When Dirk awoke, it was a slow and confusing process. His splitting headache and empty stomach certainly didn’t help matters, but the biggest problem was that he no longer seemed to be in a wrecked spaceship. He was, in fact, in a very comfortable bed, which was in a cool, well-lighted room.

He wondered whether he was dead, and whether this was his final reward, until he noticed a Betelgeusean female watching him from across the room. He had never actually met one before, but they were notorious for their grace and beauty, not to mention their dislike of humans. This was definitely a Betelgeusean, which meant that he probably wasn’t dead. The exotic woman lifted an eyebrow, as if inviting—or daring—Dirk to say something. He decided not to speak before he was spoken to, so she did.

“Good afternoon, Mr Bordeaux,” she said, in a voice that was almost a purr. “It is good to see you awake. When you were brought to this facility today, we seriously doubted whether you would survive.” Nothing in her tone betrayed the slightest concern for Dirk’s well-being, and this made him uneasy.

“I appreciate your efforts on my behalf,” he said, “and I’m sure Acme Space Guys will reimburse you for—“

“Tomorrow morning, I will take you to speak with the local Acme representative,” the Betelgeusean woman said. “I do not think it wise to make assurances on Acme’s behalf until then.”

“I didn’t know we had an office here.”

“Not many people do. For our part, we do our best to ignore it.” She stood. “You will receive something to eat shortly, Mr Bordeaux. I will return in the morning.” Without further ceremony, the woman left the room.

Dirk could not get over the grace with which these people moved. As he was being escorted to the Acme branch office, he had not been able to spot a Betelgeusean who did not seem to be dancing. They certainly were a far cry from the Acme representative, one Cornelius Forg. The man was neither graceful nor confident. He was the fussiest, most nervous man Dirk had ever met.

“I know you’ve never heard of this office!” he exploded. “No one’s heard of it! It’s like I don’t even exist,” he said morosely, sitting at his desk again, with his head in his hands.

“Mr Forg,” Dirk asked, “aren’t you exaggerating just a little bit?”

“You tell me,” Forg returned. “Headquarters won’t even acknowledge this office’s existence. I have to route my quarterly reports—not to mention my salary—through our office on the planet Whizbang. They’re also the only way I can get any information from Headquarters.”

“So what’s wrong with that?”

“Do you know what they call themselves? Whiz Kids! Do you have any idea what it’s like to depend upon Whiz Kids for your existence?”

“I can see how that might be upsetting,” Dirk conceded. “Why don’t you request a transfer?”

“I have. Do you know what Acme’s answer always is?”

“Not yet,” Dirk said after a short pause.

“They tell me that I’m doing such a good job here, and that they don’t want to change a winning arrangement.”

“What’s wrong with that, Mr Forg?”

“What’s wrong is that I’m not doing anything, except learning to fish.”

“Oh, do you like fishing?”

“That doesn’t matter,” Forg replied. “If one doesn’t hunt and fish, one simply doesn’t socialize on this planet. Which reminds me, I have a fishing engagement in twenty minutes.” As he spoke, Forg took a memorandum from his IN basket.

“I’ll make this short, Mr Bordeaux. Acme Space Guys has officially terminated your employment. Effective immediately, all pay and benefits to which you were previously entitled have been revoked, and I’m afraid that includes medical benefits. I’m sorry about this, but Acme will not pay a cent of your medical bill here, and I understand that it’s a hefty one.”

Dirk was dumbfounded. “But why?” he asked.

“Because of the spaceship you wrecked,” Forg answered. “Since it was the wrong ship to begin with, we’re going to have to replace it with a brand new one. The owner is outraged, and we could lose a lot of business because of your blunder.”

“But everyone makes mistakes,” Dirk protested.

“Let’s be honest, Mr Bordeaux. Your employment record has not been an exemplary one. I’ve been looking through it this morning, and it seems that since you began working for Acme, not one fiscal quarter has gone by in which you have not made a serious—and costly—error.”

“But—“

“And then the Betelgeuseans privately told us that they would be willing to bear all your medical costs, but only if we terminated you without delay. Something to do with their own accounting legalities. They are an unusual people, you know.

“I truly am sorry, Mr Bordeaux.” And indeed, Mr Forg truly looked sorry. “I really do have to go now, but you’re welcome to stay here a few minutes, if you’d like. Get a cup of coffee, and try to collect your thoughts before you have to deal with these hostile felines. It usually helps me.”

