1

To the hungry, the Milky Way is a sparkling, chocolate pinwheel, so vast one could never hope to explore its nougat depths in our puny spaceships. Even with faster than light drive, a trip across the sickening, sweet galaxy would take generations. Humans still puttered around the solar system in bottle rockets. There were no ray guns, anti gravity, or warp drives to whisk heroes to the nearest adventure. Some day perhaps, humanity would travel to distant suns, and venture out in fantastic starships far beyond our sticky speck of the galaxy. That rosy scenario was likely to happen in about a million years if we didn't kill ourselves off first. While the march of science did make steady progress, mankind remained stranded on a technological plateau, unable to bridge the next giant confectionary leap.

Finally out of nowhere, an insane lunatic discovered hyperwaves and changed the flavor of humanity overnight. To be fair, Leon Krepke wasn't a lunatic. The moon had nothing to do with his obsessions. It was the stars that interested him. Every night he stood in the back yard, peering through his homemade reflector telescope at the gummy drops of light in the summer sky, cursing them. Why did the stars have to be so far away?

Krepke was a lonely sourball, a bitter man, a castaway among barbarians. Out of the billions of people on Earth he'd never found any friends to suit him. There wasn't a single person to confide in at the high school where he taught physics. Not even his own family understood the supreme importance of stars. Instead of seeing the grand truth, they urged him to seek "professional help". He hadn't spoken to any of them in twenty-five years and did not wish to ever again. When he was a child he thought everyone around him was merely pretending to be dumb for his benefit. Why didn't anyone else realize what was so abundantly clear? That he was a superior being.

Out among the stars there had to be someone capable of carrying on an intelligent conversation. His whole life he felt isolated from his own kind. Baked by accident into a human shell, he didn't belong on Earth, but in some far flung, exotic civilization high above human levels. Krepke always promised himself that one day he would show all those idiots who had given him the disparaging looks behind his back.

Now, after fifteen years of teaching uninspired students, he had enough money squirreled away to buy the platinum wire he needed for his very special antenna. The remaining plans for the hyperwave receiver were locked away in his memory. Based more on paranoid delusion than sound physics, these bizarre ideas had been rolling around his brain ever since his teens, when he suffered an accidental exposure to a box of lurid science fiction books.

In his basement workshop he machined an oddly shaped die, then drew the platinum stock through it, into a very long, expensive wire. Using a steel punch, he dimpled the wire at precisely measured intervals. Leon calculated the points on the computer at one time, but had long since forgotten their original purpose. By instinct alone, his hands bent the silvery cable into an array of arcs and angles that he hung from hooks and wound around the curtain rods. From there, the fluted wire snaked out the open window and ran up to the roof, where he stapled it to the shingles in a shape millions of Catholics claimed resembled the Virgin Mary. The receive/broadcast unit was nothing more than a surplus inter-space handset, given a power boost by a ring of maser diodes glued to the lid of a tuna fish can. There is no reason on Earth for the receiver to have worked, but it did.

That night, an antisocial loner barely able to take care of his own personal needs on Earth, put a shell to his ear and heard wisps of interstellar chatter from across the void in a multitude of unfathomable languages. At last he could prove that his true brothers were calling to him. Of course he didn't understand a word his true brothers were saying.

He had taken a few undergraduate courses along with David Hashimoto at the University of Minnesota. Shy one measly credit needed for graduation, Krepke failed to get his advanced degree. Following his twisted sense of principle, he had stubbornly refused to take a simple audio-visual course on how to run classroom slide projectors. As a result, he was now the teacher of boneheads, while David was head of linguistic research at GenCorp Space Systems. They operated the only gel plasm computer in the state.

Leon contacted his old classmate at GenCorp and explained the hyperwave discovery as calmly as he could, reassuring Hashimoto several times that the voices he heard were not urging him to kill. After a week of badgering the man, he was allowed to run a tape of alien speech through the GenCorp linguistics computer. To their astonishment, what sounded like raspy grunts punctuated by screams, turned out to be a nonchalant conversation between two mates discussing when he, she, it, would be returning home from studies of a nebula they called Pratus.

David became hysterical for a few moments, his mind scrambled by the implications of what he had just heard. Later, they made a mutual agreement. The respected Doctor Hashimoto would present hyperwaves to the public, with Leon Krepke standing in the background to explain the technical details. He hoped no one asked questions about theory, because there was no theory. He'd seen the receiver set-up in Krepke's basement and it looked like nonsense. The whole house was an explosion of parts and equipment, with shoulder-high stacks of engineering manuals forming the only clear path leading to the workshop. Why did Leon Krepke have to be the one? GenCorp spends billions on the best equipped research facilities in the world, and it's old "Creepy Krepke" who stumbles into the most profound discovery in history.

To this day Earth scientists still don't fully grasp all the principles of hyperwave propagation, or why that particular shape picks them up. Despite this, the electronics industry eventually learned to mass produce hyperwave sets. Using an etched platinum nano filament for the antenna, they packaged it with the Hashimoto translator routines boiled down to a single chip. Anyone with $29.95 was able to patch into the server satellites and chat with the stars.

Krepke never found the alien soulmate he was looking for. That was no surprise to anyone who knew him. He never allowed himself to be happy, no matter what the circumstances. After listening in on thousands of aliens , he finally gathered enough courage to break in on a channel and talk to some lizard men on the other side of infinity, where normally he wouldn't dream of starting a simple conversation with his own neighbor across the street. After a while, he found that he didn't like the aliens any more than he liked humans. As a stale old man, he had come to the conclusion that damn fools were all the same everywhere in the universe, no matter how many eyes they had.

Leon Krepke spent the last years of his strange life in a psychiatric hospital, committed after he repeatedly stabbed a man with a pen during a live television debate on "Peaceful Human Expansion in the Galaxy."

The only recognition Krepke ever received from his discovery came posthumously. The National Galactic Society donated the funds for a permanent broadcast beacon in a highly inclined geosynchronous orbit above St. Paul. Every two seconds around the clock, the Krepke Memorial Hyperwave Beacon transmitted the antenna shape to anyone in the stars who might have Leon's odd ability to hear it.

 
2

Toy boat... toy boat...toy boat...big blue broads...big blue broads.... Every night Rick Peters prepared himself to go on the air with a routine of silly vocal exercises. Thanks to hyperwave, he was working the best radio gig of his career. He'd worked at two-bit radio stations all over the South, and eventually landed at a 50,000 watt behemoth in Minneapolis, but Starwave Broadcasting Inc., operating MediaRock was the best yet. He thought about the show and gave thanks to the big invisible man in the sky. He was grateful for the steady employment, but there were always drawbacks to every job.

