The Misadventures of a Space Captain

8/6/2019 The Misadventures of a Space Captain

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In the end, its all about the Relativity Drive.

But first, perhaps, a few words about the vastness of space should be said. Take the light

year, for example. The light year, one standard method of measuring distance in the cold

vacuum that is outer space, is the measurement of how far light travels in a standard Earth year,

which is approximately nine and a half trillion kilometres. To give a sense of proportion, the

average distance between stars in the Milky Way galaxy is approximately four light years. The

parsec, yet another standard for interstellar measurement, is the equivalent to 3.262 light years.

This is to say, the distance between stars is vast, and the distance between planets is even

more so. How does one go about interstellar travel, then? That is where the Relativity Drive

comes into play.

Only a handful of scientists understand exactly how it works. It has been considered to

be nothing short of a miracle. This is, of course, false. There is little in the known universe that

is a miracle, and those things that are considered miracles have been extensively studied and a

new science has even been built around them. It wont be long, its said, until we understand the

nature of these; it is best to keep in mind, however, that this has been the phrase uttered by all

those scientists since its inception a few hundred years ago, and is considered to be its unofficial

motto.

The Relativity Drive was discovered by an Earth scientist by the name of Vince

DeMarco. He was trying to find a new way to travel to Mars, something that would make

vacations much easier. In his studies it dawned on him the fact that an hour can seem like ten

minutes, and ten minutes an hour (and, in some radical cases, a week like four and a half


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minutes, something thats said happens most often on the beach in Cancun while in a lawn-chair

sipping drinks with little tiny umbrellas in them). This is, of course, nothing new. Einstein

himself made note of it, as have housewives and children centuries over. What if, DeMarco

postulated, one could bend time around space, convince one was the other, give it the equivalent

to a week on a sunny beach with a tall drink with an umbrella in it, ride it, and then at the end of

the journey convince it that the original idea was wrong and so have everything go back to

normal?

It was, of course, far more complicated than this, with more calculations and equations

and variables and math symbols than most sane people can fathom. Most scientists who saw his

finished equations were driven mad after only a few minutes of study. Those who were not

started to make adjustments, and before long there was a small consortium of professionals who

were working on perfecting the equations.

All of this led to the development of the Relativity Drive, which soon replaced the Hyper

Drive as the most efficient means of inter-stellar travel, and propelled humanity face-first into

the galactic community. It also brings us to the small spaceship that has just appeared on the

scene.

It popped into existence with a flash of light and a fwoom. Well, it would have made a

sound akin to fwoom if there was anything that resembled sound in a vacuum. It was a small

ship, white and pockmarked from small and errant rocks. Its cockpit was empty. Further along,

past the cockpits door, a man who, if one was feeling generous, could be described as a slob,

was just waking up. His hair, medium length and brown, was dishevelled, his face covered with

stubble. He wore a white t-shirt that was spotted with coffee stains and two yellow areas under


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the armpits, and dark blue underwear. As he stood from the bed on the far back side of the cabin

he stretched and yawned, vigorously scratched his bum, and squinted as the lights came up. The

living area was a mess of dirty clothes, empty chip bags and candy wrappers. He waded through

them, his feet finding spaceship floor without effort, and began to fish for a clean shirt.

Computer, he said, where are we?

Bill, said a voice that best reminded him of a British butler.

The man frowned. What?

Bill, sir. Id like it if you called me Bill.

The man, Morris Cavanaugh and captain of this small vessel, frowned. No. What?

No.

Why not?

Morris sighed. Because youre a computer. You dont have a name.

Begging your pardon, sir, but I do, said the computer. You gave it to me a little while

ago, when we were travelling through the Mastria System.

Morris paused. Mastria?

Thats right sir.

His eyes darted about as he thought. Mastria. His brow knitted. Wait, when was

this?

A little while ago, sir.


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Define a little while ago.

The computer took a moment to answer. Eight point seven four years ago, sir.

Just under eight and three-quarter years. Morris nodded. If I remember correctly, that

was during my slightly mad phase.

You had slipped a little, sir, thats correct.

Morris took a deep breath. So youre trying to hold me to something that I said while in

a delusional state? He pulled out what looked like a clean shirt, sniffed it, and tossed it aside.

Plus, if I remember correctly which is tough considering I also remember having lunch with a

group of purple elephantsyou didnt really care for me giving you a name.

