A/N: In which an unwieldy amount of text is spent describing the Conveyor Belt Planet and its inhabitants. Oh, well—I enjoyed writing it all and I think it's pretty good, so I hope you do too.

It's occurred to me that the basic "feel" of this fic has kinda changed over time, and I'm not sure if this is a good or bad thing. Has anyone else noticed this? And if so, d'you think it's been a good or bad change, or neutral?

Anyway, enjoy chapter 20. Please remember to review!

xxxxx

In Short Supply

Youngest Tallest

xxx

A story from the Tracts of Slark, the holy text of a nearly-dead Irken religion: While the Youngest Tallest still lived, the Irkens followed his word; he had delivered us from pain, and thus, his height and wisdom were enough for him to lead us. In this time, we were mostly evil, and we were mostly happy.

The Youngest Tallest led his people bravely as he battled against the virtuous Slark; although our ties to the water were broken, Slark was ever vigilant in his attempts to sway many back from evil to virtue. Thus, battles at many times arose as the Irkens, the followers of evil, and the Slarkists, the followers of virtue, attempted to convert each other.

Then did the Youngest Tallest come forth again to speak to his people and to the people of Slark; he said that we could be Irken, which is evil, and Slarkist, which is virtuous, at the same time, and no longer fight. Whether we choose to be happily evil or to be painfully virtuous, we are strongest as one tribe, one community, one nation, one race.

If one is to be evil, one is to be insolent and unconcerned about what others believe, and hence, one must not fight to defend one's beliefs; if one is to be virtuous, one is to be kind and tolerant towards what others believe, and hence, one must not fight to promote one's beliefs. In this way, the Youngest Tallest showed that we, both Slarkist and Irken at once, cannot fight each other.

Since then, evil and virtue have lived side by side; a follower of either side that would harm the other side is scorned by both sides. This is why the Youngest Tallest is a hero, and thus, over an era, more Slarkist Irkens will turn towards evil than will turn towards virtue.

This is why we give the name of the Youngest Tallest to those who are expected to be the most brave, the most heroic, and the most evil of all Irkens.

This is why Zim is an honorable name.

xxx

The Conveyor Belt Planet was filled with darkness as black and thick as water; not a single beam of natural light filtered more than three or four stories into the planet, obstructed as it was by the hundreds of mechanized belts. The only light in the world came from the paneled walls of the intermittent guard towers that the conveyor belts rolled in and out of and the address labels on the boxes. The Screw-heads, the Alien Drones tending to the boxes, lived among silhouettes and shadows.

The Screw-heads had far from ideal working conditions. A durable race they were, which was why the Irkens had chosen to "assimilate" them, if it could be called that: they made a convenient labor force. They could work for days at a time without sleep because the screws in their heads, the only part of their pre-conquest culture they were allowed to keep, could be twisted just right into their brains to stimulate just the right part of the limbic system to make it impossible for them to fall asleep until a Guard untwisted the screw. The Screw-heads heard rumors that the Irkens had taken the technology of their screws and started adapting it for other purposes; among other failed experiments, the now-Exile Zim had apparently been trying to create a "happiness probe" during his time on Vort.

The Screw-heads wished that he had succeeded. The light-deprived race, while for the most part low-maintenance, could feel happiness only with the help of one very essential ingredient.

Sunlight.

In the sunless darkness, Individual Guards moved among the Alien Drones with thrusters from their Paks. They used hover platforms only when a small swarm of Guards was moving all together, or when someone of significant rank needed transportation and, more importantly, protection.

Protection against what, the Screw-heads never knew. It wasn't as though they were in any condition to fight back. They had been weak enough from misery and too much work to begin with; after their laughable "Labor Union" had attempted to negotiate better terms, they were even worse off—having to work for over a week solid before being allowed a scanty five degrees for sleep. No, they couldn't fight back.

