By PG Lucas

The story so far…

This is the fourth part of the Sty Wars stories. It is followed by The Empress Strikes Back and then Return Match of the Golfa. It is preceded by the later-written, Bantam Menace and Attack of the Drones.

It was the sort of day when unexpected things fall literally to the ground and mess up whatever semblance of normality you thought you had. And when I say literally, I mean the word literally. Something literally fell to the ground and upset the plans of many, many people. What fell to the earth, or to be more accurately, the lower tattooingford was an escape pod.

It landed with a thunk, rolled over a few times and then came to a rest. It was not a perfect landing by anyone's standards. Two figures emerged onto the sandy, sun-burnt landscape.

"I must say that fell somewhere below the level of a pleasurable landing," said the gold-inlaid Communications Droid, (P)SM-IF. "In fact I can't recall a more unpleasant meeting of myself and terra firma. I'm constitutionally not built for such landings. Droids of quality simply aren't."

The short sports droid, M1-KE beeped in response. If you've never heard a sports droid beep, then I should describe it for you. Sports droids beep the way they do everything: with a great deal of energy and enthusiasm, and remarkable skill. If you doubt anything could beep in such a way, then I urge you to seek out and listen to one of these hardy little robots.

"Well who would have thought we would have ended up here? Wherever here is. Somewhere vulgar, I'm sure. Nowhere of quality has this much sand and no sea. And can you see a tea shop? I certainly cannot. What is the point of being able to speak 17,000 languages and there being no living creature around to share the benefit of your wisdom?"

M1-KE beeped.

"That's what I like about you, 1KE old spacebean. You always let one speak and keep your interruptions to the shortest sounds possible. That's why we've been together all this time. Ever since you left Wrkyn V, and E-Ton was deprived of my company. I seriously wonder if we shall ever see the likes of those places again. Oh, this heat! I grow hotter and hotter!"

As (P)SM-1F spoke the two droids walked on. The landscape eventually changed from flat dessert the rocky canyons. Neither inspired the hope for a resolution of the quest for lifeforms. However lifeforms were there. But not the sort of life forms self-confessed peoples of quality would like to mix with.

How (P)SM-IF and M1-KE came to be on Lower Tattooingford's inhospitable surface is probably something that ought to be touched on. (P)SM-IF and M1-KE were in the employ of none other than Princess Thleiea Bassett. She was figurehead for the rebellion despite having no head for figures. The word to describe Princess Bassett was whimsical. She spent most of her time wandering around the universe looking for unlikely good causes. As it was she was just coming from a meeting to talk about trying to save the tiny Streepingham fingerfish from being eaten by the slightly larger handfish. The princess was resting in her private quarters aboard her astroyacht, The Fairy Dancer.

It was as the Fairy Dancer whimsed its way along the daisy chain that we call the universe that something large and black suddenly came at it very fast. The something large and black was an Empire battle cruiser. It wasn't seen until it was too late because it was very black and space is, well, very black.

The battle cruiser revealed itself by firing something across the bows of the aforementioned astroyacht.

"Power Pots on the starboard bow," called the pilot.

There was a loud crash. A sort of glass-smashing, wall-thumping crash.

"Good gads, captain," called the pilot. "A Power Pot's just crashed through the forward observation deck."

"Only one man fires Power Pots through a defenseless ship's windows," cursed the captain.

It was only seven and a half minutes later, when the black-bespectacled, black-clad figure of a man walked into the ships docking bay.

"Darth Baxter, oh how thooper!" exclaimed the Princess.

"Where are the plans, Princess? I know you have the plans," Darth Baxter informed her, clearly agitated. Truth be known, the efficient leader had long been looking for the abovementioned plans with little success. These plans were important to him. They were the blueprints of his latest invention: The Death Pot. This huge urn-like craft, when built, would be the envy of the whole universe, and would show the world just how efficient he was. It would also stifle those rumours that he was a distressed imbecile.

Princess Bassett had found the plans and considered them so pretty – such sweet lines on a nice shade of blue paper – she had kept them and hidden them in one of her safe places.

"Plans?" asked the Princess in all innocence. To her the blueprints were a delightful sketch on nice blue paper, not at all the plans to a deadly space ship. "I don't have your plans."

"Yes you do!" steamed the efficient one. "I know you do!"

