The meatball's bag of knuckles slammed into Jack's jaw, his teeth chattering like a candy-glass movie window. The blow lifted Jack and would have tossed him from the spaceplane’s feather wing like a ragdoll if his suction boots hadn’t kept their grip on the bucky-bakelight sheathing.
“Whew!” thought Jack as he looked off the wing’s forward edge; from the Stratosphere the ground was invisible in the blue sky below him. He shook his head clearing his mind and focused on the jet-packed Lizard-thug stepping toward him, claws gripping into the Lucite skin of the wing. Behind the lizard Jack could see the engines at the rear of the crate, tossing electro-arcs, the vapor rising up as the ship idled along at 500 mile per hour.
As the lizard stood over him, frill rippling in the breeze as it coiled its arm back to strike, Jack drew his service Gazi Nuclear Blaster from its holster. With a flash of light, the weapon vomited forth a 2” wide beam of pure fission energy.
“Duck and cover this, Bert” Jack snarled as the blast ripped the Lizard off the ship and it faded into the slipstream.
Jack leapt to his feet and vaulted through the jagged hole where the hatch had been only scant minutes before.
Emily, his slender, yet buxom secretary sat behind the wheel, her sheer satinous skirts billowing suggestively; her fulsome rondure displaying a hint of turgid excitement.
“Oh, Captain,” she gasped breathlessly. “I was so worried.”
“Nothing to worry about, Dollface. Slide over.”
Jack slipped onto the vinyl seat next to her and took the wheel. He felt her hip tremble against him as he thrust the choke in, popped the clutch floored it. The SSSP Mildred Pierce moaned as he turned the ship upwards into the star-speckled velvet blackness of space.
Two hours later, the spaceplane glided to a landing at the Space Service’s Lunar base outside Verne City.
As they stepped out the vessel, the hot afternoon cirraco was blowing through the canyons, making Emily’s skirts undulate around her dimpled knees.
Jack helped her down off the wing, catching a glimpse of the frail’s virginal milky white thighs.
“Alright, sweet-dimples, I’ve got to report in to Commodore Blackstone. Book us a flop and I’ll meet you at the milkbar over on Topanga.” He gave her a friendly swat on her shapely derriere.
“Yes, Jack. Oops, tee hee, Captain Starr, Sir.”
She wiggled her hips invitingly as she walked away on her high heels.
Commodore “Wild Bill” Blackstone was a brawny lug of a man fro the lower east side of New Jove City and it showed every time he opened his mouth. His accent was pure Jupiter.
“So, what youse gotta say here?”
The Commodore sat behind his gray metal desk chewing on a plug of shag.
“I’m not sure what to tell you, Bill.” Jack puffed on a Venusian cheroot. “That snakeskin geet came from out of nowhere…”