And then the man who had destroyed Dirk’s life was gone. Dirk felt wretched. He had no way of paying his medical bill. He had nowhere to stay. He lived from paycheck to paycheck, and now had no job, or prospects for a new one. He was also pretty glum about the fact that he really disliked coffee.

“They dropped you, didn’t they?”

This was not what Dirk wanted to hear as he left Mr Forg’s office. In fact, Dirk was sure he could get by if he never saw his nameless escort again. She was about as understanding as a prison guard, and Dirk suspected she’d known Acme was about to can him. He did not know why she seemed to resent him, but he was beginning to return the sentiment. When it became apparent that Dirk was not going to answer her question, the woman tersely gestured for him to follow, and led the way out of the building.

It would not have been a great comfort for Dirk to know that he would have received the same treatment from almost any other native Betelgeusean. But it may have consoled him to know that their dislike was not personal. The truth was that the Betelgeuseans were not overly fond of the human race as a whole.

Their dislike had its roots in the early days of the Intergalactic Federation of Straight, Butch Guys. The humans had barged in upon their prosperous lifestyle with intolerant racist attitudes toward everyone and everything. It was due to the absurd notions of the humans that the matriarchal Betelgeuseans were reduced to second-class citizens; in fact, they were barely recognized as an intelligent species. After a few hundred years, their resentment ran deep.

Of course, Dirk was unaware of these events of history, and was becoming more irritated with his guide by the minute. She escorted him to a plush office in a government building, and left him there with a strong desire never to see her again. It was just as well that he never did, as the feeling was mutual.

Another Betelgeusean woman presently entered the office. “Good morning, Mr Bordeaux,” she said in a pleasant, musical tone. “My name is Kori Lrr-Sahr, and it is my dubious honor to be the Chief Interplanetary Minister for Pelrapeire.” As Dirk’s expression grew puzzled, she added, “That is the name of the planet you are on right now.”

“I see.”

“It’s not really much of a name, is it?” Kori apologized.

“I wasn’t going to say anyth—“

“We were in a hurry, you see,” she continued. “We’d never seen a need to name our world, since doing so wouldn’t change it in any way. But you humans have an obsession for naming things, and when the IFSBG moved in a few centuries ago, we were given a choice—either we named the planet, or they would. I’m told we came painfully close to having our home named ‘Shoe’ for us.”

“You did?”

“We were lucky. We didn’t get named for a disease, like Elephantiasis did.

“But I’m not here to teach you about local history,” Kori continued. “I’m afraid we have a problem, Mr Bordeaux. You owe the planetary government a great deal of money for your medical treatment, and I don’t believe you have sufficient resources to make payment. What are we going to do to remedy the situation?”

“Perhaps I could work until it’s paid off,” Dirk suggested.

Kori almost managed to hide a smile. Being that they were of feline descent, Betelgeusean smiles tended to look rather fierce and predatory to most humans, Dirk included. “Mr Bordeaux,” she said, “with your present job skills, you could work for the rest of your life, and not pay half of it. Limbs were reconstructed, blood vessels replaced, and organs regrown. You were a mess when we pulled you from that ship.”

“So, how much did it come to?” Dirk was convinced that he really didn’t want to know.

“Three million, six,” she replied in a businesslike tone. “That’s before paying the surgeons for their time. They haven’t submitted their bill yet, but I imagine it will be substantial.”

Dirk was dismayed. He was also more than a little worried. He knew he could never pay the debt, and he was afraid to ask what the consequences of defaulting might be. This Kori Lrr-Sahr did not seem quite as friendly as she had been a moment ago. “Is that in dollars?” he asked.

“All of our transactions are conducted in Solarian dollars,” Kori affirmed. “Persuading a foreign concern to accept your own peculiar currency is more trouble than it’s worth.”

“What are you planning to do?” Dirk asked, in a voice that sounded very small to his ears.

“We considered debtors’ prison, but it was pointed out that this would entail more expense on your behalf.” This came from behind Dirk, as an older Betelgeusean entered the room. She seated herself near a window by Kori’s desk, and studied Dirk appraisingly. “Mr Bordeaux,” she continued, “my name is Mara Sakh, and I must confess that I argued strenuously for your imprisonment, in spite of the cost.” She was lying, but Dirk was too intimidated to detect the irony in her voice.