"I do think you're getting awfully worked up over nothing." The princess had that quality many unfortunate people have, that of being able, unintentionally of course, to irritate a saint just by the sound of their voice. And if you are as far away from sainthood as Darth Baxter, then infuriation will soon succeed irritation. This irritating quality is worst of all when it comes from someone whose whole life was dedicated to never upsetting a single living soul. Unfortunately, the princess's mouth was not always in tune with her wishes.

"I AM NOT GETTING WORKED UP!" shouted Darth Baxter, being somewhat less efficient than his usual epithet implied.

"I think you are," lisped the girl.

Baxter had gone beyond shouting. Since the Emperor had employed him as his personal assistant, he had spent far too much time and energy on making the empire how it should be. It had worn away at his patience the way the edge of the cliff does to the piece of rope from which is hanging some Hollywood idol. It was well into the last real, and Baxter's rope had worn away to only a few strands.

He turned from the girl and spoke to the Under Stormvalet.

"Take her away," was all he said. The next instant he was gone.

M1-KE and (P)SM-1F had been captured by a ruthless gang of thugs currently enjoying the fruits of the robot-slave trade. Two perfectly working robots of M1-KE and (P)SM-1F's well-kept appearance would fetch a lot of doah, as the local currency was called. The two were forced into the hull of some monstrous vehicle which was more rust than metal and more spilled oil than both. When (P)SM-1F tried to bring to the attention of the occupants of the vehicle the state it was in, he was kept quiet with a gruff, "Get in there, goldie, and shut yer beard." It was quite intolerable for a person of (P)SM-1F's sensibilities and he took pains to say so to the other occupants of their cell.

After a few hours the noisy engine and constant rattling of the machine stopped and (P)SM-1F no longer had to raise his voice in order for everyone in the room to benefit from it. Presently, their captors reappeared to shuffle them all out and make them line up along the side the vehicle.

"One would have preferred a more appealing backdrop, but I suppose we are not in any position to complain as yet," remarked (P)SM-1F. "But wait awhile. I'm sure I can talk these fellows round. Kind words sooth the savage brow as someone said. Byron or some such chap. Well, what matters is that someone said it. I'm sure in the shadow of this juggernaut it doesn't matter who."

M1-KE beeped, as per u.

"Now, if I'm not mistaken, and I rarely have been, this young chap here is coming to buy something from this line up. Let's hope he has a discerning eye. I think our ticket out of this hellish vehicle is that bespectacled young man himself. Not my first choice of an employer, but then my first choice of an employer is myself, and alas, that is not to be."

The young bespectacled man that (P)SM-1F spoke off was indeed after purchasing some droids. And he wanted to be dashed quick about it because he needed to get back to his Romulan newts. Their morning feed was late already and Romulan newts hate their food to arrive later than expected. Dash his uncle for sending him out here to look at robots. What did he know about robots? he asked himself. Not a jot, came the answer.

Augustus Fink-Walker looked the robots up and down. There were a lot of them. And they all looked the same. Ugly metal things with none of the attractive features of newts. They weren't even aquatic. Most of them rusted if you put them anywhere near water. Two of them, however, stood out as being much cleaner than the rest, he chose them as a robot with good personal hygiene would certainly be a good worker. The newts that attended their own cleansing the longest, as he could attest, were generally the most industrious.

Back at the home where Augustus Fink-Walker dwelt with his aunt and uncle, Augustus set about giving the robots tasks to do.

"I'm sorry," returned a charmingly outraged (P)SM-1F, "but I'm afraid cleaning isn't in my programming. Nor any sort of household chores. Inside or out."

"Oh?" Fink-Walker wasn't used to being talked back to by androids.

"I am sure you have other tasks to which I would be entirely more suited. I am a first-class communicator droid, and can talk at length in over 17,000 tongues."

"I don't need a communicator droid. I need a house droid and one to help me on the farm."

"Ah, well, my friend here, will more than gladly help you in both those departments," (M1-KE let out a sharp peep at this point, as well he might.) "but I am far more suited to a supervisory role."

"This unit will work inside the house," Fink-Walker told him tapping M1-KE on the head, "and you shall work outside, feeding the fish!"

At this (P)SM-1F reeled. His normally gold metal turned a distinct green colour.

