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

This time was no exception.

The Finding of a Very Rare Book Propels our Adventure

Blindly hurtling a fleet of Obotron ships through space is a very expensive thing to do. Each of the 19 ships required to make a proper fleet is a gas-guzzling, top-luxury cruiser with room for hundreds of rich aliens. Why, then, do three measly people require an entire fleet for their mission? They don’t. It is an insanely wasteful thing to do.

Investment Banker Preservationists (or IBP, the radicals who perpetually picket outside the homes of people who own very expensive space ships) would be horrified to learn that an entire fleet of Obotrons was being used for the transport of three people. Anyone who cared about following the charts for Investment Banker populations would notice a major dive in the local supply every time the fleet made a pit stop. When Krimshaw mentioned the idea of just bringing along one of the ships, to help out with preservation and all, Dr. Rip and the Astrospeciologist laughed and agreed it wouldn’t be right to break up the set. Legions of staff were put aboard each ship, and were happy to learn there was nobody to serve. They were especially pleased to realize the towels would never get used, and could thus remain in their original factory sealed state.

The Astrospeciologist (who shall henceforth be known as Wilx, because that is his name) was busy searching through the ship archives, which included catalogued maps of generally most all of time and space. He attempted to set the ship on some sort of coherent path. It was not an easy thing to do.

Krimshaw continued to gaze out of the epic space-viewing window, wondering about this mysterious planet of Greegs and how he would feel if it really existed, and if they actually found it.

Rip was sitting down, befuddled. He gently cradled the last stolen bottle of Crammington Krish Fortinis. The other two had been smashed in the madness of the getaway. Some might say it is an impressive feat to retain even one unbroken bottle in the process of running from an angry and hotly pursuant mob, but Rip saw the uncharacteristic loss of the other two bottles as a veritable sign that he might be losing his masterful touch in life.

“Can we stop for more?”

“We’ve just left,” replied Wilx.

“You could turn around.”

“To the planet with the angry and hotly pursuant mob? We’re lucky enough they’re not following us. Most of them are too poor to own spaceships.”

“I thought Obotron ships were meant to be first class,” said Rip. “How can they not have any Crammington Krish Fortinis?”

“There are countless crates of CKF stored in the cargo ship following the rear of the fleet. But it takes a few days for them to catch up to us when we want something.”

“What sort of civilized planet do you think we’ll land on before then?”

“I don’t know,” replied Wilx. “Right now the ship is on a distressing course, thanks to Krimshaw’s seemingly random destructive behaviour. If I don’t correct the trajectories, we might find ourselves drifting into the invisible dimension.”

“I hear that place is like an affirmation of life.”

“No, it’s one of the worst places of all time.”

As Wilx pored over the infinite catalogues of star charts and dimensional gateways, Rip leaned over his shoulder and pitifully tried to make sense of the whole thing. Wilx was so adept at flipping rapidly through the charts that all Rip could see was a dizzying array of kaleidoscopic imagery. Rip sneezed violently.

“Hey!” said Wilx. “Cover your mouth! You’re getting me drunk.”

“Sorry,” said Rip, as he took a few steps backwards.

Wilx was well aware the sneeze of someone drunk on Crammington Krish Fortinis is extremely contagious, causing brutal intoxication in otherwise sober people who happen to be standing close enough to inhale said sneeze. Wilx felt his mind go woozy and his eyes go hazy, and he was only slightly aware of his stomach having a near fatal organ-quake.

“I’m going to the study room to work on my language,” announced Krimshaw randomly. In actuality he was hoping to find something in one of his books about this supposed Greeg planet.

“No thanks,” said Rip, still entranced by the confusion of the charts and thinking drinks had just been offered.

“The brakes don’t work on number 3,” burbled Wilx, believing Krimshaw had just announced he was going to ride a sonic-shuttle through a Proto-star, one of more dangerous things you can do in life, brakes or not. Sonic-shuttles go so fast you can drive one directly through the centre of a Proto-star while only suffering severe flesh burns on 20% of your body. However if your trajectory is off by even the slightest of increments you’ll suffer 100% severe flesh burns.

Wilx had designed a study room at the end of the ship's main corridor. It contained a plethora of strange books which no mortal creature could ever hope to finish reading in one lifetime. No doubt it was one of those collections designed to show off how much reading a person does, or at least how much reading they intend to get around to some day, but probably won't. Krimshaw grabbed an interesting looking book entitled Very Rare Planets. He sat down at the desk and flicked on the laser-lamp. The wasteful energy consumption of the outdated laser-lamp was being supplied directly from the ship’s tank of liquefied Investment Bankers. Krimshaw had no idea the lives of so many useless organisms had been given up for the purpose of lighting this room. He was fond of the lamp nonetheless.