"Everyone thinks the life of a famous media personality is glamorous, filled with parties, champagne, beautiful women. Take it from Rick Peters, King of The Universe. It isn't. Try living inside MediaRock, a hollowed out asteroid spinning in Earth orbit. Then imagine having to do four hours of brand new show every night. I'm more of a prisoner than the 'big star' the public hears on the air. My fans don't even know what I look like. Rumors say I'm a great big fat man smoking on a long cigar, and at least 150 years old. What a ridiculous thing to believe. I happen to be an extremely muscular athletic type, with perfect teeth, and a beautiful head of wavy blond hair..... Oh, shut up!

Yes, I know I'm beloved by millions...trillions, and I make more money than I know what to do with. But what good is it though, if there's nothing to spend it on? Inside the asteroid, my quarters are expensive and very comfortable. The kitchens are stocked with the finest of foods. I can't complain about the living conditions. The staff treats me like royalty, and the other D.J.s seem to be friendly enough when I squeeze past them in the narrow halls.

The aliens love our music out there, especially the jazz. Every gasbag and broccoli-headed freak in the galaxy is totally enraptured by Earth sounds. Apparently, we are unique in the whole panoply of worlds for having syncopation in our music. Who would have guessed that we were living in a whole universe of complete squares? Coltrane was revered as a god in the Trelase culture. They gathered to worship him in a grand temple shaped like a saxophone. Aliens called in on the wave from every corner of the cosmos, begging for more. Whatever the D.J.s played from their tightly controlled songlist, the galaxy loved it, even the clunkers.

I'm grateful for the huge distances between the audience and myself. Thank god I never have to see a bogful of Relin slime creatures pulsating to the beat of Louie Louie. All I do is gab with them through the wee hours of the night. I have to admit, most of the aliens are delightful people. Those callers I hang on to, let them talk their heads off. I get a lot of great material from the talkative ones. My bosses want me to pump them for information. Lou Marks, the station manager, vaguely suggested that the information gathering request came through some top government big shots. Lou was a great guy to work for, but five minutes before airtime is not the best possible moment to discuss station policy."

"Be nice Rick. They want us to shill for Earth. You can't do that by screaming at people to cram it up their blowholes. You don't know who you might be talking to."

"Lou baby," crooned the famous Rick Peters.

"I'm always sweet and gentle with callers. That's why they love me. My nightcrawler listeners are mostly good ole boys. They like the same things we like. If some moron lights my fuse, I go off on him. I don't care who it is. I spoke my mind back on Earth and I was hired to do the same thing up in space. Any slimy thing who wants to tangle with me about Earth gets it right back in spades. Besides, I think it's funny. They're a quadrillion light years away. What the hell do we care?"

He'd listened to the same story a hundred times already, about how valuable the aliens were. To him, the aliens were just like the good folks back home, only with scales. He intended to run the Rick Peters show the same way he always had.

"We need the callers," pleaded Lou. "They're a gold mine to the science boys. I'll tell you again old buddy. Just be careful who you're talking to."

"Okay bossman. You worry too much. I'll behave. I promise."

Lou gave him a weak smile and an encouraging pat on the shoulder, then left him alone in the broadcast booth. In twenty-five seconds, throughout the galaxy, loyal fans of every imaginable form would stop whatever they were doing and listen raptly at their hyperwave sets, to the former pitchman of Nutrogena hand lotion.

The Rick Peters show was a first in the history of the hyperwave. For millions of years, space faring races had used the wave to send instant messages within their immediate systems. Myriad civilizations knew of each other and paid little attention to the chattering of beings so far away. Others, scattered through the galaxy, had independently discovered the Hashimoto language algorithms, and communicated often with their neighbors on the interstellar party line. To date, the Galactic Society had catalogued voice and image contacts from over twelve hundred alien races. But until humans appeared on the wave, no other species had the audacity to grab a chunk of space/time bandwidth and turn it into a commercial enterprise. The human snout had long ago evolved a highly sensitive ability to root out sources of profit.

The King of The Universe fitted the headphones over his ears, sat back in his chair, and lit a cigar. Reaching over to a bank of sound effects, he flipped the switch for his bumper music. Purple Haze knifed into the cosmos. Peters closed his eyes, bobbing his head to the beat, wailing on the strings of a make believe Stratocaster. After twenty-five seconds of intro, he eased the volume slider back, fading out Jimi's voice, and replacing it with his own.

"Greetings beautiful people across the sky. This is the Rick Peters show. I am your lovable host, Rick Peters, coming to you from Earth. Attention people of the galaxy. We have you surrounded. All resistance is futile. I thank you once again my fellow space cadets, for tuning in. I see we have a lot of callers lighting up the board, waiting to get through. Before we get started, there are a two very special messages I'd like to read. This one is from Sleth, a regular listener near the Megallanic Cloud.

"Dear Rick. We crave your show all the time. We become very angry when it is not on. We do not like to be angry because then we injure each other. Do not let them stop your show. Then we will not be angry. Your friend, Sleth."

"That's one of the sweetest things anything ever said to me. Thank you Sleth. Loving me is a good thing to be sure, and I do appreciate the support. But one piece of advice to you my friend. Get yourself a hobby. Someone could lose a tentacle. Ouch!"

"A breeding female sends us a data scripnote from the Caud system. Let's just call her Wanda. "Help me Rick. My mate came into heat. He won't leave me alone for a second. Whenever I turn around, there he is with his flange spinning. I can't get any work done with his constant mating. What should I do? P.S. Please excuse the jerky handwriting."

" Wanda my dear, what could you be thinking? I looked up your species in the big book. With the sexually alluring pheromones of you females, I'm sure he can't help himself. You ought to get down on your carapace and thank the creator you have a mate who loves you so much. Don't you know, some races only have sex once every two thousand solar rotations? Think about that young lady, the next time you spear him in the thorax when he comes in for a cuddle. Besides, from what I understand, he'll be dead in six months anyway. Just in time for the grubs to hatch, if you know what I mean. Bon appetite Jane darling."

Peters quickly reached over to the sound effects panel and played a reverberating belch, followed by the Tarzan yell. He snickered to himself. He'd never be able to get away with that back home. Sound effects bits had gone out 100 years ago on Earth, but out here the rubes ate it up. They asked him all the time the deep meaning of the mysterious sounds that would not translate. He tried more than once to explain about Earth humor. Only a few understood the concept.

