CHAPTER 3

Occasionally Smith had a bright idea and one of them was to bolt out the back door as soon as they managed to break free. The owner had been hiding behind the bar and never noticed them leave. Once two blocks away they heard the warning sirens of the approaching constabulary closing in.

Both men leaned back against a cool smooth wall at the foot of what appeared to be an apartment building. Smith's chest was still heaving but Don couldn't blame him. They'd run full bore when free of the place. And neither of them were a beautiful sight to behold. Both were bloody and bruised, hair spiked and eyes blackened. Unexpectedly Smith started laughing.

"We'd better hide before the locals…see us…in this deplorable state," he panted. "They might start screaming and alert the po-po."

"And what do you know about the "po-po"?"

"Major, I spent my early years in Manhattan. In a racially mixed neighborhood. I could smell vice and narc cops a mile away. And looking as we do would definitely end up drawing unwanted attention."

As he said it, Smith glanced down at what the Robinson's referred to as fatigues. The shirt was all but useless. Hanging on in tatters to be specific. Way more skin than cloth left behind. Both knees of his pants were ripped. Bloody patches shown through. Landing on broken glass probably hadn't helped the situation either. Don's clothes were equally torn apart. They looked as if they'd tried to take on a grizzly and only survived because they eventually turned tail.

Pulling off his mangled shirt, Smith unceremoniously dumped it on the sidewalk. Don couldn't decide which was worse. Leaving the bloody things on or follow suit. He soon followed Smith's example.

"Get any tip money?" Don inquired hopefully.

"A little. Why?"

"We can't keep walking around like this."

"Major, I doubt clothing shops are open this late. Unless there is an intergalactic Wal-Mart in our immediate proximity."

Bending over at the waist, Don spit blood onto the ground. "I hope they don't have laws against spitting."

"They undoubtedly have laws for everything. We have countless thousands of them on the books, so doubtless they do to. Let's not tarry long enough to find out." The doctor started moving down the street, trying to stay out of the lights illuminating their surroundings. Don noted all the bruising on Smith's upper body now that the shirt was disposed of, and from the pain he was already experiencing, he knew he was in the same shape. For a brief second, West allowed the animosity that was always present between them, turn into a modicum of respect. The old bird was tougher than he realized. Go figure, right?

Thankfully, the night air was balmy enough to be comfortable, although blood loss and waning adrenalin levels brought a slight chill to aching bodies.

They walked a few more blocks in what was hopefully the direction of the Jupiter 2 but Smith complained he had to sit down. He did so immediately, dropping heavily onto a concrete slab bench. Rubbing his eyes and then licking cracked lips, he muttered, "My kingdom for a drink."

"I would think you'd have had enough of that for the evening."

"I meant water, not hooch, you coldhearted commoner."

Ignoring the insult, Don started laughing for no reason at all. Soon Smith joined in.

They hadn't been seated more than five minutes when a brightly colored boxy vehicle glided up to them. "Uh-oh," Don groaned. He couldn't make out the writing on the van. It didn't look too menacing but they could never tell with aliens.

"I hope they don't throw us back onto Destructon," moaned Smith, body slumping against the nearest wall. "The warden was always two steps ahead of us and I'd never last 273 years like Creech, let alone 3 days!"

Instead of hauling them away, two impossibly lean and lanky creatures with multiple legs crawled out. Insectoid eyes gazed at them. A small square gizmo was produced and pointed in their direction. Smith's instincts were to put up his hands but he was simply too worn out even for that. A series of clicks issued forth from feathery fronds in the center of their 'faces'. Don heard, "Humans, Class C, omnivores, Type 6 home world I think." Stepping back to the van both reached inside. They returned bearing plasticine wrapped packages in their multiple upper limbs. "Greetings. Take this with the blessings of our Creator. May it heal your bodies and comfort your minds." They proffered the packages, returned to the van and drove off.

