The Patrol Arrives

The faint hum of Zorp’s ship, a sound Barnaby had almost grown accustomed to, died down to a mere whisper, then silence. It was a good silence, a hopeful silence, the kind that meant something was *fixed*. Barnaby peeked through the slightly grimy window of The Galactic Brew, his heart doing a frantic jig against his ribs. Zorp, a shimmering blur of focused energy, was hovering near the ship’s underside, a multi-tool humming with an otherworldly glow. Bartholomew, the biscuit dispenser, had been remarkably quiet for the last hour, a sure sign of either imminent disaster or profound concentration. Barnaby suspected the latter, though with Bartholomew, one could never be entirely sure.

Suddenly, a sharp, resonant *thump* echoed from the front of the shop, followed by the unmistakable clang of heavy boots on the worn linoleum. Barnaby’s blood ran cold. Patrol. They were here. He’d been so focused on Zorp’s ship, so caught up in the frantic, tea-fueled repair effort, that he’d let his guard down.

“Oh, crumbs,” Barnaby muttered, scurrying away from the window. He smoothed down his apron, trying to project an air of normalcy, a feat made difficult by the faint smell of burnt ozone and the lingering scent of exotic alien lubricant. Zorp, bless his polite, panicked alien heart, was still outside, presumably wrestling with some final, critical connection.