Hello, and welcome to the August edition of The Autolycan.  This time, we're journeying into space, so I hope you enjoy the ride.  As usual, if you like the story, do please pass the link on to others, or tell your Facebook friends and Twitter contacts.  The blog doesn't yet have enough readers to use it for charitable purposes, but the numbers have gone up a bit over the past couple of months. 

I think though that this will be the last one for a little while - we're off to Canada on holiday at the end of August, so I don't think there will be a September edition.  Perhaps you might like to make up for it by checking some back numbers!

ILLOGICAL, CAPTAIN

Wales could be the home of Europe's first spaceport

                                                                                                          ITV News

Space, the final frontier, see. These are the voyages of the Starship Ent-y-pridd, isn't it? And, see here, it's got some mission or other about new life and civilisations, and boldly going somewhere, outside Wales even. Duw mawr!

Even for a veteran like Cap'n Curig, the new spaceport was stunning. From his vantage point outside one of Starfleet Wales' many immense hangars, he surveyed a world of throbbing spacecraft and futuristic technological wizardry so advanced that for a moment he doubted whether even Lt Commander Taff, his faithful and long serving ship's engineer, would understand all of it. He smiled sheepishly when he realised his own foolishness – likely as not Taffy had designed half of it in his spare time.

The spaceport gleamed. Or would have done had it not for the past 24 hours been shrouded in a kind of drenching mist, which was forecast to lift fairly soon and give way to a prolonged downpour. He'd like to see it gleam, though. Just once.

Negotiating the terminal building had been somewhat fraught. Hurrying to take command of his new craft, Cap'n Curig had nipped into WH Smith after check in and was not pleased to discover that he needed his boarding card just to buy a bloody newspaper - he couldn't find his at the critical moment. Neither had he thought it becoming to the dignity of a Starfleet Commander to have to remove half his clothing - including his belt - to go through security, with the result that his new uniform trousers subsided to his knees as he struggled through a scrum at the conveyor belt to retrieve bags, jacket, shoes, car keys, starship keys, loose change and the newspaper he was already wishing he hadn't bought. After that came a forced march past endless burger bars, jewellery shops, displays of socks and signs which postulated the possible existence of toilets which might or might not be open half a mile away. A lesser man would have been daunted by the experience; Curig though chose to focus on the new friendship he had struck up with the girl in the cosmetics store as he had paraded through. The old magic had not deserted him. He now had her number firmly in his jacket pocket. It would have surprised him to know that their encounter did not go wholly unnoticed.

Curig was especially keen to meet his new First Officer, recently assigned to him by Starfleet. It would be fair to say that Splott was a man whose reputation preceded him. Half Welsh, half Vulcan, Splott would always be remembered as the main reason the new spaceport had been built.

Although not, perhaps, in the way he would have wished.

Under a previous Commander, he had been piloting a starship down into the old spaceport, and had ended up demolishing most of it. At the time Curig had been surprised that Splott's then Commanding Officer had rather taken his side at the resulting tribunal, arguing that he deserved the chance of a fresh start under another Commander and supporting his central defence that siting the spaceport at Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch had been a serious error of judgement on Starfleet Wales' part. He had agreed with Splott's counsel that there was a grave and wholly foreseeable danger of loading the name incorrectly into ships' satnav systems, and noted that Splott - ever the perfectionist - had insisted on getting it exactly right, by which time it was too late. He had even dared to express surprise that the accident hadn't happened sooner. At least, thought Curig, there would be no such problems with Cardigan.

Spying his First Officer approaching, Curig advanced towards him, hand outstretched and a welcoming smile on his face.

'It's those four 'l's coming together, see,' began Splott, 'it just didn't look right if you know what I mean, not consecutive like that, so I thought to myself, I thought you'd better check this out, Mr Splott, got to get it right, haven't you, get it wrong and you never know what might happen, isn't it, so I thought best be logical and Gwgl this and then – oh, sorry, you do know what Gwgl is do you? - I know I sometimes assume too much scientific knowledge on the part of people who aren't specialists – oh, you do, there we are then, smashing that, isn't it, only not everyone does, but there we are, I can see we're going to get along lovely, you and me; anyway by the time I'd Gwgled it it was too late......'

Curig's hand remained ungrasped; the smile on his face frozen. Turning away, he welcomed some familiar faces – Dr 'Bwns' McCoy, the brilliant but crusty old ship's Medical Officer; Mr Swlw, the helmsman and Lt Whwrw, who – by common agreement – would be an outstanding Communications Officer if only she'd ever learnt to pronounce her own name. It was no wonder, reflected Curig, that all the 'w's on the keyboards in Starfleet Wales' HR department had had to be specially strengthened.

Exasperated by Splott's incessant chatter, Curig crisply ordered his crew aboard. It was time to exert his authority, to make it quite clear who was in charge.

'Mr Splott, please lay in our first course, we're going to Jupiter.'

'Oh, there's lovely. My auntie used to go there regular, swore by it so to speak, she had this terrible chest, see, proper martyr to it she was, well, she'd had it for years, of course, and she always said..........'

'Take us up, Mr Swlw.'

Had you been observing the scene from the edge of the spaceport, you would have seen the Ent-y-pridd rise silently and majestically, then disappear into the angry, slate grey clouds which enveloped Cardigan Spaceport. Aboard, there was no sensation of speed or movement as the short journey passed without incident. All too soon, it seemed, Splott was announcing their arrival.

