As Zoah accompanied the tangarine-haired Punkoid aboard the war-battered grey and rainbow-striped destroyer pirate ship, he couldn’t fail to note that it was bristling with illegal fissionic poniards, and as they roared back through the wastelands of space to the Rhomboid System and the horrible Sargasso, he pondered the oddness of Pundit’s advice. What was this Trojan horse? Who was Troj? Come to think of it – what was a horse? As usual, Pundit had talked in riddles, but the empress had always said that if you could understand the riddle, it would be good advice.

He observed the mutant’s profile with distaste. It was bad enough that he had three arms (two of which were on the controls while the third pointed a laser pistol at him), but fancy dyeing your hair orange. What barbarism!

“It’s not dyed,” said the Punkoid.

“You’re a mind reader?”

“Only in a crude way. I could sense you looking at me with distaste. We Punkoids are quite sensitive, you know. Over thousands of years of dyeing our hair, the practice has been acquired by our Lamarckian-interface-adaptable genes and now all Punkoid babies are born with spiky orange hair. Some of the more individual of my kind dye their hair green – though not through any desire to emulate Skorpean characteristics, I assure you. As you can see, I am also a three-armed freak, which is very handy (if you will pardon the pun) for as you can see, I can fully control the ship and keep you under guard at the same time. So relax, Mister Emperor, and enjoy the ride. His Supreme Oiliness looks forward to the pleasure of your company.”