Bill, The Galactic Hero 6 - on the Planet Of The Hippies From Hell Read Free

Barworld. Chingers.” He spat the words out like he was expectorating cigar tips. “Time Continuum Vortex Nexus Locus Chasm!”
    Bill's jaw dropped. “Barworld,” he gasped. “D—d—did you say? Barworld?” He didn't hear anything else, just those beautiful, incredibly lovely words.
    “I didn't say Bearworld and I didn't say Jarworld, Trooper. You heard me right. Barworld. That's where I'm sending you. That's where some trouble seems to be. There's rumors of some kind of Time/Space disturbances there on the Transgalactic Seismo-Grundger, and our agents say the Chingers could well be at the bottom of the problem. And if they aren't, they're going to be! The Chingers have been looking for the secret key to Time for years, and do you know why, Bill?”
    “Barworld?” Bill could only repeat like a litany. “Barworld!” Barworld, of course, was tantamount to a legend among Galactic Troopers! Perhaps it was a legend. But no Trooper ever got to discover the truth, since it was a resort world, and Troopers never got leave.
    “I'll tell you why, Bill. Because those Chingers, they want to sneak up on us not only behind our backs — but the vermin want to sneak up yesterday! That's why.”
    “I volunteer!” said Bill, waving his black arm enthusiastically. “I'll go! I'll go.”
    “Those Chingers!” said J. Edgar Insufledor, foaming emphatically. “My duty in life is to rid this world of those God-damned infernal Galactic-grabbing Chingers!”
    Abruptly, the door to one side of Bill crashed open. There, lumbering toward the Deputy Director, multiple arms thrashing and gigantic saurian face snapping snaggle-fanged jaws, was nothing less than a perfect representation of the Chinger in the poster! Minus, of course, the human arm in its mouth. Apparently that had long since been digested, and the Chinger was in need of fresh human meat.
    Wait a moment, thought Bill in the back of his mind. Chingers don't get this big. His eternal adversary Bgr the Chinger (who had come into his life as the lackeyish recruit Eager Beager) was only a fraction over seven inches tall!
    Still it was difficult to argue with a roaring lizard alien, hands full of knives and guns, and eyes full of the promise of nothing but hard, hot death.
    Fortunately, though, the giant Chinger was headed straight for J. Edgar Insufledor, not giving Bill a moment's pause. The Deputy Director was ready for him, though. “C'mon you piece of deep space sludge. Come and get it, planet grunge!” The Deputy Director pulled out a duplicate of an antique prehistoric vintage G-man style submachine gun and aimed at the charging beastie.
    “Grrrumargggggggggg!” roared the savage space beast. Bill had never heard a Chinger utter this particular outcry before. He'd heard Chingers curse in Greek, Swahili, Russian and of course their own hissing and eructing language. Still and all, this particular specimen uttered the cry with such complete conviction that Bill took its word for it. Never one to question the wisdom of the hasty retreat in such brutal matters as these, Bill nonetheless immediately saw that an exit, albeit hasty, would put him in the path of submachine bullets. Instead, he jumped behind the overstuffed couch.
    “Take this, you foul creature!” cried J. Edgar Insufledor. When the beast was just a yard away, the Director fired. The submachine chattered and bullets chunk-a-chunked into the lizard's green hide, kicking up divots of flesh. The Chinger sprayed blood like a lawn-watering device. It was pushed back a full foot, its guns knocked spinning from ruined claws. A single knife remained in its possession as it screeched sanguinely and leaped for the director again, slashing his weapon like molten lightning.
    Bill cringed helplessly behind the couch. He didn't know what was going on here, but it was certainly a great deal deadlier than Denubian tiddlywinks.
    “Aha! You enjoy eating hot lead!” the Deputy Director said calmly through gritted teeth, his