Greegs & Ladders, Zack Mitchell, Danny Mendlow [read with me .TXT] 📗

in the matter).

“Where are we?” asked Rip.

Wilx looked around confusedly. “We’ve just undergone an unrequested hyperspacial jump.”

“I know…but where exactly did we jump to?”

“I’m trying to figure that out,” said Wilx as he scrambled through the star charts. “Look over there…I see a planet missing its top half. Could that be the legendary Clug Raddo?”

“What's Clug Raddo?” I asked.

“A planet that lost its northern hemisphere due to the climactic event of the Dishwashing Chronicles.”

“What happened in the Dishwashing Chronicles?”

“Well tell you about it later. For now I need to focus on the fact that we’ve jumped many universes in the complete opposite direction from the planet Hroon and the sunned district of Herb.”

“Do we have any pomegranates?” asked Rip.

“Uh, what are pomegranates?”

“Did the rest of the fleet make the hyperspacial jump with us?” asked Krimshaw.

“Good question. At least someone is having relevant thoughts around here.”

Wilx tracked the fleet.

“Hmm…there are only 16 Obotrons currently following us. It seems a couple of the ships didn’t make the jump at all.”

“What does that mean?” asked Krimshaw. “Two of the ships are still in another universe? Their crew members are just floating around aimlessly?”

“Oh, no. Nothing like that. They’ve assuredly perished by now.”

“What?”

“Without the guidance system of Obotron 1 they were probably sent crashing into the surface of the nearest planet. Or, if you prefer, careening into the vacuum of the nearest black hole. Or maybe they burned up in the infernos of the nearest Red Giant. One thing is certain, they were destroyed by the nearest object of dangerous proportions.”

“I thought our guidance system was irreparably damaged,” said Rip. “Shouldn’t they actually be better off without us?”

“No. It is better to have an irreparably damaged guidance system than to have no guidance system at all.”

“Right.”

Krimshaw looked out of the window and saw an epic beam of light funnelling towards a planet.

“Why is that light there?”

“What light?”

“Look, there’s a beam of light connecting with a planet. It looks like you can see the light moving.”

They both immediately recognized the description of a planet that was reached by a road of light. It was, after all, the most famous planet in the most famous of systems. They raced over to the window and confirmed their suspicion.

“It’s the road to Lincra!” shouted Rip happily.

“Indeed!”

“What’s the road to Lincra?” I asked.

Wilx was ecstatic. “We’re in Kroonum! Lincra is a planet in the excellent Kroonum system!”

“What’s so excellent about it?”

“I’ll answer that one,” said Rip. “It’s the most bustling solar system within five trillion universes. Some people spend their whole lives trying to get to Kroonum, on account of how exciting it is here.”

“Yes,” agreed Wilx, “however life is short once they arrive, on account of how dangerous it is here.”

“Why does this planet have a road of light?”

“Because it is the most popular planet to visit in the Kroonum system. The light is coming from the mass amount of constantly arriving ships.”

“Why do the ships have so many lights?”

“You ever noticed how dark it is in space? You try finding your way around this black infinity without a set of 4000 watt Hyclerion Blinder-Bulbs. You’d end up crashing into the surface of a nearby planet like the recently lost Obotron ships that we will probably never mention or think of again.”

“An interesting fact about the road of light,” said Wilx, “was discovered the time Lincra closed for renovations. For a few days no ships were allowed to land anywhere on the planet, yet the road continued to shine as brilliantly as ever.”

“How is that possible?” asked Krimshaw.

“It is the strongest case of Persistence of Vision ever known. Ships have been nonstop arriving at Lincra for so long that the beam of light seems to be permanently burned into the ocular fabric of space and time.”

“Can we stop?”

“Of course.”

Wilx instructed the rest of the fleet to remain motionless in orbit. He then guided Obotron 1 towards Lincra. It is a poor idea to attempt manual flight while on the hectic road, so Wilx set the ship to Go-With-the-Flow Mode, allowing the flux of the nearby ships to safely glide them to the surface. Before too long, Obotron 1 arrived at the spectacular main parking lot.

The main parking lot of Lincra is so spectacular that many visitors believe they are seeing the entire surface of the planet. They hang around the station for the weekend taking a few photos, then they leave satisfied, having seen none of the actual world.

Rip, Wilx and Krimshaw boarded the ship's floating elevator. This drew many stares from the crowd below, being that Krimshaw was a Greeg and that Obotron 1 was probably the most expensive spaceship in the whole lot. It was definitely the only spaceship with its own floating elevator.

Rip unnecessarily greeted the crowd.

“Hello!” he shouted to the bewildered aliens. “I am Dr. Rip T. Brash the Third!”

There were a few mutters of slight recognition followed by an unrelated terrorist explosion.

“Ahem,” coughed Krimshaw.

“What is it?”

“Why don’t you introduce us too?”

“Because you aren’t famous.”

“How can we hope to get famous if you don’t mention us in front of large groups of people?”

“True,” said Rip as he pointed at Wilx and Krimshaw. “And these are some people I happen to know!”

“What did you fly here in?” yelled a random alien.

“I’m glad you asked. Our ship is a very rare Obotron. It is one of the most expensive vessels ever made. Feel free to admire it at will! Gaze your eyes upon its pricey qualities! Feel the stinging pangs of jealousy when you realize your own ship is a piece of junk in comparison! If you don’t have eyes, then touch the recently waxed surface with your antennae and know that the wax job is better than yours!”