"Let's get to our first caller shall we. We have a, Mr. Gelsh, from so far out he doesn't even know where the heck he is. Hello Gelsh. What's on your mind?"

"Greetings Rick Peters. This is the first time I have called, though I have listened to you for a long time. I wanted to say that...." The voice hissed with static and began to break up.

"Gelsh, I can't hear you. Have you got your receiver on? Go to your hyperwave set and turn it down. Better still, turn it off completely. Okay Gelshy, the whole universe is waiting. Have you got it turned off yet? Please folks, I've told you a million times. Turn down your sets."

After several seconds of dead air, the voice came back, booming too loud at first, then settling down to a bearable volume.

"Is that better? Can you hear me now?"

"Yes Gelsh, we hear you loud and clear. Go ahead and speak. This is your big chance."

"I wanted to say thank you, Rick Peters, for telling us about your friend Jack. The wisdom of that human helped save our whole clan. Do you remember how the evil trader cheated your poor friend out of his cow? The same thing happened to us. When our magic beans grew, then we already knew how to get the gold. Thank you again Rick. And... oh yes... we of Corwain also love your show."

Peters tried to ponder the absolute strangeness of what might be possible in this galaxy. This however, was beyond even his warped imagination.

"You're very welcome Gelsh. I'm happy to be of service in any way I can, but wait a minute. That friend of mine, Jack, he was only a tall story, a fairy tale. Are you trying to tell me you climbed up a plant and found a giant?"

"No Rick, there was no giant. Only the part about the evil trader was true. The Stenori merchant ships have been cheating our people for many generations. The example of Jack inspired us to have courage."

"Good for you Gelsh. I'm glad you stood up for yourselves. For a moment I thought you had a big beanstalk in your living room."

"I must tell the truth to you Rick. I wanted you to believe that I had done all the same things as Jack, even though I had not truly done any brave deeds at all. I have heard the way you sometimes use falsehood in your show, and I wished to honor you by speaking in a similar way. Have I succeeded? If I am correct in the human usage of falsehood, you should be either quaking with rage, or staining red with embarrassment."

For some reason Peters liked Gelsh. He was a man after his own heart. And oh how proud he felt at this moment for introducing yet another alien to the fine art of bullshit.

"You are absolutely correct Gelsh. I am both quaking with rage, and staining red with embarrassment. Now tell us what finally happened with the evil traders, and this time with no falsehoods."

Peters thought he heard something that sounded like a stifled laugh, but for a Corwain, that was impossible.

"Yes, I will tell you what happened. The clan chiefs parlayed together with no fighting or arguing. A thing to do was agreed on. They spread the orders to every glen on Corwain. No clan was allowed to trade with the Stenori forevermore."

At this point, Peters heard the voice of Lou Marks whispering into his left earpiece. Through the soundproof glass wall of his booth, he caught a quick glance of Marks sitting in the control room, his mouth moving silently at a microphone, making circular motions with his finger.

"Keep him on Rick. The big boys want to know about the Stenori. Ask him about the ships."

Peters nodded and took a long draw on his cigar.

"Forevermore is a long long time my friend. If you stop trading with the Stenori, how are you going to listen to the Rick Peters show when the power cells in your hyperwave sets run out? Don't you get all your sets from the traders?"

"We have used the hyperwave since the Stenori first came to trade with us a thousand years ago. In that time we learned to make our own Hyperwaves. We have everything else we need."

"Gelsh, you must need something. Why else would you be trading with the Stenori for a thousand years? Don't tell me you got swindled into that whole bead thing."

"I do not want to tell you Rick, but I will. We traded precious ores to the Stenori for what they call elixir, and what we now call poison. Our people no longer drink that evil brew. Today we are so much the better for it. The fields grow taller, the people are happier. There is more time for work."

"You are absolutely correct my friend. Every being first has to admit he has an elixir problem before they can kick it. I know that from personal experience. Now I only have an occasional drink or two before dinner and sometimes lunch, or breakfast. Do the Stenori ships still land and try to get you to drink again?"

"We said we would kill them if they landed on Corwain. Traders are not fighters. They will never come back."

"Do you have ships of your own? Did the Stenori ever trade spaceships to you?"

"The people of Corwain like to be on the solid ground. We do not fly in the air. Now I desire to tell you the very true reason why I called your show. With no falsehoods Rick. Every being must know that elixir is evil. The only way to stop it is by returning to study of Da. It is through Da alone that I and others were able to save the clan. If you, Rick baby, do not study Da, you too will succumb to the evils of elixir. It says here in the book of Da that, "One who does not..."

Peters flicked an ash into a green glass ashtray and hit the cutoff switch. He'd be damned if he'd let anyone preach to him. Rick Peters and God had a very close personal understanding.

"Thank you Gelsh. And stick with the recovery program. That's all we have time for. Let's move on to the next caller. This is Rick Peters speaking to you from KRTH hyperwave, the most powerful voice in the universe. The time is 1:30 am Earth Standard. Welcome to the wee hours of the night."

"We have a youngster, Fehhh from the ringed world of, uh....it looks like Blansh, or Blash. Have I got it right sir? Blash?"

The producer had given him a planet name that wouldn't translate clearly.

"My planet is called Blah. It is not called Blash. Blash is a word for sexual copulation... Hoc hoc. I find it amusing that you said the word Blash two times and did not understand the meaning of it... Hoc hoc hoc"

"Thank you for the information. All right, go ahead Fehhh from Blah. The air is yours. Take it away Fehhh. The stars belong to you. Go ahead."

"Is this Reeck Peters?"

"Yes, you are speaking to Reeck Peters, King of the Universe. Go ahead."

"Do I now speak to the actual King of the Universe?"

"Yes, this is the real Rick Peters. You have to speak up now, or I've got to move on to the next caller. Please!"

"Reeck, thank you for taking my hyperwave call. I wish to say that you must blash yourself...hoc...without the customary mating triad. I would also like to...hoc...insert your ovipositor...hoc hoc...into the sacred burning hills of..."

Peters sat straight up in his chair and lashed out at the cutoff button. That little pervert.