The Drones weakly, tiredly tended to their boxes and packages, eyes half-shut with exhaustion, hands trembling on the levers and buttons. Their bony arms were swallowed in their thick gloves and their exposed ribs cast deep shadows in their yellow skin. Those that still had the energy laboriously raised their gazes as a hover platform passed. They resentfully watched the Guards watching them, but when they caught sight of Tallest Purple, their eyes narrowed in loathing and their lips curled back to expose dark gums. The Tallest visibly suppressed a shiver—cowardly Irken monster—and looked straight forward, refusing to meet the gazes of the Screw-heads.

There was no angry muttering once the hover platform had gone by, as there might have been earlier in their subjugation. There were no talks of rebellion and revolution. There was only work, more work, and one feeble hopeful spark: a memory that not all Irkens were monstrous, that at least one might help the Screw-heads. Exile Bob.

Within a few days of his banishment to the Conveyor Belt Planet, he had made himself a hero among the Screw-heads. He had said that the Irkens oppressed them because they feared anyone they thought inferior, whether it was an alien or someone short of their own race. He had said that the Irkens believed there were two ways to live: one could be evil and happy, or virtuous and miserable, and although the religion that brought forth that idea was almost dead the philosophy itself lived on.

The Irkens made the Screw-heads miserable, Bob had said, because the Screw-heads had been virtuous, obedient, and passive so far. If they rose up as a unified race—if they showed that they could fight back—that they were capable of the very evils the Irkens feared they would commit against them, then the Irkens would give them what they deserved: longer breaks, higher wages, more sunlight. And, Bob added, they might just give him the six million monies he was owed.

That was what made the Screw-heads truly trust Bob. Any charitable Irken was an Irken with hidden motives. As long as they knew what Bob expected out of this, they could trust him.

Alas—it was not to be. The Labor Union had been nothing more than a brief amusement for the Tallest, the High Guard Chevre had assigned Bob to a job that kept him far away from any other Screw-heads, and everyone was worse off for their attempt at happiness. Perhaps they hadn't been evil enough.

There was no sunlight in the planet, but there was hellfire. The farther one descended into the planet, the hotter it got, and the hotter it got, the less Screw-heads were assigned to the area; those that did work near the core were the most miserable of all. Down below where packages were labeled, below the levels where items were loaded into each immense crate, the darkness filled with ruddy red, and noises of heavy machinery echoed up from the depths of the planet.

The core of the planet fueled the forges to make the metal boxes that were shipped into space. Immense tanks of molten metal poured their contents into casts, with thin walkways overhead to allow workers to run around, monitoring the formation of the boxes. But only one worker attended the dozens of forges, perpetually running back and forth, until the waves of heat made him too dizzy to move, or the constant exhaustion required him to spend a precious degree, no more than two, pausing to recharge his Pak, or the overwhelming misery finally forced him to his knees, fighting back tears that stung almost as much as the fires. He had done his best, fought his hardest, for nothing. At times, his normally too-bright eyes would dim in misery and he'd gaze in the fire, feeling like a whirlpool was sucking down his hope, wondering whether it would be better to simply jump.

But the Youngest Tallest had given them another way. He had taught that evil was happiness. As long as an Irken could keep committing evils, they would never have to face Slark again—never have to suffer misery again—never have to kill themselves again. If you tried hard enough, he had said, there was always a different way out of misery.

By the Savior Zim, Bob was trying. But he hadn't found another way yet.

xxx

The first Bob knew that the Tallest wanted to speak with him was when a hover platform descended next to him on the walkway. He was running from the controllers of one forge to another, making sure that everything was running smoothly; if anything went wrong with the forges, it could mean an apocalypse for this planet. Literally.

He hesitated for the briefest moment to glance at the hover platform, but the moment he saw Tallest Purple and High Guard Chevre he put on full speed again, gritting his teeth together. Oh, just wonderful. What in Slark's name could the Tallest want with him? He probably wanted to send Bob to an even more horrible planet, as if this weren't bad enough...

By the time Bob had checked all the meters on this forge and decided everything was running fine, his anger had morphed into terror. He probably was being exiled somewhere worse, wasn't he? "What did I ever do to deserve this?" he whimpered, before holding his breath, shutting his eyes, and sprinting back the way he'd come—he needed to get past the hover platform to reach the other forges, unfortunately. This time, he wasn't running past the Tallest simply to be disrespectful, but as a matter of personal preservation.

