Colonial Cookie Caper part 1

     The door chime rang.  
     "Enter."
     Mr. Trolley wheeled in to the Commander's Office
with delight.  He parked himself near Adama's chair on
the right side.  It was the only logical place.  Had
he traveled to the side of the Commander's desk where
guest usually stand or sit, Mr. Trolley could not have
been seen, only heard.  It was not nice to address a
fleet commander from hiding, not that Mr. Trolley ever
thought of doing such a ludicrous thing.  At least not
in front of Commander Adama.  There were some others
in the fleet the daring Mr. Trolley hid from for fun
on his own part.  He was not invincible but a tough
fare to break.
     <Ding Ding Ding ding ding DING>
     "Oh, Mr. Trolley."  Adama glanced down with a
hearty expression.  Mr. Trolley had become a welcome
guest in his office unlike the machine's first
appearance in the fleet.  "How are you today?"
     <ding ding DIng DING DIng>
     Adama raised his hands slightly above the right
arm of his office chair.  "Whoa.  Slow down.  If you
beep any faster, I would think we're on red alert. 
What do you have today?  It's not often a guest wheels
in here such as yourself."
     Mr. Trolley rolled up within arm's reach.  He
opened one of his little passenger doors, not that any
real person could ever ride on Mr. Trolley as intended
with most trolleys.  There was one good aspect of Mr.
Trolley's compactness.  Small things were a favorite
delivery item of his.  This one was no exception.  A
platform extended out with a small round item of food.
 It was a light brown with black chips popping up here
and there on it.
     Adama looked on suspiciously.  He recalled seeing
something similar back in the Colonies.  With the
protein cubes of multiple colors and flavors along
with some of the odd plant products produced from
various planets they visited, this was a very odd
looking item.  What really caught Adama's attention
was the aroma which slowly rose from it.
     <Ding Ding ding>
     Mr. Trolley jiggled the platform in and out a
little as a not so subtle sign for Adama to take the
item.  He even rolled back and forth a few times to
insist upon the action.
     "Oh!  I see."  In a half hearted attempt to jest,
Adama asked, "And what prey tell would you like me to
do with this?"  It was obviously a consumable item. 
It was an opportune time though to play with the red
machine.  After all, just because a man passed his one
hundred yahren mark, it was no sign he no longer had
any kid left in him.  Only on rare occasions did Adama
let his child side out.  He sat back in his chair and
crossed his arms.  It was difficult to hold a straight
face though.  The temptation was strong enough to
chuckle before its time.
     A little steam emitted from Mr. Trolley's wheels
as a sigh.  He sometimes wondered how these giants
were able to make it out so far.  It was a darn good
thing he appeared in the fleet when he did.  It was
even better when Mr. Trolley made a special trip to
see Count Baltar soon after.  Too bad, Baltar did not
feel the same way.  The man was not going to forget
that little tumble from his chair Mr. Trolley caused.
     In response to Adama's question, Mr. Trolley
flashed his lights, opened and closed all four
"passenger" gates and rolled back and forth.
     <DING DING ding Ding Ding DING>
     "Very well.  If you insist."  Adama casually
reached down to grab the food.  He examined it
carefully, slowly rotating it so as to not miss a
chip.  Whatever it was, the smell intensified the
desire to eat the item.  However, if it was eaten, the
enticing smell would disappear.  Was that more
enjoyable than the taste?  There were always tough
decisions for the Commander to make.  He finally
resigned and bit down on the food item.  To his
astonishment, it was quite tasty.  The auroma
certainly proved a good indicator of the taste.  He
closed his eyes, took another bite and quickly
finished the delicacy with a third chomp.  "This is
extremely good.  Is this from Chef Tigger?"
     <Ding Ding Ding Ding D-D-Ding>
     Mr. Trolley's front and back lights alternately
flashed while his whistle tooted along with the Dings
in confirmation.
     "Well, then, please extend my sincerest
compliments to the chef.  The exquisite taste is very
tantalizing to the taste buds.  I would be interested
in taste testing any other fine experiments of his
such as this.  What does he call this?"  An imaginary
lingering aroma continued to hang around Adama.  This
taste left him in paradise.  What did he have to do in
order to have more?  The flavor refused to leave his
body.  It was a far worse temptation than anything
earlier since Mr. Trolley arrived.