"Thank you very much Fehhh. Call me back when you grow up a little. I hope all you parents across this great galaxy of ours take a lesson from our last caller. I know there are billions of listeners that have small replicas at home. Tell your offshoots that you love them, but don't be afraid to apply the lagast when necessary. My regular listeners know I believe in mild forms of negative stimulus when it's done for the good of the familial group. Clasp your nestlings tightly to your shells my friends. Clasp them tightly. Well, that's enough about the subject. I could tell you things that would make huge amounts of resin flow from your emotive conduits, but not tonight. I'm in the mood for another caller. How about you? We have someone on the wave who says he's been waiting on hold for two million of his years. Holy cow! A big KRTH hello to Jarl-Ehd from Ispidor. Speak great one, Jar Head from Isidor."

"That is not the truth. I am not a cow. My name is Jarl-Ehd from Ispidor. Why did you lie?"

What a putz, thought Peters, leaning back to exhale a cloud of acrid blue smoke into the booth.

"I did not lie. I merely misspoke your name as a result of a minor computational malfunction...malfunction... State the purpose of your call to the Rick Peters program? Please begin your verbal communication with me immediately."

"You are a fool, not the king of the universe. I will not speak with you. I wish to speak only about the Dave Brubeck transfer."

"Now listen Bonzo. I tried to be friendly, but we have a lot of other calls waiting, so you can go take a...."

Lou Marks voice interrupted again over the earphone. This time he sounded desperate.

"Rick, don't you dare let him go. That's Jarl-Ehd. He's all brain underneath the gorilla suit. We're swapping some jazz transcripts for his data on a new line of polymers. Let me talk to him."

Peters removed his finger from the cutoff button, reluctantly.

"Take a seat my good friend. Eat a banana. I'll switch your call over to Uncle Lou Marks. Here you go, Jar Head."

Peters routed the call to Marks, who was already programming Jarl-Ehd's data transfer protocol on the master com display. He saw Marks give him the thumbs up sign, returned it, and continued the show without a hitch.

Rick chatted for a long while with a female humanoid about equal rights, and listened to poetry from a being with no body at all, who spoke through a neural sensory crystal. During a lull, he grabbed a battered ukulele from a peg on the wall, and proceeded to sing Bill Bailey in a sonorous baritone. To Earth ears the performance was perhaps not the worst they ever heard, but it was at best annoying. The galactic throngs apparently loved it, considering planet Earth had not yet exploded in a giant fireball, victim of the dreaded alien fusion ray. Five or six calls later, Peters felt tired. He glanced at the old clock on the wall, and it was time to say adios. Congratulations Rick, you bagged another one.

"Thank you my friends, for listening to the Rick Peters show. I am here every night at ping=17°azure-100.7 on your hyperwave dial. Remember all you regular Nightcrawlers, tomorrow on the Rick Peters show, like I promised, the sacred philosophy tapes of Brooks, the 2000 year old human. That's tomorrow night. Don't miss it. Stay on the wave music lovers, for the Howlin' Eddy Wolf show comin' at you with six straight hours of Platter Parade. Bye-bye everybody. So long."

Peters faded Purple Haze back in, and waited at his microphone until he heard the volume rise on Howlin' Eddy's opening music. Peters removed the headphones and fluffed out his ears, which had become mashed to the sides of his scalp. Slowly, he rolled his head around and rubbed the back of his neck to get the kinks out.

Rick tried to raise himself out of the chair, but was welded to it by sweat. On the second try he made it to his feet, cursing, pulling the Melvin out of his trousers, flapping his huge Hawaiian shirt to get some air. The fancy executive chair had been a recent gift from Lou and the gang. It was state of the art furniture of alien design with a large assortment of features and techno controls that only a Ph.D. could operate. Before leaving the booth, he gave the chair a little kick, sending it rolling into the corner.

"You naugahyde devil. You hurt my back when I'm trying to do the show. I ought to smash you into a million bits you piece of ... That's right. Silent as usual. You traitor."

Peters raised his fist to shake it at the chair, but the movement made him wince in pain, and he decided to rub his sore back instead. Muttering under his breath the whole time, he made his way down the hallway, turned right to the elevator, and rode it up to his quarters. When the doors hissed open, he took his shirt off and tossed it over a ficus as he stepped into the room. Belt unhitched, his voluminous pants dropped to the floor, where he grasped them with his prehensile toes, and flung them in the vicinity of the laundry hamper. It was his nightly custom to take a long hot whirlpool bath while watching the large television in the ceiling—remote control in one hand, glass of bourbon in the other.

Forty five minutes later he awoke to the I Love Lucy theme song blaring over his head. Carefully, he oozed his wrinkled body out of the tub and into a thick robe. He padded over to the bedroom and climbed in the massive bed. It was a good thing he had taken that pre-sleep warm-up nap to prepare himself for the real thing. Now for a bedtime snack. On the night stand rested a silver tray containing three Twinkies and a glass of milk.

God bless Ms. Bauers, the best housekeeper in the galaxy. Unbelievable body! Never daring to make the slightest pass, the King of The Universe was quite sure that Ms. Bauers would beat him to a pulp. He made a special arrangement with her for the Twinkies that Doc Wong didn't know about. The man weighs 98 (yawn) pounds. What could he possibly (yawn) know about.... diets.....die...ets.......on diets as a kid.....kids playing...green...grass...gree...Fred...Ethyl... WATCH OUT! Peters sat bolt upright in bed wild eyed, then sank back down after a moment, into a deep sleep.

 
3

While Peters lay in childlike repose, a sleek new ship from Earth docked on the sunward side of the asteroid. The GenCorp executives had arrived to inspect their project.

By the time Peters arrived at the meeting, Lou Marks was talking to three new faces sent by Corporate. Sitting to Marks' left, was a large man with close cropped gray hair. He wore a Space Administration Major's uniform bristling with medals, his shoulders draped in more gold braid than a Rialto Theater. He appeared a young eighty-five years old, and maintained a rigid military carriage of spring steel. Refusing to succumb to his surroundings, the Major remained seated at attention despite the plush meeting room. Lou was explaining a chart to him, his finger tapping a display screen set into the table top. Marks noticed Peters hesitating in the doorway, and motioned him in.

"Come on in Rick. Sit down. I hope I didn't wake you up too early."

Rick had no idea what this meeting was all about, but by the looks of General Patton and the two management stiffs with him, this was not going to be pleasant. Oh boy! At least they had doughnuts.

"No, this isn't too early. I enjoy getting up 14 hours before airtime. Who are your friends Lou?"

"Rick, I'd like you to meet Major Robert Simes of Space Administration. This is Craig Thomas from GenCorp marketing division, and Niles Allen from product development."

"Nice to meet you gentlemen."

