Space Captain Flight, R.S.N. In Perils Of The Death Moon! Chapter Two: The Trouble With Malaria.

Space Captain Flight, R.S.N. In Perils Of The Death Moon!

Chapter Two:

The Trouble With Malaria.

The planet which later became known as Malaria was fraught with trouble from the very beginning. As soon as British explorers set foot upon the surface, out of two dozen colonists three dozen of them came down with various illnesses, diseases and ailments. It seemed that every possible malaise existed on this otherwise green and pleasant planet, hence it was considered the perfect place for the Royal Science Corps' Institute for Disease Control, Prevention and Cure. The only people who did not think so were the seventy-six poor souls who were given the task of running the place.

-Encyclopaedia Galactic, 3rd Edition

Fleet Admiral the Right Honourable Sir Audley Bearable swirled the remnants of his tea round in the cup, watching the tiny flakes of leaf dance over one another in the amber liquid. He had once heard of people using tea leaves to read the future, or had he imagined it? Didn't matter, the cup was virtually empty anyway. Must be time for another one. He set the tiny bone china cup down on his desk and started searching for his teapot. Not an easy task as it turned out, as almost everything on the desk was covered in a knitted cosy, thanks to Mrs. Bearable and her recent knitting obsession. He uncovered a typewriter, a pen holder and a desk lamp before he could locate the teapot. With a triumphant cry, he hoisted the heavy brown ceramic pot, giving it a good swish before he poured.

As he poured, a succession of rapid squeaks and trundling noises heralded the arrival of the Admiral's aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Roland Tumbledown. Once a promising young officer, Roland's active career was cut tragically short due to an accident with a space torpedo loading mechanism, as were both his legs. Not one to let something as petty as a double amputation get him down, he opted for a series of groundbreaking new operations to have the very latest in high-tech prosthetic replacement limbs fitted. Unfortunately, the very latest in high-tech prosthetic replacement limbs had been designed by a man who had (for reasons best known to himself, his psychiatrist and a number of orderlies) scored an unprecedented nine-point-six on the Guano scale of insanity. So instead of a pair of shock-absorbent fully articulate feet at the end of his plastic and high-tensile alloy legs, Roland was lumbered with a pair of wheels. Which, to be honest wasn't too bad most of the time, as long as he remembered to keep both legs in the correct alignment. Currently, with other things on his mind he was a little out, so careened across the office in three slightly different directions before coming to a screeching halt just in front of Admiral Bearable's desk, his head whipping forward and coming in contact, fortunately with a pile of knitted single-page document covers. "Admiral, Admiral!" His cries muffled through the expanse of wool.

Bearable jumped, splashing tea all over his lap. "Oh blast it you rolling idiot! What?!"

Composing himself, Roland straightened up, smoothing down his uniform. "It would appear Captain Flight has varied from his mission parameters."

"What what?" The Admiral started mopping at the spilt tea with the typewriter cosy. "Must you always talk in doublespeak? Try English you bloody buffoon!"

"He's headed off in the wrong direction." He spat a few stray fibres nervously. "To make matters worse, he didn't even pick up his cargo."

"His cargo? But they were vital supplies!"

"I know Admiral. We have a cargo bay here with two hundred and fifty thousand toilet rolls waiting to get to Planet Malaria!"

"Dash it!" Bearable roared. He hated to be interrupted whilst taking tea, but this was so much worse. "Get me Flight immediately!"

"We've tried, sir. But the Victory II's communicators seem to be inoperative at the moment. They must be travelling at maximum continuum-warp speed."

"Blast it!" Bearable snarled. He knew Captain Flight could be a little impulsive at times, but this had really taken the biscuit. Speaking of which, he was sure there had been a plate of hobnobs on the desk somewhere. Now if only he could work out which cosy it was under...

They weren't kidding when they named this planet, Chief Epidimiologist Brian Sturgeon thought as he staggered from the reeking confines of the lavatory. Malaria? Diptheria more like. He groaned, clutching the tattered remains of what had once been a book to his aching stomach. His skin had taken on a noticeably green hue since he had been assigned to the Centre for Disease Control, Prevention and Cure and he had lost almost half his body weight. Moving with the deliberate slowness of someone who knew exactly how disastrous a sudden move could be on the laundry bill, he made his way to his office. He paused at the water cooler, contemplating trying to rehydrate himself a little then thought better of it, remembering what had happened the last time. Trying to suppress a shudder, he continued on his way.

"Hello Brian," Head Scatologist Darwin Squiers approached from the other nearby lavatory, mopping sweat from his brow with his tie.

"Darwin," Sturgeon replied, trying not to walk too fast.

"Just been eh?" He managed a weak smile.

"For the record, same as it's been for the past six months."

"Thought so. Mine too. I've given up on taking samples."

"Can be quite tiresome can't it?" Sturgeon opened the door to his office and waddled in, dropping the book on his desk and gingerly sitting in his chair.

"Any news on the supplies?" Squiers was hopeful; but then he had always counted himself as an optimist. At least, he had until he came here.

"Nothing. Not a..." he lifted a buttock and emitted a distinctly wet sound, "squeak."

"It is getting rather hard."

"Well if it were there wouldn't be so much of a problem." Noticing Squiers' puzzled expression, Sturgeon gave him a little smile. "Get it? Getting hard - solid as opposed to getting hard - difficult?"

Squiers chanced a little laugh. "We've almost completely run out of everything. Every possible substitute for toilet paper has been and gone. All the papers, the research documents, textbooks, requisition forms, even the sandpaper from the caretakers closet."

"Now that was a weekend to forget..." Sturgeon winced at the memory.

"Even this..." Squiers picked up the remnants of the book Sturgeon had deposited on the desk.

"Yes, my first edition signed copy of Biggles Flies South. It was a heartbreak to let it go, but a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do."

"Hm," Squiers opened the book, squinting at the front page. It was also the only page left. "I don't think when he wrote it the author quite intended for Biggles to fly quite that far south."

"Do you suppose they're coming anytime soon?"

"You should know, you sent the urgent request yourself what was it? Two weeks ago?"

"Two weeks, one day nine hours and fifteen minutes ago. Not that I've been counting, but that was when we were down to the last eight rolls. You any closer to finding any sort of cure?"

"For what? We're all suffering from so many dashed illnesses I don't know where to start. I've isolated over two thousand different strains of Escherichia Coli alone. I've not even been able to sort the good from the bad."

Sturgeon opened the box on his desk. "Care for a cigar?"

"Not for me, thanks. God only knows what would happen if I coughed." Sturgeon considered his partners words for a moment, then closed the box without a word.