S2-ENF-007 - SINGLE GARMENT

“Are you sure this will work, Dr. Blithe?”

“Probably,” said Blithe cheerfully, fiddling with the array of levers and dials that controlled the vast array of complex scientific machinery that surrounded the gaping hole in reality which had recently materialized at the centre of his lab. “Anyway, what have we got to lose?”

“This isn’t a joke, Blithe.” Dr. Angela Sharpe of the Statistics Department tapped her foot impatiently against the laboratory floor. “It’s vitally important that we fetch our agents back from Alpha Centauri. Your experimental new phase transporter better get the job done.”

“If I was sure it would work, it wouldn’t be experimental,” pointed out Dr. Blithe, making a few last-minute adjustments to the machine’s settings. “But I’m pretty sure I’ve managed to lock onto the girls’ morphogenetic signature. Let’s try this.”

He smacked a large red button. The machine began to hum, in a not entirely reassuring manner.

Special Agent Donna Scilly of the FBI scampered across the floor of the truck stop diner, doing her best to balance two large pitchers of Antarean moonslime and a special order of deep-fried dark-matter waffles with squizzberry syrup on the side. She wore nothing but black high heels and yellow panties, and was painfully aware of just how many dozens of eyes were ogling her jiggling, curvy figure as she shuffled around. Aliens of all shapes and sizes, from the essentially humanoid to the frankly incomprehensible, whistled, cheered, chirped, clicked, gurgled and giggled their appreciation as she made her winding way from one side of the diner to the other, dodging inquisitive pseudopods and friendly hands.

Stranded in an interstellar truck stop, **** to serve as a waitress, with no more than a single garment to her name! This couldn’t possibly get any worse, Scilly thought, as a gaping hole in reality opened up behind her.

“Interesting,” said Angela Sharpe. The gaping hole in reality in the center of Dr. Blithe’s lab had made a sort of rubbery squelching sound, extruded a pair of still-warm yellow panties, and snapped shut. “Was that what you expected, Dr. Blithe?”

“Not quite,” said Blithe, frowning as he toyed with some more dials. “Let’s try this.” He tapped another button, and was rewarded by a screeching burst of static and a puff of smoke.

He looked at the smouldering pile of clothes where Angela Sharpe had been standing, only a few seconds ago, and said “Odd. I wonder where she’s gone.”