There are two kinds of people in this universe; those who write, and those who can't. As I'd been just sitting staring at my pad screen for the last forty five minutes without writing a word, I guess that qualified me for the latter category. Oh well; I suppose as I was damn near perfect at everything else - handsome, brave, intelligent, a dependable ally, a ferocious enemy, a terrific lover - there had to be something I wasn't much cop at.

Still... it rankled. And I had to find something to do with my time. Two days I'd been on this ship - the ‘Pallas', out of Ganea, bound for Dellah. And two days I'd been in my cabin. Not exactly hiding, but, well... avoiding people. One person in particular. Which was a shame, because it looked like a swell ship, full of swell things to do and lots of swell folk to do those swell things with. Including my good amigo Professor Bernice Summerfield, with whom I especially liked to do swell things with.

Just not this trip. Because I didn't - couldn't - stand the presence of one Dame Agranilla De Zantis Tebebruckenmeyer - otherwise known as, for reasoned I hadn't yet been able to divine (but could well suspect), the Blue Nun. Now normally I'm a huge admirer of women - they've really become a hobby, in fact - but in her case I just had to make an exception. She was, well... overbearing; insufferable; egocentric; generally a pain in the ass. One of those people who thought the universe revolved around them, you know?

So... to get away from that, and to alleviate the journey, I thought I'd turn to writing. More specifically, I thought I'd turn to writing my autobiography. I mean, how difficult could it be? Although I wasn't particularly well read, I'd seen works in bookshops and libraries by people who hadn't lived the kind of life that would fill the back of a postage stamp, let alone a multi-volume work. Now me, on the other hand, had led the kind of life that could fill an entire library. So why not use my enforced seclusion to start on accomplishing just that? So I made a start...

And it kinda went downhill from there.

See, the trouble was, I didn't know how to start it. Obviously, with autobiography, one begins with one's birth, or at least one's childhood. Fair enough, but really I had in mind that that would kick in around chapter two, or maybe three. What I wanted to begin with was something... punchy, something that would grab the reader and keep ‘em grabbed; a beginning that would truly represent the style, the presence of the man writing it.

But with what was I going to grab them? What from my past was I going to choose? I mean, there was so much to choose from!

After an hour or so ruminating I began to get a headache from the stress of it, so I did what I also do when I'm under stress. Well, no actually I suppose I did the second thing I normally do when I'm under stress. I had a large drink. Then I had a slightly smaller one, then a few of the complimentary nibbles I found the fridge in my room, and then to wash that down I had another drink, slightly larger than the second one but not as large as the first. Feeling curiously sleepy after that - too much thinking, you see - I had a nap.

When I awoke I was raring to go... and have a shower. And a couple of pain killers. Then I was ready to write.

Or at least, think of what to write. Inspiration was still tip-toeing around my periphery.

After an hour of this it struck me that maybe I was thinking too much. Maybe I just ought to dive right in, write the first thing that came to mind - what did they call that? Stream of consciousness? Yeah! Now we were cooking! The universes' first stream of conscious autobiography!

I dived in. I even got a feel for it. Then, as probably happens to every great writer that has ever been, I suffered my first - but surely not my last - interruption. Though I have to say, this interruption was not entirely unwelcome.

***

"Wayne? Wayne, are you still in there? Come out, Wayne. You can't avoid her for ever. Wayne?"

The pounding I could ignore, but Bernice's voice I could not. It always had that weird quality about it - no matter what the tone - that seized some invisible part of me that seemed to exist somewhere between my knees and my kidneys, and squeezed - softly. Like a geisha would softly squeeze a cold sponge over your face when you were lying in a hot tub. That sort of squeeze, you know?

However, I was embarked upon a major odyssey, and as high as I regarded her she had to told the plain fact that, for the moment, I was simply unavailable.

"I'm busy," I called. This made her laugh. I've noticed since our time together that she tends to find a lot of what I say amusing; a hitherto unsuspected talent for comedy. I could use that in my book. People liked a little humour in even the most serious of stories.

"Busy, sure. Busy avoiding Agranilla."

This wasn't exactly false, but I wasn't prepared to admit it. "No, I am busy writing."

There was a silence, of the stunned variety. "You're writing?"

"Yes."

"Let me guess - on the walls, in a thick crayon."

Sometimes she could over do the sarcasm bit. "You're being mean again, Bernice."

"I'm a university lecturer. I'm paid to be mean."

"Even to your friends?"

"University lecturers don't have friends. Now open the door, my voice is going and the neighbours are giving me funny looks."

"You mean they weren't before?"

"Fun-ee."

I opened up, cautiously. It would have been just like Bernice to have that Agranilla creature lurking with her, but she wasn't. I ushered her in, giving her a practiced once over. Partly out of habit, partly because I liked to look. It wasn't that she was particularly well endowed or anything, but she had all the right curves in all the right places - if you know what I mean. She was wearing some kind of blue sleeveless affair and denim pants that clung in those right places I mentioned. She gave me her usual cursory, look-what-the-cat-dragged-in look that I easily translated as barely concealed and only-just restrained lust. Some guys just have that effect on women, and let me tell you, I always have that effect.

