>>> Item number 25268 from WRITERS LOG9402A --- (86 records) ----- <<< Date: Thu, 3 Feb 1994 18:35:01 JST Reply-To: WRITERS Sender: WRITERS From: Mike Barker Subject: SUB: Nipper how's this? first impressions welcome... tink --------------------------------------------- Nipper Copyright 1994 Mike Barker The little nipper keeps kicking me in the ribs. I'm going to kill the guy who puts the warnings in the pilot's guide. Check out Vesta 93156 in the standard pilot's guide. There's a hyperlink to a standard warning. Avoid sexual involvement and pregnancies. Big deal. Most planets don't have anything you'd want to be involved with, and almost every planet has some sensitive spots about babies and pregnancies. I sure wasn't going to go poking around any maternity suites, and I'm married. So after I checked the guide, I landed to do some trading without any real concern. I was right, those slugs didn't look like anything anyone would ever want to take to bed. Slabs of muscle rippling, skins that dripped moisture in the damp around the port, and I could guess that the feathery outgrowths were some kind of fungus. But they did have a good port and the art objects they produced for interstellar trade were something else. Stones, mostly, but touch one and there's a whole little story in textures there that seeps through your skin and makes your mind spin. Just the kind of thing that does so well in trade. So I worked with them all day, ignoring the feeling that my skin was starting to rot, trying to ignore the little bumps and ichor they sprayed sometimes, unloading bits and pieces I had collected, sealing a few in plastic to avoid environmental damage, working up a deal. By night I was tired, but I wanted to get out of the ship. The last trader I dealt with told me through the port translater that there was a hotel not too far away. It warned me to avoid the bars and churches - one group would be far too happy to see something to pick on, the other would be more serious about my deformities but would probably hit me harder because they hadn't relaxed with a good snort of the local wild mushroom soup. I said I would be careful. I was. I went straight to the hotel, booked a room, and was told to go over to room 10. The port translator said it was 10. I went down the line, very methodical. I let the port translator look at the numbers and read them, but after a few, I wasn't listening. I could count as well as it could. "one. two. three. four. five. six. seven. ten. eleven. twelve." The key didn't fit, but in trying to put it in, I pushed on the door. The door swung up, and I crawled under it into the room. I couldn't figure out how to turn on the lights, but even in the dark I could see the bed, right there in front of me. So I pulled my clothes off and laid down. It sucked me in, spun me around, and made me glad to be there. I don't think I've ever been opened up and relaxed like that. Of course, it also laid one egg somewhere inside me. It apologized the next morning, and offered to keep me in its breeding tunnels if I wanted. I said I could take care of myself, then headed for the embassy to find out how much trouble I was in. The port embassy system did a very nice physical, advised that removing the egg would kill it, and that killing the egg was illegal in all jurisdictions. It did provide a list of recommended midwives experienced in this field, and a short information tab on the whole process. It also notified me that the egg was now registered, so I should make sure there was ample documentation of the birth to complete the official record. Back on the ship, I studied the infotab. It didn't make me feel better, but it did explain that the young are winged, and fly instinctively to the right climate for their next metamorphasis. That's why I'm headed back to Earth. I can't have the egg removed, I've had to put up with this for seven months, but I can sure make it hard on the little beast to find the kind of hot, damp forest it likes. As soon as I land, I'm going to go as far north as I can. Damn, it kicked me again. I can't wait until it's born, and I can send the wee darling winging south. Just three more weeks. Then maybe my wife will talk to me again. I wonder if whoever writes those warnings knows that pregnancies can be deadly to their health. Do you think it'll have my eyes? ---------------------------------------------------