After a few seconds of concentration, Liaison replied. "Allowing for median reaction time, the event which roost likely provoked their behavior was the raising of the space pirate's sword in scene two. There is, of course, also the lesser possibility that..."

Helga raised her hand, silencing the android. "Okay, Okay. Clam up, quark-breath. Stanley, get down there fast. Bring back that sword!"

The fat director lumbered down the central aisle. After a brief but violent argument with the actor who wielded the prop, he huffed his way back up the auditorium ramp. He was wheezing badly as he passed the sword to the company manager.

"All right, baldy," Helga murmured to the android. "Pay attention." In a much louder voice she called to the nearest vertical M 'Hoi, "Hey, Mickey! Look over here, sport!"

When the creature swung its snout in her direction, Helga Glunk waved the one-meter blade. Immediately, the hundred-kilo rodentoid flopped onto the dusty floor, paws up, and thrashed about wildly.

"Well, bonzo," she said to the android, "what's your assessment?"

Liaison started to reply, but just then the auditorium's main doorfield blinked away and a dozen armed M'Hoi charged in, all squealing at once.

The company manager tucked the sword under her tunic and grimaced her most innocent smile. Through clenched teeth she muttered, "Find out what they want, Liaison. Get us out of this mess or I'll convert you into a spaceport toilet."

The android positioned itself in the path of the M'Hoi warriors. There was a prolonged period of paw waving and squeaking. Finally Liaison bowed to the most gaudily dressed of the bunch and turned back to the humans. "They say that the sword belongs to them. Apparently it is a totem, a cultural object with sacred..."

"I know what a totem is, you pile of junk. If we give it to 'em, will they let us go?"

"That seems most likely, mistress."

"Okay. Tell 'em we meant no offense. Ask 'em if they'd accept the sword as a token of..." Suddenly, the director was tugging frantically on her sleeve. "Not now, Stanley, damn it! As a token of..." The director was clearing his throat like a faulty retro rocket and yanking so hard she could hear stitches popping. "Shit! Stall them, Liaison! What the hell is it, Stanley? And it better be good!"

Sweat was pouring down the little man's flushed face. "You can't give away the sword," he gasped, the words all running together.

"Why the hell not?"

"It's the company's, uh, mascot. The cast would never stand for it."

"Look, I want to get us off this planet in our skins, mister. The M'Hoi get the damned sword. That's final!"

"Then you better look behind you, Helga."

"What? Why?" Helga Glunk peered over her shoulder, then stammered into silence. The cast was edging up the aisle armed with an assortment of dummy blasters, fake stunpikes, and other evil looking but harmless props. A chorus of creaking leather and ominous clicks pulled her attention in the other direction. She spun around to face a battery of genuine weapons, deadly and ready, clutched in the paws of the M'Hoi. "Oh, hell," she murmured. "Liaison, tell ' em...ask 'em... Oh, Christ! Tell 'em to take us to their leader!"

* * *

While the rodentoid chieftain — an incredibly ugly specimen — was squeaking his way through various formalities with Liaison, the theater troupe was clustered around their company manager who was asking the same question for the third time, only louder.

"Why won't you idiots give up the prop? And don't give me more crap about noble theater tradition. We haven't got a lot of time. Alloy-ass can't stall King Mickey much longer!"

A wave of sheepish nods and shrugs rolled toward Stanley. The director took a deep breath. "Okay, Helga. Here it is. Try to keep an open mind. The players believe the sword helps them to remember their lines."

"What!? That's the stupidest thing I've ever..."

Stanley didn't let her finish. "Hold on! Have you ever heard one of our players dry up or fluff a line?"

"Well, no. But they've done a lot of other dumb things to screw up the plays, like..."

"But they never messed up a line, have they?"

Helga Glunk never had a chance to reply. The android returned from its deliberations with the M'Hoi chieftain. "Mistress, I must have an urgent word with you. Privately."

She pulled it aside and whispered, "Make it fast, gasket lips. What the hell's going on?"

"The M'Hoi are a techno-degenerate race whose cultural traditions are embedded in numerous epic poems, some taking as long as four diurnal cycles to recite. One, for instance, tells of..."

"The sword, you jackass!" she hissed. "Tell me about the sword!"