Sadly I wish it didn't work on women like the Blue Nun as well. C'est la vie.

"Okay," she sighed, folding her arms. "How much longer are you going to go on doing this? You know, Agranilla is really quite upset."

"She's upset? Hey, I was the one who she clobbered, remember?"

"That was only because she thought you were rude to her. Although I have to say now, I think you really are. Oh come on, she's not really that bad. She's a real hoot when you get to know her. Get her to tell you about her army days!"

I shuddered as a vision of a whole regiment of Agranilla's came to mind. "I'd rather not. And anyway, like I said, I'm busy."

"Writing."

"Yeah, writing."

She sighed. "Okay, I'll bite. What are you writing?"

I grinned and held up my pad. "I've decided to take a leaf out of your book."

Her eyes narrowed. "Oh, so you're the one who's been going through my diary!"

"I have not!" I protested. Well, maybe I had flicked through it on the odd occasion I'd found it lying around, but I could never understand what she was going on about. I bet she didn't either. I think she only wrote in it when she was drunk. Maybe that was the approach I should take...

"Hmmm." Still looking dubious she held out a hand, and I passed the pad across. She took a look at the screen and snorted. " ‘How I Saved the Universe'? What is this, fiction?"

"It's my autobiography," I replied proudly. This evoked another snort.

"Right first time then - it is fiction."

"No more than your writing," I replied pithily.

"So you have been reading my diary then."

"A ladies' privacy is as sacrosanct to me as it is to you," I replied as innocently as I could.

She rolled her eyes. "More fiction! Is that in here as well?"

"If you're going to mock..." I made to snatch my pad back but she held it away from me.

"Hold on, Shakespeare - let's see what you've been scribbling..." she peered at it. "‘Dedicated to Kyrie' - who's Kyrie?"

I squirmed slightly. That was an old wound which just never seemed to heal. Maybe I thought writing this would help heal it - I don't know. Anyway. "An old friend. Skip to the first paragraph."

"Okay... ‘It was a dark and stormy night...' " She clutched a hand to her head. "Oh, Wayne! Even you ought to know better!"

"It's a first draft!" I protested.

"And what's this... ‘...born of a fire that raged deep within me, a fire that could only be subdued by a woman's kiss...' Bleurgh! Barbara Cartland eat your heart out!"

This wasn't the reaction I was expecting. I made to snatch my pad back. "If you're not gonna say anything nice, give it back!"

But again she withheld it. "Tell me what it's about first."

"I told you - it's my autobiography."

"Of your life?"

"That's the general idea of an autobiography - even a thicko like me knows that!"

"Your life as a... what?"

"Well... as me."

"Ah huh. You mean, soldier of fortune, once employed as an assassin by one of the most notorious criminals in the Universe -"

" - Whom I played an active part in bringing down to the justice he deserved," I interjected, finally managing to snatch the pad back. "I know what it is - you're just afraid I'm going to tell it like it is!"

She shuddered. "Goddess, I don't know which is worse - your version of events or the actual truth!"

"In autobiography, there is only truth," I replied grandly. As usual, she found this funny.

"Wayne, autobiographies tend to be told by bitter, vain little people who want to prove how important and wonderful they are, no matter how unimportant and how totally not wonderful they were in real life."

"I'm not bitter, and while I've been accused of vanity, it's only because I take pride in my appearance." I looked pointedly at her crumpled denim. "Unlike some people."

"I am comfortable with who I am, rather than who I am not."

It was my turn to snort. "Like you've never pretended to be anyone else!"

"Not in print I haven't!"

"Oh yeah - and where exactly and how long ago did you get your qualification, Professor?"

"My qualifications and academic standing are no longer a matter of dispute," she retorted imperiously. Goddess, was she sexy when she was being imperious! "Yours, on the other hand - well, I've seen your so-called application form, and frankly for someone with as many supposed qualifications in archaeology and botany you do give a very good impression of someone who knows bugger-all about either of them!"

"Now hold on - Malachi wrote that resume, not me!"

"Oh, I see - and if you'd written it, it would have closer to the truth?"

I squirmed again. "Well... maybe. I would have least picked areas I was more familiar with."

"Ye-es - unfortunately, St Oscar's doesn't run degree courses on sexual perversions and shooting people, and I'm not sure too many other academic institutions do either."

"What about some of those old Earth ones then, smarty? Camford and Oxbridge?"

"Oxford and Cambridge," she corrected waspishly.

"Whatever. They were hotbeds of sexual and violent depravity. Or at least they were according to what Chlorys had told me when she was there."

"Chlorys? Oh yes, I remember her - that creepy little blonde job you used to pal around with. I can well imagine how it is hotbeds of sex and violence crop up around her!"

So could I, very easily. It kept me company on long lonely evenings. "Naw, she's really a sweet, innocent soul at heart."

Bernice believed this about as much as I did. She guffawed. "Yeah, like you're a qualified archaeo-botanist and a renowned author!"