If he'd had his eyes open, he might have noticed the two bulky Guards now standing in his way.

"Oof!" Bob slammed into them and fell on his back. He struggled to sit up, tears of pain leaking out of his eyes, when one of the Guards snatched Bob up and dropped him unceremoniously on the floor of the hover platform.

"H-hey, what's going on?" Bob squeaked fearfully. "I have work to do!"

Trembling, he scrambled to his feet and finally looked up at Tallest Purple. He was staring down at Bob with utter disgust. That was all it took to bring back Bob's rage. "YOU! You owe me monies!" He planted his hands on his hips and glared at Purple with righteous indignation. "Where's my six million monies?!"

The Guards looked at Purple, curious. He cleared his throat nervously. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Whaddayou mean, you don't—"

"Silence him!" Purple ordered. One of the Guards snatched Bob up with one hand and clamped the other over his mouth. He thought he could feel part of his exoskeleton cracking.

"You're being relocated, Exile Bob," Purple said. "You'll be serving out your banishment on a different world."

So he'd been right! Bob's eyes widened, and he kicked his legs and shook his head frantically, trying to get his mouth free. Purple sighed. "Fine, let him speak."

As soon as Bob's mouth was uncovered, he shouted, "But I can't leave my position! Someone has to run the box forges! If they malfunction, the entire planet could fall apart!"

"It could?" Purple looked uneasily at Chevre. "Really?"

"The forges are fully automated," she said. "They'll be perfectly fine if no one tends them for a few weeks at a time."

"Oh. Good."

Bob gasped softly, and a tear slid down his face. No one had ever told him that. "Y-you mean that I d-didn't really have to keep running back and forth all the time?"

Chevre nodded.

"Why did you m-make me do that?"

"It was funny."

Purple grinned. "I like your sense of humor," he told Chevre. "If we ever lose a High Guard at the Massive, contact me and I'll see what I can do for you, all right?"

"Yes, sir."

Bob glared tearfully at both of them. Cruel fiends, both of them. What was it that made tall Irkens so brutal?

Bob was sometimes scared stiff of taller Irkens. They were merciless, pitiless, heartless monsters, and someday they were going to murder Bob and all the other Drones, he was sure of it. At times, in the eyes of shorter Irkens, tall Irkens could be baffling, horrifying beings, just like dangerous, stupid beasts.

"So there are no problems," Purple said. "You're being relocated."

By this point, Bob was crying freely—what else could he do? He wondered where he would go this time. Blorch? The Vortian concentration camps he'd heard rumors of? A world of pure water? Abandonia?

But despite his tears, Bob managed to narrow his eyes and squirm against the hand clamped around his body. "No way! You can't make me!" he said. "I refuse to be pushed around by a false Tallest any longer! I'm not going anywhere!" Any Tallest that consciously tried to hurt another Irken was no Tallest to Bob. He viciously bit at the Guard's hand. The Guard, who was wearing very thick gloves, didn't care.

"Hey, watch who you're talking to," Purple snapped, leaning over Bob. "False Tallest, huh? So you really are a Virtuous Slarkist?"

"Zimish!" Bob spat. "There's a difference!"

"Yeah, whatever. You don't have a choice anyway. If you don't want to go, we can just shove you in a box and ship you to Earth."

The Guards' antennae perked up at the word Earth, and they smiled slightly. Apparently, they thought this was the worse fate possible.

But, to Bob, this was a blessing. He immediately stopped crying in surprise. Surely, he'd heard wrong. "To... to Earth? Where Zim is?"

"Er, yeah, Zim's there," Purple said, clearly confused by Bob's reaction.

Bob nodded slowly. "I see... Why?"

"Um..." Purple glanced at the Guards, as if seeing whether they were listening. "None of your business."

"Huh..." Bob chewed his lower lip thoughtfully for a moment. This was a trick. It had to be. Bob couldn't be that lucky—lucky enough to be exiled with Zim.