“But there is a possible solution to all this,” Kori went on. “There is something you can do for us, that we can’t do for ourselves; something that would make our expenses on your behalf worthwhile.”

“What’s that?” Dirk asked apprehensively.

“The election for the IFSBG Chairman is about to get under way,” Kori answered. “We wish to run a Candidate who will represent our views. Unfortunately, the office requires a human male, a relatively scarce commodity on our world. If you would do this for us, it would more than clear your debt. We find you to be uniquely qualified for the position.”

As she spoke, Dirk began to feel cornered. “Uniquely qualified?” he asked. “Just because I’m human?”

“Also because you are not in a position to be uncooperative,” Mara replied.

“Oh.”

“Look at it this way, Dirk,” Kori said. “It is all right if I call you Dirk, isn’t it?” Dirk nodded. “Good. Look at it this way, Dirk. It beats the alternative of putting you in debtors’ prison, and we all come away with something we want. It’s a situation where nobody loses.” As she finished, Kori tried to smile pleasantly. Again, the smile looked uncomfortably predatory to Dirk.

As he began to realize that he really had no good options, Dirk found it easier to accept the situation. He didn’t like it, but at least the anxiety was manageable. Victory was their problem, he decided. He would just do as he was told. He took a deep breath.

“Okay,” he said. “What do I do first?”

On a remote world in the Andromeda Extents, Vladimir the Impaler read a report that puzzled him greatly. His office was somewhat spartan, given that he was a potentate; not quite a king, but a little more than a president, by IFSBG definitions. His people had come to the Territories in the early days of the Federation, not wanting to be part of the new society beginning to emerge. They had managed to avoid being absorbed by Acme Space Guys—and their political front, the IFSBG—through a series of political and military moves over the centuries. Some of these maneuvers had been brilliant. Others had been brutal. But they had been effective. Now, Vladimir was perplexed. Acme was trying something new, and Vladimir wasn’t sure he liked it. He turned to his executive assistant, Patrize Boginskaya, a woman who shared his simple tastes and intellectual alacrity.

“What is Andrew Gates up to this time, Patty?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“They’re sending Bamma McCall here, as soon as his four years as Chairman are done! It is intolerable. If they think we are going to make him feel welcome after all the stunts Acme’s pulled, they have another think coming.”

“I’m sure he’s very likable.”

Vladimir softened momentarily. “Of course he is. Show me a politician who is not. And he gives a very nice speech. But he does not back up any of his words with decisive action. Remember when the Ukes were thinking of joining the IFSBG last year? We invaded them, and all McCall did was talk.”

“I remember. There were other factors involved—“

“That does not change what finally happened. I wonder—maybe we could feed him to Jongun, and make it look like a dreadful misunderstanding. Didn’t the fellow eat his own uncle a while back?”

“He cooked him first, sir!”

“It may be worth trying. Have Boris in the Secret Police look into setting it up.”

“Wouldn’t be a good idea, sir. The tribe likes Acme too much. In the first place, Jongun and his people like all the useless trinkets Acme sells to them. And Acme lets them think their Election Song and Dance is based on the tribe’s celebration Dance at each annual cannibal feast. Acme even lets the chieftain lead one of the practice dances near the end of the rehearsals, just to be sure the Candidates all have it right. It feeds the tribe’s collective ego no end.”

Vladimir shook his head. “They will do anything to keep a customer, won’t they?”

“Pretty much. But there’s also the situation with the Association For the Advancement of Females Intergalactic.”

“The AFAFI? What about them?”

“They’re thinking of expanding aggressively. Allaine the Ethically Unambiguous has finally seized executive power, and you know she’s made no secret of her belief that the IFSBG is evil, and needs to be wiped from existence.”

“And we are directly in her path. Wait. You’re not seriously suggesting that I go make nice with Andrew Gates?”

“We’re not big enough to hold the AFAFI back alone. We’d get crushed in Allaine’s crusade. Jongun’s already going to Earth in a few weeks for the Election festivities, so it would be the perfect time for it.”

“Patty, this is not the best news I have heard today.”

“No one ever said leadership is all about privilege.”

Vladimir sighed, knowing Patrize was right. “Very well,” he decided. “Make the arrangements. And tell the IFSBG to expect two state visitors.”