Preston Dwight Quinch (PDQ complains his wife) was a mid-level bureaucrat for the Interstellar Ministry of Weights, Measures and Minor Inconveniences. He sat in a lounge aboard Space Station Omicron-9, sweating through his polyester-blend suit.

Opposite him was High-Exarch Xylth-Gloon of the Gaseous Hegemony. The Exarch resembled a violet jellyfish floating in a tank of pressurized methane.

“You humans have a long history of bartering with baubles in return for valuable items,” the Exarch’s universal translator chirped in a dry, British accent. “The Hegemony finds your offer of surplus copper wiring offensive. We require something of spiritual resonance. Something that tastes of the colour yellow.”

Preston nervously adjusted his glasses.

“Exarch, with all due respect, Earth’s supply of ‘yellow-tasting resonance’ is currently tied up in probate court. However, I can offer you three metric tons of slightly dented industrial-grade paper clips.”

The Exarch pulsed a violent shade of magenta.

“The Exarch says your paper clips are esthetically bankrupt,” the translator stated. “He also says your tie looks like a cry for help.”

Preston sighed. Negotiating with gelatinous entities was exhausting. They didn’t want gold, fuel or technology — they wanted metaphors.

“Look,” Preston leaned forward. “I have a crate of 1990s-era pogo sticks in the cargo bay. They offer high-frequency kinetic whimsy. Very rare. Very yellow.”

The jellyfish-god drifted closer to the glass. A long, translucent tentacle tapped rhythmically against the reinforced acrylic. Plink. Plink. Plink.

“The Exarch is intrigued by this ‘whimsy,’” the translator reported. “But he demands biological commitment to the deal.”

Preston gulped. “Wh … what kind of commitment?”

“You must perform the Sacred Dance of the Unpaid Intern, while wearing the Ceremonial Hat of Shame,” the machine replied.

From a hidden compartment in the Exarch’s tank, a small, motorized arm extended, holding a hat made entirely of shimmering, sentient moss. It smelled faintly of old ham and regret.

Preston looked at the moss hat. He looked at the trade agreement that would finally get him promoted to senior bureaucrat. The perks included his own shuttle craft (older model) with AI driver that only crashed 30 per cent of the time. He took a deep breath and placed the damp greenery on his head.

The moss began to whistle a jaunty tune. Preston hopped awkwardly in time. The Exarch turned a shade of chartreuse, vibrating his tentacles in what Preston hoped was applause.

“The deal is struck,” the translator abruptly announced. “The Hegemony accepts the pogo sticks. In exchange, Earth shall receive the Everlasting Battery of Infinite Sarcasm.”

Preston stopped mid-hop, breathless. “The what?”

“It powers an entire city,” the translator explained, “but every time you turn on a light, the grid states that your outfit is ‘brave’ for your physique.”

Preston slumped back into his chair, the moss hat now trying to nibble on his ear.

“One final detail,” Preston panted. “Shipping logistics for the battery. My department is sticklers for customs forms.”

The jellyfish-god rippled.

“The Exarch asks: ‘Why do you care for the movement of boxes? You are but a temporary arrangement of carbon and anxiety.’”

“Anxiety is the fuel that keeps our bureaucracy running,” Preston said. “If I don’t have a signed Interdimensional Bill of Lading, my supervisor will have my head. Literally. He’s a cyborg, very efficient with a guillotine.”

The Exarch floated higher, his tank bubbling furiously. “Your obsession with ‘forms’ is a delightful form of madness. It is almost … yellow.”

Preston sighed. “No bill of lading, no deal.”

“Preston of the Polyester Skin, the Exarch finds your ‘dignity’ hilarious,” the machine chimed. “He will sign the form. Now, please resume the hopping. The hat still hungers for your embarrassment.”

© Peterborough Examiner