Why I oughta...

“Well where in the twelve hells did you leave it?” said Quarg, irritably.

“I don’t know,” said his son.

It’s tricky. In most species, the offspring is smaller than the parent. They’re easily controlled. Or if not controlled, easily disciplined at least. Just a cuff round the aural receptor or the denial of sustenance is usually enough. Not the P’hmnek though. A kink in the otherwise smooth line of evolutionary development, the P’hmnek offspring starts life the size of a small planetary satellite and gradually shrinks to more acceptable dimensions with maturity.

So how do you discipline a son the size of several football stadiums? Quarg usually did it by withholding orbiting privileges but this time, damn, the kid had lost the family transmat.

He was about to announce a grounding the likes of which had not been seen since the clench wars when, from out of nowhere, a tiny pink biped appeared, the transmat in its paw.

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