DISCLAIMER: The Star Trek characters are the property of Paramount Studios, Inc. The story contents are the creation and property of Cheree Cargill and is copyright (c) 1972 by Cheree Cargill. Rated PG. This story is a PARODY and is designed to offend just about everyone!

NOTE: In 1973, the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C., was putting together an exhibit of fanzines and other Star Trek paraphernalia because it was that year the Star Trek phenomenon broke wide open with the famous first Star Trek convention in New York City. Suddenly, everyone was aware that there were a vast number of Star Trek fans out there, and they all seemed to be coming out of the woodwork at once. I had just discovered fandom the year before and the following story was the very first I ever had published. It was in a zine called Memory Log. At that time, there were only a few zines in existence, Memory Log being one of them. So, the editor, Diedre Mathews of Kalamazoo, Michigan, sent in a copy of her zine to the Smithsonian and, as far as we know, it resides there to this day!

Star Struck

Cheree Cargill

From the command chair on the bridge of the USS Nobel Prize, Captain Blemish Quirk watched his super-sexy yeoman, Fanny "One Night" Stand, slink away from him to the elevator. Every male on the bridge was watching Yeoman Stand, too, but turned back to their posts at a jealous glance from Quirk.

First Officer Spoke was first alerted to trouble when the library computer gave him a tiny screech. "What's the matter, baby?" he inquired softly, stroking the machine's luxurious sensor panel.

"Cough, sputter, pop-pop, screech, sssssssssspppppppphhhhhh!!!!!!!" the computer purred.

"Good heavens!" Spoke spake. "This is serious! I've never heard you lisp like that before!"

"Strrrrreeeeeeee," replied the computer.

The half-Galvanized first officer swung his chair around. "Captain Quirk!"

"What is it, Mr. Spoke?"

"I've just received a message from my computer."

Blem Quirk looked at him. "Well, what is it?"

"Cough, sputter, pop-pop, screech, sssssssssspppppppphhhhhh!!!!!!!" Spoke answered, enunciating carefully.

Quirk lowered his immaculately plucked eyebrows. "Hmmm ... Interesting. And absolutely true. Any suggestions, Spoke?"

"Well, I'm not sure..."

From the communications panel, Lieutenant Oh-hurry, who was black, beautiful and proud of it, said, "I've picked up a message, sir. It's from the Put-ons."

"What do they say?"

Oh-hurry listened and shifted the chicken bone she wore through her nose. "I can't quite make it out, sir, but I think it says, 'Icky twerp ajax frisbee dingo banshee oop-oop enzyme.'"

"Which means?" Quirk inquired.

"How should I know?" Oh-hurry responded, feeling diligently about her immense tangled Afro. "I don't speak Put-on. Oh, heck! That's the third comb I've lost in there this week!"

Quick paid her no mind, but rubbed his smooth, clean-shaven chin. "What do you make of it, Spoke?"

"Well, I'm not sure..."

At the helm, Lieutenant Boohoo reported suddenly, "Captain, there's a Put-on ship!"

"'Where?"

"About seventy-feet in front--"

"Good gravy! Back full!"

Everybody on the stern half of the ship ended up in the bow--all but Quirk, that is, who had his seat belt buckled. Before the crew's heads had cleared, the Captain was standing on his chair shouting, "Get up, you lazy bums! He's getting away!"

Boohoo disentangled himself from Oh-hurry's fervent grasp and pulled himself up on the helm. As he began to work to right the ship, Spoke peered over the helm at the main screen and immediately ducked back.

"They're shooting at us! " he cried, cowering underneath the navigation panel, hands over his head.

The Put-on ship had loosed a gigantic golf ball at them and it was bearing down at alarming speed.

"Hard of left!" Quirk bellowed, still standing on his chair.

Boohoo hesitated, for being nautical-minded, he didn't remember where left was. "Now, let's see..."

The Nobel Prize turned a complete flip as the alien weapon struck. The crew was slammed back into the stern of the ship.

The Captain himself was felled this time, having toppled over backwards in his chair. As he picked himself up and carefully adjusted his natural-looking, 100% human hair toupee, he ordered, "Sound red alert, Lieutenant. We're going after him."

"Hey, groovy!" Ensign Paddle Checkout responded from the elevator where he was sprawled. "Yeah, man! Let's drag!"

Quirk stabbed the intercom button. "Hey! Let's watch that stuff," it protested. Pushing it more gently, the Captain said, "Engineering, give us speed."

'Well, gee, Cap'n," a hazy voice answered, "We all outa speed. Willya settle for a little grass?"

"Who's that?" Quirk demanded.

