cannon.

Their last victim had been carrying an odd cargo. A hold filled with Jello powder. At first they had been angry and dealt very harshly with the crew. But then they relaxed and had some fun. Then stopped for a while at an atol. Filled the virtually fresh water in center of this special place full of the powder and used some of their modern technology to aid the setting. Then laughed and danced in their creation - perhaps the largest ever created single continuous expanse of the gelatin ever made... at least by man.

They had then sailed off in search of more profitable things to fill their hold.

Yes... as you, the wise reader, have almost surely anticipated, it turned out to be one of the worst decisions they ever made since perhaps they decided to hoist the skull and crossbones for their living or since they had decided to cross the Lord in Corfu.

For now... noticing an unnatural silence and a vessel slowing to a stop... Melany stopped what she was doing and listened very hard.

Silence...

More silence...

But then...

(bump bump... .... .... bump bump)

Not even the deep deep Pacific could hide one for whom the ... well never mind, we will exit this horrid scene early... for the sake of the children...

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