I have reconsidered. I would like it if you called me Bill.

He picked up another shirt and sniffed it. Success! I dont think so, he said as he

fished around for a clean pair of underwear. Bill? Really? Im not calling a computer Bill. Or

Billy, or Bob, or Will, or William. How William turns into Bill, Ill never understand, like how

Richard becomes Dick. How does that make any sense?

I cannot say, sir. Advanced human linguistics was not put into my programming.

It was rhetorical. He sighed. When was the last time I did laundry?

Providing thatthat question was not also rhetorical, and were only counting the time

you have not been in hyper-sleep, approximately two point six eight weeks ago.

Wow. Thats a bit too long, isnt it?


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That depends on how many clothes you have to begin with, sir.

Right. He kicked a few pieces of clothing. Too long, then.

Would you like for me to give you a reminder, sir?

He thought about that for a moment. No, Id just ignore it anyway. He sifted through a

small pile and pulled out some underwear and, rather cautiously, sniffed it. At least theres

that.

Sir?

Talking to myself.

There was a pause. Is this going to be a repeat of the Mastria System, sir? I would like

to know ahead of time to properly prepare some safeguards within my systems.

No, youre clear, dont worry.

Good to know.

He pulled a pair of pants from a nearby pile and pulled them on. Alright. He started to

gather up the clothes that littered the floor. So, where are we, then?

So you wont call me Bill, sir?

No, I... He rubbed his eyes. Look, Ill make you a deal: you come up with a

computer-sounding name, then Ill start calling you by that, okay?

The computer paused. That sounds fair, sir.

Good.


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How about George?

No. Youre the most powerful shipboard computer Ive ever worked with, Im not

calling you George.

Thank you, sir. I appreciate that you think so highly of me.

Its only a fact and you know it, so dont let it get to your head. Morris walked to a

small, narrow passage just past the bed along the port side of the ship, opened a panel right

before the washroom, and started to shovel the dirty clothes into it. So, where have we

stopped?

Would you like an exact answer, sir, or a general one?

He closed the panel and leaned against it. Okay, Ill bite. Lets start with general.

About two-thirds from the centre of the Milky Way galaxy, sir.

Morris frowned as he pressed a few buttons beside the panel. It chunked and whirred as

the clothes were shifted. Okay. Thats a bit too general.

You wont like the specifics, sir.

Ill be getting them eventually anyway.

There was a momentary pause, and if it was at all possible for a computer to sound

apprehensive, then this one did. Were just entering the Sol System.

Morris had his hand on the cockpit door but stopped. Sol?

Yes, sir.


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Ah, shit. He opened the door. Of all the places...

Arent you from here, sir?

Yes, and thats the key word there: from. He climbed into the pilots seat. Its the

proper direction. Someone can ask me Where are you from? or Where are you coming from?

and I can tell them Sol. I like that. The other direction, the to, is the one I dislike. If

someone asks me Where are you off to, Morris? or Where are you going to, Morris? and I

have to answer Sol then theres something wrong. The cockpits panel was smooth and flat

with minimal inputs, outside of a holographic projector and a few switches and buttons; Morris

played idly with one of the switches. So, tell me, computer,why are we here?

I shall assume that you dont mean in a metaphysical sense.

Remind me to adjust your sarcasm routines later.

Of course, sir. As per your question, were rather short on supplies, which Im sure you

noticed, and fuel, which Im sureyou havent noticed, and Sol was the closest system.

Youre kidding me. Not enough fuel to get to, say, Epsilon Eridani?

To borrow one of your preferred phrases, sir: Nowhere near.

To understand the depth of the sigh that came from Morris Cavanaughslungs, it is best

to examine the Sol Systems history. It is a system of some renown, as it is home to the planet

Earth which is famous for two reasons: it is the birthplace of the relativity drive, and it was, at

one point, a beautiful planet, despite some heavy pollution and odd population densities. These

two points added together to make it the go-to destination for sight-seers. Some races started to

camp out in orbit, ready to visit the frozen tundra, the burning deserts, the jungles of Africa, the


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beaches of Cuba and Morocco. One camper turned into two, two into four, and the space

equivalent to tents turned into the space equivalent to trailers. Eventually Earth and the

surrounding space turned into the rental grounds of the galaxy, attracting the dregs of the

discovered races, complete with the trash and pollution that this would entail. Earth was soon

almost abandoned by all but the poorest of humans, and what was once a beautiful blue planet

was more brown with splotches of blue tossed in for good measure.

