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generals and admirals grew restless. So they welcomed with open arms the Chinger menace that loomed ahead of them. Of course it wasn't a real menace since the Chingers had never heard of war. This had never stopped the military before. A little adroit propaganda and the battle was on! Now they could turn their energies to destroying aliens and giving each other medals.
    Elliot Methadrine was from a long line of G-men specializing in enforcing prohibition on G-world, while running breweries, wineries and distilleries on the side. (Hence Elliot's built-up tolerance for alcohol.) He'd been trained in G-world Academy, was a top marksman with lasers, blasters and bullet-firing weapons, knew ten different forms of martial arts and could make a mean fried tofu burger. His hobbies included bird watching, knitting, collecting UNTOUCHABLE COMIX (a Hindu publication, one of the few religious Comix permitted) and he was a part-time executioner one weekend a month in the Executioner Reserves, to help his cousins get through law school.
    Bill listened to all this bowb with immense disinterest, nodding over his beer. By this time, they were through a few drinks. Bill was markedly drooped on the seat, but Elliot still looked chipper and alert despite a steady downing of powerful beverages.
    The male bonding was almost complete.
    “Okay. Sounds good,” said Bill. “Now tell me a joke.”
    “Gee — a joke? How come, Trooper Bill?”
    “I need a laugh, that's why.”
    “Oh. Okay. Let me see. Oh yeah, I know a good joke.” Elliot took a long gulp of his drink. “This guy, he goes in to the doctor, because he's not feeling so great. The doctor runs some tests on him. The guy says, 'What's wrong with me, Doc?' 'Bad news,' says the Doc. 'You've got Galactic AIDS, Venusian herpes and Solarian Leprosy.' 'What are you going to do, Doc?' asks the man. 'Well, the first thing I'm going to do is to put you on a diet of pancakes, pizza and tortillas.' 'Why pancakes, pizza and tortillas, Doc?' 'Because they're the only things we'll be able to fit under the door!'”
    Bill broke up. He slammed his beer mug on the counter and slapped Elliot on the back. “That's great! That's disgusting! I love it! That's just my kind of Trooper yock!”
    “Gee — I'm glad you like it, Bill.”
    “Now — what say we get some sack-time in before we have to get going.”
    “Aren't you going to play any of the implant in your ear, Bill?”
    “What for? Voluntarily listening to orders without being ordered to? You got a lot to learn. If we have to we'll do it tomorrow morning. What say we round the night off with some more drinks and maybe a look-in at EM's knocking shop if it is open.”
    “Gee — Bill. That sounds great! What's a knocking shop?”
    Yep, thought Bill sinking back into an alcoholic gaze. This guy really was okay. Even if he was incredibly stupid. But there was something about him that bothered Bill ... like some scampering little lizard, he seemed much too eager about the whole thing.
    But, gee, thought Bill, otherwise this Elliot Methadrine was a good buddy, a nice guy to drink with.

CHAPTER 4
    Bill and Elliot found tickets waiting for them when they arrived at the good ship IC — Interstellar Cruiser — Starbloater. Since Troopers were only permitted to travel steerage class, Bill was now sporting a silver set of fake lieutenant's bars that Elliot had given him. This temporary disguise would last only for the duration of the trip — but of course it went instantly to his head. He flared his nostrils, insulted the help, affected a poncey accent and did all the things that he knew officers did. They were well on their way in space, Bill enjoying every nonservile moment of his new existence, when the assassin came after him with the most terrifying hand blaster that Bill had ever seen.
    A few moments before this happened, Bill was balanced at the tip of the diving board, dressed in pink and electric green bathing trunks, holding a can of beer