planets are few and barren, the last refuge of the dregs of the universe. Hunted men go there because they know that no crime short of genocide could ever induce a lawman to take the trouble to come in and try to root them out.
"So there they sit, the scum at the bottom of the galaxy after the humanity has been poured out, sunk in violence and degradation, fit only to prey upon each other.
"And there was I, sitting in the dreariest bar in the dreariest spaceport on the dreariest planet in that entire dreary star system, minding my own business, having a little glass of the foul dragon's sweat they call booze."
"From the darkness at the edge of the firelight, one of the twins rolled over and asked, "How did an upstanding fellow like you ever come to be in such an unsavory place?"
"That," snorted the Commodore, "is another story. I shall be happy to tell that story after I have finished telling this story."
"No, no. Spare us. I withdraw the question."
"I was, if you must know, there on a secret mission of considerable importance to the lives and well-being of a great number of honorable and righteous citizens who had turned to me as a last desperate hope for salvation. The poor wretches could offer little in payment but the justice of their cause touched my heart and I . . . "
"The bar, the bar," the twins shouted in unison. "Tell us about the bar."
"What bar? Oh, that bar. It was a terrible place. Did I mention that? Outrageous prices for rotgut booze. So there I was, standing at the bar chatting with a couple of fellows when, as is my custom when making a point or giving a certain phrase an added bit of emphasis, I uttered the exclamation, 'Great Odin's armpit' or 'by Sainted Odin's tooth, or something like that. I am no longer certain exactly which phrase I used. There are a number of them with which I have enlivened my speech since boyhood.
"Anyway, this shriveled little fellow suddenly pops up at my elbow and says, 'Ah ha! So you're the one.' Well, I happen to be, at that moment, at a particularly fascinating point in the story I am telling to these other fellows so I ignore this outburst and continue talking.
"'Ah ha!' he says again. 'So you're the one.'
"He is beginning to annoy me. 'I beg your pardon, you little fart,' says I politely. 'You are interrupting a conversation here.'
"He's bald as an egg, his clothes are in tatters and he has a wild and maniacal look in his eye. 'You're the last one,' he shouts. 'If you'd let me go, I could rest in peace.'
"I realize immediately that the little fellow is quite mad and will have to be handled with tact and understanding. 'What in the seven worlds of Belail are you talking about, you little worm,' says I, hoisting him off the floor by his throat.
"Well, his eyes bug out and he quiets down considerably. 'You,' he gurgles after I set him down, 'you are the last soul in the universe to invoke me, to believe in me. You can set me free. I'm Odin.'
"I look at him and he looks at me. 'Are you trying to get on the wrong side of my good nature?' I inquire. 'Because if you keep to this course, you will surely do so. Odin is a mighty god of power where I hail from, not some grubby little pipsqueak who interrupts honest men in a forsaken dive out beyond the edges of Hell.'
"'Odin,' he says, 'also called Woden, chief warrior god of a 36-member pantheon worshipped by the mighty and warlike tribes of seafaring Vikings in the far north of old Earth back beyond the beginnings of time. Danes and Norse they were, big red-bearded giants of men who needed gods they could respect even when we occasionally dropped an avalanche on top of them or marooned them on an iceberg just to show who was boss.'
"'You're not exactly my idea of a real man's god,' I said. 'Even on a bad day, Odin would have to be at least twenty times your size and a hell of a lot tougher.'
"'I was. I was,' he cries. 'I was the power and majesty of a great people who created me and believed in me. I was the
"So there they sit, the scum at the bottom of the galaxy after the humanity has been poured out, sunk in violence and degradation, fit only to prey upon each other.
"And there was I, sitting in the dreariest bar in the dreariest spaceport on the dreariest planet in that entire dreary star system, minding my own business, having a little glass of the foul dragon's sweat they call booze."
"From the darkness at the edge of the firelight, one of the twins rolled over and asked, "How did an upstanding fellow like you ever come to be in such an unsavory place?"
"That," snorted the Commodore, "is another story. I shall be happy to tell that story after I have finished telling this story."
"No, no. Spare us. I withdraw the question."
"I was, if you must know, there on a secret mission of considerable importance to the lives and well-being of a great number of honorable and righteous citizens who had turned to me as a last desperate hope for salvation. The poor wretches could offer little in payment but the justice of their cause touched my heart and I . . . "
"The bar, the bar," the twins shouted in unison. "Tell us about the bar."
"What bar? Oh, that bar. It was a terrible place. Did I mention that? Outrageous prices for rotgut booze. So there I was, standing at the bar chatting with a couple of fellows when, as is my custom when making a point or giving a certain phrase an added bit of emphasis, I uttered the exclamation, 'Great Odin's armpit' or 'by Sainted Odin's tooth, or something like that. I am no longer certain exactly which phrase I used. There are a number of them with which I have enlivened my speech since boyhood.
"Anyway, this shriveled little fellow suddenly pops up at my elbow and says, 'Ah ha! So you're the one.' Well, I happen to be, at that moment, at a particularly fascinating point in the story I am telling to these other fellows so I ignore this outburst and continue talking.
"'Ah ha!' he says again. 'So you're the one.'
"He is beginning to annoy me. 'I beg your pardon, you little fart,' says I politely. 'You are interrupting a conversation here.'
"He's bald as an egg, his clothes are in tatters and he has a wild and maniacal look in his eye. 'You're the last one,' he shouts. 'If you'd let me go, I could rest in peace.'
"I realize immediately that the little fellow is quite mad and will have to be handled with tact and understanding. 'What in the seven worlds of Belail are you talking about, you little worm,' says I, hoisting him off the floor by his throat.
"Well, his eyes bug out and he quiets down considerably. 'You,' he gurgles after I set him down, 'you are the last soul in the universe to invoke me, to believe in me. You can set me free. I'm Odin.'
"I look at him and he looks at me. 'Are you trying to get on the wrong side of my good nature?' I inquire. 'Because if you keep to this course, you will surely do so. Odin is a mighty god of power where I hail from, not some grubby little pipsqueak who interrupts honest men in a forsaken dive out beyond the edges of Hell.'
"'Odin,' he says, 'also called Woden, chief warrior god of a 36-member pantheon worshipped by the mighty and warlike tribes of seafaring Vikings in the far north of old Earth back beyond the beginnings of time. Danes and Norse they were, big red-bearded giants of men who needed gods they could respect even when we occasionally dropped an avalanche on top of them or marooned them on an iceberg just to show who was boss.'
"'You're not exactly my idea of a real man's god,' I said. 'Even on a bad day, Odin would have to be at least twenty times your size and a hell of a lot tougher.'
"'I was. I was,' he cries. 'I was the power and majesty of a great people who created me and believed in me. I was the
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