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What Was It, Or He Or She?
We were never sure, but it was a regular customer and big. We called it
Trog, short for troglodyte, because it looked like a cave dweller. It liked
to keep time by beating on its chest, a sound like a big bass drum. The
sound reverberated in the hollows of that giant scaled thorax, encrusted
with jewels. It liked shiny things.
Its few attempts to dance with the fleet's girls were a disaster. Oh, it
spun and stepped smoothly enough, incredibly quick for one so huge. But the
girls never knew what Trog was leading. They flew off the floor and had to
be pushed back by starship sailors. Soon, most girls just plopped onto any
lap where they landed, wrapped their arms around the sailor's neck and
wouldn't let go.
When this happened, any free-styling fembot was fair game for Trog. Nobody
argued because of the claws, pterodactyl wings and reptilian jaws lined with
three rows of sickle teeth. What were a few fembots? They could be
disassembled in the maintenance bay and refurbished. We accepted all kinds
out here on the frontier, because we never knew what we would find or need
covering our backs when the game got rough.
Then one night, it happened. A freighter from beyond Betelguese made port.
It was one of those big Orions, which gets its power from nuclear explosions
rebounding off a disc the size of Death Valley's solar array. The ship was
just in from a run to the far Begeezees and back, hitting every wormhole and
sling-shotting by every gravity-assist galaxy on the way.
The door to the Cantina opened and in stepped another thing like Trog, but
all done up in pink. Everything stopped: the talk, the music, the dance.
Trog and Pinky stared at each other as the floor cleared.
It was as quiet as a tomb between interments, with no wine soaked mourners
to shriek and wail. The two started circling each other, their heel spikes
clacking on the floor. Someone started clapping in time to their steps.
The band played a gypsy dance. Trog and Pinky rushed together. They turned
just before colliding, pivoted round and round, whirled between the tables
like a tornado out into the night, taking the door and its hinges with them.
Through the force field and out into space they swirled, their glow growing
fainter and fainter as they flew toward the edge of the expanding universe.
In the end, they weren't so much different from you and me.
John A. Ward was born on Staten
Island, attended Wagner College in the early 60's, sold his first poem to
Leatherneck magazine, and became a scientist. He is now in San Antonio
running, writing and living with his dance partner. Links to his work can
be found at Blog .
Email: John A. Ward
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