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of goodies.”
    Wanker looked the doctor up and down, as if for the first time. “By galaxies, you do look like an Irish Gunga Din.”
    “I am taking this as a compliment, dear Captain.”
    “Green turban, nice touch.” The captain seemed momentarily confused. “What the hell did I come here for, anyway?”
    Rhodes said, “Our new orders, sir.”
    “Oh, right.”
    The captain took his seat at his console. It was a huge panoramic display, busy with screens and readouts and dials and gauges. It was as confusing as hell. He searched for the input drive, finally found it, and plugged in the microdisk.
    “I hope I win the pool,” Darvona said to Sven.
    Wanker inclined his head to Rhodes. “What’s this about a pool?”
    “Just a little wager among the officers, sir. On what the new mission will be.”
    “Oh? Sorry I don’t have a piece of that. I’d bet on galactic garbage detail. What’s the smart money on?”
    “Everyone’s hoping for seeking out new worlds, sir, and, in general, boldly going where no man has gone before.”
    “That’s long odds. What’s even money?”
    “Border patrol, sir.”
    Wanker nodded. “So, the nominations are to boldly go where no man has split an infinitive before … border patrol… and toxic waste detail. May I have the envelope, please!” Wanker poked a button on the console.
    The crew crowded in to get a view of the screen.
    “And the winner is...” Wanker frowned. “‘You will proceed to Sector Four and conduct tests of the top-secret Proust Drive.’ Proust Drive? What the blazes is that?”
    “Sounds like a new propulsion system,” Rhodes guessed.
    Wanker sneered. “Who the hell is Proust?”  
    “French novelist, sir, twentieth century,” Svensen said.
    “Proust Drive,” Wanker repeated. “Maybe Proust is the scientist who came up with the gadget. Sector Four… hey, isn’t that right on the Kruton Interface?”
    “That region is mostly empty space,” Rhodes said. “No oversize stars, very little dust and gas. Not much gravitational interference. Not a bad place to test a new star drive.”
    “But would you want to test a new gadget near a hotly-contested bit of territory between the United Systems and the Affiliated Law Firms of Greater Kruton?”
    “Well, you have a point, sir.”
    “Sure I do. The Krutons are the most litigious race in the known universe. What if there’s an incident? What if—and this is unthinkable—what if we accidentally cross the Interface? Incur into their territory?”
    Svensen whistled.
    “Major lawsuit,” said Ensign Warner-Hillary. “I mean, like, humongous.”
    “That’s putting it mildly,” Wanker said. “Those slithering shysters would leap at the chance.”
    “How much do you think they’d sue for?” Darvona asked.
    “Plenty, but not just cash,” Rhodes said. “Territory, trading rights… ”
    “It would be, I am thinking, a big smashing Donnybrook of a lawsuit,” the doctor said.
    “Aye,” Sadowski concurred, nodding.
    “So why would Command Central take the chance?” the captain asked.
    “Must be a radically new drive,” Svensen suggested.
    “They must think it worth the risk,” Rhodes said.
    “I know why,” the captain said.
    “Why?” everyone wanted to know.
    “Command Central is populated by pinheads.”
    “No comment, sir,” Rhodes said tactfully.
    “Hmm. Says here we’re supposed to pick up the inventor of this technological miracle. Matter of fact, he’s aboard the MacDonald. Ms. Roundheels, signal the MacDonald that we are ready to take the civilian party on board.”
    “I love a party,” Darvona said as she flipped switches on her console.
    Rhodes looked over the captain’s shoulder. “The inventor of the Proust Drive is going to personally conduct the tests?”
    “Says so right here.” Wanker squinted at the screen. “Dr. Rufus T. Strangefinger. The captain scowled. “What, the guy’s name isn’t Proust?”
    Rhodes nodded. “I’ve heard of him, sir. He’s a