The Control Brains had named him after the Youngest Tallest for a reason. Never mind that most Irkens believed that was because the Brains thought it was the only name that satisfied Zim's ego. Perhaps Bob was alone, but he was convinced that Zim would be a hero someday. Besides, Zim had won Bob six million monies and saved him from flying into a star. Bob owed Zim his life and then some. An opportunity to help Zim become the hero Bob knew he would be... This, this was a blessing.

"I would be glad to join Zim on Earth, Tallest Purple."

"Oh, really? So I'm your Tallest again, am I?" Purple asked dryly.

"I never said you were my Tallest," Bob said, tilting his head back to give Purple a challenging look. "Just that you are one."

Purple scowled, but didn't respond. Instead, he turned to the Guard holding him and said, "Can't you hold him a little tighter?"

He held Bob a little tighter. That time he knew he heard his exoskeleton crack.

Purple smirked. "I need to speak with Bob in private about what his exile on Earth will include," he told Chevre. "Where can I do that?"

"You can do that in the control station, my Tallest," Chevre said promptly. "I'll find you an empty room."

"Good," Purple said, clearly ignoring the curious glances of the other Guards, who probably wondered what kind of exile needed private instructions. Perhaps this wouldn't be so much of a blessing after all.

xxx

Once they were alone, the first thing Purple told Bob was that he wasn't really being exiled on Earth, but being included in a mission that could potentially save not only the Irken Empire, but also the entire Irken race.

And from that point on Bob stopped believing him.

"You don't expect me to actually believe you had three offspring with Zim," Bob said, grinning in incredulity.

"Actually, I kinda hope you don't. If you did, I'd probably think you're completely insane," Purple said wearily. Well, maybe this was a good sign. If somehow the empire did hear rumors that Purple was dancing with Zim, perhaps they wouldn't believe it, either. "Just play along until you get to Earth and can actually see the eggs, all right? You can do that, can't you?"

"Well..." Bob lowered his eyes, clearly considering the alternatives. Or wondering how crazy Purple was.

"I should probably mention that if you refuse, I'm tossing you in the forges before you can tell anyone what you know," Purple said.

Bob gulped. "Fine. I'll do this 'mission' on Earth, but only for Zim's sake. If all this does turn out to be fake, at least I'll be able to assist Zim however he needs me."

"You actually want to work for Zim?" Purple said, quirking an antenna curiously. Okay, so maybe Bob was crazy after all. "Why on Irk would you want to get anywhere near him?"

"Because he's respectable," Bob said simply.

Definitely crazy. "You mean you respect Zim more than your Tallest?" Purple said, annoyed.

"I don't respect anyone that owes me money," Bob said. Before Purple could argue again that he and Red didn't owe him anything (because they DIDN'T), Bob added, "Besides, I'm already exiled. What else can you do to me?"

Purple smiled grimly. "I could make your journey to Earth that much more unpleasant."

The sudden fright in Bob's eyes was probably the most beautiful thing Purple had seen all day.

xxx

Smikka Smikka Smoodoo entertained himself by keeping track of how many different worlds he sent packages to. Not that he could actually remember them all, but when he saw a package going to a world he didn't recognize the name of, he could briefly find interest in the novelty. Like a few days ago, he was pretty sure that was the first package he'd ever sent to Cheaphookeria. But now he'd seen eight or nine, the novelty was gone, and everything was dreary monotony again.

It hadn't always been that way. Once, he had tried to start a rebellion. From the humble beginnings of switching two labels on packages, perhaps something greater might have come. Once, he had led the Screw-head Labor Union with the only Irken he'd ever met sympathetic to the Screw-heads' plight, Bob. From a few small voices complaining, perhaps a louder cry for change might have arose.

But his rebellion ended in a nasty electric shock that had left his extremities numb for several days. His labor union ended in further oppression that had left his people more destitute and exhausted than ever before. And he was almost ready to give up. Which was why he read the labels for fun. He hoped he'd go insane soon, so that he really would think reading labels was fun.

