The dashing Mr. West, after having closed and locked the boarding ramp of his ship, the Rocinanté, to insure no one barged in uninvited while he was working, sat himself down in his small cabin in front of the computer terminal and prepared to do some very profitable research.
"Computer, tie in to planetary library computer mainframe. Access xenobiology files, specifically, the G'kra."
Working, said the computer in its stiff, male voice. Ready.
"Question: what do G'kra eat and drink that is not readily available to the general populace but which can be obtained by me within one week's time?"
Working... working..., said the computer, its indicators flashing furiously in a lightening-quick search of the planet's library system. Finally, the activity quieted, and the mechanical voice delivered its verdict. Answer on screen.
West turned his attention to the console's small viewer. A rotating image of a clump of red fruit appeared with the label 'Yorna Berries' underneath. "Where can I find these yorna berries?" asked West.
The computer hummed and clicked as it processed the answer, then replied. Yorna berries cultivated by Vesputian monks 190 miles north of Serenity City, coordinates 32.117 North by 0.254 West.
"Vesputians, eh?" mumbled West, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "Not exactly the friendliest customers around." He switched off the computer, having made his decision. "Best go and introduce myself," he said aloud, standing and heading out of the cabin toward the cockpit.
Though West had yet to actually meet any of the local Vesputians in person, given the not-entirely-welcoming disposition of Vesputians in general, he decided that a nighttime visit to their monastery to do a little reconnaissance was the wisest choice, so in the wee hours of the morning the following day, he gained clearance from Serenity Spaceport and flew the Rocinanté into the night.
His course took him north along the Serenity River, which even through his night-vision scope looked like some beautiful country. He could understand why the monks had chosen this particular spot. They were close to the most civilized city in the sector yet far enough away to not be crowded by the burgeoning metropolis, and the land was excellent for farming, being watered and enriched by the big river.
Once the Rocinanté was within a few miles of the monastery, West cut the noisy impulse engines and coasted in the rest of the way using the magnetic thrusters, and so it was that the Rocinanté settled to the earth with barely a whisper just beyond the cultivated area. He locked down the ship's systems and went back to the main hold, picking up his jacket from his cabin along the way. He was down the access ramp and among the tall grass at the edges of the field seconds later.
Reaching into his jacket pocket, West produced a small black sphere about the size of a golf ball, and after making sure the settings were correct, tossed it into the air. As it reached the apex of its arc, the ball stopped motionless and just hung there defying gravity. Then, with a barely perceptible hum, it sped off into the chill pre-dawn dark. West pulled back the left sleeve of his jacket revealing a tiny wrist-screen displaying a picture of flight above cultivated fields -- obviously transmitted from the little spybot. The tiny device had been programmed to seek out 'yorna berries', and West watched the screen impatiently as the drone zigged and zagged in a search pattern above the monks' farmland.
West had no intention of stealing the berries of course. He merely wanted to find out the extent of the Vesputians' supply before he went into negotiations with them to buy their entire harvest, thereby ensuring his own monopoly of the G'kra delicacy during the upcoming treaty signing.
All thoughts of avarice were interrupted then, however, by a sharp popping sound somewhere out in the berry fields -- or was it a weapon discharge? -- and the sudden loss of picture on his wrist-screen. He scowled in annoyance. "That's the last time I ever buy anything from that little shifty-eyed Dopterian," he muttered to himself. "Guess I'll have to do this the old-fashioned way." Zipping up his jacket, he hopped over a low wooden fence that marked the edge of the land claimed by the Vesputians and headed off in the general direction the spybot had flown.
Fifteen minutes later, he was crossing a dirt lane between two enormous planted fields when he heard and felt a soft snick underfoot. Instantly he froze, not even daring to breathe, and looked down. His booted foot had scuffed some dirt aside revealing the gray metal casing of some kind of buried device, and a very sophisticated one by the looks of it. He looked closer. By its appearance it was an alarm rather than a landmine. He let out his breath and thanked the Great Bird of the Galaxy, then chided himself for being so careless. He would never have missed something like that in the old days, but that was a lifetime ago.
West decided that he had better get back to his ship now that someone was alerted to an intruder, but when he turned around, he came face to face with half a dozen dark-robed figures. They had appeared with absolute silence, forming out of the very air like ghosts, and stood now before him in a semicircle, each holding an old-fashioned but very sharp-looking farming implement.