"F-fish?" he said. It was clear the prospect pained him. It took several seconds for him to regain something like his usual composure. "Listen dear chap, I am simply not designed for that sort of work. My craftsmanship is of the highest order. And fish are certainly things to be kept well away from it. It's part of the manufacturers stipulations. It explicitly says 'No Fish!' Not a single piscine creature should find its way in my direction."

During this monologue, Fink-Walker was nervously running his hands over the M1-KE unit. Being a first rate klutz and liable to make a mess of almost anything he put his space-gloved mitts to, Fink-Walker was bound at some point to hit the one button he wasn't ever supposed to touch. The button that played back the recording Princess Thleiea Bassett had made for a friend of her father.

In the blink of an eye, in front of the short droid, there appeared a three-dimensional image of the princess.

"Oldest-One, have a look at this picture, it's thimply thuper," it said. "Please tell me if you know what it is. Do help me, Oldest-One." The picture flickered and went back to the start again. Something didn't seem to be quite right with the playback but Fink-Walker didn't notice. He was entranced by the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"She's exthquithite," he said.

"Well, not entirely my cup of ointment," explained (P)SM-1F, "but as they say, one man's meat is another man's whatever. She's a nice girl, don't get me wrong, but, well there's something ethereal about her. Certainly has a similar effect to ether on my circuits. But please don't take that as a criticism of the lady, best employer we've ever had. A few questionable statements about the composition of the universe is not much to have to put up…"

"Do you say you know her?"

"Know her? Well, of course. We work for her. We are in her employ. She sent us down here to show this chap Oldest-One Member this picture thing she found. I don't know much about art, but I know enough never to take a look at any of the pictures the Princess takes a fancy to."

"I can't believe you work for her. I can't."

"Do keep up, my good man, we cleared all that up ages ago…"

"And you could introduce me?"

"Yes, that we could do, but first we have this errand to run. Have to show the picture to the aforementioned Member chap. I don't suppose you are aquatinted with the fellow?"

"Who?"

"Why, Oldest-One Member. Do try to keep up. If English isn't your first language, I can speak 16,999 others."

"No, I don't know him. There is an old hermit who lives over at the disused golf course, could be him, I suppose."

"My good man, it could well be. And even if it isn't, it's the only lead we have. You have some sort of transport I suppose?"

"Well, yes, but… Look, I'm the human here, and you're just a bally robot, I do think…"

"Listen Fink-Wokkle, old thing…"

"Fink-Walker."

"Fink-Walker. Do you want to meet the princess?"

"Yes, rather."

"Then the sooner we find the old Mr Member the sooner you and the princess can be sitting beneath the stars comparing syrupy theories of their composition."

"Well, I suppose. Yes, dash it, yes. let's go. I'll get the Hover-Jalopy."

"Good man."

Many years ago the dominant religion of the universe was Golfism. It's reign was absolute from one extremity of the universe to the other. From Jawn-0 Grots to Lifesend. It totally obliterated the hold Cricket had over the universal consciousness.

The central form of worship of Golfism was the holy game of Golf itself. The game was played on landscaped hallowed ground and these 'Courses' appeared all over the universe. Nowadays, they have fallen into disuse if they haven't been turned into something else. In these days when religion is fractured into a multitude of smaller beliefs, the once-mighty faiths are reduced to minority groups. The top religions as this story starts are: Curlism, Hurlism, Socculism, Rugbi and Eis Hokkii. But none could be considered large in the way Golfism used to be.

Lower Tattooingford, like all planets at the time, had it's own Golfcourse. Once it was a hallowed place with it's shining Clubhouse and verdant Playingarea. Now the Playingarea was rugged, unkempt and in the Clubhouse the furniture was rotting and the holy liquids had long since run dry.

Living amongst the ruins of this once great church was a man. He had been the Sage of the Clubhouse many years ago, but now was just the poor retch who hermitted there.

He was Oldest-One Member once a great Golfa Knight, but now, well to all appearances a shambling old man. But one always ready to accept visitors unlike many of his hermitic brethren.

As ever he was sitting at the Bar, the altar of the Clubhouse. The holy liquids had long been drunk, but cheap substitutes had been attained from the Lower Tattooingford Planet Shop and the Bottles refilled. It was of this quasi-holy liquids that the former Sage of Lower Tattooingford Golfcourse was partaking of when Augustus Fink-Walker poked his bespectacled head round the door.

