The lack of air and the fact that his suit was the only thing keeping him alive didn’t startle him.
What startled him more was the complete idiocy of whatever life form had constructed his mini-craft. “’Millions of Light Years in the Time it Takes to Spear a Grangut Fish,’ my ass,” he said to himself, “goes to show what kind of quality the little people are given. I’m sure the Union Ranger Program has a fantastic set of crafts, each with better light year mileage than the other. No respect for travel hobbyists. Pathetic.”“I guess I could call my wife. But she’d be terrified, everything scares her. I buy the man-eating tuna once and she can’t trust me to get groceries!”
Fren had a head like a very large earth egg placed on its side. His widely set eyes were like huge milky marbles and his nose was small and stuck up.
“The sensation of floating isn’t so bad,” he said to himself. “In fact, I kind of like it. It’s like being swallowed by a lava lamp.”
Unfortunately, the brilliant blue map below his feet wasn’t a blob of hot wax and it certainly wasn’t a comfort because he was currently a satellite of planet Earth.
His home (Great Supe) was a habitable planet almost twice the size of Earth. Its sun was a similar distance from his planet as earth’s sun was and his people also spent their days forgetting they had made New Year’s Resolutions to lose weight. Earthlings, however, always acted as if they were the only intelligent life.
“What’s so intelligent about devoting an entire information system to cats doing funny things?” he riddled to the heavens. “Great Supe Badgers are much funnier.”
He also couldn’t get over how beautiful earthlings thought they were. His planet’s Miss Ontar was so symmetrical she could be sliced down the middle and still look great wearing a party dress.
His predicament, he felt, wasn’t really one for belittling with Earthling discussions. Hours earlier, his miniature spacecraft, the Phrygian Clip, had broken down (read: in many pieces) and swung him loose with all the manners of a bucking Ford Bronco.
“It’s my own fault, I guess,” he said to himself desolately, “Checking the ooze strip every few trips through the universe is not a lot to ask.”
Happily, he was not on Earth, but floating above it.
“I do look silly, though, stuck floating here in this Great Supe Endless Oxygen Suit.” He looked like a big fluorescent lime and he hated it.
“I suppose I’ll call Uncle Lyonal. He might be able to call me a tow craft.”
His Uncle Lyonal was of course no help over the phone.
“Hello?” his old uncle answered feebly.
“Lyonal, it’s Fren. It’s embarrassing, but my mini-craft malfunctioned and it sprung me out of the passenger seat so I could really use a ride home or a messenger craft or a---”
“Who are you?”
“Fren.”
“I don’t know her,” he said thoughtfully.
“FREN. Your nephew. DAMMIT LYONAL. FORGET IT,” he hung up impatiently. The old man was probably watching the SUP20 home shopping channel and hadn’t slept in days. As advanced as civilization was, it still hadn’t found a replacement for sleep. But thought-flushing toilets were practically antique!
He hadn’t intended on going anywhere near Earth, let alone floating above it pitifully. He had rented both the mini craft and the suit from a travel agency that offered monthly traverses and had gotten both a holiday discount and a senior discount (for being a retired man of a certain age). Unfortunately, every trip he had taken using the package had somehow gone horrible awry. Last month he had also gotten lost and had found himself on the wrong planet in some goo he thought was Great Supe Pine Syrup but was actually a pool of flesh consuming acid. What is the chance of that! Thankfully, his wife, a top notch example of the sturdy feminine gender, saved him just in time for what was sure to be a painful situation. He did suffer a minor injury, but it was clearing up.
He had been on hold with Spaceside Assistance for hours and the children’s choir version of “Buy Me a Drink Earth Boy” was getting a little old after 12 times.
“I’ll call back later,” he said, roughly jabbing the “end call” button on the front panel of his suit.
Before he could continue increasing his self-loathing, an ugly gray craft with over-sized headlamps and a crackled, graffiti paint job sped past him. But it didn’t miss him. Animatedly, it seemed to notice him and turned around. Eyeing him up, the craft circled him for a few minutes before three mottled green faces became clear in the front window. Though he didn’t recognize the language piping through his helmet’s speakers from their craft, he understood the motions. He didn’t need five ears to know it was a slur.
“Pubescent swine! What in the name of Great Supe has happened to kids these days?”
They seemed to understand him, however, when suddenly their faces disappeared and were replaced, one by one, with 3 paired, roundish shapes pressed up against the glass.
“What is that?” he said, needing glasses. “Is that? Are they---”
He couldn’t have been more insulted! There he was, floating defenselessly with his arms and legs out like a chartreuse star fish, and some homely bunch of green Neo-Supleans think they can gang up on a lost slightly-older-than-middle-aged man.
“I guess I’ll have to call the wife,” he said. “I’m not looking forward to THAT conversation. My track record with mini-crafts hasn’t exactly been good lately.” He dialed the number in the headset on his helmet and waited through the dial tones. “Maybe I’ll tell her it was stolen.”
After 12 rings, her answering machine message played. “This is Shireen. I’m not here at the moment but if you would leave your name and a message, I’ll try to get back to you. If this is Fren and what I think has happened has happened again, DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT CALLING FOR A MINI-CRAFT TOW.”
Her shrill voice filled his head.
“Holy Supe! What am I going to do?!”
Suddenly, a pale blue craft glided into his view. It was his wife’s practical 6 Suplean van. His wife, Shireen, her eyes like two blue kumquats, glared down at him from the window. The craft’s speaker piped into his. “FREN!”
“What?” he asked timidly, closing his eyes.
“We CANNOT keep doing this.”
“Honey, I am a budding travel hobbyist! I can’t give up now, I’ve got three months left of traveling to do and I haven’t even been to the Mexilan Natural Saunas! Besides—the Lower Hills paper said they would pay me to be a travel writer for them.”
“That rag is giving you 40 supoleons and they aren’t even paying for your lunch.”
“But—“
“No buts! Yours still hasn’t recovered from last month’s torrid expedition!”
“The doctor says I’m fine, he’d seen welts much more purple than that,” he whined, “and sweetie, I’ve been to 12 planets since I ordered this hobbyist package, and this is only the second craft to malfunction!”
“Fren, I was worried sick about you!” she yelled at him.
The speaker on her end crackled a little. She pulled her face away and he thought he saw a tear fall from one of her large blue eyes.
The craft came closer and a sliding chamber opened. He let helium fill the chamber before he took off his helmet and climbed into the front passenger seat.
“I think you should get a refund on your travel package, honey,” his wife said. “I know you’re retired and you’ve always wanted to see the universe, but let’s be honest—you’re accident prone. Maybe you’re not meant to be the best travel hobbyist.”
He sighed. “I’ll get a refund,” he assured her, “if it’ll make you happy.”
She turned to him, smiling with relief. “Thank Supe,” she said.
“But I’m keeping the suit” he said. “I’ve gotten kind of attached to it.”
They glided away in the powder blue space van to the sounds of yet another children’s choir singing “Hold Those Tentacles Tight, Baby,” before reaching hyper speed and returning to their split-level home in the Lower Hills of Great Supe.