Free The Kruton Interface by John Dechancie

Wanker said, “Why did I think I was getting the hang of it?”
    “And then there was the Subscription Drive. That one—”
    “Enough! Please, enough. Thank you, Mr. Rhodes. That was vastly more than I wanted to know about the illustrious Dr. Strangefinger.”
    At that moment the drop tube whooshed.
    “Did somebody call my name?”
     
     

 
     
    CHAPTER 8
     
     
    Standing on the bounce pad beneath the blow tube was a strange man dressed in formal attire of two centuries ago: dark trousers and tailed coat, white starched shirt and white tie, a white carnation gracing the lapel of the jacket. For all the finery and formality, though, there was a seedy look about him.
    He was not a small man, but he stood with his torso slightly forward and his legs bent, and as he moved it was apparent that he maintained this curious posture while walking. His face was comic in itself: a largish beaked nose jutted out between small round spectacles, presiding over a bushy mustache (though there was something odd about it). His hair parted in the middle and flared out into winglike tufts. He brandished a huge cigar that did not appear to be lit. His eyebrows were as thick as hedgerows.
    Wanker stood, took one look at this apparition, and groaned again. Thinking that if he ignored the thing it would go away, he barked, “Navigator! Plot a course for the Kruton Interface!”
    Warner-Hillary asked, “Where is it?”
    Wanker was on the verge of deigning to speak to the intruder, but was brought up short. “What’d you say?”
    “I mean, sir, like… where’s the Kruton Interface?”  
    “In Sector Four.”
    “Uh, that’s a big area of the galaxy, sir. Uh, any idea, you know, exactly where?”
    “Haven’t a clue, honey. What the devil do I know about navigation?”
    “Didn’t you learn a little bit in the Academy?”
    “Huh? Well, I guess I did. But it wasn’t… matter of fact… you know, I think I actually flunked that course.” The captain thought it over. “No, I dropped it and got an Incomplete, then I retook it and squeaked by with a...” The penny finally dropped. “Wait a minute, what the hell am I saying? Lieutenant, you are the navigator of this ship. You mean to say you don’t know how to plot and lay in a course?”
    “Well, yes, sir, but I’ll have to look at a map.”
    Wanker whacked the heel of his hand against his temple. “A map! What were the chances? Unbelievable. Is that really how it’s done?”
    “Oh, you’re teasing me, sir. No, sir, you see, it’s just that—”
    “Lieutenant, this is the twenty-second century. We have amazing devices now called computers. They’re vastly more intelligent than we are. If you want to plot a course to a certain destination, all you have to do is tell the computer, and it’ll do it for you. Does any of this ring a bell?”
    “Sir, if you’ll let me explain. It’s like this—most of the automatic mapping functions in the navigational software have been glitching like crazy, sir. The one that does the plotting and stuff is, like, totally grunged.”
    “‘Grunged.’ Is that standard Space Forces terminology?”
    “Means it’s messed up, sir. I’ll have to locate the coordinates manually, and that means I’ll have to search the maps myself and find out where the Interface is.”
    “Sorry to put you to so much trouble.”
    “Oh, that’s okay, Captain. It’s my job, after all.”
    “I’ve heard a rumor to that effect.”
    The strange visitor, who had been standing off to one side listening to all this, nicked nonexistent ash off the end of his cigar. “I don’t know about a navigator, but if anyone needs a doctor, I’m here. Meanwhile, is there a Wanker in the house?”
    Wanker took a dim view of this sentiment. “That’s VAHN-ker.”
    “That’s ridiculous. Anyway, are you the skipper of this tugboat?”
    Wanker’s shoulders fell. “Unfortunately, that burden is in my hands.”
    “Well, a burdened hand is worth two in the bush.