Septapus sitting adjacent to Dabney was only wearing a sarong similar to the ones the natives of Quiltain Seven wore, along with several bands on each appendage, three to a limb save the obvious and hidden exception.
The three looked at each other. “I was going to say clothing, but yes,” said Dabney.
“You realize that my race does not care about nudity,” said the Roasan slowly. “We wear ornamentation because we enjoy the sound or feel of it or for some other aesthetic reason, not because it is required for us to obscure our bodies.”
“Yes,” said Dabney.
The Septapus tapped something onto its tiny view screen and lifted up a tentacle to show the Roasan.
The Roasan turned to Dabney. “The Septapus people do not mind nudity but, this one reminds me of what was troubling my mind. Your species, the humans, do often have difficulty with nudity, especially the exposure of your sex organs. Are you prepared to commit a crime should you lose?”
Dabney nodded. “I am prepared to lose my pants if it comes to it but I do not think it will. There are no other humans in this room so even if I do have to strip; I think I’ll be alright.”
“You will have to walk the street, all the way to your ship, without all that you have lost,” reminded the Roasan.
Dabney blushed. He looked down at the table and the cards. He was doing so much to build a relationship with these two. Hopefully this was enough and he dearly hoped that he was a good enough player not to lose his shirt, or his tools or his pants. He frowned inwardly. Was it worth it to familiarize himself with these two? Ah, well. “Let’s begin before I lose my nerve.”
The Roasan chuckled again but kept its eyes on Dabney’s for a few seconds with a measuring look.
The game began and, Immediately, Dabney lost his jacket. The second hand, the Roasan looked to the other two players. “Must I only use things I am currently wearing?” Dabney and the Septapus shook their heads and the Roasan nodded. “I am thankful for that.” With those words the Roasan reached its neatly manicured nails down to the spot on the bench beside it and pulled up a hat that had been hidden from sight by the lip of the table. The Roasan fingered the brim and smiled at Dabney. “I had thought to give this to you if you impressed me enough but now I think I’d like to see you win it.”
Dabney stared at the hat. It was a hat from good old planet earth or at least made after one of the styles there, with a gently swooping brim and a curved crown. It was an old west hat, a cowboy hat if the old films and the new comics were any judge. There was a strip of twisted leather, or what looked like leather, around the rim, cinched together with a bronze bead.
Dabney nodded at the Roasan. “It’s a nice gift. I hope I can prove I deserve it.”
The Roasan nodded. “I constructed it myself. It is truly a crown.”
The Septapus hissed and the next hand was played. Dabney won the hat. Five hands later, he had to give the hat up or give up his pants. After that, he stood and slowly worked the thick grey denim down his legs and plopped the pants on the table. The Septapus dragged them off and bundled them next to it on the bench. The next round Dabney finally surrendered his vest because, other than his briefs, that was what he had left. As he took it off, the Septapus drew back and hissed. The Roasan looked meaningfully at Dabney’s stomach to his left. His laser had slipped out. Dabney quickly shoved it back in the concealed pocket in his vest but it was too late.
“Run,” said the Roasan as it pointed behind Dabney. Dabney flinched and turned quickly around just as the shrieking began. The Wobble Ball team had placed themselves in a semi-circle around him and was glaring.
“Weapons are not allowed,” said one with a high, predatory whine.
“Weapons are illegal,” said another, the beginning of a screech in its young voice a comparatively high tenor to the lower pitch of the adult Roasan sitting at the table who was watching its poker partner with bright interested eyes. The Septapus also watched silently.
Dabney bolted just as they pounced. That was what saved them, their momentum in a direction opposite the one he was going towards a place where he wasn’t anymore. He scrabbled over their backs and bolted for the door only to be blocked by two Roasan with arms held wide and mouths open to show teeth which, unlike their regulation claws, were quite pointed.
He changed directions and ducked and found himself back in the corner of the bar at the table he’d just left with his poker companions watching him enthusiastically. Dabney stared around for his clothes but the Septapus had them tucked beside it and was directing a threatening look at him. Dabney frowned at the Septapus then reached over the table and before the Septapus could do much but hiss, he yanked his pants away. “I’m sorry that it turned out like this. We’ll take up the game a little later?”
