Gunbear Phantasmoid sat sleepily, dangling his feet over the edge of the bed in the pulsing magenta light of the alarm siren.

He brushed the palm of his hand across his pillowcase. The pillowcase, like his bed sheets, was made out of an advanced synthetic polymer that felt almost exactly like real crushed velvet. Of course, Gunbear had only felt real crushed velvet once, when, as a boy, his father had taken him to the ancient history museum back on earth, but in his mind he could tell the difference, and there was no substitute for the real thing.

“What is it,” he said, to the beautiful young woman on the view screen.
“Sorry to disturb you, captain, but there is an Olonian frigate with a fighter escort demanding to speak with you, and they’re adopting an offensive formation.”
“I’ll be on the bridge in one hundred and twenty seconds.”

Two minutes later, Captain Gunbear Phantasmoid was standing at the helm of his space ship, the Tenderloin Salvo, opening a hailing frequency to the alien ship. He was naked, as was his crew.

“I’ve got you this time,” came the fleshy, grumbling voice from the view screen. It was Commodore Nobb, the meanest Olonian of them all.
“What seems to be the trouble, Commodore?”
“I’ll tell you what the trouble is, it’s you humans and your reckless irresponsibility. You’re no good, you’re good for nothing, you’re troublemakers, going around the galaxy talking about peace and sex, spreading your socially progressive libertarian political theory. What’s so wrong with a patrilineal despotism, I ask you? If it’s good enough for us Olonians, it’s good enough for everybody. Why, just the other day I was trying to explain to the Council of Planets how a species who doesn’t even believe in wearing clothing deserves to be destroyed, but of course they wouldn’t listen, because—”
”—Could you get to the point, Commodore?” asked Gunbear. The crew laughed.

Commodore Nobb puffed himself up indignantly. He was seven feet tall, five feet wide, with skin that resembled a brown marshmallow. Olonians had trememdous jowl pouches, which they used to store bodily excretions.
“The point, Captain, is that your ship is only moments away from breaking the treaty between our two governments by illegally entering Olonian space. When you do so, not even the Council of Planets can stop me from declaring war on all you disgusting earthlings.”

Gunbear looked at the computer screen. The space anchor registered as being deployed, yet sure enough, the Tenderloin Salvo was drifting slowly towards the Olonian border.

“Lieutenant, thrusters full reverse,” he said, and for a moment there was tense silence.
“No effect, captain,” said the lieutenant.

Gunbear Phantasmoid stood thinking. He ran a finger through his full beard. He could tell that the crew was nervous, since they were hugging each other for comfort, so he was determined not to let his own fear show.

“Ensign, assess damage to the ship’s thrusters.”
“Captain, the computer indicates thrusters in working order.”
“All right, Ensign, scan for black holes or other large-mass phenomenon. We’ve got to find out what’s pulling us toward them.”
“Sir, scanners register no large-mass phenomenon. In fact, scanners register nothing but empty space between us and the border. I.. I don’t understand it, captain!”

“Face it, you’ll never stop your ship in time!” laughed Commodore Nobb, and when he laughed, bodily excretions flecked from his jowls.

Captain Phantasmoid ignored him. “All right, Ensign, one last try. Scan for frequency anomalies in the space field near the border. Hurry!”
The entire crew held their breathe as the keyboard clicked and the computer beeped out a response.
“Captain, I’m picking up an almost imperceptible anomaly at frequency 28!”
“Good work, Ensign. Now, bring me my guitar.”

The captain slung his guitar over his shoulder and plugged it into the signal transmitter. The guitar was made out of an advanced synthetic polymer that felt almost exactly like the fine mahogany used in a Gibson SG. Of course, he had only seen a real Gibson SG one time.

“Captain, ten seconds until we cross the border into Olonian space.”
“Now,” he said to the crew, “when I say so, I want full thrusters reverse, all power.”
“7..6..5..”
“Surrender now, Captain, it will give me that much more time to torture you!”
“3..2..1..”
“Now!” said the captain, bringing his thumb down hard on the guitar string.

Suddenly, the ship lurched, and then began to change direction. In a few moments, the looming bulk of the Olonian frigate began to recede into the distance and become camouflaged by the light of a billion stars, another salt crystal spilled on the black tabletop of space.

“So long, Commodore Nobb,” said the captain.
“You haven’t seen the last of me,” came a reply, fuzzy, fading.

Lieutenant Amourosia stood next to the captain.
“How did you do it,” she asked.
“I realized that the frequency anomaly had to have been caused by a cloaked tractor beam on the other side of the border, and that that was what was pulling us towards the Olonians. Using my guitar, I broadcast a frequency exactly opposite that of the tractor beam, disabling it long enough for us to get out of range. Remind me to tell the Council of Planets about Commodore Nobb’s latest trick.”

The crew laughed. After a minute, one of the Ensigns approached the Captain and asked him, timidly, what the Olonian had meant when he said that humans didn’t even wear clothing. What is clothing, he asked.

Gunbear Phantasmoid sighed.
“You see, Ensign, the people of earth weren’t always peaceful and happy. Many thousands of years ago, humans were brutal and primitive. They fought one another in wars, and worked five days a week, and wore tight-fitting garments that enslaved their god-given, natural bodies. Polygamy was against the law, and not even one home in ten had a nuclear power generator.”
“I don’t understand, Captain,” said the Ensign.
“Neither do I,” said the captain, shrugging, “neither do I.”