he Outpost is a bar located on a frontier planet near the black hole at the center of the galaxy. Its owner, Tomahawk, assisted by a robot bartender and resident writer, Willie the Bard, has developed a clientele of larger-than-life heroes, adventurers, fortune hunters, aliens and other colorful characters.
They come to The Outpost to drink with their comrades and tell stories about their sundry adventures (and misadventures). Catastrophe Baker is the greatest muscle-bound hero in the galaxy. Three-Gun Max is a troubleshooter and adventurer whose bravado exceeds his bravery. Big Red was a galaxy-renowned athlete playing various macho sports. Nicodemus Mayflower is a clever soldier of fortune and former sidekick to muscle-brained hero Lance Sterling. Bet-a-World O’Grady is the galaxy's boldest gambler. Sinderella, raised as a courtesan, is one of the universe's most beautiful women. Little Mike Picasso is a brilliant painter and con artist. Reverend Billy Karma is a hard-drinking, womanizing itinerate preacher. Einstein is a deaf, dumb and blind genius. Gravedigger Gaines is a former bounty hunter.
As these singular patrons tell their various tales of outlandish derring-do, others join them, including the great hero Hurricane Smith, who has a weakness for alien women, grizzled old big-game hunter Hellfire Carson, the famous madam known only as The Earth Mother, orange-furred three-legged aliens named Sitting Horse and Crazy Bull, the well-endowed Silicon Carney, whose body features moving tattoos, the fighting heroine Cyborg de Milo and many others.
Outside The Outpost, however, a war is heating up, as alien hordes appear intent on taking over the galaxy. When word reaches the heroes and heroines that the Monarchy space navy has been obliterated and their star system is now under alien control, they jump into their spaceships to defend the galaxy.
Pulp SF lite is less filling
"Set me up, and make it a double. You wouldn't believe how long I've had to read to get this far. I got hold of this book called The Outpost by Mike Resnick--a pretty good author usually, and prolific to boot. Writes more books'n you can shake a stick at, and usually darn good ones. But this time I damned near didn't make it through.
"See, there's this saloon out in the middle of nowhere, but they get dozens of customers, and not just nice normal folk like you have here, but a bunch of crazy sons-of-braggarts, and every one has a story to tell. They're not even stories, really, just vignettes, you know, little stories without much point to 'em. And after a while, they all start sounding the same. Muscle-bound oafs beating up cowardly villains to gain favors from lusty pirate queens, clever con artists outsmarting stupid marks, bold adventurers talking their way out of ludicrous predicaments. How many times can you laugh at the same jokes and punch lines, I ask you?
"This Outpost place is like a saloon in the old American West, with a touch of 19th-century British gentlemen's club to spice it up some. The stories are straight from the American tall-tale tradition, with a heavy dose of pulp adventure fiction thrown in with a heavy satirical hand, if you know what I mean. The clientele take time out to discuss weighty matters occasionally, like why all aliens love women with big breasts, even aliens that aren't mammals--they decide it's just one of those universals--but mostly just tell stupid stories.
"Finally, they all leave to fight some aliens, and I'm thinkin' 'Thank God!' But then they all come back and tell more stories about what they just did!"
"Fill her up again, barkeep. I got a heap of forgettin' to do."