I pouted. "You're just jealous because I'm writing my autobiography while you're stuck scribbling in your diary."

"I wouldn't write an autobiography even if you paid me!" she laughed, a little too loudly to be convincing I thought. "Besides... nobody is going to want to read about my life and adventures, are they?"

There was a pleading note to her final query that I manfully ignored. "Maybe not," I replied, and tapped my pad, "but they'll certainly want to read about mine!"

"You can't even write a five-hundred word essay on Sumaran pottery without blagging it from the InfoNet - are you planning to blag someone else's life for your autobiography?"

Ouch. "I will not!" I retorted hotly. "And anyway, I didn't blag that essay - I got someone else to write it for me."

"Someone who knew nothing about Sumaran pottery, obviously - I recall giving you a D Minus - and I was being charitable!"

"You charitable?" I scoffed. "I've known kinder intergalactic despots!"

"I don't doubt it," she snapped, "seeing as how you've probably been employed by most of them!"

Oh dear. We'd gotten into one of our shouting-at-one-another phases, which was an uncomfortably couple-y thing to do. Unfortunately, unlike what generally seemed to happen in the situation between genuine couples, this phase never ended with a spot of hot, rampant make-up sex. But I lived in hope.

I'm not a proud man; well, much. And when it came to getting round a beautiful woman, I was more than happy to swallow what pride I did possess and admit defeat. And who knows - maybe today would be my lucky day for a bit of make-up sex.

"You know, I was going to put you in it," I purred. "A starring role, even."

This didn't appear to mollify her. "Lie about yourself all you want, but don't drag me into your schoolboy fantasies!"

"Every dragonslayer needs a damsel in distress to save..."

"I am not a damsel in distress, and nor do I wish to be portrayed as one!"

"No," I replied innocently, "but I thought you might do for the person who holds my coat when I do the deed."

Her lips twitched, threatening her stony face with a smile. "I'm surprised you don't cast me as the actual dragon."

"You don't breathe fire."

"Oh you should see me at the Faculty meeting when old Follett gets me going."

"Maybe I should make him the dragon then?"

"He'd probably sue you."

"Lawyers don't scare me."

"His would. Even Brax is careful what he says around him."

I chuckled, and the smile that was threatening to break out on her face finally escaped. Hallelujah! You know, I'm not claiming to know exactly which buttons to press, but with Bernice, I think I've now got a pretty good idea. She's a sucker for a guy with a sense of humour. And who better than someone she always finds uproariously funny - if not always for reasons I fully understand or appreciate?

"Look, please come out and say hello to Agranilla. Just briefly. Five minutes. C'mon, what do you say?"

"Only if you help me with my book."

She sighed. "What do you want me to do? Proof read or something?"

I grinned and shook my head. "Better yet - I want you to help jog my memory."

She blinked at me. "Pardon?"

"Yeah - you can help me by acting out certain scenes I'm a bit fuzzy on. Here..." I crossed to the sideboard and selected a banana from the bowl of fruit that was there. I tossed it to her. She looked at it dubiously.

"A banana?"

I shook my head again. "No, for the purposes of this exercise, it's not a banana, it's a ray gun. An UltraMax 600 Police Special in fact. Now, cover me with it."

Rather unenthusiastically, she did so. "This is silly."

"No it's not," I insisted. "This is the re-creation of my famous escape from the female penal colony on Dandridge Seven. I'm me, about to break into the warden's office to steal some secret plans, and you're Desira McKane, the beautiful but woefully under-sexed sub-warden."

Bernice's banana drooped. "I think I can see where this is going..."

"No, no, really, it happened like this - now point it at me properly - that's it - now tell me to take all my clothes off."

She threw the banana back at me. "Um, I think I shall just wait and read about this little episode in print," she said primly.

But I wasn't so easily put off. I pointed the banana at her instead. "Okay then, I don't mind a little gender swapping - I hear it's good to alter your perspective. I'll be Desira and you be me. Stick up ‘em up and take your clothes off."

She laughed. "Wayne, it'll take more than the threat of a banana to get me to take my clothes off in your presence."

"But you haven't heard what I'm going to do with the banana - "

My words were cut off by the sound of her slamming the door behind her. I stared at it for a moment, then shrugged, peeled the banana and started to eat it. "And so she'll never find out what Big Al's Banana Rum Fudge Ripple Longboat tastes like. Her loss..."

I sat back down in front of my pad, chomping on the fruit. As I stared at the screen, inspiration struck me.

"Ah ha! Got it!"

Tossing the banana skin aside I started to type:

"There are two kinds of people in this universe; those who can write, and those who cannot. While I fall into the former category, Professor Bernice Surprise Summerfield falls into the latter. How do I know this, despite the literary evidence to the contrary? Ah, now - there's the story. But to tell hers, I cannot without first telling mine. It began on the third moon of the old Human colony on Tantalus, on a dark and stormy night, where I was born of a fire that only the kiss of a beautiful woman could subdue..."