He nodded at the Roasan and the Septapus, grabbed the hat and desperately turned around to bolt for the door. He almost made it halfway across the floor before a young Roasan grabbed him with one hand. He heard a screech and one of the Grousan who had until now silently watched, lifted up on its place at the bench and squirted him with slime. Dabney coughed at the smell and tried to run again. This time, the Roasan couldn’t keep a hold on him, coated as he was in the Grousan’s protective coating of goo that smelled disturbingly of grilled cheese. Another Roasan tried to catch him, this time grabbing onto his waist and thighs with a tackle. The Roasan must not have had regulation trimmed nails because Dabney heard tearing. He wriggled out of that one’s grip and bolted out the door.
Dabney ran down the narrow alleys that passed for streets through groups of Quints sending their sashes aflutter as they barely avoided running into him. He glanced down and would have sighed if he’d had the breath. His briefs were shredded all that remained was the waistband and a few strips of stretchy cotton which left his pole and tackle to bounce as he ran.
“Eaaagh!”
Dabney froze momentarily and turned towards the scream. Across the street stood a young human woman with long red hair done up in a simple blue turban and wearing a matching blue knee length dress and loose pants, the manner of dress of the women of Earth 2, stood with her mouth open, The whites of her eyes were showing and she held her hands clenched under her chin. They hadn’t quite embraced the idea of casual nudity on Earth 2. Dabney flinched and started running. He was in trouble now. This was a spaceport and he’d just violated a rule of one of his species planets, a simple basic rule. He groaned and ducked into a smaller avenue and yanked up his pants. He could hear the deep groan of what passed for sirens on the speakers perched on poles along with the security cameras on many of the street corners. They didn’t always operate but they did activate when someone screamed.
Damn! He was in so much trouble! He shoved the hat onto his head, groaned miserably and then sped off the opposite way he had come. He had to get to the space port and to his ship. He’d have to get out of here fast and not visit Quiltain 7 for at least a few days. Public indecency wasn’t worth much time in a cage but it was enough and more time than he wanted to spend if someone was to come forward and say that he’d brought a weapon to the space port. They probably wouldn’t search him if he didn’t draw anything but there was always the chance that someone had already got his description to the cops and then he would be in trouble. There was a fine and he’d lose his weapons and have to buy them back for an even greater fine and, if he pissed someone off accidentally, he’d be turned over to one of his specie’s planets and they would decide on some punishment for him. Though humans had only been in space for less than half a century, there were a lot of colonies and a lot of factions and a lot of very silly people. Dabney did not want to go to a human planet other than Earth. Things didn’t usually make sense in those places.
He scampered into the spaceport his bare feet bruised from how he’d been pounding them onto the street surface. He was glad that Quints did not think using their streets for trash and broken bottles was an okay thing to do, not that they had glass bottles or bottles
that would break. Quints made very good drink containers. He spotted his craft, a shiny little Corolla and skidded up beside it. A hand print was all it took to pop the hood of the little green craft, his current transport. He’d like to have a real ship at some point but that would come later, he’d hoped after the poker game. He had to get out, now. Dabney plopped into the cushioned pilot’s seat and activated the engine. With such a small craft, he was up in the air in seconds but it was too late. Two purple and red Quiltain planet cruisers hovered above him. Dabney banged his forehead against the top of the console and accidentally pressed the descent clearance button. His ship fell back into the dock sending him back in his seat. He groaned and massaged his neck roughly then took off his vest and placed it on the seat then he released the door lock and walked out of the ship.
“Is this the person?”
The Quilt officer, resplendent in two red and two purple sashes, one on either side of its shoulders and crisscrossing over his bulbous body, a sash of red and purple stripes holding his loincloth in place, stood in the dim port bar with Dabney sheepishly towering over him with hunched shoulders. Dabney was six feet tall; the officer was four and a half feet at the curve of his