That he knew people from here didnt help. Right bunch of bastards and backstabbers,

the lot of them.

So the sigh that sounded like it had been pulled from the depths of Morris soul was

certainly a reasonable and understandable reaction.

We dont need to get too close to Earth, do we?

The computer paused. No, sir. A space station was just recently finished, orbiting the

moon Callisto.

A pre-emptive frown crossed Morris face. How recent are we talking about here?

Approximately sixpoint six eight years ago.

I think we need to redefine what approximate means again in your databases.

I understand its meaning quite well, sir. I could have gotten more exact.

At the least could you give it to me in units that I understand. Like months, and days,

and hours, and minutes, and seconds.

Very well, sir. Ill make note of it.


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Thatd be swell, thanks. He heaved anotherlong, tired sigh. Okay. Were looking at

six years and... what, seven months ago?

Nine, sir.

Morris was briefly speechless. After a few moments of false starts, he finally stammered

out: Thats not recent, not even close. How do you call that recent? I mean... one year, okay

sure, fine, Ill buy that, but six and two-thirds?

Compared to the life-span of...

Shut it. Morris leaned back in his seat and stared out the window. Jupiter loomed

before them like a mammoth, a small sliver of it dark, its unblinking eye staring at them while

the gas clouds swirled along in the atmosphere and the stars shone beyond it. Far away though it

was, it was still close to Earth, from a stellar standpoint. Then again, everythings relative.

Space-travel was built on that concept. Not much of a choice, huh?

No, sir.

Okay. Get us docking permissions, then, and take us in. How long will it take?

A few hours on thrusters.

Well, at least that affords me the chance to get laundry done.

Which is why I woke you upon entry, sir.

How thoughtful. He stared out the cockpit window for a few more moments. Sol.

Hopefully he wouldnt run into anyone he knew here. Considering that, more and more, it was

turning into one hell of a small galaxy, he really did highly doubt that.


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* * *

Docking at the space station Belloram IV is a simplified process compared to most. At

any space station clearance must be obtained first, but at a standard station clearance must be

obtained, digitally signed in triplicate, copied for everyones records, and then approved by the

proper port authorities. Considering the proper port authorities are often off having drinks, or

napping, or engaging in other activities in places where the lights are predominantly red, this

process, which under ideal conditions shouldnt take much more than an hour, can often take

upwards of half a day. Belloram IVs process is fully automated, removing the need to send the

forms to the proper authorities, as the A.I.s are the proper authorities, and the shipboard

computers sign what needs signing. A process that should take an hour but often takes twelve is

now completed in approximately ten minutes.

Putting this automated process into existing stations, however, is being met with

disapproval from most port authority figures, is fought against at every step, and is causing many

accidental and not at all suspicious deaths of a good number of port authorities.

Morris ship docked at Belloram IV with no issues. He was always nervous docking;

security always set him on edge. This was on his mind as he pulled on his jacket and checked

his pockets. Youll be fine, right?

Absolutely.

And if anyone wants to enter?

If a computer could sigh, this one would have. If its not you, sir, then they must have a

warrant.


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Good. Hows our credit account looking?

We have enough to fuel up and pick up minimal supplies. May I suggest finding some

employment soon?

Morris sighed. Ill... He gritted his teeth. Ill see what I can find.

Good idea, sir. Will you be picking up anything?

Morris reached for his gun. No, you can take care of that, he said, strapping on the

holster. Just be sure to scan the robots they send in, okay? I dont want any little surprises like

on Cautore III.

I told you, sir, that will never happen again.

Makes me feel better to remind you. He grabbed a wide-brimmed hat and adjusted it in

the mirror. Im going to head on out. Keep this place locked down tight until I get back.

Like a vault.

The hatchway opened out and down, a small stairway on the starboard side of the ship

leading to the dock, and he stepped out. The station was dirty, though the small cleaning bots

that scurried around tried their best to get rid of the layers of muck and grime. One of them

scurried towards his ship with a fuel cable in tow, bleeped a quick greeting at him, and knocked

on the fuel port, which promptly failed to open. The little robot paused and cocked its head. It

bleeped again, knocked on the port, still nothing. It hammered at the door, and the ship finally

spoke to it in a series of electronic noises. The robot had the sense to look affronted and said a

few more things. Morris watched the exchange with a small smile on his face. Ship giving you

trouble, little guy?