     Mr. Trolley extended his tiny aft platform out
from under his roof.  There was only one word on it.
     "Cookie?"  Adama placed his hand on his stomach
as a last attempt to cherish that which he favorably
devoured.   "Please bring me some more."
     The red machine retracted his planks to recompose
himself, wheeled around in a circle and happily tooted
his way out the door.
     Adama rested his hands on his desk.  He looked
around the room as if trying to grasp something that
either was not there or beyond reach.  It was an
extraordinary sensation tingling through his mouth. 
"Cookie."  He leaned back slightly in his chair with
an expression of immense satisfaction.  "I wonder
where Tigger came up with a name like that."
     The delicacies on the tray appeared delicious
even before they were baked.  Some were shaped into
four corner pyramids with a candy at each corner and
one on the top.  Other trays contained fluffy discs a
half finger high and a finger wide.  Each one was
lavishly coated with a different color and flavor of
icing.  Some trays were set aside more as an
afterthought.  If the bakers forgot about them it was
considered no big loss.  Twenty light brown globs with
black chips littered each of those trays.  Not many
people expressed interest in that product.  Actually,
there were barely enough beggars to warrant making
some of these treats.  They received the lowest
priority and only made it to the ovens in between
batches of better sweets.
     DuFu walked briskly over to the primary solar
oven.  As he opened the door, the aroma of the
finished product rose and wafted throughout the area. 
He took a deep breath to inhale the scent and savor
the micron.  Knowing better, DuFu pulled out the tray
and placed it in the cooling area.  The Yumlies begged
to be devoured while they were still hot on the tray. 
It was one of the worst temptations the assistant chef
ever suffered.
          'Nice to look at.  Great to smell.
           If it is eaten, you'll ring your own bell.'
     Nothing topped the sweet smell of success.  This
was the best job in the fleet.
     Footsteps stormed into the kitchen with a deep,
nasty, arrogant voice to accompany them aimed directly
at Dufu.  "Move it!  Move it!  There's no admiring our
perfect product.  If I see this again, you'll be
demoted to Assistant Chef Helper's Backup Aide.  Do I
make myself clear?!?!?"
     Okay.  This was almost the best job in the fleet.
     Dufu did not have the chance to respond.  As
Grumler tromped off to chastise another victim, DuFu
sneaked in a sneer at the Overseer.  That was a man
who would not be able to bake himself out of a viper
engine if his life depended on it.  The assistant chef
grabbed a tray of the brown globs and carefully
situated them into the perfect position on the solar
oven pallet for the best baking.
------------------------


     Inventory on the BakeryShip fluctuated more than
a Triad ball bounced around a court.  Tigger hopped
through the rows of ingredients checking the quality,
laughing all the way.  He licked his chops from time
to time tasting the flavor of each ingredient simply
by looking at it.  If it was one thing Tigger knew, it
was the particular taste not only for food, but for
individual ingredients and combinations thereof. 
Throughout his life, he experimented with different
ingredients and how they tasted.  No recipe existed
that could not be slightly altered to improve the
taste.  For every ten failures, even twenty bad
tastes, once one more good flavor was discovered,
Tigger knew all the effort was worth it.
     The bold tester retained a detailed record of all
his tasteful and tasteless concoctions.  Sometimes he
was so pleased with his improvised and enhanced
recipes, Tigger bounded about to the neighbor's or a
friend's abode to share the scrumdillyicious treasure.
 To be honest, any prize was not deserved unless it
was shared.
     That devastating night, that ruthless attack, the
tormented souls who lost all was despicable.  Tigger
was surprised he survived, but sorrowed at the loss of
everything he ever owned including his treasured
recipes, notes, and his friendly, neighborhood bakery.
 Mindlessly wondering around the ruins, he was dragged
onto an escaping shuttle by other survivors from his
neighborhood.  Tigger was deeply despondent.  He kept
to himself and talked to no one.  There was always a
dazed look on his face as if he lost his soul.  What
possible use could he be stuck on a ship with nothing
and nowhere to bake all his wonderful delights?