"Well, at this point, I ain't rightly sure, the voice answered. "Wait--I think Mr. Scoot's comin'--"

There was a resounding thud from the intercom and then Chief Engineer Roebuck Scoot's voice issued forth, "Ye nae gud son o' the Loch Ness monster! Ay oughta gi' ye--"

"Scooty! What's going on down there?"

There was another thud. "Tek that trippin' beastie oota here! Oh, nothing, Captain. What can I do for ye?"

"Warp six. Ahead full."

A chorus of "Aye, sir!" answered him. "Hmmm," thought Quick. "Our tenor section is a little flat today."

The Put-on ship was already at the far edge of their sensors, but, as Scotty dropped the immense gearshift down into first and gunned the warp button, the Nobel Prize shot after it like a chicken with its tail on fire.

Almost immediately, there was a call from the hanger deck. "Captain, you're not going to believe this," said the crewman, "but there's a chicken running around down here with its tail on fire."

"Have it plucked, stuffed and brought to my cabin with a little cranberry sauce and white wine," the Captain replied, switching off. "Prepare forward blazers, Lt. Boohoo."

"Yes. sir. Okay, you guys, get ready to blow it."

The alien ship was within range so Quick ordered, "Fire!"

At once, an immense blob of ultra-gooey pink bubblegum issued forth from the forward blazer tank, formed a bubble bigger than the Nobel Prize herself, and sped toward the enemy ship. Though the Put-ons tried to dodge the oncoming weapon, they moved too late and the bubble burst, engulfing the ship in a fine web of sticky gum, hopelessly fouling the engines.

"Got it!" cried Checkout, carving another notch in the navigation panel. "But, after all, bubblegum is a Russian inwention."

As soon as he was sure that the Put-on ship was completely gummed up, Quick yelled, "Sick call!" and immediately leapt into the elevator ahead of everyone else.

* * *

As Quirk stumbled into sick bay, he gasped, "Blood!"

A tall blonde nurse, Lieutenant Pristeen Temple, met him. "Good heavens, Captain!"

Quirk was clutching his left index finger. "It's broken. Morphine! I need morphine!"

"Let's let Dr. Decoy look at it." She stepped into the hall and looked both ways. "Isn't Mr. Spoke with you?"

"Of course not. I don't need that pointy-eared son of--"

"Blem, what's yore problem?" asked a distinctly Southern voice. Dr. Beauregard Lafayette Owen Oscar Decoy, or "Blood" to his friends, entered.

Quirk held up his finger, his intelligent hazel contact lenses filling with bravely suppressed pain. "I lacerated my digit."

Decoy stared at him, his blue eyes bloodshot, then it dawned on him. "Oh! If you cut your finger, why didn't you say so?" He took the Captain's hand and studied the injured finger. Then he went to his desk and got a magnifying glass. After careful scrutiny, he said, "Darned if I can find anything. You shore you cut it?"

"Positive," Quirk answered.

Decoy shrugged. "Musta healed."

"Well ... can't you put a bandage on it anyway?"

Decoy shrugged again and slapped a band-aid around the Captain's finger.

"Don't you think you oughta put it in a sling?" Quirk queried.

"I do not. Now, git outa here, Blem, so's I can tend to mah other patients." Decoy shooed the whimpering Quirk out the door.

The Captain assumed a pose of martyrdom and bravely limped back to the bridge.

* * *

Checkout and Boohoo were shooting craps with Mr. Spoke, who, innocent of Earth games,

was adding his shirt and genuine "Lost in Space" wristwatch to the pot. "Seven! A loser!" crowed Checkout, swooping in delight down on the goodies.

Spoke looked dubious and started to protest. "I don't--"

"Sure you do," Boohoo broke in. "That's how it's played. Got anything else to bet?"

The first officer looked from one to the other, then admitted, "I do have that special anniversary issue of SpaceMate with Miss Galvanized as Space Mate of the Month." He went to his station and opened a hidden panel beneath the viewer. From it, he extracted a dog-earred copy of a men's magazine and passed it over for Checkout and Boohoo to inspect.

As Checkout unfolded the foldout, Boohoo and the rest of the male crewman clustered around.

"Good golly, Miss Molly! "

"Will you look at the size--" exclaimed another.

Boohoo merely whistled. "When does the next ship leave for Galvan?" inquired the awed weapons control officer.

"Hey!" Spoke protested, snatching the magazine away from the drooling Checkout. "You're getting it all wet!"

"I'll give you two credits for it," offered the navigator.

"Four!" countered Boohoo.

"Seven and a half!" answered Checkout.