“Hey, don’t tell them to admire the ship too much,” whispered Wilx. “I’d like to leave with it still in our possession.”

Rip corrected his mistake. “Remember everyone, admire the ship only with your eyes! We have a protective shield designed to immediately set fire to anyone who puts a single finger or antennae on the waxed surface!”

“Is that true?” asked Krimshaw.

“No. But I dare them to risk finding out.”

The crowd grew visibly anxious wanting to know if the ship would really set them on fire if they touched it. For some creatures, finding out the worthless answer to this mystery was well worth the risk of death.

The floating elevator (which was merely a sort of round slab that frighteningly lacked handrails) touched down on the surface of the docking station. The trio stepped off. The slab immediately flew back up to the ship.

“How do we get the elevator to come back to us when we want to leave?” asked Krimshaw.

“I don’t know,” said Wilx. “I forgot the remote control. We’ll worry about it later. Let’s go look around!”

“Good idea,” agreed Rip.

The parking lot existed within a domed structure the size of a small moon. Inside the dome were many bizarre vendors. Some of the vendors were boasting the cheapest rates on stolen bottles of Investment Banker, while most were selling maps of the planet.

“We’d better grab a map,” suggested Rip. “It is impossible to make sense of the labyrinthine surface of Lincra without one.”

“And a good map, too,” added Wilx. “Some of these are poor quality.” He picked one up from a nearby table. “Look at this one, it’s just a white piece of paper that says ‘You are anywhere you want to be.’ How does such existential drivel qualify as a map?”

The unkempt vendor selling this object was of the belief that all reality is artificial, and can therefore shift its appearance according to the mind's desire. He was also heavily tripping out on the boiled juices of psychotropic Lincran-leaves.

“Don’t be harsh,” said the unkempt vendor as he imagined his own hand transforming into a tentacle. “That map contains valuable advice. You should never forget that all your surroundings are a fantasy, and that you can change where you’re at simply by imagining you’re somewhere else.”

“You know what else is a fantasy?” asked Rip.

“What?”

“Your income. Because nobody will ever buy what you’re selling.”

“Oh, these maps aren’t for sale. I offer everything for free, being that any apparent value of money is imaginary anyway.”

Rip grabbed a stack of the maps and tore them up until they were tiny shreds. It took a long time. The trio then continued walking as if nothing happened. The unkempt vendor made up some new maps. It was an easy task considering they were merely a single sentence written on a white piece of paper.

“Look at this one!” said Wilx, pointing to a different and infinitely more exciting map vendor. “I’m gonna get one of these.”

Wilx left the group for a minute. When he returned he wasn’t really holding a map (defining a map as something that can be folded and placed in a glove-box) but rather carried a multi-volume set of 30 pound hardcover books.

“This should help us find everything.”

“Look, here comes one of the parking lot shuttle-sliders,” said Rip. “Let’s board it while we can.”

They got on the shuttle before it whizzed off. Shuttle-sliders are dissimilar to floating elevators in the sense that they only move horizontally, but are similar in the sense that they also frighteningly lack handrails.

Obotron 1 had landed almost directly in the middle of the parking lot, meaning that reaching the edge of the dome by foot would have entailed a horrendous, month-long journey with nothing to eat except for maps and other paper products. By taking the shuttle car they would reach the edge of the dome in a matter of minutes. The fare was offensively expensive, but it had to be paid. Most people who attempt walking across the great parking lot are never heard from again.

The instant the shuttle was out of sight, several dozen curious fingers and antennae placed themselves upon the surface of Obotron 1. The disgusting creatures in ownership of these fingers and antennae were happy to learn there was no protective shield setting them on fire. They celebrated this fact by smashing a few of the windows and entering the ship. The intruders proceeded to devour what little remaining food they could find. This was not a great loss as it was all thoroughly urine-soaked. They then proceeded to syphon nearly all of the ship's fuel. Upon leaving, the creatures didn’t even bother to use the same broken windows, but rather found a few new ones to crash through.

The shuttle arrived at the edge of the dome. Rip was the first one to walk through the door and see the surface of Lincra, and was therefore the first one to suffer a mild heart attack. It was instantly clear as to why a map is the most valuable item you can own on this planet. The surface of Lincra is actually a myriad of surfaces stacked on top of each other, a gradual layering upon layering created for the purpose of maximizing spacial problems. A planetary version of a nesting doll, there is the one major outermost planet, and within that planet lay a smaller planet, and within that smaller planet lay another smaller planet, and so forth until all the layers of Lincra together form the equivalent ground space of the combined, remaining 26 planets in the Kroonum system. Each layer is known for having its own distinct climate, terrain, life-forms and atmosphere. Visitors are allowed to freely roam between the layers, all of which are connected by way of the Master Ladder.

“I suggest we read some of these books before we go anywhere,” said Wilx as he sat down on a bench. Most of the entrances to Lincra are lined with scores of benches, as needing to sit down is the most typical reaction of the first-time visitor.

“What books?” I asked him.

“The multi-volume map of Lincra, the ones I just bought.”

“I know, but for a minute I could have sworn you weren't carrying them anymore. I thought you'd gotten tired and thrown them out, deciding to let blind chance choose our ultimate location.”

“No,” said Wilx. “That's more something Rip would do.”

“Not on this world,” said Rip. “Even I don't feel like braving Lincra without a map.”

“Where should we go?” asked Wilx