The Wyzenhymer plant took full advantage of the chaos that reigned over the ship due to the ensuing battle. He strolled casually through the vacant corridors of the USS Escort
unable to contain the malicious grin that crept slowly across his face. That they thought the bungling Doctor Egan would be in the employ of the Armada was sheer lunacy. He had severely overestimated
the intelligence of Space Fleet's highly touted officers' corps.
A security troop rounded the corner, rendering a smart salute which the mole returned. Once past, the grin returned. It was all so simple. He stopped at his quarters, casting a look in either
direction, and chuckled softly to himself at the absurdity of his actions. They would never catch him, he thought, they were far too simple for that.
Entering his compartment, he made his way to the liquor cabinet that was stacked with a wide variety of beers and lagers. He detested the foul beverages, but knew that they were a necessary part of his disguise.
He reached for a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon, but did not open it. Instead, he twisted the cylinder, separating the top from the bottom half. Several wires were exposed, and he deftly attached these
to others. This done the device began to hum strangely.
He raised the contraption to his head, and placed an end of the can over each ear. A violent spasm shook his body as the device made contact with his cranium. His eyes rolled up into his head, and his
jaw became slack. For several moments he remained as so, seemingly comatose. Then his vision cleared, and he heard the voice of his Wyzenhymer contact.
"It has been too long since your last contact.", the alien hissed.
The mole shrugged inwardly, "Something suddenly came up."
The Wyzenhymer's agitated thoughts swept through the spy's mind, causing him to convulse momentarily. A silent rebuke for his glib remark. Regaining his senses, the mole noted distractedly that he'd
soiled his favorite chair, one which he'd dubbed "Comfy Chair".
"I was unable to leave the bridge without drawing undue attention to myself.", he stated peevishly.
The Wyzenhymer received his full report via the telepathic communication device, signing off without remark. The mole removed the head gear and returned it to his beer menagerie, muttering softly under his
breath. He turned, taking a long introspective look at the spreading stain on the chair. Was his treachery worth it, he wondered. He decided that it was.