     Food supplies ran low many times.  The Commander
had problems moving the fleet fast enough to planets
to pick up supplies.  There weren't enough people to
prepare food in vast quantities.  Help was desperately
needed.  When word eventually trickled down to the
dark corner where Tigger counted out his time, he was
ecstatic.  There was hope for him yet.  But it came at
a price.
     The food preparations were hardly up to
standards.  They had no supplies, no resources to
standardize each of the ships.  The Agro ships could
not keep up with the demand for the foods they
harvested.  Many ships did not have much of a place to
prepare food when they were only designed for a few
people and mostly cargo, not a couple hundred people
and no cargo.  Ships with the necessary supplies and
space to make food would do so for themselves and as
many other ships as possible.  Sectons crept by to try
and simply keep enough food made around the clock to
feed everyone.  Tigger shared his ideas with others on
how to make the most out of what little they had.  It
helped but was never enough.  Trades with many planets
over the yahren following the Holocaust were required
to implement all the conditions need for fleet food
preparation.
     Finally, a ship was designated a BakeryShip.  It
was more of a cargo ship with large bays.  They
provided the space for major cooking, baking and food
preparation lines.  Heat was easily absorbed through
liquid pipes in the bay ceilings.  The pipes led to
the outside hull where the cold of space replaced the
heat.  Tigger requested a special meeting with
Commander Adama.  He gave the officer a brief outline
of his history of tasty food.  With the morale of the
fleet as low as it was, Tigger convinced Adama on the
idea of making deserts as well as standard food
entrees.  The deserts would make people smile.  A
smile was contagious enough to make other smile. 
People with smiles would feel better and boost overall
morale.  Tigger was granted what he once thought he
lost.  He was now in charge of sweet section on the
BakeryShip.
     Tigger glanced over more ingredients on the
shelves.  If only the Colonial Deliverers could be
more consistent with what they found, the BakeryShip
would explode in popularity.  For now, they had to
make do with what they had.  It did not hinder Tigger
at all in his search for the perfect ingredients and
recipe.  Since his reintroduction into baking, the
Tiggerized Recipe notes became a reality.  It may
never be the same as what he lost on Virgon.  It was
going to be better.  These ingredients had promise. 
Tigger knew it.  He rounded a corner while still
looking back at the aisle he left.
     PLOOFFFFFFFFF

------


     He lightly chanted to himself.  "Oh my my. This
is terrible, totally terrible without a towel.  It's a
no no to leave the flour off the shelf.  Terribly
Trifle.  We must rightfully respect the role racks
require restful of the harvest we reap.  Whoops." 
Tigger chuckled to himself.  "Harvest ruined my
rolling R's.  We'll have to fix that, won't we?  Oh
yes we will.  We fix-it a-dooooooo.  The word is now
Rarvest.  Restful rarvest we reap.  Ah, that sounds so
much better.  Sweeter to the ear.  That leads to
sweeter taste for the tummy."
     Tigger looked down at his dark orange clothing
with wavy black lines scattered here and there.  "My
my, what a mess.  This is a fine white mess.  I must
clean up.  Clean up I must or maybe I'll rust."
     Tigger's legs turned whiter than white.  Not a
speck or orange or black was to be seen.  There was no
terrible towel, no wonderful water, no fantastic fan
to help in cleaning the mess and himself.  How was he
going to do it?  The thought about wasting such a
precious product necessary for this ship's purpose
waited to pop into his mind.  'Clean first.  Think
later.'  He had to remove the white lest he leave a
path to follow his romp.
     Tigger backed up a few steps.  A little of the
flour on him sprinkled to the gray deck during each
step.  He backed up a few more steps with a little
more bounce.  More flour floated down to the deck
leaving a white path with gray footsteps.  A few
sidesteps to the left, a turn in place, back a few
steps more to a diagonal right left a distinct path of
Tigger's travels.
     Tigger glanced down at the deck and chuckled
heartily.  "I think I see a pattern, a pattern not cut
out.  I know when I think my think thoughts are true. 