Now here was an interesting label; tragically familiar, yes, but still interesting in its very nostalgia. "To: ZIM – Earth" the label read. Oh yes, all too familiar. Even fifty years since he'd last seen it, he remembered the label. (Although, admittedly, that wasn't much of a feat, as years on the Conveyor Belt Planet were much shorter than Irken years. But "fifty Screw-head years" sounds much more impressive than "one-fifth of an Irken year" does.) This label was the same as that on one of the packages whose labels he'd switched, when he'd attempted his rebellion. What had the other package said? An Invader, he recalled... Ohhh, how he hated Invaders. It had been Invader Fourr or something like that. Fourr? Twelvve? Tenn? Tenn sounded about right. Yes, Zim and Invader Tenn...

The box shook. Startled, Smikka Smikka Smoodoo stared at it. Was there someone inside it?

Then he heard a voice, very faint: "Help me, I'm trapped! I can't breathe! They locked me in with a Slaughtering Rat! It's—Oh, great Slark and Zim, not the leg! NOT THE LEG!" A muffled shriek echoed through the metal.

Smikka Smikka Smoodoo blinked. He blinked again. And then he let out a very high-pitched laugh. How nice. He thought the box was talking to him. Perhaps he was finally insane. Delightful!

Still tittering madly, he pushed the button with a trembling finger to move the conveyor belt forward, and sent the magical screaming box on its way to a happier place, far away from the remains of the world that had once been the peaceful paradise called Yuphorik, inhabited by the happy Yuphorio people until they were subjugated and belittled with the name "Screw-heads."

He wondered what it would be like to be a magical box.

He wondered what it would be like to be in a box.

An idea struck him like a hammer on his screw. Minus the brain hemorrhaging. Perhaps all hope was not lost. If he couldn't save his fellow Screw-heads, why, perhaps he could save himself still.

With new hope, he tried to focus his bleary eyes on the tops of the boxes as they went by, waiting for one with its lid not welded on quite thoroughly, a box that he could slip into and use to escape.

He paid no more attention to the package to Earth as it was fired into space.

xxx

Homework was never a problem for Zim. Occasionally assignments that required some thought, like short-answer worksheets or essays, were a bit of a nuisance, but if one of his human "friends" wasn't willing to write an essay for him then the Intar-web system was sure to have a premade one; all Zim had to do was send a malware program to destroy the site he'd gotten the essay from, and no one was the wiser.

Math, though, that was much easier, especially after he installed a miniature printer in his Pak. Stick the math book in his Pak, let it do all the calculations automatically, and print out the answers on a piece of notebook paper, of course remembering to print in Zim's handwriting rather than a uniform font. Simple. Math homework took two minutes.

Except today, when it refused to print.

Zim ran an internal check on his Pak four or five times, but couldn't figure out in the slightest what was wrong with it. The printer he'd installed simply refused to acknowledge its own existence; it may as well have not been there. Figured. Zim should have built his own printer, Irken-design. Didn't he know by now not to mix Irken and human technology?

And he had to go to his first day of work at Bloaty's in a few degrees. He didn't have time for this.

"Computer!" Zim shouted, entering the med bay. He wasn't quite sure what it would take to fix this, after all. "Run a diagnostics on my Pak. Find out why the printer isn't working."

"Fine." The computer lowered an arm with a scanning machine on the end, scanned Zim's Pak, then took a moment to process the data it received. "You've got a virus."

Zim's eyes widened. "Germs?! I thought I got rid of them all!" Zim leaped on the surgical table, as if he could escape the insidious germs from up there.

"Computer virus, Master."

"Oh." Zim sheepishly got down. "How did I get a computer virus?"

"I 'unno. But it's a bad one. I'll try to identify it." The computer hummed for a moment. "Got it. Virus identified as Epileprosy. Epileprosy computer virus spreads through the Internet's electronic mailing system or through data transfers between computer systems. Epileprosy completely destroys any computer system it comes into contact with, and can affect both Irken and human computers. It got your printer."

"Huh?!" Zim opened is Pak and pulled the printer free. No wonder his Pak couldn't even tell it was there; it had become a twisted chunk of melted circuitry and plastic casing. Zim gulped. "And this Epileprosy is in my Pak?"