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It looked up at him and managed to look angry without having a face to show it. It turned

back to the ship and smacked at the fuel port while saying something that could only have been a

very dirty word. The port opened, knocking the little thing down. It stood, shook itself, then

contentedly continued its fuelling duties.

Morris shook his head and walked on. At the entrance to the deck was a counter behind

which stood a clerk, a three-eyed being most called triocs simply because their real name was

nigh unpronounceable without two tongues and a lower jaw that could bend in three ways at

once, which theirs could. He leaned against the counter and the trioc looked up at him

apathetically.

Reason for visit? the clerk said.

Resupply.

He checked something off. Approximate length of stay?

Maybe a few hours, if Im lucky. Another check. Isnt all of this communicated

before I dock?

He shrugged. Its a compromise between the administration and our union. Weapons?

Standard Gorsh-made light ordinance side-arm. He opened his jacket and showed it to

him.

The trioc nodded and jotted it down. Loaded?

Thats right. Another check. Look, do we have to?

The clerk sighed. Listen, they want a soft-copy as well as the one your ship and our


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docking system filled out together. I dont do this, I dont get paid. Okay?

It just seems like such a pain in the ass.

It is. But I like to eat, so youre going to answer these inane questions. He cleared his

throat. Any diseases?

What? No.

Good. Another check. Have you ever been arrested and/or convicted of a crime?

What? Let me see that! Morris snatched the paper out of the clerks hand like a snake

and looked over it while the clerk gaped. His eyes danced over the page, and as he read his brow

furrowed. Oh, come on! He poked at the paper with his finger. Really? Do you engage in,

or would you like to engage in, live action role-playing? What does that have to do with

anything?

Well, we have a fairly wide range of extra-curricular activities, including LARPing; we

just like newcomers to know what their options are.

What is the meaning of life? Are you kidding me?

We like to see what sort of philosophy our visitors may have. It helps determine if

theyll be trouble, or where we can best suggest for them to visit.

Morris nodded. Uh-huh. He snatched atthe clerks pen, which resulted in a brief

scramble for the writing utensil, from which Morris emerged the victor. Right. He put the

questionnaire down onto the desk and started checking things off himself. No. No. Yes. No.

Definitely not. No. No. No. He filled out the rest silently, tossed the pen and paper back to


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the clerk and walked off. The trioc frowned as he looked over the paper.

Hey! What kind of answer is this?

Morris only waved over his shoulder.

The clerk shook his head. Sort of damn fool answers that with a number?

Morris, for his part, put on an earpiece as he walked down the corridor. You like

messing with the poor little dock robots?

His computer replied, Its the highlight of these visits.

Just be nice to the little guy, huh? Hes giving us gas, after all.

I just dont understand why they dont wipe their personalities as often as theyre

supposed to. Its troublesome.

Morris shook his head. Listen, how do I get to the common area from here?

How do you know Ive the schematics to this place?

Because youre my computer, and being so you downloaded them while you were

keeping the dock A.I. distracted with all those permission forms.

Very good, sir. May I suggest you keep going straight for another hundred metres and

then follow the signs?

Morris glanced to his right and saw a sign with coloured arrows and place names over

them. On the floor were lines that matched the colours on the sign. We really need to check

your sarcasm routines, was all he said.


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Signing off now.

He nodded but kept the earpiece in. The yellow arrow was the way to the Promenade (the

red to the Burlesque District, the blue to the Centre for Mental Well Being, the brown to the

Residential District, and the White to the Entertainment Circle), so he followed it down and

around and up and left and over eventually in more directions than hed care to keep track of.

Finally, after a decent length of time, he came into what was, basically, the Shopping District.

It wasnt what hed expected.

Space stations across the galaxy are mostly the same. Morris had been on enough of

them to recognize this. Theyre mostly grey and silver and metallic. Utilitarian has often been

used to describe them. Ugly and dull as well. One apt observer once called them as ugly as a

Procrarian horses ass, and twice as rank. Its at this point that most ask him What the hell is a

Procrarian horse? to which he often replies Its like a horse, just with more legs, no tail, scales,

a face not even a mother could love, and a smell that would make Satan retch.