This one is so so true as blue is blue.  The pattern I
see is a cookie pattern.  And what's a pattern without
thinking about it first?"  Tigger stuck out his right
hand with his index finger pointing upwards.  "Why
that is it!!!  I done a think-a-toooooo."  He smiled
and patted himself on his back left shoulder with his
right hand.  "Cookies with little tiny, super small
footprints for the kids."  He tiptoed in place. 
"Change the footprint pattern on the cookies."  He
stomped in place.  "Weeeeeeeee."  He even danced
turning in a circle of delight.  "The kiddies won't
know what oven critters tromped on their cookies. 
Maybe we'll call them critters the Hot Botch
Creatures.   Let me think.  I think I can.  I know I
think I can."
     Unconsciously, Tigger rubbed his throat with his
index and middle fingers.  There was no use to scratch
his head.  Food passed through the throat.  He could
taste his invention as he rubbed his throat.  His
mouth watered for the cookies of his thoughts.  "I see
what I think.  They're shorty-short beings in the
oven.  Tiny short beings they are.  Since they have to
keep the oven hot, very hot with flames on, they can't
have the cookies.  The flames will melt the cookies,
melt them all ooey and gooey.  That it will.  This
makes the Creatures steaming mad.  If they can't have
the cookies, no one will.  At least that's how the
Creatures think it should be.  If it's not good for
one, it's not good for all.  Why should one have all
the fun?  Hey!  That rhymed."  There was a micron to
chuckle at the last statement.  "They stomp.  They
prance.  They thunder.  They hot dance all over the
cookies so no one will want them.  The cookies have
footsies all over them."
     The ideas came together.  It all made sense. 
This was a great idea.  No, it was a tasty idea.  At
least Tigger thought so.  "I like that idea.  Write it
down.  Write it I should.  I must hurry and write."
     Tigger felt all around his clothes for a notepad.
 There was not a one to be found.  He searched more
and more checking pockets, sleeves, socks, shoes, pant
legs in and out.  His eyes opened wide in a scary
startlement.  "Oh no!  No pad have I.  I need a pad. 
I must have a pad.  Oh where oh where is my pad-o?" 
Tigger did one final search of his clothing and
glanced all around.  Not a pad was in sight.  Not one
to be found.  "Oh my oh me.  This cannot be.  I shall
find a pad and write this all down."
       The flour, and more importantly, the mess it
made were no longer important.  A pad was the top
priority before the master baker forgot his wonderful
ideas.  He turned and skipped his way to the door at a
frantic pace "in search of..." the Mysterious Missing
Pad.  In this instance, the white trail following
Tigger became a good reminder of where he was, or at
least signal someone a mess in progress required
attention.

-------------

In this instance, the white trail following Tigger
became a good reminder of where he was, or at least
signal someone a mess in progress required attention.<

     The door obediently opened to allow Tigger to
rush into the corridor.  The next closest possible
door seemed half a ship away.  Tigger anxiously
glanced from side to side hoping to see a doorway
closer than that.  One would magically appear to solve
his dilemma, right?  Not a one.  Nay nay nay.  Maybe a
person carrying an extra pad was about to turn the far
corner.  Perhaps?  Possibly?  No one was in sight, nor
were any sounds of footsteps.  The only things to be
heard were the air vents and Tigger's pounding heart.
     "Kiddie cookies with footprints.  Oven Botch
Creatures, hot flames, and stomp the cookies.  They
want cookies but can't have any.  No one may have the
cookies for kids."
       A step and a step resulted in two steps closer
to the destination.  Skipping was faster, but not fast
enough.  With energy filled legs Tigger ran as fast as
he could to reach the door.  Flour continued to
lightly fall from his clothing.  The trail became
lighter and lighter as Tigger dashed further from the
stock room.  Most of the loose flour previously on
Tigger now rested on the deck.  What remained on the
clothing was wedged in between the fine clothing
fibers.  It left a strong white tint to the orange and
black material.  Nevertheless, the mess was made; a
diminishing white path strongly contrasted the gray
deck.
     Twenty microns were twenty centars as far as
Tigger was concerned.  The journey to the door slowed
down time in his eyes.  He reached out as if he could
possibly grab hold of the door and pull himself in. 