Krimshaw flipped to the index of Very Rare Planets. He skimmed to the ‘G’ Section. He looked for Greeg. There was a listing for Grebular, the shape-shifting planet, and there was also a listing for Grelk, the planet made of tar pits, but there was no mention of Greegs. Krimshaw thought surely this book would contain the answers he sought. He was frustrated to learn otherwise. He marched back to the main bridge, bringing the book with him.

“Look at this book,” he said to Rip and Wilx, who were both busily enthralled by the sight of a Proto-star encroaching on their ship, or rather, their ship encroaching on a Proto-star, being that the ship was moving and the Proto-star wasn’t.

“What’s that?” asked Krimshaw.

“Just a Proto-star,” said Wilx. “We have to not go through it, or else we’ll probably be melted. We’re getting dangerously close. Rip and I have been busy discussing which direction would be the best to pass around.”

“Just pick any direction,” suggested Krimshaw.

“It’s not that easy,” said Rip. “The total freedom of directional choice while in space is enough to freeze anyone in their tracks.”

“Never mind that for now,” said Wilx, spinning his chair so that he was no longer facing the impending doom. “What’s this book you’ve discovered?”

“It’s called Very Rare Planets. I thought it would help us find that Greeg planet, but there seems to be no mention of Greegs in the entire thing.”

The eyes of Wilx lit up like the brilliant luminescence of the dangerously close proto-star. “You’ve found a copy of Very Rare Planets?” he asked excitedly.

“Is that a good thing?” asked Krimshaw.

“That book has directions to planets that the ships database has never even heard of. I’ve been looking for a copy for a long time.”

“What, of that book?” asked Rip. “I found that in a gutter somewhere. Only kept it all this time because there's a blurb about me.”

“There's a blurb about you?” asked Wilx. “Yeah right.”

“It’s on page 343.”

Krimshaw flipped to page 343. He saw a picture of a rare planet known as Pluto. He read the article about the boring planet.

“What’s so rare about Pluto?” asked Krimshaw. “And I don’t see anything about you in here.”

Rip pointed to the blurb hiding in fine print at the bottom corner of the page. “Read it,” he said.

Krimshaw produced a small magnifying glass and proceeded to read the blurb. “Pluto is considered a rare planet because of all the planets that have been visited by Dr. Rip T. Brash, it is the only one in which during his visitation he did not place an outlandish bet.”

“It’s true,” confirmed Rip.

“What gives? Why no betting on Pluto?” asked Wilx.

“Nothing good to bet on. It’s just that boring of a planet. The intelligent species from that star system even stopped calling Pluto a planet. It was removed from the zodiac charts and banned from the school curriculum.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Is it?”

Wilx and Dr. Rip shifted their focus back to the encroaching proto-star and the dilemma involved with not passing through it. Krimshaw continued flipping through Very Rare Planets.

“Didn’t you say this Greeg planet was supposed to be somewhere in the 59 sunned district of Herb?”

“Yeah,” said Wilx, “have you found something?”

“There’s a passing reference here of a planet in the 59 sunned district of Herb that has what they call an unexpected creature for its dominant species. That sounds like what we’re looking for. The planet is called Hroon. It is water-based and is apparently the fourth most perfect sphere in existence.”

“No, that couldn’t be right,” said Rip. “This Greeg planet is supposed to be an unshapely thing made up of random conglomerations.”

“We should check it out anyway,” suggested Krimshaw. “It puts us in the sunned district of Herb. Maybe the creatures of Hroon can direct us to the Greeg planet.”

“I suppose that isn’t a bad plan,” agreed Wilx.

Rip pointed at the window. “I must remind everyone of the encroaching proto-star.”

“Oh, yeah. Take a left,” said Wilx.

A left was taken. The fleet of ships veered away from the deadly proto-star. The movement of the entire fleet was controlled solely by the guidance system of the Obotron 1, the finest ship of the fleet and also the ship on which our characters resided. Wilx set course for the planet Hroon. Being that the guidance system of Obotron 1 was the guidance system that Krimshaw had irreparably damaged, the fleet was only on a vague-level course with Hroon, which meant they would one day probably arrive, but only after experiencing an unforeseeable number of ill-fated shortcuts.

Aimlessly Bumbling Through Space and Time

with an Irreparably Damaged Guidance System

Wilx and Dr. Rip T. Brash The Third, being a pair of well-seasoned space and time travellers, were quite used to unforeseeable numbers of ill-fated shortcuts. In fact, if one were to describe their lives, if they had tombstones or obituaries like you after they died, they would almost certainly read:

“Here lies/R.I.P. Wilx/Dr. Rip T. Brash The Third… his/her/its life was an unforeseeable number of ill-fated shortcuts.”

‘Shortcuts’ is a very misleading term though. Long periods of painfully boring floating would be much more accurate. When aimlessly bumbling through space and