“The things I saw!” Chic.

Chic stood outside the manor and shifted the cloth tote from one hand to the other. It was an hour before dawn. Chic smiled down at the blue tote, sure Sposh would love the gift. She would place it on the kitchen table where he could not possibly miss it.

Chic opened the door and was puzzled why the lights were still on. Had Sposh been up late? It would take something extraordinary to keep her husband up past his bedtime. She hung her key on the wall hook above the radio and turned to the kitchen. Something was out of place.

Chic stepped into the kitchen, curious about the large cloth stretched between the table and the kitchen pass-through. It was a course white jumpsuit; no one wore clothing like that ... unless. If Sposh had one of those aliens in the manor, he would get a piece of her mind! She headed for Sposh’s room but turned to hers instead.

Sposh rolled in his bed, on the verge of waking. It felt like it was time to rise. He could feel how the trousers he had slept in had twisted around him, but he was not yet ready to rise and straighten them. Just a few minutes more, please, and thank you. Someone screamed. A loud noise followed. Sposh jumped from bed and landed on both feet; his heart beat painfully.

Sposh rushed from his room to find Chic lying on her back in the hall. The door to his room was open, and immediately, his system flooded with fear for his wife. On his knees, Sposh drew Chic up into his lap and cradled her head in his hands. He glanced into Chic’s room and looked quickly away. Faith, on her hands and knees, looked out at the scene, her large udders like a prophecy of doom.

“Chic! Chic!” he called.

It strained every muscle, but Sposh gathered his wife into his arms, managed to stand, and carried her into his room. He placed her on his bed and closed his door. He took the blue tote from her hand and tossed it aside to sit beside his wife. He took Chic’s hand and tried to breathe normally. All he could do was stroke her face and wait.

“Chic,” he said. “Wake up.”

Chic rolled her head and opened her eyes. She blinked three times and pulled her hand from Sposh’s worried grip. She sat up and backed away from her husband.

Eyes expressing utter shock, Chic said, “There's a naked Terry woman in my room. Why is there a naked Terry woman in my room?” She gasped and said, “The things I saw!”

Besh woke to a commotion below the manor. A crowd cheered and jeered. Jumping to his feet, Besh looked over the side. Below, Sposh ran in a circle, a female striking him on the back of his head over and over. Besh rushed down the steps in time to see Old Drafter pull the two apart.

“What’s this?” called the pub owner as the crowd laughed merrily.

The sun was barely up as Besh stopped between the fray and the door to the manor. Chic reached around Drafter to take another swipe at a cowering Sposh.

“I did nothing,” Sposh said in a pitiful voice.

Chic returned immediately, “You were in the same manor with a naked Terry woman.”

The crowd gasped as one. “Oh? Oh?” said Drafter. “Looks like someone’s got some explaining to do.”

Besh saw that the manor door was cracked. He stooped to look in. There crouched Faith in her bra and panties reaching for her suit. She saw Besh and cringed.

“Shoo!” she said.

Besh closed the door and stood. Sposh was stammering an incoherent explanation when Besh clapped his hands loudly for attention. He stepped to the beleaguered throne guard and held up his hands. The crowd fell silent.

Besh said in a clear voice, “Sposh acts in obedience to the Pope. There was no other place to put us, so the Pope ordered Sposh to give us shelter for the night. We apologize for any misunderstanding.”

Sposh turned to Chic with pleading eyes and palms pressed together. Chic folded her arms and turned away with an angry snort.

Besh faced Chic and said, “Ma’am, please believe me when I say, Sposh loves no one but you.” Chic turned her head away. Besh stepped around and stooped before her. “Just last night,” said Besh, “he stood on the roof with me, pining because he missed you.”

Chic looked into the alien’s eyes. Besh nodded.

An hour later, Besh stood with Sposh and Faith in front of the melon exchange. As Brohm came to life, Faith peered warily into the dark building. Besh set her baggage down and turned to Sposh, who massaged the back of his head. Faith turned to the beleaguered Dalop.

She said, “I’m really sorry. Is your head any better?”

Sposh answered dolefully, “Such hard knuckles.”

The Pope marched down the narrow street, a guard on either side. Alabow was sumptuously dressed. As he stopped, with the entourage, abreast of the waiting negotiator, the guards produced kazoo-like instruments and blew a short flourish. The Pope smiled a greasy smile.

He asked of Faith, “Do we need the stowaway?”

Faith answered, “He’s here for moral support.”

Besh added with a smile, “And you really don’t need an alien running loose in Brohm.”