It teased him and backed further away.  The door was
alive to Tigger.  It knew what he wanted and was not
going to give.  He tried to run even faster and closed
his eyes in utter despair.
     "Oh please.  Oh please, do not run from me." 
Tigger sounded as if he were pleading for his life. 
"I did no harm to thee.  No need to be contradictory."
 There went the door.  He overshot it by a long margin
without even knowing it.  "Oh please don't flee. 
Don't you see?"  Reality struck.  The plea left his
voice replaced by a mild surprise.  "I can't see for
that matter.  Cookies to Kobol."  Tigger opened his
eyes and looked around.  "Where'd the door go?!?!? 
Door-o-Door?  Come here, Door.  Here Door.  Come to
Tigger, Door.  Oh there you are.  You're supposed to
be in front of me, not behind me."  He trotted his way
to the door.  "Just for that you'll...  Why, um,
you'll...  How do you punish a runaway door?"
     The door was not about to answer the question. 
It stood in place not making so much as a peep or
creek.  No presence detected by sensors meant no
movement.  There was also one other stipulation.
     Tigger halted in front of the door expecting it
to open.  Nothing happened.  He scratched his head in
bewilderment.  "All doors on the ship are supposed to
open."  Tigger knocked on the metal door.  The sound
echoed down the corridor.  "Is anybody in there?  Did
someone steal treats from the kitchen and think they
could hide in here?"
     Still nothing.  Tigger tapped his foot wondering
what to do next.  The wall all around the door was
void.  There was simply nothing there.  No buttons. 
No knobs.  No switches.  No levers.  This door had no
apparent means of being opened except by brute force. 
Tigger did not have time for that.  There had to be
another door which would not be so stubborn.
     "Oven cookies with botch prints.  No no.  Kiddie
cookies with fingerprints in their feet.  Oh no. 
Stop!"  Tigger's tongue felt as if it tumbled end over
end.  The absurdity of a door not opening, and now his
tongue going A.W.O.L. really pushed him past his
limits.
     "How creepily crossed."  He stomped himself away
from the door in pursuit of another door.  Unless he
backtracked, the only thing in sight was a T junction
about forty paces away.  "This is wickedly worrisome
gruesome."  Very little flour dropped from the
clothing even on hard stomps.  The flecks wedged in
the clothes fibers heldfast.  "Suffering Sugar
Smooks."  Tigger began to trot faster.  "Brutal
Brownie Bust.  I will write down my ideas yet."
     At the T junction, a door to the left was only a
few steps away.
     "Oh yes.  I knew it.  I done knew it.  This is
good, good for me.  Hot Botches with cookie prints for
flames of pattern.  Door, please Door, open for me."
     The door clanked opened.
     "Hmpf.  Seems you need some butter in your
grooves.  But thank you for opening."

---------


"Hmpf.  Seems you need some butter in your
grooves.  But thank you for opening."<

     The room was littered with various cooking and
baking containers.  During the transformation of the
cargo ship into a baking ship, these items were
collected from other ships in the fleet.  Word went
out that any spare food preparation item was accepted.
 One area in the landing bay of each ship was
designated as the "Collection Cache."  Two shuttles,
each responsible for half the fleet, made various
trips to collect all the items.  Upon drop off at the
BakeryShip, what was determined to be 'Immediately
Usable' went straight to the kitchen area.  Everything
else was literally dumped in to this room.
     Tigger was not at all happy about the mess.  How
did anyone even know what was in here?  "Talk about a
deadpan room.  Maybe there's a pot filled with cubits
hidden somewhere."
     Perhaps a visual scan of the room was required. 
He started from the area closest to the door's left
side and methodically looked over the room from left
to right, front to back.  The sight almost bedazzled
him.  On the surface, that was all the further to be
seen without digging, it appeared there were no two
duplicate items.  Each one had its own unique feature
and maybe a special use.  This was a wonderful room of
treasures if viewed in the proper context.  Tigger
inwardly scolded himself for not coming here sooner.
     Oh oh.  Why was he here to begin with?  Tigger
entered deep thinking mode.  Certainly more important
matters existed than to eyeball some baking items. 