Peters shook hands all around, smiling cordially, until Major Simes squeezed his hand like a vise. Was it his imagination, or was the Major a horse's ass?

"What brings two big shots from GenCorp out to our humble little rock? I didn't think anyone knew about us way out here." Who are these two Rodneys, and why are they blocking the pastry?

"Mr. Peters," answered Niles Allan, "we listen to your show all the time. GenCorp owns Starwave Broadcasting Inc., your parent company. You've been working for GenCorp all along. I thought that was common knowledge."

"No, I did not know that. Why didn't you tell me Uncle Lou? How come they never tell the new guy anything around here?" He gave Lou a sour look, though he felt more surprised than angry.

"Rick, don't get me wrong. I love you and your show. You're the King baby. I just wanted to wait a while, to see how things worked out before I let you in on the deal. This station is a business Rick, and it's a monster. The D.J.s have been trading privately with the aliens since we went on the air in 2115. At first, all they wanted was the music. Now they're trading for art, baseball, software, almost anything we can send over the wave. That's why we signed you to do a talk show. Earth has become the latest fad. The super races think humans are quaint rustic folk who don't know the value of what we're selling. They're positive we human beings are the biggest suckers in the galaxy."

"Maybe we are idiots," said Peters. "The human race is trading away it's most prized possessions, and for what, trinkets, better weapons?"

Major Simes glared at Peters, opening his mouth to speak, but Thomas, the marketing exec, chimed in before he had the chance.

"Mr. Peters, we are not trading away our heritage. The Mona Lisa is still hanging in the Louvre, I assure you. No matter how many copies we transmit, the original will always belong to us. In return for transferring a data set of jazz recordings, we are given a plastic stronger than any material on Earth. Hardly a trinket. This enormous asteroid was hollowed out by acoustic drills, developed thanks to alien data. No, we aren't suckers. As a matter of fact, just between you and me...."

He raised a finger to his lips, then spoke in a whisper.

"We're taking the aliens, down to their shorts."

Allen, his coworker, eyed him with an incredulous stare. It was obvious he was miffed at his partner, but didn't want to argue in front of the hired help.

"Craig, you know that isn't true. We discussed this before. GenCorp is not gypping the aliens. Every deal we make is fair to both sides. Humanity receives fantastic new technology, and enters a golden age of discovery, while the aliens finally get to experience the pure ecstasy of James Brown, or van Gogh. Surely Mr. Peters, being involved in the arts yourself, you must understand."

"My good man, I can fully dig where you are coming from. If both sides of a trade are happy it's copasetic. Does that mean you want me to make deals on my show? In all my career, I've never taken payola. You know that, Lou. Another thing I will never do, is ask my Nightcrawlers about plans for a death ray."

Rick honestly didn't mean to antagonize the Major, yet he found the words coming out of his big mouth before he could stop them. There was something about authority figures that rankled his gut.

"Mistuh Petahs," drawled Major Simes.

"Space Administration is not asking you to give us any death rays. Our ships are armed with one standard issue Colt 45. semi-automatic pistol. That's all the firepower we need, thank you very much. What we want is information on the Stenori traders. We have reason to believe that the Stenori are in possession of FTL drive vehicles. We aim to get one of those ships."

Peters always thought faster than light travel was impossible. Were they trying to tell him that instead of just talk, mankind could actually fly to the stars? This deal could be the most monumental event in human history! Powdered sugar... too messy. The bearclaw... definitely the bearclaw.

"I had no idea Major," Rick said, between bites. "I'll do anything I can to help, but you have to promise me the first ride if we finagle a Stenori ship. I want to go bang... zoom." Peters flew the sweet roll in an arc, complete with exhaust noise.

"Indeed, mistuh Petuhs. Bang zoom. Although, in the space business we don't like the word "bang." Yes, you will get a ride. If our suspicions are correct, people will be buzzin round the galaxy like flahs."

Everyone at the table looked at Simes with puzzled expressions.

"FLIES gentlemen," he said with perfect diction.

Lou stepped over to the wall, slid open a small panel, and touched a sequence of lighted studs.

"Take a look at this Rick. I had it installed last week. We traded these alien optics for a be-bop collection."

From a pinhole aperture in the wall, grainy shafts of brilliant laser light whirled and spun, slowly at first, then faster, until the sparkling beams coalesced into solid glowing galaxy floating before their eyes. Without thinking, Peters reached out for the starry expanse and his hand passed through it. Marks stroked the controls again, and red markers appeared over several locations on the stellar map.

Thomas, ever the marketing man, had stars in his eyes of a different nature.

"We'll be ready to go on this product in two months. Sales should be tremendous. It's a holographic computer peripheral. Every home will have one."

The sheer cosmic beauty of the 3-D display left Peters speechless. He had been meaning to get a computer for years. Now he had no choice.

Lou manipulated the scene, tilting the entire galaxy toward them, to point out the highlighted areas.

"Over the last twelve years we've had contact with sixteen different races who have mentioned the Stenori. So far, we have very limited information on them. They're bipeds. Chitinous exoskeleton. Peaceful types. Supposed to resemble crabs. They've been reported here....here.... here. Think about it Rick. How did they get from this star cluster... to way over there? I'd sure as hell like to find out."

The four men argued, discussed strategy, all the while weaving in and out of the floating stars. Thanks to Rick's help, the meeting gradually degenerated into dirty jokes, and they decided it was time to quit.

On his way out, the major stopped him and confessed that he had been a big fan of the old Rick Peters Morning Show when he was a stationed in Tulsa. Talking further, he discovered that deep under the layer of official crispness, the Major was an aging hipster, just like someone else he knew. After one last handshake Peters snitched a bagel and left.

4

Instead of the usual Hendrix opening, he chose a thundering Rachmaninoff piano concerto, letting it play an extra 45 seconds for effect. The piece seemed more intellectual than acid rock for what he had planned on tonight's show. Since yesterday's meeting, he had time to think about the Stenori ships, and their impact on humanity. This time Rick vowed to be serious. The Stenori deal was much too important to be ruined by a wisenheimer talk jockey. That's precisely what he was worried about. Tonight his voice was lower and slower than usual.

"Good evening my friends across the stars. I am the luckiest human that ever lived. Every night I am privileged to speak to the wisest beings in the galaxy. From all over the void, my listeners are the best of the rest. I think you deserve the truth from Rick Peters, and that is what I will give you tonight. We've all heard the stories about the evil Stenori traders who take advantage of less developed societies. We Earthmen are traders too, but we always play by the rules. I personally guarantee that if anyone is not satisfied with Earth products, they may return the unused portion for a full refund. A Rick Peters guarantee is my promise to make you happy. We have an ancient saying on Earth that the customer is always right. Unlike other traders, who I hate to mention by name, the Earth cares about each and every one of you. And that is a Rick Peters guarantee."