"Ten," said Quirk who had just entered and had caught sight of Miss Galvan's ample embellishments.

Spoke immediately hid the magazine his back and stood anxiously as the Captain sauntered up to him. Quick held out his hand and, after a sorrowful last glance, Spoke handed Miss Galvan over to him.

Quirk smoothed out the photo and looked it over thoroughly, his anger fully controlled. "You could get ten years for this!" he screamed. "Do you realize what you've done? Smuggling this ... this pornography aboard my ship? I could bust you for this! I'm going right down and throw this down the disposal! And, if I ever catch anymore of this-- Well, I'd better not catch any! Is that clear? You're all on report!"

Quirk spun around, magazine in hand, marched angrily down to his cabin and tacked the lush beauty up alongside his permanent collection.

While he was there, Fanny Stand appeared, thick blonde hair spilling down over her shoulders and her too-full body straining against her too-small uniform. "I have those requisition slips for you to sign, Captain, darling," she purred.

"Of course, yeoman," Quirk replied, suave, gallant and sure of himself. "Let's have them."

"How about a little drinkie first?"

"Certainly. What would you like? Pineapple juice, orange juice or passion fruit juice?" asked Quirk, opening his health food bar,

"Passion fruit," Fanny smiled, her perfect white teeth momentarily blinding him with their radiance.

As Quirk handed her a glass, she asked, "Do you mind if I sweeten it a bit?"

"But it's naturally sweet with nature's own juice," the Captain protested, flexing a bicep to prove his point.

"Just nature's own grain, " Fanny simpered, and with that, produced a flask from her portable tricorder-and-hip-flask-carrier case and poured some of the golden liquid into the passion fruit juice. She took a sip and her big, sky-blue eyes widened. "Ooooo! Now that's passion fruit juice!"

Giggling, she drank the rest of the juice and set the glass down. Quirk was watching her, his healthy male instinct rising accordingly. Fanny giggled and tugged at her collar, although it was already low on her unbelievable bosom. "My, it's hot in here," she said. "Mind if I get a little more comfortable, Captain?"

Quirk smiled, flipped the lock on his door and went to help her.

* * *

Several days later, Spoke went down to sick bay to talk to Dr. Decoy. The surgeon was in his office, mixing up a mint julep with one of his scalpels. He smiled blearily at the first officer and asked, "What's yore problem, Spoke?"

"I'm worried, " Spoke said. "I haven't seen the Captain or Yeoman Stand for several days. Could they have fallen overboard?"

"Naw," Decoy decided, testing his drink. "Somebody woulda noticed the air leakage. Checked the shuttlecraft?"

Spoke nodded. "They're all there ... all except for the one we exiled Lt. Kite in. It's tied to the left warp engine until Kite promises to start using Dial. Keeps insisting Zest is better than soap."

"Space happy," Decoy sighed, sipping his julep. "Have you tried the Captain's cabin?"

Spoke looked blank, then said, "Gee ... I never thought of that."

He turned and promptly fell flat on his face, having tripping over Nurse Temple who was kissing his boots. The first officer lay stunned and Pristeen took advantage of his prone position to gather him in her arms and wail, "Oh, you poor darling! Did he hurt himself? Well, we'll fix it. Tell Pristeen where it hurts and she'll kiss it all better."

Spoke groaned and clutched his pounding head. Pristeen promptly plastered him on the forehead with a huge kiss.

Spoke came awake with a start, then jumped to his feet ... or tried to, for Pristeen was still hanging on his neck.

"No! You mustn't get up!" she cried. "You're hurt! You should be in bed." With that, she picked him up bodily and carried him into the infirmary where she deposited him on a bed. Spoke was up and heading for the door at once, but Pristeen caught him and this time strapped him down. After fighting it a full ten minutes, Spoke collapsed and cried.

Decoy waited until the nurse had rushed out to "put on something; more comfortable" then weaved over and released the blubbering Galvan.

"You want my advice, Spoke, old boy?" the doctor asked, shoving a slightly used tissue in the first officer's face. "If'n I was you, I'd high-tail it down to my cabin and barricade the door!"

"You think so?" Spoke asked in a high, squeaky voice.

Decoy looked at his watch, squinted and managed to make out the face. "Yep, an' ya better hurry. Pristeen was quick-change champion of the Third Fleet Medical Corps."

On cue, Pristeen's voice floated in, "Spokey, here I come--"

The first officer turned very pale, choked on the lump in his throat, and made a dash for the door, one hand over his mouth.

* * *

Not long afterward, a message come in from Sore Feet Command directing the Nobel Prize to investigate the planet Psi Draconis 5, a totally unimportant planet around an amazingly insignificant star.