'Here we are then, safe and sound, looks like it might brighten up a bit later, but best be logical and take a mac if you're going down, I would, you can't be too careful I always say......'

'Bwns and I will beam down. Mr Taff, you have command.'

Curig and Bwns were startled by what they found on the planet's surface. They had visited Jupiter many times before, but didn't remember it being like this. They were in a wet, scrubby field, standing alongside a long stretch of what looked suspiciously like tarmac. Heavy rain squalled into their faces. Rain? On Jupiter? There was silence, eventually broken by the sound of a heavy engine. They spun round to see a lorry trundling slowly towards them along what they now realised was a road. Curig walked out onto the road and signalled the lorry to stop.

'I'm sorry, but we seem to be lost, can you tell us where we are?'

'Baa!!!' said the lorry.

'Wh.....'

'Baa!!!'

Heavily, the driver wound down his window.

'You're on the A482. So am I. I've got to get these sheep to the abattoir. What's your excuse?'

They mumbled their apologies, and Curig flipped open his communicator.

'Two to beam up, Mr Taff, and have Mr Splott meet us in the briefing room.'

Which is where Curig described what had happened and demanded an explanation. Bwns simply glowered.

'Jupiter!' exclaimed Splott. 'I thought you said Lampeter, that's why I landed you on the A482, see. I did think it was an illogical sort of destination to choose if you know what I mean, it can't be much more than what, about fifty miles or so from Cardigan, you'd have been quicker on the bus I shouldn't wonder, there's one every hour or so......'

Furiously, Bwns cut him off, but as Splott started to plead for another chance Whwrw's voice broke in on the intercom.

'Cap'n Curig to the bridge. I'm picking up signals about unauthorised Klingon movements in the Viga sector. A Federation freighter is in trouble. Starfleet want us to investigate.'

The three officers hurried to the bridge where Curig quickly assessed the situation before commanding Splott to lay in a course for Viga.

'That's Viga, Mr Splott' muttered Bwns. 'Viga. Not Tredegar'.

The journey to Viga passed quickly, efficiently and without incident, and as they approached the star system they were hailed by Captain Llwybyr of the Federation freighter Cnychwr who requested permission to come aboard.

'I was only a few hours out of Cardigan, see,' began Captain Llwybyr 'when I spotted Klingons. There's tricky, I thought, I wonder what they want, I've nothing very valuable, have I, never have these days, mind you there was a time when I transported good Welsh steel all over the galaxy of course, I could have understood if it was steel, but that's all gone years ago and half my cargo was bloody daffodils........'

'Daffodils!' exclaimed Curig.

'Yes. Bit of a turn up, turns out that's what they were after, isn't it? Seemingly Mothers' Day is very big in Klingon culture, they all get a bit tearful, see, and want to send their Mums some daffs. Of course, they won't be much good after travelling through sub space for hundreds of thousands of light years, but I didn't tell them that....'

Curig smiled warmly at this, but Splott seemed struck by a revelation and spent the next few minutes downloading various learned texts from the computer's library, and studying them feverishly.

'It was something Captain Llwybyr said,' he began 'triggered a thought, so to speak, I thought to myself I wonder, Mr Splott, use a bit of logic, I wonder if....'

Bwns' suggestion that he get to the point lacked both tenderness and diplomacy. Splott was unmoved.

'New way of fighting Klingons, see,' he began 'psychological warfare, it's called. We've found a weak spot and now we can exploit it.'

'Explanation.'

'Well, we now know they're very sentimental about their mothers. So, we create fake messages from their mothers saying how much they're missing them, that sort of thing, beam them pictures of happy Klingon mothers with their families; apparently Klingon songs are very big on motherhood, so we play loads of them to their ships. Unman them, see.'

Bwns and Taffy failed entirely in their attempts to imply that they'd already thought of this, but both had to admit privately that Splott had suddenly gone up several notches in their estimation. Nodding his appreciation, Curig demanded more detail and was deeply impressed with the way Splott had marshalled facts, conclusions and speculation. The First Officer made a point of lingering on the sentimental nature of Klingon – and human- relationships.

The Captain coloured slightly. He felt in his pocket for the number of the girl in the cosmetics store and was reassured to find it still there. The gesture didn't go wholly unnoticed.

'Excellent, Mr Splott. Prepare a strategic proposal for Starfleet. Emphasise the prospects of this new approach for galactic Armani, er, harmony.'

Bwns smirked.

'They'll have to Arden their resolve' he chuckled.

Curig coloured again, but was equal to the challenge.

'Lay in a course for home, Mr Swlw. Ahead, Max Factor one.'

They all grinned. The Ent-y-pridd made a textbook landing at Cardigan. Producing a large bunch of daffodils which he had kept well hidden, Splott suggested that the Captain might wish to dispense with the usual formalities and beam direct to the cosmetics store in the departure hall.

The Captain beamed, in both senses, and was gone.

'I do believe you're showing signs of emotion, Mr Splott' growled Bwns.

'On the contrary, Doctor. I am deploying a wholly logical tactic to manage human illogicality. But the Captain may find that having is not so pleasing a thing as wanting. This is not logical, but it is often true.'

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ANAGRAM CORNER ON THE LABOUR PARTY LEADERSHIP ELECTION

                                        

                                                POISONED-EST CHALICE

ELECTION CHAOS SPIED!