"I've cleared the boards tonight so that we may talk to anyone out there who has been cheated by the Stenori. Anyone at all... Cheated By The Stenori. That's our topic tonight. So call in at ping=17°azure-100.7 and we'll talk about it. The evil Stenori traders. Pro or Con? I see we have our first caller already. Lobe from the Sirius system. Hello Lobe. Welcome to the show. Is that your name, Lobe, or your condition?"

"No, that is my name Rigk."

"Okay Lobe, what's on your mind tonight?"

"Rigk, when I heard the previous show, I could not help but to call in myself. On Keldar we had a disastrous experience with the Stenori. One year our cholumb failed to ripen as it should. Then the year after that it happened again. Rigk, cholumb is our food that we need to live."

"Are you a farmer Lobe?"

"No Rigk, I am a driver of a cholumb delivery vehicle. If the drivers do not drive, the people do not eat. One day the Stenori appeared in orbit around Keldar. Our detection devices did not pick them up coming in. Small ships flew down. Peddlers claimed a root fungus was causing the poor crop. Like a miracle, they had a powder to kill the root fungus. In exchange for mining rights they agreed to treat the fields. The cholumb improved. More pods bore fruit than before."

"It sounds like there's a catch in there someplace. What happened, was the fruit poisonous?"

"The fruit was tasteless compared to the old cholumb I received when young. I did not kill us, although there was something lacking in it."

"I know what you mean, Lobe. We have the same thing here with tomatoes."

"The next season the Stenori said we needed more of the powder, and we agreed. We ate and ate the cholumb, but our population fell once again. Listen because it is amazing to believe. We heard the Stenori talking together on the hyperwave. The cholumb was attacked by an insect, not a root disease. They only wanted us to think it was fungus in order to continue trading the powder to us. The Stenori were not telling us the truth. It was our own waste pollution that allowed the cursed moth to multiply. When we stopped our blunder, the cholumb was fine. The Stenori were shamed before all. You do not meddle with a man's cholumb. No one would trade with them. They haven't been seen in many seasons. "

"Lobe, you were taken to the cleaners. To all the listeners: Please be careful when dealing with unknown people. Our sanitation engineers would have cleaned up that pollution the first time. My friends, we know sewage like the back of our hands. Lobe, thank you for calling. That was an informative story. I'm sure the people of Keldar learned an important lesson from that encounter."

"We learned a huge lesson Rigk."

"Lobe, don't be a stranger to the show. Call the station anytime. I have to move on to the next caller, but don't get off the wave. I want to let you talk to Uncle Lou, so he can get your personal hyperwave code. Will you do that Lobe?"

"Oh yes Rick. I like Uncle Lou."

"Thanks again Lobe. Bye-bye."

"Good-bye Rigk."

"That was Lobe, a very sincere individual from Keldar. I would like to add something if I may. It is unfortunate about the moth problem Lobe had with the cholumb. Remember this Nightcrawlers: We can't judge all insects by the actions of a few. Ninety-nine point nine percent of all Lepidoptera are regular hard working people."

"This is Rick Peters speaking to you from KRTH hyperwave, the most powerful voice in the universe. The time is 1:35 am Earth Standard. Welcome to the wee hours of the night. The topic is: Trouble With The Stenori. Our wave code is ping=17°azure-100.7 Let's hear what you have to say."

"Back to our program. Our next caller is Teva from the rim nebula. Are you sure that's not Tevya? I thought maybe we were soul brothers."

"It is me Teva. I called before, and told you about the vigorous games we play on Bechinar?"

"Oh yes, now I remember. Teva my friend. How is that sore pseudopod?"

"Much better, Rick. It has almost regrown. I will be bashing floaters with my team before long. I wanted to tell you that the Stenori once came to Bechinar to trade electronics for rare metals. They cheated us no more than our own countless native thieves we already have. In fact I think the Stenori could not compete with them. They may be here still. I do not know."

"Do you have space technology Teva? Did you see the Stenori Ships?"

"Yes friend, we have fine ships. The Stenori cargo vessels that landed on the surface were much like our own. We could not find the mother ship. It is a very special ship as you know."

"I'm sure it is. Well thank you Teva for calling the show. Could you hang on the line so Uncle Lou can get your code?"

"Yes I will. Rick, one more thing. Keep talking to the Nightcrawlers. We like the show."

"I appreciate that my friend. Bye now."

This one was hot. He had to turn him over to Lou fast before he queered the Stenori deal with that large oral cavity of his.

"Nightcrawlers, this is Dixieland night. We're giving away a free data set of Louis Armstrong and the Hot Five to every caller on the Rick Peters Show."

He saw Lou through the glass, making faces at him, raising his arms to heaven. Rick waved him off with a smile. He never realized Lou was such a cheapwad. His loyal fans deserved the best. Besides, the aliens have heard Satchmo on the playlist a zillion times. Didn't Marks know that the word "free" was a golden key to sales?

"Don't forget to leave your personal codes with Lou, so our crack technicians can send that free jazz data to you at hyperwave speed. Please allow three to six weeks for delivery. Our next caller, Braaack... excuse me....from the twin star Vesta. Go ahead Braaack, you're on the Rick Peters Show."

"Rick, I want to strangle you to death now. First you say you will send the data at hyperwave speed. Then you say allow many weeks for delivery. You humans are so humorous. That is why we love you Rick."

"Well..uh..thank you very much, I think. But don't kill me. All right Braack?"

"No, Rick. You are a worthless dog, but lovable. It is the Stenori who should be killed. We have not had any contact with them, but by the stories I hear, I would be very glad to kill them for you Rick. I could..."

Peters winced. He had gotten these type of calls ever since he started in radio, years ago. Never comfortable with nazi mentality, he cut them off as fast as he could.

"Thank you so much for the kind offer, but no thanks. Don't be on my side. Okay pal! Man, I'm never going to a party at his house. My regulars all know the Rick Peters Show is for entertainment purposes only. Once in a while we also try to slip in a little useful information. People out there, please, don't take the law into your own hands! There are exceptions of course. Self defense. I'm a big believer in that. Evil emperors. If there's no one else to turn to, I think it's correct to overthrow bad rulers. But first you better make sure that you're not just as evil my friends. That's all I'm saying. As far as we know, the Stenori haven't resorted to violence yet. Let your local law enforcement handle these thieves. Good enough. Now, on to a caller named Gelphi on Praxis. Hello Gelphi. Go ahead you're on the air."

