By Lyndon Hardy


Robbins lined the cross hairs on the slowly undulating eye stalk and squeezed the trigger. The air crackled with ionization as the orb exploded into a green sticky goo that showered down on the princess. But as he expected, the tentacles released their grip, and the creature retreated back into the slime covered vat. Disregarding her torn and disheveled toga held together by merest threads, she stepped forward, arms extended in gratitude.

“Rocket,” her honey-sweet voice purred. “You’ve done it again.”

“Wait, don’t go near the synthesizing panel,” Robbins said. “You’ll set off the proximity alar—“


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