With great hesitation, Smith unzipped the bundle he'd been offered. He cautiously peeled back one corner and peaked at the contents. Inside was a blanket, a bottle of what looked like water, and a wrapped block of grayish material.

Nodding at them, Don offered a smile. "Thank you."

No more than ten seconds later their visitors were gone. After a cautious initial sip from the bottle, Smith was already chugging down his water.

"Not too fast. You'll make yourself sick," warned Don.

"Too late." Smith rubbed his bare stomach. "But I can't tell if it's due to my dehydrated state or because my internal organs have been assaulted once too often."

The other package contained palatable bars that Don referred to as power bars. Not pretty to look at, not great tasting, but dense and probably nutrient rich. However, both men started wolfing it down.

After the first few bites, Don raised a bloody-knuckled hand. "Better save some for later. Just in case."

At first, the Major thought Smith was going to argue, and the man probably would have until common sense took over. "Very well, I shall comply with your request."

"Well, that'll be a first."

"Hardly. I came on this fool-hardy sojourn in the first place. Did I not?"

"Only because I threatened you. Repeatedly."

Smith sucked his lips in as if biting back a retort, or maybe a smirk. "I'll grant you that."

With arms crossed over his well developed pectorals, Don said. "Well, if this isn't a miracle. First you agree to let me have one free swing at you. And now you agree to do something without a big fuss. This is surely a night to remember."

"Enjoy it now, Major, because I shan't repeat it on the morrow. Particularly when every bump and bruise reminds me you were responsible for putting those injuries there." As he spoke, Smith threw his shoulders back in order to make himself appear more imposing. He wasn't successful.

"I have no doubt about that, Smith", West replied with a brief chuckle as he self-consciously ran his injured fingers through his wavy hair, feeling every new lump along the way.

After Don finished the inspection of his abused cranium, the two men took stock of their surrounds. The Major thought the Jupiter 2 was North or what he assumed was North. Smith was opting for East. An argument broke out. Of course Don could have made more manipulative threats but he had learned something about the doctor after all this time. He never got lost unless he had an ulterior motive for being somewhere else. Otherwise, he rarely got lost.

Then Smith came up with a viable solution. "Let's be equitable about this. We'll choose for it. Odds or evens? Rock, paper, scissors? You win, I go with you. If I'm the victor, you follow me." He lightly tapped his chest with his index finger.

"Which one did you use growing up?" Normally West wouldn't have gone for this but now he was curious.

"Odds/Evens, best 2 out of 3. Quick, simple and no ties for any of it."

Giving a quick look at their surroundings to make sure no other being was around to observe, Don crossed his hands over his chest as he thought about it, then gave a quick nod. "Okay by me. You can pick."

Smith didn't need to be told what picking meant. This was one of the oldest dispute-settling tactics in the book. And vastly more preferred by New Yorkers than Rock, Paper, Scissors ever was. "Evens."

"Sure. Then it's odds for me."

Both men dropped their charity packages, squared off, leaning in slightly as if ready to pounce on their opponent, and drew one arm backward, fingers loosely curled into fists.

"One, two, three, shoot!" they said in unison. Both withdrawn fists flew forward toward each other and either one or two fingers were splayed before them.

"Mine," crowed Smith.

"One, two, three, shoot," they parroted each other.

"Mine," Don smugly responded.

"For the victory and compass direction, if only we could figure out what that really is."

Again the process was repeated. "Odds. I win."

"Shit, Piss and Corruption!" Smith blurted out to the heavens, swinging one arm in front of him in disgust.

"Uh, uh, uhhh," Don said in a sing-song voice, waggling a disapproving finger in front of him. "No vulgarity, remember?" Inside, Don was struggling mightily to contain his laughter because that was the very first time in three years he'd actually heard Smith use any 'four letter words'. But at least he was acknowledging that he'd lost without trying to renege on the deal and for that the Major was grateful. Clapping the loser on the shoulder, he added, "Well Smitty old boy, where I go, you go."

Without further comment, they retrieved their blankets and turned in the direction their temporary leader chose.