"It said the males have their
brains in their dicks."
This was really too much for Zhargh.
"Dix? WHAT THE TZAKKI ARE 'DIX'?"
"Not 'dix'—'dicks'. It's their word for
the pathetically inadequate appendage the males use for congress on
"Appendage? I thought you told me the females don't have one?"
"They don't. It's the males who have the appendage."
"What —you mean 'Khaxa'?"
"Yep—only they have just the one Khaxa."
"Tzakki help me! Only ONE Khaxa?
No wonder the females were so grateful!"
Zargh started to laugh and then thought better of it.
What emerged was a cross between a high-pitched whistle and a very loud
fart that rose to deafening roar only to be cut short by a piercing
shriek. "Ah, that's better, my bottoms were killing me."
"Yeah, it's a bummer isn't it? The whole crew are affected. It's
the humidity on this watery, Tzakki-forsaken planet.
"Well?" continued Zhargh. "And do they?"
"Do they what?"
"Do the male sausages have a brain in this—this 'dick'?"
"Nope. The dicks we probed were all made out of sausage. Just like
the rest of them. When we probed the females all we came up with was
an even smaller dick that had no brain either. So we looked elsewhere."
"Oh, there's a brain all right. It's in the top of their single
heads. But the brain is made entirely of sausage!"
Zargh was totally perplexed. So... what does the thinking?" he
"You're not getting this, are you? The brain does the thinking.
The sausage THINKS!"
You're asking me to believe in thinking
"Yes, thinking sausage! Conscious sausage!
Feeling sausage; dreaming sausage, shagging sausage.
The sausage is the whole deal! Are you getting the picture NOW?"
"O my Tzakki! You're serious then. You're deadly serious They really
are made out of nothing but water and, and—Tzakki help me they
"You've finally got it, Zargh. Yes. They're sausages. And these
ugly, watery, tasteless, friggin' sausages been trying to get in touch
with us for almost a hundred of their years."
Zhargh sat bolt upright in his recline and leant forward:
"So what do the sausages want?"
"Apart from the sex, you mean?"
"I' won't warn you again Tzix!"
"OK, Ok, keep your bottoms dry. First they want to talk to us.
Then I imagine they want to explore the universe, contact other intelligent
sausages, swap ideas and... have great sex. The usual stuff."
"Can we stop with the sex now, d' you think?"
"Well it's what half the known galaxy is after. It's refreshing
to discover these sausages are no different. In fact, I'd go so far
as to say that with a little genetic engineering these third-rate entities
could be turned into first-rate secondary sex toys."
Zhargh shook his heads in despair and with lightning swiftness cuffed
his companion across his twenty-nine flailing Khaxa.
"Stop it!" he snarled.
"Ouch, that hurt."
"I won't warn you again. Just remember who's in charge here!"
"Let's try again" began Zhargh. "We've
come all this way to talk to sausages— or in your case, to probe
their female khaxa—I mean 'dicks'. Is that right?"
"So how do the sausages communicate with each other?"
"By blowing gas out of their superior frontal orifice."
"You mean they communicate by farting?"
"You're pulling my tentacles aren't you?"
"No, it's the Tzakki's honest truth. Cross my Khaxa and hope to
escape the Void."
"So the sounds we thought were farts are actually some form of
"You've got it."
"Astounding! And they actually communicate like that, do they?"
"The females did during probing. At first we thought they were
in pain but when we probed them further we discovered that the sounds
they were making were definitely a form of primitive communication."
"That's not what I meant at all. Do they use words, ideas, concepts?
"Oh, yes. Once we'd worked out the farting was some form of communication
we soon translated it."
"So what did you learn?"
'Oh Don't!' means 'I desire stronger congress.' Once we took the deminimaliser
core offline and upped the gain on the matrix we got even more sophisticated
"Don't ever stop"
"Amazing" grunted Zargh. "So they have a rudimentary
grasp of time. What about space?"
"Oh, they understand that very well." smirked Tzixs.
"How do you mean, exactly?"
"Because one of the females shouted
'There's room for all of you in here' every time one of the lads
stopped for a breather."
Zargh signed deeply "Tell me, Tzixs, were your 'experiments' confined
entirely to exploring the procreative functions of these primitive sausages
or did you find out if they are actually sentient beings with a language?"
"Oh, yes. It's a language all right. Only it's pretty primitive."
"Well—you know, sausage talk. Same as the stuff we picked
up from their broadcasts. Sausage sounds. You know how when you slap
a sausage down on the replicator it makes a noise? They talk by expelling
air through a hole in one end of the sausage. We also discovered that
they can expel air through another hole at the opposite end but
it mainly seems to be used to repel unwanted visitors. They can even
sing by squirting air through it in a particular way."
"OmiTzakki! Singing sausage. This is altogether
too much. You're the Science Officer. What do you advise?"
"Officially or unofficially?"
"Officially, we are required to contact, welcome, and, if possible,
exchange information with all sentient races or multi-dimensional beings
in the fourth quadrant, without prejudice, fear, or favour. Unofficially,
I advise that we erase the plasma log and forget we ever set tentacle
on this Tzakki forsaken, watery rock."
"Despite the 'great sex' you've had here"?
"It wasn't that great. I've had better shags with a pan-breasted
Zeezixlian lizard. At least they have more than three holes to plug—or
is that four? I forget..."
"I was hoping you would say that." grunted Zhargh.
"So we just pretend there's no one at home in this quadrant?"
"What about the ones we abducted? Don't we still have some females
"There's about 300 of them on this ship alone." replied Txzis.
"300?! That seems a bit excessive."
"Well...they wear out rather quickly..."
"I'm sure they do. Tell me Txzis, are you quite certain
they won't remember what's happened to them?"
"We scrambled the sausage around in their heads so that it will
all be just a wet dream to them."
"A dream to sausages! How appropriate that we should be a sausage's
wet dream. Then we can mark this quadrant unoccupied?"
"Suits me," said Txzis.
Zharg heaved his 500 lb body out of his recline and reached for a small
crystal switch on a glowing panel before him.
"Quite sure Tzixs?"
"Quite sure, Commander."
Zhargh flicked the switch and 2,407 very confused women
woke up in places as diverse as a motel bedroom in Beaver Creek, South
Dakota, a camel auction in Marrakesh, a bus shelter in South London,
the baby changing room of a Swedish DIY store, and, in one case, on
top of a New York policeman with her thighs wrapped around his riot
stick. They all had three things in common; they'd lost their underwear,
they were sweating profusely and they were very, very happy for no accountable
Zargh turned to Tzixs and asked:
"Any others? Anyone interesting on the other side of this galaxy?"
"Yes, a shy but very hot female lithium based semi-organic intelligence
on a class eight planet orbiting a star in the Delta Z quadrant. They
were in contact two galactic rotations ago and said they wanted to get
to know us a lot better when we were in the neighbourhood again."
"I should have thought the sausages on this Tzakki-forsaken rock
had put you off sex forever?"
"Nope", said Tzixs, rubbing his tentacles together "I'm
hot to trot."
Zhargh sighed heavily.
"Shall I set the co-ordinates then?" asked Tzixis.
"If you must."