And soon they were emerging from under a console into a spacious, split-level room that was pretty close to what any watcher of earthly entertainments would expect the bridge of a starship to look like.
There were seats and panels and consoles, some along the walls, but most lined up before a central viewscreen that displayed the vastness of space.
While at the center of everything, a thronelike chair awaited its occupant.
Since, however, the ship was Zetan, the consoles, the throne and everything else were Zetan-sized, thus giving Marshall the impression he was on a starship for preschoolers—an impression only magnified by the behavior of the three beings who were already there.
For, sadly, they did nothing except justify the term so widely used to describe them. Running, yelling and grabbing at one another, they were the picture of semi-sentience.
But then he gasped, because of something else he noticed: that these were not just running, yelling, grabbing semi-sentients; these were running, yelling, grabbing semi-sentients he personally knew.
At the front of the room, for example, in a flannel nightgown, was Margaret Burch, the first aid instructor, who had thrown herself onto a large man, who was Aleksei Kosovitch, the self-defense instructor, who had seized the arm of a young woman—an exceedingly attractive young woman in panties and a camisole—who was . . .
Was?
Yes, was . . .
Melody!
Marshall began to spring forward, but Ethan grabbed him. “Watch out for that guy,” he warned, indicating Aleksei. “He’s really strong and knows karate or something.”
But maybe it wasn’t crucial for Marshall to spring forward just yet, since Burch poked a thumb into Aleksei’s eye and Melody broke free.
“Chyort!” bellowed the Russian, shoving the nurse backwards into the viewscreen. “Ees dream for crying out loud. Ees my dream. Can do anything in dream.”
And with that he leaped over a bank of consoles, which Melody was rapidly crawling under. She almost reached the next bank, but not quite. Again he had her by an arm. He hauled her up and pinned her to the equipment.
“Oobla, I need to intervene,” thought Marshall.
“We couldn’t agree more.”
“Good. Then what do you have for me to intervene with?”
“You will have to explain.”
“Do I get a stun pistol? Can we turn off the gravity?”
“Certainly not. What are you suggesting? That we do your work for you? How interesting would that be?”
Marshall was baffled. How could she expect him to . . .?
But there was no time to argue, since Melody was about to lose the two items of clothing she had on.
And so, dashing faster than Ethan could stop him, he jumped on the large man’s head.
By now he'd become quite good at this, having practiced on both a Tradaxan gangster and on Aleksei himself, of course. But for some reason this time it didn't work. This time his clasping thighs slid off his opponent’s shiny dome, and he was tossed into Margaret Burch, who had finally gotten to her feet. Both flew into the viewscreen, while Aleksei reared up, looking every bit as intimidating as he had in class. In fact, he looked as if he was in class. He had on the same sweatpants, the same faded Soviet tank top. These were apparently the clothes he slept in, too. And he had on the same scowl, though it was perhaps a bit deeper than usual.
For how he hated to have these buttinskies interfering with such a promising dream.
Unless . . .
The scowl disappeared.
Unless one of them could make the promising dream even better.
“Shmeeshkees?” he roared, as recognition dawned. “Marshall Shmeeshkees?” His face erupted in joy. “Thees best dream ever. Not only most beautiful girl”—he looked hungrily at Melody, who had retreated to the back of the room, to a pair of sliding doors, and was trying desperately to open them—“but Shmeeshkees! In place with no gym owner, no police, no rule.” He began patting his own head. “Thank you, brain. Thank you, Aleksei brain. Most great brain.”
“Oobla?” thought Marshall, picking himself off the floor and sidling away from the exultant Russian.
“Yes, Marshall.”
“Don’t you see what’s happening?”
“Yes, Marshall.”
“Well I could really use some help about now.”
But again she denied his request. “Oh, please. What is the matter with you? This you consider a challenge? This you want help with? Yet you boast to us of your abilities.”
He scoured his mind for a reply, found none, and tried strategizing instead. “Look, Aleksei,” he said, still not finished strategizing but talking anyway. “Dreams serve a purpose, right? They, uh . . . teach us, yes, teach us to master our primitive impulses.”
“Nyet,” said Aleksei definitively. “Ees opposite. Dreams let us enjoy preemiteev impulses. Get them out of seestem. Now, which move? Which one I like most for Shmeeshkees?”
Marshall was fairly certain he knew what this meant. Aleksei was referring to the twelve moves he had learned in the old Soviet Union, which enabled one person to kill another with his bare hands. For some reason, despite his seemingly favorable opinion of Marshall previously, the self-defense instructor was about to make him a target of lethal force!
But why? he wondered, before realizing that wasn’t the ideal question. What now? he thought, more usefully. Frantically he surveyed his fellow humans. Could anyone help him? Would anyone, even Ethan? No, not even Ethan. For he, like the rest of them, had withdrawn into an inner world—was dancing around, repeating things like “waking up, waking up” and “I know this isn’t real.”
Margaret Burch, for her part, had retreated into a corner, where she was quietly pinching and slapping herself. While Melody was trying to catch the attention of someone who could not possibly hear her. “Damn you, Grant!” she was yelling. “Kick me, elbow me, get horny, something! Just fucking wake me up!”
And still Aleksei continued to deliberate. “Number one? No, too simple, too queek. Number five? No, veel hurt back again. Veel have to see chiropractor. Hold it. What I say? Hurt back? This ees dream. No hurt back. OK, number five!”
And in the next moment Marshall had been bent forward over a console, while his head, gripped by his jaw, was being pulled in the opposite direction and his spine felt as if it were about to snap.
He could see he had very little time left.
Apart from which he could see almost nothing. Only a fading ocean of stars on the viewscreen. Was one of them the Sun? Would he die looking out at a home now doomed because this misguided military man didn’t realize he was destroying his one opportunity to achieve what surely must be his ultimate—?
“Hero,” gasped Marshall from the fringes of consciousness. “If I die, you’ll never . . . be . . . a . . . hero.”
The grip on his jaw eased a smidgen.
“What that you say?”
“I say, if you choose little goals, like killing me, like chasing a girl, morning will come, and you will have given up your chance to achieve your biggest dream of all.”
“What dream? How you know about my dream?” said Aleksei skeptically, but Marshall sensed a further loosening of the grip.
“This is your dream talking,” he said. “So of course I know all about you.”
It was a wildly daring statement, refutable in an instant. But maybe Aleksei wouldn't interrogate him too closely. He pressed on.
“Your strongest wish,” he said, guessing as accurately as he could, “from long before you left Russia, has been to put all that training of yours to use—real use. To do something big, brave, important.”
The grip relaxed even further. “Da. For sure. But Shmeeshkees,”—the grip tightened again—“why I hearing this from bowl of pudding like you?”
“Who can understand the subconscious?” said Marshall. “For some reason, in this dream, Shmeeshkees as you call him is the key to your deepest yearnings. I mean, look around. Don’t you see where you are?”
Aleksei looked around, taking stock—for the first time, it appeared—of his surroundings. “Huh,” he said at last. “Thees ees sheep. Spacesheep. And that . . .” The hand that wasn’t holding Marshall struck its own forehead in realization. “That ees why you are here. In class you always saying, ‘Where my sheep? Give me my sheep.’ Shmeeshkees . . .” He bent down so his face was level with Marshall’s. “Ees really your sheep?” Marshall nodded. Aleksei let go of him entirely. “Oh, very nice. What we do with it?”
“We’re going to Earth,” said Marshall, gasping, unbending. “We’re going to Earth, and we’re going to save it.”