After all, he did stumble across the room, not
purposely walking there.  Actually, any further steps
into this room caused worry over stumbles, falls and
trips, certainly not trips to brag about to other
comrades.  What pray tell was he doing here?  Why oh
why oh why?  The answer hit him so hard mentally,
Tigger stuttered forward over some containers.  If he
swayed any further, he would have lost balance and
tumbled into a pile of them.
         "Aw silly me.
          How goofy can I be?
          I must find a notepad
          For the cookie pattern idea I had.
          Write it down.  Scribble I must.
          It is unto myself my ideas I entrust."
     Tigger squatted and began to pick up containers
and utensils.  He hoped to find a pad lying underneath
somewhere.  What he did not do was pile up the
examined items neatly.  Instead, Tigger tossed them
over his shoulder or to either side.  A few landed
loudly in the hall.
     The light in the room was not exactly bright.  It
was set at a pretty comfortable setting for a person's
eyes.  One flat baking item Tigger picked up had a
high shine to its finish.  When a beam from a flush
ceiling light reflected off it, the brightness
temporarily blinded him.
     "Spots!  I see Spots!  They're alive."  Tigger
blinked a few times.  "They're mad spots dashing
everywhere.  They're hot spots."  The imaginary light
bulb constantly hanging over his head clicked on as
another idea formed.  "Spots on the food.  All
different colors.  Spots everywhere.  We'll give the
cakes a spotty look.  But first I must see!!!"
     The solution was to remove the problem.  Tigger
tossed the pan to the side before another blinding. 
It clanked near the top of a recently formed pile
thanks to the baker and klunked down a little way to a
stop.  The room light reflected off of it onto a stack
of tall, deep bake, square containers.  Wedged in
between two of the containers a particular item glowed
in the new illumination.  Tigger did not notice at
first.  It took four centons of tossing more items and
making a haphazard path through the scattering before
he stood to stretch.  Per chance, the lighted area on
the containers caught his peripheral vision.
     "Whoa."  Tigger blinked to clear his vision from
a hallucination.  "I see.  That's it!"  He found his
pot of cubits, or in this case what was worth a pot of
cubits to him.  "I'm so happy."  Happy enough he
clapped festively a few times.  "My search is
finished.  Thank the chips of delight."
     The mish mosh of items between Tigger and the
notepad were inconsequential.  "Stay there.  Here I
come."  He skipped over the tops, kicked some out of
the way, and made plenty of noise.  "I see you. 
You're what I need.  That's just what I've been
looking for."  One final leap placed him beside the
tall, square containers.  Had the leap been any
bigger, he would have knocked them over.  "I got you
now!"
     The mark-up was firmly secured in the pad's side
crevice.  Tigger whipped it out and hastily wrote all
he could remember about his ideas.  "The Spotty Prints
of the Hot Cookies flamed botched stomps.  The danced
finger cookies short.  Patterns melted short oven by
creatures.  Ooey and Gooey are too mean to think.  The
mad kiddies make fun cookies and print them all over."
     Tigger scratched his head with his writing hand. 
The stylus snaked between his hair and left a few red
marks on his scalp.  He reread what he wrote.  It made
no sense whatsoever.  Carefully Tigger stepped over
and between the bakery items and containers until he
was at the door.  The few items he absentmindedly
tossed into the hall were still there.  Without much
of a thought on that matter, Tigger left the room and
kicked them in the room before the door closed with
its metal rapping noise.  Right in the middle of the
corridor, the master baker sat to recollect his ideas
and record them.  He refused to move or be moved until
the task was complete.

-----------------
    It was a long walk down the Galactica corridor for Starbuck.  Not even when he had to 
report to the Commander’s office did the walk ever seem so long.  No. The tailor of the 
ship, who was with her since before Starbuck was ever assigned on board, was not an 
ordinary tailor.  Oh, he did claim to be just that, a plain and simple tailor.  Starbuck had 
his suspicions though about what actually made this guy tick.  Were it not for some jester 
polishing the deck, Starbuck would have never slipped into a side split with his legs, in 
turn ripping his pants where it counts, right in the middle of a real red alert.  The need to 
visit the tailor in the first place would not have occurred.  These thoughts would not have 
crossed his mind.  This walk would only have been a bad side thought.  Oh well.  It was 
useless hoping for something that did not happen - the usual red alert.  The time to face 
reality was unavoidable.  