After receiving the orders, Quirk went promptly to the intercom and ordered briskly, "Ull uhbwow. Hedig aye dacoh es, wup a."

There was a pause from the intercom. "How's that again, Captain?" asked Boohoo.

Quirk swallowed the enormous lump of truffle casserole he'd been chewing and snapped, "What's wrong with you people today? I said, lay in a course for Psi Draconis 5, warp eight. Now get that straight. I'm sick and tired of repeating orders! What are you? Total incompetents?" He switched off, grumbling and went back to his table to find Spoke happily surveying Quirk's supper.

"Yummy," he said. "That looks good. What is it?"

Quirk answered, somewhat impatiently, "Lobster thermidor, pheasant under glass, wild rice, vegetables du jour, and cherries jubilee."

Spoke made a face. "Yech! When are they going to start serving decent food? What is the crew having?"

"Black bread and water."

"I think I should join them."

"I think you're right."

* * *

After running over three asteroids, several space probes and an interstellar taco vendor, the Nobel Prize swung into orbit around Psi Draconis 5, trailing a long strip of red and yellow awning and a thin path of tortilla crumbs, lettuce and taco sauce.

Quirk, Spoke, Checkout and a security guard beamed down to the surface of the planet. It was dry, weathered and totally ordinary. Immediately, they spread out, doing their jobs--Quirk drinking all the water and complaining of the heat, Spoke and Checkout arguing over who got to take the first tricorder reading, and the guard taking pot-shots at a small thin creature like a cross between a rabbit and a lizard.

Only a few minutes had gone by when Spoke spotted a small cloud of dust approaching. He pointed it out to his comrades who were now engaged in constructing a model of Jersey City in the sand.

"Quick! " Quirk ordered. "Hide the pails and shovels! They'll want to play too!"

No sooner had he spoken than did two sorry specimens of humanoid life thunder up on a pair of splendid bozos, huge, featherless avoids, as big as ostriches. One was a lovely shade of decayed potato, the other the color of a pickled beet.

The humanoid riding the potato-colored bozo slid down and approached the group, followed

by his companion. Both were aqua-blue in complexion, with artfully arranged warts complementing their green sprigs of hair. Both were dressed in colorless tights that looked as if they'd been through the washer one time too many, the leader was attired more sumptuously than the other--dirty tennis shoes, long macrame sash dragging from his tattered tunic, and a button that read, "Dziban--love it or lump it."

A man of obvious integrity, Quirk decided."I'm Captain Blemish Quirk of the starship Nobel Prize," he announced.

The fat creature bowed. "I am ruler of the country of Whole-Schmeer. I am Konsti Pated."

"Gee, that's too bad," answered Quirk sincerely. "Have you tried prunes?"

"That's my name, " the leader replied sourly. "This is my chief assistant, Bul Krapp." The other creature bowed. "I suppose you're wondering why we called you to this god forsaken waste."

"Frankly, yes. I had to break a date with a hot chick on--"

"Captain, please!" begged Pated. "I'm serious. You must help us."

"Perhaps if you explained your problem," Spoke suggested.

"Alas, we cannot explain," Pated sighed. "We must show you. Come."

The group followed the two mounted Dzibans along a faint path, Quirk for a time hopping along and cursing fluently after having stepped in something soft deposited by one of the preceding bozos.

At length, they passed a signpost which read, "God Forsaken Waste--10 sligs."

"How much is a slig?" asked Quirk.

"Just a hop, skip and a jump," Krapp replied.

Ten hops, skips and jumps later, the group entered God Forsaken Waste, capital city of the country of Whole-Schmeer, chief province of Dziban. It rose majestic before them, gleaming like an open sanitary land fill. Scenic sewers lined the roads, and here and there affluent Dzibans could be seen walking their sleek, pedigreed rats.

Presently the group entered a jumble of cardboard boxes, the Dzibans' higher class neighborhood. They went through a high wall of non-returnable soft drink bottles and the two noblemen left their bozos in the care of a youngster who resembled a badly undernourished toad.

From there, they led the starship officers through a hole in the side of a nearby mountain and, for a long time, they walked in silence, the blackness of the passage echoing their bootsteps, the drip of distant water, and the flutter of leathery wings.

The group rounded a corner and suddenly, there was a pyramid of light; at the same time they became aware of a muffled crunch, crunch, gulp!

Pated stopped the group and said, "This, gentlemen, is our pride ... and our problem. You are about to come into the presence of the most spectacular work of art our planet has ever produced. Gentlemen, my daughter, the Princess of Whole-Schmeer, the beautiful Phat-Irmah."