"Yeah," the computer said. "But it won't affect you. Epileprosy only attacks computer systems. Paks are... well, they're just... you know, they're Paks. They're all circuity and wirey, but they're like the not-computer. You know?"

"Uh... not really. You're saying it's not a danger to my Pak?"

"Pretty much. It's still a danger to any computers your Pak interacts with, though."

Zim squinted an eye suspiciously. "But I've interacted with you. Why don't you have Epileprosy, huh?"

Proudly, the computer said, "Epileprosy can't get through Macintosh firewalls."

"Hmph." Zim started pacing the med bay, thinking. He still needed to get his math homework done before tomorrow, and he had to go to work soon. How was he supposed to get it finished if he couldn't simply print out the answers?

Zim was jerked from his thoughts by a boom and a violent quake that knocked him over. He scrambled up on his Pak-legs as the trembling subsided. "Computer! What on Irk was that?!"

"A package from the Conveyor Belt Planet," the computer said. "Contents unknown."

"A package?! Zim didn't order anything!" But wait—hadn't Tallest Purple promised Zim a Drone servant? This had to be it.

Zim grinned. "Computer, take me to the ground level!" he shouted as he ran out of the med bay and towards the lift. "I have a slave to acquire!"

xxx

Bob had only survived the trip because the Slaughtering Rat Person had suffocated and died on the journey to Earth. He himself hadn't suffocated because his Pak had been able to filter and re-filter the air, sucking every possible molecule of oxygen out of the air. Yet however efficient his Pak could be, there was still only a limited amount of oxygen in the sealed box. Bob was trying not to black out and clutching his antennae to block out some of the stench of dead Rat Person when his box slammed down on solid ground.

His head swam with pain, vertigo, and oxygen deprivation. "Owie." He took a moment to figure out where gravity was and then shakily got on his knees. How did he get out of the box? Woozily, he wondered why he was in a box to begin with. And what was that smell?

A point of light appeared in the dark, white hot. Bob followed it dizzily as it moved in a circle, then vanished. That had been odd. What was...

With a creak and metallic squeal, the portion of the box that had been cut through with a laser fell forward, landing flat on the floor at Bob's feet. Cold, fresh air rushed into the box. Bob stumbled out, mumbling in relief to the benevolently evil savior, "Oh, thank you, mighty Zim."

"Yeah, you're welcome," a voice said.

Startled, Bob looked towards the voice. He recognized that voice. Automatically, as all Drones learn to do, he said, "Exile Bob, reporting for duty, sir!" He saluted as well as he could, still dizzily swaying off-balance. The gravity was a bit higher on Earth than on the Conveyor Belt Planet, not enough to really hinder his movements but enough to make him feel just a bit unbalanced.

Zim surveyed Bob as he tried to focus his vision. "Hey, have I met you before?"

"Yes sir, Zim, sir. You saved my life."

"Oh. Yeah, of course I did." Zim smirked proudly.

He looked weird. Bob frowned, puzzled. "Are you... taller, sir?"

"Ya-huh!" Zim nodded. "Tallest Purple thinks I'm so amazing, I deserved to be taller. Hey, how tall are you?"

"Negative thirty-six units, sir," Bob admitted. "But I'm only four years old! My projected height is four units." It was probably the greatest mercy in the empire that Irkens under an era old were legally protected from height-based bias, since they hadn't reached their full height yet. Although that was changing, now that there were projected heights; a smeet -20 units in height could freely harass another -20 unit smeet if he knew that he himself would grow to 150 units, and the other would grow to only 50 units. But surely Zim, the shortest (or former shortest) fully-grown Irken alive, would show more compassion for small Irkens.

"Hah!" Zim crowed. "Four units? Pitiful!"

Or, Bob decided, maybe Zim's former height meant his taunts were nothing more than good-natured razzing. That could work, too.

Still thinking Zim looked weird, Bob asked, "Sir, what's that stuff on your face?"

