Just like in our last exciting episode, last names are avoided in this story for anti-litigious reasons. Those who are mentioned will know who they are and obviously cherish this oportunity at immortality. The actions of the characters in this work are based upon rigorous simulations, which were in turn based on the often hilarious reactions of the real-people prototypes.

Any similarity between characters in this work of Fiction and any person living or otherwise is a calculated plot tool and an integral part of this story's extensive character development process, and if you don't like it - I just won't write about you next time!

Note: The Author excludes himself from this narrative as could be construed as a megalomanic conflict of interest and is quite beneath his dignity.

Another Note: This story takes place in the "Gravity Music" Universe. The characters used in this story are the exclusively owned property of the author and any unauthorized reallocation of the aforementioned will be seriously dealt with by the authors cousin, who is also his lawyer. No, really. Try it and see what happens!

OK, one more Note: Because some of the characters are recycled from a previous story (see above), which isn't finished, let alone published, some names and morphological details may not make a hell of a lot of sense. A Readers Guide is available from the author (Real Soon Now).

Just one teeny Note more: Dialog in Italics (like this) shall be assumed to be spoken in Sennal (That's the common language of the assorted races from Senn (51 Pegasi to you)).

From his customary vantage-point in front of the gapping doors of the -22 Building, Jim saw the single-seat lander as it skimmed, like a supersonic bumblebee, over the paint hanger. Quickly, he took cover on the interior side of a massive door. After his last exciting episode with Sennal landing craft, the wily supervisor had become more than a little sensitive concerning anything flying over his head at close to Mach one! Though stoutly buffeted by the landers bow-shock, Jim wisely saved his breath, electing not to volubly express his abiding hatred of low-flying Alien landing craft.

As though gliding on trolley-tracks in the air, the Yugo-sized lander zoomed the length of Final Assembly, dodging the vertical stabilizers of three 747 and a crane-load of flaps, before finally coming to an impossibly abrupt stop, in mid-air, at the southern extremities of Final Body Join. With majestic slowness, the lander fulfilled its prime function and landed, right in the middle of the much-abused 'Crane-up' zone, amongst the three days over-parked galleys and enough assorted tooling to outfit another nine airplanes.

Seeing another item mysteriously added to the already burdensome list of things to get rid of, John spent a small part of the next minute banging his head on his desk before he heaved a resigned sigh and called transportation to add it to its oft ignored list of things to make go away. After wearily staring at the new item for several minutes, John noticed that it bore no discernible resemblance to any galley he'd ever seen and got up to investigate.

As the Guru of Material Handling approached the interloping item, a gull-wing door on its right side whirred open and a two meter tall, bipedal, wolven creature emerged and commenced sniffing the air. With radar-like accuracy, the being's toothy muzzle pointed in the exact direction of Franks desk and more to the point, the huge pile of barbecued pork chops reposing on an overburdened paper plate, ensconced in a Fred Meyer plastic bag concealed in the top left-hand drawer.

Pushing the startled John out of the way, the tall female Dirhal warrior strode over to Frank's desk, as everyone else fell all over themselves trying to get out of the way. Fully expecting to have to give up another load of porcine goodies, Frank stood his ground, his back to the desk.

"Hey, {expletive} you! You go get your own stuff!" he shouted, snuggling up to his desk a trifle closer.

Just like the last time, Frank soon found himself in the grip of exceedingly strong, furry fingers, suspended by his ample neck, several inches above the floor.

"Aaaak!" gargled Frank, a bit breathlessly, finding himself for the moment speechless.

As our helpless hero gurgled and gasped in (dare I say it?) impotent rage, another gray furred, black clawed hand snaked into the hallowed sanctum of his Upper Left Hand Drawer and fished out a fist-full of pork chops, cramming them into a toothy muzzle.

"Mmmm, good stuff!" growled Ruunn, an approximate translation coming from a device on her weapons belt.

"Aaaak!" repeated Frank, perhaps a bit more feebly.

"You will come with me, Human. You are a good provider, a very important consideration in a mate." Ruunn's translated voice growled as she slurped and licked barbecue sauce from the fur of her free hand.

At the last word, Frank went stiff and pale, neither conditions having the slightest thing to do with his current state of suspended respiration.

"What the {expletive} are you talking about!" shrieked the Alien Abduction guest of honor.