With that the visitors were thrust into the chamber, momentarily blinded by the light. At the same time, there was a reverberating giggle and a loud female voice squealed, "Oh, Papa! You got me a man!"

Quirk's eyes were the first to adjust and he fell back, horrified. Spoke, Checkout, and the guard followed suit, the Russian adding, "Blahh!"

At first, it seemed part of the rock wall, then it moved and wriggled amid the mountain of empty Coke cans and Cracker Jack boxes that surrounded it. Whatever it was, it was immense, robed in a loud Hawaiian shirt and orange pedal pushers. Huge, hairy legs and arms protruded from the garments and ended in fire engine red nails. Rising above the horrendous body was a head that almost defied description. The bulbous nose sported a wart that had been pierced to allow a Captain Midnight Decoder Ring to dangle gracefully. The lips were rimmed with hot pink lip gloss, which complemented the lemon-yellow teeth... both of them. The tiny, pig-like eyes had been surrounded by many inches of paint and were crowned by enormous false eyelashes, extending at least two feet from the jelly-like face. The whole thing was framed by a veil of hair that resembled overcooked spinach.

Phat-Irmah clapped her hands in delight and pointed at Spoke. "I like that one, Papa!" she giggled. "He's cute!"

Spoke turned white and began to shake his head vigorously, but two Dziban guards seized him from behind and began to drag him forward.

Quirk shouted, "Spoke! Use your unique Galvan self-defense methods!"

Spoke, trained in the use of nerve pinches and a delicate, but lethal knowledge of the nervous system, did not hesitate. Immediately, he flew into action, slamming one guard in the windpipe with his elbow and kicking the other in the groin with the toe of his heavy, steel-lined size eleven boots.

Quirk saw only a flash of color go by as Spoke shot out the door. Abruptly the ground began to tremble and rocks were shaken from the walls and ceiling. The guards screamed and covered their heads in dismay. Phat-Irmah was lumbering to her feet, roaring her indignation!

Quirk paled and ordered, "Hook 'em!" Then he and the other two men made a mass exodus through the door.

Rocks and dust were falling all around them and everywhere the desperate squeaking of the creatures that inhabited the tunnels sounded.

Checkout managed to catch Quirk and grabbed his arm, crying, "Captain! What about Mr. Spoke? If he's lost--"

"That's his tough doogies!" Quirk puffed back. "Shut up and run!"

Abruptly they were in the open and caught sight of Spoke heading for the hills astride the purple bozo. The potato-colored one was tied nearby, squawking with alarm. Checkout made a run for it, but the Captain pulled him back and flung himself across its wide back. The guard jumped up behind him and dug his heels into the bird's fleshy sides. It squawked louder, yanked its head back, and leaped away, Checkout hanging precariously onto its neck.

The whole mountain seemed about to explode and Dzibans poured from their hovels, chattering frantically. Somehow, the Earthmen clawed their way out of town.

The mountain was crackling, smoke and fire and Phat-Irmah's bellow issuing forth. Outside town, they met Spoke and, jumping off the bozos, the men ran into a clear spot.

Quirk yanked out his communicator and cried, "Scooty! Beam us up!"

The trembling mountain blew apart and, as the men dissolved into limbo, their last sight was of Phat-Irmah, towering above the city, leering about her and quivering like an obscene mold of lime jello.

* * *

Back on board the Nobel Prize the men all went on sick call to recover from their harrowing experience. All four were shaking like Arcturian swamp willows and Dr. Decoy ordered complete rest.

Decoy had discharged Checkout and the guard when Fanny Stand bounced in, her usual blank smile bright. "I brought you something, Captain, baby," she cooed and planted a huge, juicy kiss on Quirk's lips.

The Captain slipped one arm about her slim waist and led her out ... to get some rest.

Nurse Temple sat down on Spoke's bed, took his hand and patted it sympathetically. "Was it bad, Spoke, honey?"

"Awful!" he answered, looking in anguish at the ceiling. "It was awful! She was ... was..." he shuddered. "I can't even talk about it."

"Oh, you poor dear!" Pristeen cried, hugging him to her. "Don't worry. I'll take care of you!"

She jumped up and rushed out. "I'll have my things moved into your cabin at once."

Decoy, now on his tenth mint julep, was still coherent enough to notice that Spoke did not protest. Instead, he got up with a self-satisfied look and started to follow the nurse out. The doctor looked incredulous and announced, "I don't believe it!"

Spoke stopped and shrugged, smiling smugly. "I'm slow, but I ain't stupid. And after Phat-Irmah, anything looks good!"

THE END