"Eh? This?" Zim pointed at the black thing on his head and the whitish things over his eyes. "This is my disguise! It keeps the stupid humans from finding out I'm an alien. Genius, no?"

"Yes sir, very clever," Bob said. And to him, it was. He'd never received Invader training, he didn't know whether or not Zim's disguise was any good. He pointed at Zim's stomach. "Is that part of your disguise, too?"

Perhaps humans were rather rotund, because Zim's stomach appeared to be slightly swollen, rounded out. It didn't look soft, like something was between his internal exoskeleton and his skin, but hard, like something beneath the bone, bulging outwards. It could just be a shield or something under his clothes...

"Don't be stupid!" Zim said, grimacing. "Zim is growing—" He paused. "Tallest Purple told you about the... growy eggy thing... right?"

The... the what? Yes, the Tallest had said something, but he hadn't believed... Bob nodded, dumbstruck.

"Yeah, that's what it is."

Bob was speechless. So, that whole crazy story was true? Zim really had created offspring with Purple? That was insane! Impossible!

But it was true?

"Hey, I need to go," Zim said. "You, Drone-slave!"

"Yes?"

"Are you ready for your first assignment?"

"Yes sir!" Bob said eagerly, realizing if the story was true, that made Zim more of a hero for going through such trials, and so he'd need Bob's help even more. Still, he rather hoped this assignment wasn't anything life threatening...

"Good. Here." Zim took something out of his Pak and shoved it in Bob's chest. It was flat, rectangular, and unsealed on three sides so it could open. Things as thin as snack wrappers filled the inside, perhaps some form of paper. Was this a "book"? A real book? Bob had always wanted to see a book!

"Chapter 7.4, page 614, problems 21 to 31; chapter 8.4, page 673, problems 7, 9, 11, 21, 25, 27, and 41 to 48; and chapter 8.5, page 682, problems 1 to 13. Be done by the time I return from work." Zim marched past Bob, grinning in self-satisfaction.

Bob stared after Zim, then at the massive book in his arms. "Okaaay..." he awkwardly carried it inside Zim's base, sat on the ground, and flipped it open. He had no idea what Zim's order had meant, but perhaps it would make more sense once he saw the inside of the book...

He stared at the pages. What strange language was this in?! Bob couldn't understand a single character on the page. Blinking his eyes furiously to hold back tears, he said meekly, "H-hello? Is there a, a SIR Unit or something here? Anything? Help?"

A disembodied voice spoke: "Gir is down in the SLP chamber. I'm here, though."

"A computer!" Bob sighed in relief. "Thank Slark. Do you know the Earth language? Can you teach it to me?"

"I don't feel like it."

"What?!" Bob felt his eyes starting to water again. "But you're a computer! You're supposed to help Irkens when they need it!"

"Yeah, I guess... But I don't want to."

The first few painful tears slid down Bob's face. "Please?"

"Uh..." The computer made an indecisive whining sound. "Er... Okay, fine! I mean, you did say please... Just stop doing that. It makes me feel all bad and stuff."

"Sure thing!" Bob wiped his eyes, instantly cheerful. "You can feel?"

"It's a Macintosh thing."

"Oh." Bob had no idea what that meant.

A tentacle came down from the ceiling and plugged into Bob's Pak. It added a new language to his translation program, then retracted. "There you go. That's one of them, at least. It's all you need for now."

"Thank you, computer!" Bob turned back to the book, ready to get to work on Zim's assignment.

With growing horror, he read the page: "21. Without using your calculator or doing any calculations, describe the graph that will be drawn by the parametric equations x5cos(t)+3 and y6sin(t)-1..." What was this? "Computer? Are you sure you gave me the right language?"

"Yeah, it's right," the computer said.

"What IS this stuff?!"

"Uh... I don't know. Maybe... subliminal FBI mind-control messages?"

"I can't do a subliminal assignment!" Once again, tears built up in his eyes as he started to panic. "What do I do?!"

"Call the FBI?"

"What will they do?"

"Probably arrest you for being an alien."

Bob bit his lip anxiously. Somehow, he got the feeling that Zim wasn't going to consider him a very good assistant.

xxxxx