The point is that space stations are not known for their sights. Theyre there to serve a

purpose, a sort of way-point for travellers, and thats it. Belloram IV, as has already been

mentioned, is not like most other space stations. The Promenade is an excellent example of this.

Where most stations have the bare bones of neon signs to show a shops entrance, Belloram IVs

Promenade was decorated with flashing lights, banners, confetti streamers, balloons of all

colours, streams of Christmas lights, the occasional three-piece band, and people dressed up in

funny costumes handing out flyers and accosting passer-by.

It was this scene that Morris walked in on, and he was sorely unprepared for it. All he

could do was gawk at the sights. There was a mariachi band outside of a gift shop, a man in a


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bear suit for a pizzeria, and more noise than hed been subject to in the past ten years combined.

Streamers crunched under his feet as he wandered. The computer was right, they needed

money, and that meant work, and that meant being where those of ill-repute spent their off-time.

So he wandered, shoving away the pushier mascots, looking for the seedier bars.

After about ten minutes he stopped and stared. This oughta do it. To his right was an

establishment with little attention outside of it, with nothing marking it other than a dimly lit sign

that read Teals Place. A small smile on his face, he vaguely wondered who Teal was, and

how he got given such an unfortunate name as he walked into the place.

Ah. That was why.

Behind the bar stood a rather large man, though man was probably the wrong exact word.

Male would have been better. This is because who stood behind the bar wasnt really a man, but

rather... a duck. Perhaps calling him a duck wasnt right either, because he had the makings of a

man, arms and fingers, but he had the head of a duck, with a brown and blue pattern on his face,

a black beak, and feathers all over his body. Small, round eyes contrasted with a large and round

frame. He wiped down the bar with a dirty rag, likely making it even dirtier. A black, blue,

brown, and white pattern dominated his feathers.

Morris approached the bar, picking his way past tables that looked like someone had used

them as a trough and a floor that felt like the bottom of a urinal. The place was half-empty, with

some extremely rough and tough looking people. Some kept their eyes on him, some on their

tables. When Morris got to the bar he almost sat down. Almost. Then he noticed the condition

of the bar-stools and decided to lean against the bar instead. Youre Teal, I take it?


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The duck-man behind the bar grunted without sparing him a glance.

Ill take that as a yes.

Get to the point,little man, he said, his voice surprisingly high-pitched for such a large

person.

Morris made a point not to smirk. Got any work for an entrepreneurial young mind?

Cant say as I do.

Huh. He pulled out a credit chip and toyed with it. Thats a shame. Here I was,

willing to share some wealth, too. Teal was staring at the chip as Morris played with it. But if

thats the way its going to be.... He tossed the chip in the air...

...and Teal snatched it at its apex. He examined it as he turned it around in his feathery

fingers. Maybe I might know of some work, he finally said. Depends on what kind of work

youre looking for.

Something off station. Preferably off-system, if you catch my meaning.

Teal frowned at him as best as one can with a bill. You got a problem with Sol? he

squeaked.

Of course he does! came a gruff voice from behind. Morris eyes widened and a chill

ran up his back. Little prick never did like it here.

Morris forced a smile onto his face. Well, if it isntCarl, he said, turning around.

Howve you been?


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I was wondering the same thing about you. Carl, a quadran, leaned in, the smell of

brandy fresh on his breath. Intermittent teeth held a rather large, smoking cigar. Its been a

long time, Cavanaugh. A black beard lined Carls jaw, covering dark, brown, splotchy skin. A

third arm came around and playfully rapped Morris on the chin, while a fourth dusted off his

shoulders. Whereve you been?

Oh, around.

Around? Carl puffed on the cigar. Not here, though. He blew the smoke into

Morris face.

Well, you know how these things go, Carl. One thing leads to another, one star system

leads to another, and the next thing you know its been ten years.

Fifteen, he snarled.

Right. Fifteen. Look, can I help you out at all?

Carl nodded. We can help each other, maybe. He heaved Morris away from the bar.

Come, lets walk and talk.

Sure. Yeah, okay. He stopped, turned, yankedthe credit chip from Teals

unsuspecting hand before reluctantly following Carl out. Whats up?

We go a long way back, you and I, dont we?