     Half a corridor section to walk, no more than another centon. That was much too 
soon.  Perhaps if Starbuck hurried in, grabbed his sewn pants, paid and thanked the tailor, 
and scurried back out, he could escape from the tailor’s bizarre behavior in less than two 
centons.  It seemed like a good idea to employ.  At least he hoped so.  
     The door was open.  It usually was.  The tailor believed it to be an open invitation for 
anyone to freely enter when a piece of clothing needed his attention.  What good was a 
tailor if his services were not to be utilized?  Besides, he was able to see those passing by, 
what they wore, the condition of the clothing, and even pick out some personality cues 
merely from the way they walked.  
     Starbuck reviewed his quick escape plan one last time before stepping to the doorway 
and through it.  The room was slightly smaller than the viper pilots' billet.  The walls and 
deck were the same color as the rest of the battlestar.  Along the back wall were small 
shelves reaching from one side to the other except for where a doorway was leading to a 
tiny closet.  On the shelves were all the various materials a tailor usually required to fix, 
hem, or alter any piece of clothing from the Colonies.  Recent visits to other planets 
added a little more variety to the collection.  In the middle of the room were two large 
tables, occupying about a third of the floor space.  Various items of clothing were 
currently laid out on them waiting to be tailored.  Three chairs and two platforms lined 
the right side wall.  The platforms were slightly larger than the average chair seat and 
used for people to stand on for measuring purposes.  Clothing hung along the opposite 
wall waiting to be picked up by the owners.  
     A head appeared from behind the hanging clothes, with a very delightful look on the 
face.  “Starbuck!!  My how Good it is to See you again so Soon.”  Garocky’s words were 
always slightly drawn out.  He usually had a very happy note to his voice, but spoke with 
an aura of mystery.  His tone of voice was a tad lighter than the average man’s, but 
nothing too dramatic.  He also had a habit of stressing every third or fourth word he 
spoke as if it was more important than the others.  
     “Yeah....... Well, um......... Hi."  Starbuck felt a little uneasy in the room.  "Are my 
pants ready?”  
     “But of course, Good lieutenant."  The tailor walked out from behind the clothes, 
carrying Starbuck's pants, and walked towards him. He was half a head shorter than 
Starbuck with a very thin build.  His hair was black, his eyes green.  His shirt was blue in 
the arms, but dark gray everywhere else.  His pants were black.  There were three pockets 
on the front of the shirt, one over the left chest, and two at the stomach.  The upper arms 
had small strips of clothing to "strap" items under such as a measuring tool, scissors, 
needles and what not. "It was a Very simple, I must say A Very Very Simple repair for a 
Very Simple tailor like myself.”  
     “That’s good.  How much?”  A cold sweat broke on Starbuck's brow.  
     “Why it only Required a few centons of stitch work.  Quite a Nice job if I do say.  
Look at how the threads Blend Perfectly with the pants' color.  To the Plain and Simple 
eye, no one will Ever notice your attempt to be more, shall we say, limber.  I Am curious 
as to your motives.  Ahhh, but that is your own Private Matter.  I shall not *Press* you 
for an answer, dear man.”  
     “Right.”  Starbuck was flabbergasted.  “How much does this cost?”  He pulled at his 
collar.  
     “Cost?  It will be No Cost at All for you good sir.  No cost At All."  Garocky handed 
Starbuck the stitched pants.  "This job was So simple, So simple indeed, I did not even 
Notice I worked on it.”  
     “No no.  No you don’t." Starbuck shook his right index finger at the tailor.  "You fixed 
my pants."  He waved them with his left hand along the left side of his mid-torso.  "I will 
pay you.  How much?”  
     “Sir, you need not Worry about the cost.  However, if you Do wish to...... compensate 
me...... and it Appears you do, I have but an opinion to ask.  Merely an opinion if you 
Kindly will.”  