"What ho!" said the younger man amicably.

"Hello there!" answered Oldest-One if anything more amicably. "Come in! Come in! And bring your caddies with you."

Augustus Fink-Walker entered, stepping over a small pile that had once been part of the ceiling. The two androids followed.

"Make yourself at home. Can I get you a drink?"

All three declined on health grounds. After a few more pleasantries, there was a short story from Oldest-One about the time a young lad, just like Fink-Walker, had come into the club in its heyday and caused mayhem in the nearby village with a badly swung shot at the fourteenth.

After that, Augustus managed to bring up the subject of the droid and the art it contained. M1-KE first played back the image of the Princess. Oldest-One did indeed recognise her, saying she was the daughter of a former member who had gone over to the Pool Side.

"Billiards?" exclaimed Fink-Walker.

Oldest-One member nodded sadly.

Although the Golf religion had lost much of its grip on the world, old tales of evil live on in the hearts of people long after the good beliefs have been replaced. So the story of those Golfa Knights who had turned their back on the True Green and turn to the False Green (and even Blue) of the Billiards Table had lived on. Mothers used them to scare their children into accepting those social rules that seem silly to youngsters.

M1-KE then showed a 3-D representation of the Princess's picture. To the uninitiated it just looked like a lot of dots. Oldest-One studied it for a long time.

"Just looks like a big urn to me," said (P)SM-1F after a few moments.

"Early Phoenician, I'd say," added Fink-Walker.

M1-KE beeped several times at several pitches.

"Don't be silly, M1-KE, it looks nothing like a Golfcourse."

Oldest-One nodded. "You're all right," he said. "It's the design for a warship. Its design is that of a flowerpot, heavily influenced by the Early Phoenician period, I'd say. And yes, its internal structure does owe a lot to that of a Golfcourse. There is no more powerful way of organising anything. Believe me, the very structure of the universe is closely related to that of a Golf course." Unaware that everyone else in the room was looking at him as if he was mad, Oldest-One continued. "If I'm not mistaken these are the plans for some deadly spacecraft capable of destroying a world with a single putt. There was a chap came in here once…"

During the ensuing story, about a man who had tried to build a spaceship in a bunker just off the fifteenth fairway, the others had time to take in what the old man had said about the spaceships.

It wasn't long before Fink-Walker realised that the Princess must be in grave danger. She would need rescuing. And nothing sets the wheels of romance headlong down the path of true love like a chap rescuing a girl.

(P)SM-1F had decided the best thing to do was destroy the plans at the earliest possible opportunity and deny they ever existed. They were exactly the sort of thing that could ruin the peace in one's life.

M1-KE was wondering if he could get a round of Golf in as he was at a genuine course. True he didn't rate Golf as highly as other sports, but there seemed to be precious little opportunities for any other sport on this miserable planet. Being a sports droid he was versed in every game ever invented. From Astropolo to Zumowrestling.

At the end of his story, Oldest-One made a statement.

"We must take these plans to the rebels on Upper Aldringham."

"No!" said Fink-Walker, "we must rescue the Princess."

"Upper Aldringham is the Princess's home planet. That is where she will be heading. I'm sure of it."

"How do you know?" Fink-Walker was being quite Bolshie. Being in love can do that to the best of us.

"I can feel it in the Course."

"The Course?"

"The Course is what life is played on. As a Golfa Knight, I am in touch with the Course. And you are too. You too have the power of a Golfa Knight in you."

"Me?" Fink-Walker adjusted his perplexed spectacles.

"Yes you? Your father was a Golfa." The Oldest-Member proceeded to tell an anecdote of Fink-Walker's father's early years. It quite took Fink-Walker Jr. back who had only ever been told his father was a pilot in the wars and had been killed in active service.

At the end of the story, Oldest-One produced a short tube from a caddy-cart near the door.

"Your father would have wanted you to have this. It's his Light Iron."

As every schoolboy knows, the Light Iron is the weapon of choice of the Golfa Knight. It is a powerful, noble weapon. As Fink-Walker took the tube it did something strange. From the end facing away from him, a beam of light emerged until it took the shape of a glowing Golfclub. He swung it a few times, it felt good. Well balanced. As if it were made for him.

Before anyone could say anything, Oldest-One spoke up once more. There was a sense of urgency in his voice.

"We must be off. I feel stirring on the Course."