The Interstellar Police Force, Book One: The Historic Mission by Raymond Klein (good books to read for women TXT) 📗

The commander continued, “Nevertheless, we’re approaching our destination and must proceed with the mission. We’ll deal with your little condition later.”

“Little condition! I beg your pardon!”

“Come now, we need to continue with the mission. Go ahead and set the Replicator to give us the necessary credentials and documentation to allow us to move around freely when we land.”

“Very well, setting the Replicator to continue with . . . OH MY GOD!”

“What? What happened?”

His partner held up a paw and in a shocked voice said, “No opposable thumbs! Look! NO OPPOSABLE THUMBS! What am I going to do NOW?”

“I don’t know! You're just going to have to adapt. Use your pointy digit nails to manipulate the computer.” The commander held up his hands. “Mine are short and round.” He smiled and waved his fingers in the air.

Exasperated, his partner rolled his eyes. “This is so not fair.” He started to activate the computer and muttered, “Codas canines have thumbs.” Then, louder, “I am so going to make a formal complaint about this for the official record.”

“Well,” the commander said, while looking at his fingernails, “that’s in your right.”

“Yeah, yeah! Next, you’ll be telling me human canines defecate outdoors!”

The computer was activated and in moments personal effects were produced on small platforms in front of the two IPF agents.

“Ah! Here we go. The articles we will need to successfully complete our mission,” the commander said while picking them up. “This is human currency.” He fanned out the bills in his hand, looked at them front and back, placed them to the side, then went back to the rest of the items. “Let’s see, this here is a . . . Social Security Card.” He looked at his partner. “It must indicate my social standings within the community.” He placed that with the currency. “This card is different!” He took his index finger and flicked it.  “Made differently. Seems to be petroleum based, the front of it states ‘Diners Club’.” Shaking his head, “I haven’t a clue.”

Then, with great elation, “And this must be my driving certification.” He picked it up. “It is! Let's see what name the Replicator chose for me.” He read the card. “Jeff Trent! I will from here on out be referred to as Jeff Trent. We can’t make the mistake of using our real names. It could attract too much attention.” He thought back to the “Art and Entertainment” sub-folder that they both studied preparing for the mission, the only reference they had since The Great Fire of 4045, and pondered the name for a few seconds. “Of course! The lead character from the human film Plan 9 from Outer Space.” He looked at his partner. “You know the one.” But the Doberman gave him only a scowl as a response.

“You know?” the commander continued, trying to fill the void, “Where space aliens plan to resurrect the dead into an army of zombies to take over the world.” Still nothing. “Which the lead character,” he gestured toward himself, “Jeff Trent must stop.”

Nonchalantly, his partner asked, “What is this?” And held up a leather object between the digits of his left paw.

“Ah, well.” The commander could see this was going from bad to worse.

“What the hell is this?” The Doberman repeated, shaking the object he was holding. “Is this,” he paused to look at it, then back to the commander, “Is this a collar? Is it? A collar?”

“Ah, I think perhaps, yes.”

“And do I have to wear this around my neck?”

“Ah, yes,” the commander said, not making eye contact with his partner and fiddling with his Diners Club card. “Yes, I think so.” Then said, “Hey, look!” holding up the card. “This card has Jeff Trent's name on it also.” He gave a nervous little laugh. “Didn't see that before. I wonder if the currency does too?” He turned to look.

“Well,” the Doberman said, throwing his paws in the air. “This just keeps on getting better all the time doesn't it? First, I get replicated into a human canine, now I have to be subjected to the indignity and humiliation of wearing a collar around my neck. And I suppose you're going to attach THIS to it!” He thrust up a leash.

“No! No! I would never do such a thing.”

“Well, Jeff, I would certainly hope not!” The sarcasm flowed from his partner like a fissure in a dam.

Trying to veer the topic in another direction Trent said, “What are those little dangly things there?”

“Well, hellooo!” his partner replied. “You’ve already pointed out the fact that I’m a human canine male.”

“No, no,” now pointing at the collar. “Those little dangly things.”

His partner looked at where Trent was pointing and sure enough there were two small tags hanging from the collar. He read one. “Well, like in Glen or Glenda you peek up the skirt and get a surprise.” He turned to look at Trent. “These must be my credentials and documentation. Here’s a tag that states that I’m up-to-date on all my shots. Including rabies and distemper. And hey look at this! My fecal parasite test was negative. Isn’t that lovely!”

Jeff Trent had no response, he just shrugged his newly formed shoulders and grinned. His partner was still looking at the tags with great disdain. Then, looking at the other tag he read something. Something that did not set well with him.

“Oh, this is priceless,” he said. “It says ‘If found, return to Jeff Trent.’ If found!” Then speaking in a mocking tone, “Oh! I’m a big dumb drooling human canine and I’m ever so lost! Please return me to Jeff Trent, my owner.” Then changing his tone to annoyance, “This is so ridiculous!” He glanced at the collar again, not believing that this was happening to him. He then flipped the tag over to see more on the reverse side.

“Oh, wait!” he said, as he read on while Trent silently cringed, sorry that he brought up the little dangly things. “There’s more! It states here that my name is,”