"Hello Rick. I am a regular Nightcrawler listener, but this is the first time I have called. The Stenori are cowards. They do not fight themselves, but care little if others die. The forest people were peaceful until the Stenori came and traded guns to them. Now the wild tribes organize against the prefecture, and demand payment to pass through the woodlands. Many landowners were killed fighting the renegades; all because of the Stenori and their greed for the white metal."

"I'm sorry to hear that Gelphi. Greed can be a terrible thing. Humans learned long ago that greed is the root of all evil. That's why we're completely free from it. Earth traders do business for the advancement of friendship and peace throughout the galaxy, not for selfish reasons. Frankly, we're lucky if we meet our expenses. It's traders like the Stenori who give the rest of us a bad name. And that my friend, is a shame."

"I give you agreement on that Rick. It is a great shame. We were forced into a truce with the forest tribes. There has not been fighting for many years, but things are not the same as they once were. Everything is different now. That is what I hate about the Stenori."

"You and me both, my friend. I can't stand that sort of thing. First you get nice and cozy with a way of life, then someone has to come along and spoil it. Why is it that a few low-life individuals always seem to wreck things for the decent people? Why? I'm asking you, mister big shot Stenori, with your slick deals and phony snake oils. Where are you when the cholumb crops fail and tiny babies go hungry? Off to the next planet to sell firewater or infected blankets? Do us all a big favor Stenori traders. Leave us the hell alone. I'm sorry about the language, but that's the way I feel. Now I'm upset. Lets take a break. I'll be right back."

"This is Rick Peters speaking to you from KRTH hyperwave, the most powerful voice in the universe. The time is 2:01 am Earth Standard. Welcome to the wee hours of the night. The topic is: Trouble With The Stenori. Our wave code is ping=17°azure-100.7 Let's hear from you."

"This just in from one of our regular Nightcrawler news spotters. A solar flare in the Promesian system is emitting extremely dangerous levels of radiation and may go nova. If you are traveling in that area, plan to take an alternate route. Better safe than sorry. Here's a little note: Don't forget to attend the Interplanetary Pleasure Festival, this coming solar alignment on Quandemire. This charity festival is being held to benefit last year's bubble dweller disaster. A whole bundle of orbs popped. It was a terrible tragedy. Go spend some credits at the festival my friends. You can help the bubble folks and have fun at the same time. It's for a very good cause. I plan to attend the festival myself. Be sure to slither up and say howdy to old Rick Peters at the big KRTH booth. We'll be doing live shows, giving away free prizes. I hope we see you there."

In the control room, Lou went berserk, slapping himself in the forehead, tearing out his hair. He pressed his face to the window, mouthing words to Rick in the booth. Peters considered himself an excellent lip reader. "Are.. you.. funhing crazy?" Rick had no idea what that meant whatsoever. He gave Lou an Italian salute and plowed on with the program.

"Listeners. Our next caller says names aren't important. He is known only as 240. I know that number. Are you from Queens? Welcome to the show mystery guest 240."

"I am proud of my number human. I have never cheated anyone. I am one of the Stenori traders that you have been libeling on your worthless show."

Payoff time! Lou alerted a team of code crackers in the GenCorp com center. They were taking no chances of letting his location slip away. He hoped Rick could keep him on the line long enough.

"Well, finally a Stenori with the courage to answer a few charges. Welcome to the Rick Peters Show mister 240, if that is your real number. I think we can have a civilized dialogue between two mature adults. Let's just say we agree to disagree."

He knew eventually his attacks on the Stenori would make one of them blow a fuse. Now he had to make nice, so Mr. Crab wouldn't walk off sideways into the sunset. Whatever you do, don't mention seafood salad. Those tender, flaky morsels of....

"It is impossible to deal with humans. You are brash liars."

"Look my friend. There's no need to get into name calling. I have recordings of every minute of the Rick Peters Show. If you can prove to me anywhere on my show where I lied about the Stenori, I will apologize. I'm open to hear your side of the story."

Two-forty was getting steamed. With melted butter.

"The forest tribes begged us for weapons. They feared wild animals. The arms were meant for hunting. We Stenori are not to blame if our products are used in the incorrect manner." Now Peters was getting a little steamed himself.

"I possess a few hunting weapons Mr. 240. I have nothing against responsible gun ownership, but I don't use an atomic blast-rifle to hunt rabbits."

"You have not seen the blood tigers of Praxis, human. The forest people were regular food for the beasts. We gave them rifles to defend themselves. At least they are alive."

"You didn't give them anything my friend. There is no free lunch. What you did is sell the rifles. What was so precious about the white metal that you had to sell guns to get it?"

"Nothing is that valuable to Stenori. We only move goods from one place to another for a small profit. Platinum to us, is a medium of exchange that we find convenient. We seek it for occasional use in business transactions. That is all."

He was lying his armor plated ass off. Platinum was the critical material used in their ship's hyperdrive coils. Every thousand jumps or so, the coils burned away and had to be replaced. It wasn't a difficult job once you formed the Virgin Mary shapes, though it was incredibly expensive, anywhere in the galaxy.

"Platinum? You people use platinum for monetary exchange? That is the strangest thing I've ever heard of. The table I'm sitting at is made of solid platinum. My cups and plates are all platinum. Even the hubcaps on my ground vehicle are platinum. We make everything out of it. Why didn't the Stenori talk to us first, before they went elsewhere for their platinum?"

"You humans are new to the galactic community. Our territory is too big for us to cover. A small exchange so far away would not be worth my effort."

The crab was lying again. In fact, trader 240 was nearly molting out of his shell. A world practically made of platinum, and the human imbeciles didn't realize what they had. With this discovery, he would assuredly move up in rank to 150, or maybe 1 itself. To think the managers warned me not to call on the humans. Wait until they see my quota figures. They will eat their own faces*.

"Well 240, if you're ever in our quadrant stop by the Earth. Our boys will load you up with all the platinum you want. I have to move on to the next caller now, but why don't you stay on the line? You can talk to Uncle Lou about trade details."

Be calm. Assume the sale before he has a chance to say no. Then turn him over to Lou, the best telephone closer in the business. Don't say another word. Let him talk first.

"I will consult my appointment records to see if I have the time to travel all the way to Earth."