"Hi fellas," said West, trying to sound nonchalant. "Can one of you fine gentlemen possibly direct me to the nearest, uh... hoverbus stop? I seem to have gotten myself a little lost." But his flippant query fell on deaf ears. The six monks advanced a step and raised their hoes and pitchforks. West turned to run, but stopped short. To his dismay he discovered that six more of the black spectral figures had materialized silently behind him, the moonlight glinting off the sharp points and blades of their farm tools. He was surrounded!
West turned back to the first group of monks, since they were the ones that stood directly between himself and the Rocinanté. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his lucky deck of cards. "Can I interest any of you in a friendly game of fizzbin? No? Well, okay then." He bent the cards between thumb and forefinger and aiming at the center monk, released them in a blinding spray of paper rectangles. While the monk was busy batting away the fluttering playing cards, West broke into a dead run.
Immediately he heard the sounds of pursuit close on his heels. A thrown pitchfork buried itself in the earth within inches to his left, followed by a spade to his right. He ran faster. The wooden shaft of some other flung tool caught him square in the back causing him to stumble, but he recovered and ran on. A small sickle whizzed by West's head, nicking his ear and drawing blood, burying itself in the fibrous stalk of a tall corn-like plant in the field to the right. Throughout the pursuit the monks maintained their unnerving silence, not even breathing heavily from the exertion; only the sounds of their pounding boots behind him and the continual hail of hurled farming implements told West that they were still there.
Heart pounding like it was about to explode, barely able to breathe, legs aching and rapidly turning to jelly, West raced up the access ramp in the Rocinanté's underbelly and slapped the closing switch on the bulkhead before spinning about to fight off any monks who made it up the ramp before it closed all the way, but to his surprise, there was no sign of anyone outside. The Vesputians had melted back into the darkness as silently as they had come, leaving only the night.
He forced his wobbly legs to carry him to the cockpit, where he ordered the Rocinanté to blast off and head out into uninhabited regions while he just sat in the pilot's chair panting and sweating and wondering why he was still alive. There could only be one reason -- the Vesputians hadn't wanted to kill him, just scare him off. And they did a pretty good job at that, thought West, fingering the small cut on his ear. With this kind of precision throwing they could have killed me instantly. They were missing on purpose.
Somewhat recovered from his ordeal, he sat up straight and began feeding new instructions into the flight computer. "Time for plan B," he said.
"Psst."
Commodore Rick Hunter was standing before the front door to his house with a bag of groceries in one arm that was getting heavier by the second. He was just about to unlock the door with his free hand, but at the unexpected sound he looked around. No one was in sight.
He shrugged it off as an overwork-induced hallucination and resumed fumbling with his keys.
"Psst!"
The sound was coming from the bushes at the side of the house.
"Who's there?" called Hunter, wishing he had something more sturdy with which to defend himself than a loaf of sourdough.
"It's me, you old coot!" hissed a suspiciously familiar voice.
Hunter frowned with the effort to place the voice. Then he had it! There was only one person who would dare address him as 'coot'. "West? Is that you? What are you doing in my bushes?"
The mysterious Mr. West poked his head above the top of the hedge and said, "Keep your voice down. We're not supposed to know each other, remember?"
"I remember," replied Hunter with growing irritation. "You're the one sneaking through my bushes. What do you want?"
"What makes you think I want something?" asked West, feigning bruised feelings, but when no reply or sympathy was forthcoming, he gave up the act and just spilled the beans. "I hear you and the missus have been invited to a little cotillion over at the Vesputian monastery tomorrow."
"Nothing nearly as fancy as that. And how do you know about that?" demanded Hunter.
"Soiree then. And never mind about how I know. I want to get invited."
Hunter was instantly suspicious. "Why in the world do you want to have dinner with a bunch of insufferable alien religious types, West? Doesn't seem like the sort you usually hang out with, you know, down at the docks."
"Yeah, it's a dirty job, et cetera, but it's nothing underhanded I promise you. Come on -- for old times' sake. I'll owe you one."
"You already owe me twelve," replied Hunter cynically, "but who's counting?" He pondered the request a few seconds, then said, "All right, you can tag along. Just don't make me regret it!"
"Scout's honor," replied West, all grins now that he'd gotten what he wanted.
Hunter muttered something incoherent about West's honor and turned back to the front door with his groceries and keys. "Oh, by the way," he said without turning, "the dress is formal, so steal something nice before tomorrow evening, eh?" Only the buzzing of the night insects answered him though. He looked over to the bushes, but West was already gone.
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