     “Sure.  Why not.”  Starbuck gave in.  His plan was obviously not going to work.  This 
man always did this.  Did anyone keep him company besides his customers?  And why 
was there always only one customer in here at any time?  It did not make sense.  “What 
do you want my opinion on?”  
     “Ah!!!! I was hoping you would ask.  It is Quite a Simple Question from such a person 
as myself.  I have but only a Small question for a Small favor.  I shall Highly value what 
you think on this..."  The next words carried a slightly dark overtone to them.  "...Trifle 
Matter.  I do trust you will yield my humble Graces with a Genuine reply.”  
     “Okay, already.  Ask your question.”  Starbuck put his hands on his hips and tapped 
his right foot.  The pants in his left hand began to wrinkle under the forceful squeeze of 
his fingers.  
     The tailor walked over to one of the platforms between the back two chairs.  There 
was a black box on it.  “Come Come, good man.  To Rush is to not want."  He turned to 
look at Starbuck.  "I Do Desire your Honest response.  It is quite simple.  I have recently 
been Fortunate to acquire this.”  Garocky pulled out a tray from under the box.  It was 
covered with small, circular, food-looking items, many different colors and designs on 
the tops.  “One of My Customers was Gracious enough to leave some as an Extra........ 
Reward for my Plain and Simple services.  I wish for you to try one and tell me what you 
think of them.”  
     “Didn’t you try one?”  
     Garocky chuckled lightly.  “Why of course, dear Starbuck.  I did Indeed have one of 
these.  I am quite Curious though to compare Your reaction to my own Simple one.”  To 
prove his point, Garocky picked up one and ate it with small bits, savoring each and 
every one.  He displayed enough emotion to spark Starbuck’s interest.  
     “All right.  I’ll try one.”  
     “I thought you would."  Garocky walked back over to Starbuck and extended the tray 
at chest level.  "Do, please do pick whichever one you wish.  I believe you to be a Good 
judge of Taste as well as Character.”  
     Starbuck reached out to grab one.  He really did not care which one.  The variety of 
color and styles were all very tantalizing.  He sniffed the one in his hand as if it was a 
good goblet of Ambrosa. There was a savory scent to it.  His taste buds kicked into a 
highly sensitive mode trying to anticipate just what this was going to taste like.  His 
stomach growled impatiently knowing it was about to receive more nourishment.  To not 
delay any longer, Starbuck took a big bite, large enough to consume the entire food item.  
     Garocky saw Starbuck drop the tailored pants from his left hand put it on his stomach 
trying to relish the wonderful taste as much as possible.  There was no hiding the smile 
on the lieutenant’s face.  
     “This is absolutely wonderful!!!  Who gave these to you?  I gotta get some.”  
     “Have another, good sir.  Take it With you.  Do Enjoy it as much as you can.  I 
Strongly Value your opinion over my Plain and Simple one.  In fact, take two with you.  I 
will be Quite Pleased if you do.”  
     “Of course.  Thank you.  I really like these.  I’ll go give one to Cassiopea to try.”  
Starbuck picked up another cookie and turned to leave.  
     “Dear sir, Don’t Forget that which you originally granted My company.”  
     “Huh?”  
     “Your pants."  Garocky reached down and picked them up.  "I Do believe you would 
Also like to take your pants with you.”  
     “Oh yeah.  Thanks.  I can’t leave without my pants.  What are these things called?”  
Starbuck swiftly grabbed his pants and waited impatiently for the answer.  
     “I am Told..... these..."  He pointed to the tray.  "...are Known as Cookies.  Please 
enjoy them and have a Delightful Day!!!!!"  
     Starbuck turned and darted out the door.  
     “I hope you shall return Soon with Another clothing need for me, your Plain and 
Simple Tailor.”  
     Starbuck never heard the last remark.  His mind was focused too much on the cookies 
in his hand.  As the lieutenant disappeared down the corridor, Garocky simply smiled at 
the delight he witnessed in Starbuck’s face.  Another fine job was accomplished by his 
tailorness to satisfy his customers.  Meanwhile, the good lieutenant never realized his 
question about who made the cookies was left unanswered.  
 
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