Wrath of the Lemming-men Read Online Free PDF Page A

autopilot,’ Smith said. ‘In the meantime, scones all round.’
    Carveth took an extra scone, breaking off a piece for Gerald the hamster. She jogged up to the cockpit, and Smith leaned back in his seat and sighed.
    So, the Yull were not as tough as they’d thought. The Empire had met them head on and bloodied their twitchy noses. This was victory, and perhaps the beginning of the end for the Galactic Happiness Collective. He felt proud of his Empire. If only Rhianna was here.
    Stupid woman. Why couldn’t they stay together?
    Why was the galaxy too much of a distance to keep their relationship going? They had been right together, had made each other happy. It had been a good week, and then she’d gone and spoilt it all by dumping him on Sunday afternoon. Should have got myself an Imperial girl, he thought glumly. Someone called Harriet with big thighs and a Labrador. It was too bad that Rhianna had opened his mind to more exotic things, with her herbal biscuits and her ‘Belly dance to fitness’ tape. That was too pleasant a memory to be entirely bitter.
    On the far side of the table, Suruk scratched a mark into the handle of his spear. Smith felt a sudden twinge of envy. Suruk had no sex drive, felt no affection beyond comradeship, no need to feel the pain that seemed the inevitable result of falling for a girl. Against his better judgement, and the better judgement of the Empire, he wondered if the M’Lak might have got the whole evolution thing down pat.
    ‘Ah, sharp implements,’ Suruk said. ‘Brilliant, eh?’
    Perhaps not, Smith decided.
    The doorbell jangled and Smith strode to the airlock with his mug in hand. A man in blue and red stood on the threshold, a cap on his head and a satchel over one shoulder.
    ‘Captain I.D.W. Smith, Miss P.R. Carveth, Mr S.T.
    Slayer?’ he said. ‘Post for you.’ He passed Smith a wad of envelopes and departed.
    Smith closed the airlock and called Carveth down. ‘Postman’s just come,’ he said. ‘This one’s for you. And this is for you, Suruk,’ said Smith, handing the alien a letter, ‘and these are for me.’ He pressed his thumb onto the security seal and the postmark turned from red to green. Smith tore it open and read the note inside. By the time he had reached the bottom, the top had started to disintegrate.
    ‘Carveth,’ he declared, dropping the letter into the galley sink, ‘we’re having some time off. Set a course for Paragon on Albion Prime. We’re to meet W down there and have a couple of days leave. Normally, I’d be reluctant to take leave while there’s aliens to fight, but we’ve done well.’
    Smith left Suruk in the living room and joined Carveth in the cockpit. He dropped into the captain’s chair just in time to see her disconnect the Pym from the Edward Stobart . The grey flank of the Stobart seemed to slide off the left side of the windscreen as they pulled away. Swift and unarmed, the John Pym split from the fleet, Carveth humming the Blue Danube as they flew.
    Once the course was locked into the helm, Carveth looked round. ‘So, what’s in your other package, then?’
    ‘I’m not sure. Perhaps it’s an Airfix catalogue.’ Smith pulled out a dog-eared magazine and a video. ‘What’s this? There’s a note. . . it’s from my friend Carstairs, back home:
    Dear Smith, sorry to hear about your funny bird buggering off. This should keep your spirits up. Carstairs.
    It must be an Airfix catalogue,’ he added, lifting up the magazine. ‘ Red Hot Fillies ,’ he read. Puzzled, he opened it up – ‘Ruddy hell,’ he said.
    Smith glanced at the video, but too late – Carveth snatched it and, smirking, held it up to the light. ‘ Emma and Verity’s Super Jolly Hardcore Pimms Party ,’ she read. ‘Tut-tut, Boss!’
    ‘I didn’t ask for this stuff, you know,’ Smith said, aware that he was turning red at the edges of his moustache. ‘I don’t find this at all amusing, Carveth. What did you get, anyway?’
    ‘Oh a