Alabow turned to Sposh. “Isn’t today your anniversary?”

Sposh scuffed a bare foot while rubbing the back of his head. “Chic’s in a mood.”

“Ah!” said the Pope with a sage nod. He extended a hand to the dark interior and prompted, “Shall we?”

Faith said, “Sorry. I didn’t bring my torch.”

Alabow smiled at the negotiator and clapped his hands. Lights came on inside the melon exchange. He said proudly, “Good. Right? I love Terry Tech.”

Chic sat on a wall in the broad boulevard south of Brohm. She had missed the first trolley and sat glumly watching ants march around her feet. Her head spun with thoughts and doubts, like bracelet charms that threatened to lose their tenuous hold. Her imagination ran amok with vivid and horrifying images of Sposh in the hairless embrace of a Terran hussy.

“That cow!” she said bitterly.

From the south, a royal cavalcade surfed a cloud of dust along the unpaved boulevard. Uda Con approached. Armed female guards marched ahead of the horse-like Trimbols that pulled the Queen’s carriage. Chic heard commands from the carriage, and the procession slowed.

Holly stepped from the carriage and ran to Chic, wading through an abundance of luggage to embrace her sister. She wore the Queen’s colors. Chic tried and failed to stem the tide of tears. Holly, patient, rhythmically tamped the sorrow down with a gentle pat on her sister’s back.

Holly whispered, “The invitation stands. There’s a place for you in Shahshr. Come and meet the Queen.”

Faith sat across from the Pope. The accommodations were rough but serviceable. Two guards stood behind the Pope; Besh and Sposh stood behind Faith. The first round of talks had been productive; the Consortium stood to gain substantially for a mere pittance of simple technology. Unsigned agreements were spread between them when kazoos sounded from the street.

Uda Con stormed into the melon exchange, her flowered Moo Moo giving free rein to the full swing of her feminine pulchritude. Holly and Chic walked behind the Queen. Sposh saw Chic and gaped. Alabow saw Uda Con and gaped. Jumping from his seat in a rage, the Pope vented.

“By the balls of the gods!” he shouted. “Who left the doors open? Vermin Control, you’re fired!”

“Twit!” derided Uda Con as she stamped forward. “The gods have breasts!”

Uda Con stopped at the end of the table and eyed the Terran female. Faith stood and smiled at the Queen. Alabow wheeled and angrily struck a guard.

“Kill!” he ordered.

The Queen turned with a huff. “As if!” she chided. “Please!”

Faith said to the Queen, “So, you’re the Pope’s wife.”

The Pope turned his face to the ceiling and bellowed. Uda Con turned to the negotiator with a hairy, double-chinned smile and asked, “Why deal with this insignificant creature? My Queendom has so much more to offer.”

Faith answered in step, “The Consortium will sign with whomever has ore to offer. The more mining rights we obtain, the greater the reward in Terran technology.”

With a broad smile, Uda Con pulled two chairs together and sat facing the Terran negotiator. Besh and Sposh turned to each other, blinked in confusion, and turned back. Faith seated herself and gathered new forms from her bag.

“Now, where am I supposed to sit!?” asked Alabow angrily.

Uda Con flipped her left hand dismissively and narrowed her eyes on the negotiator. “What exactly does the Consortium seek?”

Moving old forms aside and spreading new forms before the Queen, Faith answered, “Iron, nickel, aluminum, copper, zinc; it’s all in our prospectus.”

The Pope dragged a crate to the end of the long table and looked between the two women. The two women looked back at the Pope with amused smiles. Sitting low, and feeling dwarfed, the Pope jumped to his feet and placed an additional crate atop the first, then reseated himself with greater dignity.

He turned to Uda Con with a frown, and a whine in his voice. “I was here first,” he said.

Uda Con, not to be upstaged by a mere male, lowered her face and glowered menacingly at her husband. As Faith watched the Pope and Queen settle into a staring match that threatened Consortium gains, she placed both hands in the center of the table and called for attention.

“I have an idea,” said Faith with a merry smile. “Let’s have a friendly competition. Whichever entity can offer premium mining rights to the Consortium will receive the lion’s share of technological assistance. The runner-up, of course, will not be disappointed.”

Eyes locked, neither the Queen nor the Pope budged. Faith placed bundles before each of them and sat back. The tension in the melon exchange was enough to prickle the skin. As one, eyes remaining locked, the Queen and the Pope reached out and drew their bundles close.

Faith said, “You two read the terms, talk it out, and return your signed forms. Remember, the key word is friendly. Of course, I have a very special prize for the winner.”