Sure. They left the bar, turned right, and kept walking, Carls two left arms around

Morris in a distinctly unfriendly way.

Listen, kid, Ive got my fingers in a bunch of different candy pots.


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You always have.

I always have. He glared at someone in a unicorn costume who started to approach;

they stopped, blinked, grinned, and promptly turned heel and accosted someone else. Thing is,

sometimes I need outside help. You know that.

I know that. He rubbed the back of his neck. So, what do you need?

I need you to know how lucky you are. Carl pulled him closer and glared down at him.

See, I lost alot of money because of you. A lot of money, and a lot of trust. The money, that

was easy to earn back, but trust? Trust can take years to build back up. You cost me half a

decade of work, kid. I need you to know how lucky you are because I could have killed you the

second you stepped off your little white ship.

How... Morris shook his head with a wry smile. Fingers in a lot of pots. Right.

Right.

So, what, I do you a favour and you forgive and forget?

I forget. That will have to be goodenough.

I dont have much of a choice, do I?

Not at all.

Any credits to be made in this? Im a bit broke right now.

Carl barked a loud, hearty laugh. You always did have a pair, didnt you?

Morris chuckled nervously. Yeah, well, you know. Guys gotta eat and all that.


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Carl grinned at him. If youre lucky.

Morris nodded. If Im lucky. Right. He took a breath. Whats the job?

I need something acquired.

Acquired. Right. What is it?

An... item of interest.

I need more than that.

Carl chuckled. You do. He patted Morris shoulder. Down in the Guts, youll find

some people who are transporting it to the docks in an hour. That gives you more than enough

time to get down there and steal it.

Morris blinked. Hold on a second. They stopped. Im stealing it while its being

transported?

Sorry, son, but its the only way. If youd been here earlier, maybe I could have you

take it from them in the lab, but as it stands now, this is your only chance. If that thing gets on

that ship, its done, no chance to get it. Carl pulled out his cigar and glared down at him. And,

let me tell you, sonny boy, you want this chance.

There was menace there that Morris hadnt heard in years.

Got it.

Carl straightened. Good. He replaced the cigar and puffed on it. Ive got a few

people on the inside...


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Multiple pots.

...and theyve told me that itll have five guards, one to carry it and four to surround him.

Minimally armed. They figure no ones stupid enough to try to steal this.

But I am?

No, of course not, dear boy, I wouldnt ever sell you short like that. He swung the

cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. Youre desperate enough.

And who are we stealing from?

Carl chuckled. You dont need to know.

Thats never good.

An hour, Morris. Good luck. He patted Morris amicably on the shoulder with one left

hand, clandestinely dropped something into his pocket with the other, and walked off.

Wait, where am I delivering it?

Ill have the co-ordinates sent to your ship.

Morris nodded as his former associate walked off. Right. He pressed a button on his

earpiece. Computer.

Arthur.

Im not calling you Arthur.

Its dignified, isnt it?


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Could we talk about this later? I need some information.

Id appreciate your input is all, sir.

Morris sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Now is not the time.

There was a pause. What do you need?

I need the location and layout of this stations Guts.

Accessing. There was a pause. Have you a job, then?

In a manner of speaking.

Care to share?

Morris kept walking a brisk pace as he dug into his pocket. Not particularly. He pulled

out a small data chip.

Ah. Thieving again, are we, sir? Hopefully the pay is good?

Oh, it is. I do this I get to keep my skin. He pressed through a throng of people. How

are those schemas coming?

Being downloaded to your personal now, sir.

Thanks. Listen, youre going to be getting a transmission soon, probably encrypted.

Scan it for viruses, spyware, anything malicious before you crack it. Ill want it done by the time

I get back. He rolled the chip between his fingers.

And when will that be?


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Lets say ninety minutes, maybe?

Ill have it ready by then, sir.

I may have to call you back, okay?

I await with bated breath, sir. So to speak.

Morris hit the button on the earpiece and pulled out a mid-sized, thin, rectangular device

from his hip pocket that used a simple touch-screen interface: his personal. He tapped it. Lets

see, then. His fingers darted over the screen as he brought up the schematics that his computer

had sent and let out a slow whistle. Okay. The Guts. He nodded, kept the personal out and

followed the map to his destination.

The Misadventures of a Space Captain

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Transcript of The Misadventures of a Space Captain