You do that Clem. Ruffle some of your papers to make it sound good.

"Yes human, I believe there is sufficient time. Allow me to speak with Uncle Lou."

Gotcha, you crab sumbitch.

"That's great, 240. I'm sure you two will have a lot to discuss. I'll switch your call over right now."

Peters was surprised to find his hand shaking so hard. It was all he could do to push the button. He'd gotten the Stenori to knock on the front door. That was the easy part. Now it was up to Lou and Major Simes to wangle the trader out of his own ship. It didn't seem possible, even for Lou. No one would be foolish enough to sell a competitor the very ships that could put him out of business. Then again, Clem had never been exposed to human kindness and generosity before.

* Possible Hashimoto translation error: Feces?

"My friends. I hope we shed some light on both sides of the issues tonight. I'm going to clear the board now. I want to do something on a lighter note. We have just enough time left to play the sacred Mel Brooks Philosophy Tapes I promised you on yesterday's show. Here he is now, the 2000 year old human. The sound you hear in the pauses is human laughter."

Peters programmed his console to let the comedy tape play out for the remainder of the show, adding his pre-recorded signoff piece at the end. He was finished for the night. Too excited to sit at the microphone, he left the booth and headed for the control room to listen in to Mark's wheeling and dealing. Lou was talking up a storm with 240. That man had an incredibly smooth pitch. It was a thing of beauty. When Lou looked up and saw Peters, he reached into a glass jar on his desk, found a purple lollipop, and tossed it to him. Rick's hand shot out with the reflexes of a cat and grabbed the reward in mid-air. Yes, the purple sucker would do, for now.

It was almost painful listening to Marks hook that fish, or crab rather. He decided to leave Lou to his deals, and go back to his quarters. On the way, he unwrapped the lollipop and crammed it into his mouth. Lou and the Major might acquire starships for humanity, but Rick got the sweetest part of the deal, and by God he'd earned it.

5

In his dream, Peters was Louis, jamming on the trumpet with a small combo. He was playing in a perfect groove, hitting high notes in the stratosphere, using ultra complicated fingerings with polyphonic phrasing. Rick baby, you are beautiful. Suddenly the clarinet player went sour, playing a wrong note. He tried to talk to him.

"Man, stop blowing that note. You're stinkin' up the joint." The bad note kept getting louder and flatter. Finally he couldn't stand it anymore, and woke up.

It was Lou, beeping him on the intercom.

"Rick....Rick. Turn on your screen! Turn on your screen! Rick, wake up you've got to see this."

Still groggy, he fumbled for the bedside screen and turned it on.

"Hold on Lou. Let me think for a second."

Still partially asleep, he couldn't remember any of the fancy fingerings in his dream. Even the dream song was wiped completely out of his head. He looked at his hand and he was white again. Oh well, he would start playing his old cornet again one of these days.

"What is it? What do you want me to see?"

"The Stenori trader agreed to meet me . We're already on a first name basis. I told him we had to sign paperwork for the platinum deal. He should be here any minute. I thought you might want to see his ship. He's making a sales call from across the galaxy.

"I hate to be nosy Lou, but what are you going to trade with him? We don't have any platinum. I was slinging the manure. Remember?"

"Shut up and watch the master at work. You'll find out what happens."

Lou put on the video feed from across the landing area. Peters saw nothing on the screen but the tip of Major Simes spacecraft jutting into space. The remainder of the ship's hull was positioned behind a natural rock outcropping on the surface, as if purposely hidden.

"Wait Lou. You and the Major aren't planning anything illegal are you? Clem might be a cheat and a liar, but that doesn't give us the right to hurt him."

"Rick, take it easy. No one is going to hurt anybody. I'm surprised at you. The Stenori didn't have much of anything we wanted so I had to buy a bunch of outdated microprocessors we outgrew years ago."

"How about the platinum Lou? Old Clem is going to become powerful angry when he doesn't get his white metal."

"Don't worry, he'll get his white metal. I'm going to take 240 to Earth and give him all the platinum he can carry, even if I have to bankrupt the whole of GenCorp to do it. I don't think they'd mind a bit."

"Boy, have you lost your mind. What do you want with obsolete Stenori chip designs?"

"Please Rick. Trust me on this babe. Just keep your eyes on the screen.

"All right Lou. If you think you've got everything under control, who am I to... What the hell is that?"

Where there had been nothing but the empty vacuum of space, a quivering shape materialized a few feet above the rocky surface of the asteroid. He was no expert on space technology, but the Stenori ship looked like a pile of junk. A 65' Valiant up on blocks? That was the mighty FTL star cruiser? It was constructed of three ancient cargo tanks enclosed by a corroded framework of haphazard scaffolding and tubular passageways. The battered control pod was strained at its seams and crudely patched in a dozen places. His respect for 240 rose several notches. It would take an extremely brave individual to travel the galaxy in that raft.

"Look at that Lou. It's a heap."

"That heap just distorted space-time to get here. It's the best ship in the galaxy. Our ships are dugout canoes next to that. Thank you for snagging him Rick. We may never get another chance like this."

"I don't like the sinister tone of your voice amigo. We aren't going to swipe the poor guy's delivery van are we?"

"Rick, I told you. The deal is completely square. We don't want to steal his ship. We just want to take a peek under the hood to see what he's running. Why should he care? After listening to your show, he thinks we already have the hyperdrive. Major Simes is probing his ship right now with the new alien-designed scanners . We'll have the complete Stenori drive layout in less than five minutes. Hold it Rick. I'm going to give him a welcome to the neighborhood shmooze."

"Greetings from Uncle Lou. I will come to your ship with the agreement papers. I am eager to see the fine digital components you spoke to me about. Believe me, 240, the platinum you're getting is the purest quality on the market. You realize I had to stick my sprxinador in the fan to get this special deal for you. I was just saying to my manager this morning..."

Peters snapped off the screen. He'd heard enough. His breakfast was ready, and he didn't want it to get cold. God bless Ms. Bauers, the best housekeeper in the universe. Without her he would have starved to death long ago. Every morning she fixed his favorites: Scrambled eggs, sausages, hash browns, toast, coffee, and only one lousy Twinkie. Ms. Bauers thought she had been so very clever with the bedtime snacks, hiding the extra Twinkies for later use at breakfast. Her schemes were not perfect in their conception however. He knew all her secret hiding spots in the kitchen. If he wanted to eat the them before breakfast, he would damn well eat them. Sometimes a man has to stand up for the things that are important.