"I have claimed you as my mate. You will come with me. NOW!"

"I can't," breathlessly whined frank. "My wife will kill me!"

"This would be unfortunate. However, you will be very safe with me," answered the wolven warrior maiden, her gray muzzle open in a downright doggy grin.

Heedless of Franks panicked protestations, Ruunn returned the rotund supervisor to his feet and started to march him toward her lander. The reluctant Human dug in his heels, leaving a trail of smoking, black skid marks in his wake.

"Aaaaaiiiiiii!!" yelled Steve. "Stop that! I just waxed that floor!"

"Aaaaaiiiiiiiyyaaa!!" came a high-pitched shout from behind a lavatory. In a blur of motion, Doug sprang from behind the long-left loo, aiming a swooshing side-kick at the grinning muzzle. Only to have it effortlessly deflected.

"Rrrrr. This one is cute!" Ruunn grinned to herself. "I like it when they fight. Maybe I could take this one too."

"Ya!" agreed Frank with vast enthusiasm. "Take him instead!"

"Mmmmph!" muttered Doug as Ruunn covered his face with a large, wet, sauce-covered paw, effortlessly holding his flailing form at arm's length.

"I shall not be greedy," growled Ruunn as she slung a struggling Frank over her left shoulder, pushing Doug to one side.

"Hey! Bring him back, he still has five interviews to do!" shouted Doug at the rapidly retreating furry back.

"I have a more interesting job for him," said the translator on Ruunn's belt.

"Heeelllpp!" shouted Frank, becoming increasingly desperate as the distance between himself and his pork chops steadily increased.

Doug was about to administer the dread Fist of Death when he looked at his watch and discovered that he was going to be late for a Customer Meeting.

"Wahoo, I'm going to be late!" With a [insert desired adjective here] pang of regret he turned and headed off down the isle.

In Ruunn's absence, a hook-tender arrived to crane-up the weird-looking lav but canceled the call because it wasn't on a pallet and didn't have a transportation tag. The next five items on the list were also canceled for good measure (and you thought it was just a mistake!). Thus the landing craft was just where she left it. Things were going according to plan until the Lupine Lass discovered that her catch of the day wouldn't fit into the tiny cargo compartment of her lander. Try as she might, (and she tried mighty hard) she couldn't quite get all of Frank's ample bulk into the vehicle.

"Mmmmmph," said Frank from his compressed accommodations.

Seeing that her efforts were doomed to failure, Ruunn decided to minimize her losses. Quickly returning to Frank's desk, she grabbed the pork chops and returned to her vehicle. With a mighty yank, and a rather humorous, cork-like popping sound (this is fiction you know), she extricated the mangled manager from her lander and climbed in, quickly sealing the hatch before he noticed his porcine portions were being absconded.

With a flick of the controls, the small vehicle was airborne and seconds later had accelerated to Mach 1, on its way out the door.

"I hates ya! I'm gonna kills ya!" shouted Jim as he picked himself up.

Slowly, Frank picked himself up from the heap he's landed in.

"Dallman, you {expletive}! This is your fault. You did this to me!"

[The Universe resonates to the sound of the Author's keyboard as he frantically tries to extricate himself from this potentially painful situation. While typing with one hand, he's frantically flipping through the dog-eared pages of Orson Scott Card's "How to Write Science Fiction".]

Just then, Frank discovers that his pork chops are gone!

"What the {expletive}! I'm going to get you!" shouts Frank, waving the now empty Fred Meyer bag at the Author.

"Aha!" shouts the Author as he makes a mad dash for his desk. Hastily, he rummages through his briefcase, generating a blizzard of flap pictures and unfinished stories. Seconds later, with an evil grin, he triumphantly turns toward Frank, having extricated a plot device from the benighted regions at the bottom of his traveling file cabinet. Quickly, the Author depresses a tiny concealed button, activating the plot device, and with incredible skill, he tossed the object so that it landed with a tinny clank at Frank's toes.

Frank stopped and looked toe-ward at the small sphere that had rolled to a stop between his feet.

*Pthut*, said the plot device, as a small wisp of pink vapor wafted from it.

The Author stared incredulously at his failed plot device. This wasn't supposed to happen! Suddenly, it occurred to him that he didn't have to put up with this. Its HIS universe!

[The Author has completely lost patience with this story. He's got three others that are, even as he types this, clamoring to get out!]