Buck Rogers had always prided himself on his adaptability. 20th-century astronaut? No problem. 25th-century defense pilot? Piece of cake. But navigating a romantically inclined Xylosian Silk-Weaver in the strictly off-limits, magnetic-shielded Hangar Bay Delta was proving to be a challenge of cosmic proportions.

Her name was Zara. She was stunning, shimmering like a supernova, and possessing four more arms than Buck knew what to do with.

“You Earthmen are so… singular,” Zara purred, her voice a soothing melodic vibration that made Buck’s teeth itch. She was currently attempting to use arms three and four to give him a simultaneous shoulder massage while arms five and six were exploring the intricate stitching of his Directorate flight jacket.

“We try our best, Zara,” Buck said, flashing his signature grin, although it was slightly strained as he tried to prevent arms one and two from accidentally triggering the emergency ejection release on a nearby Starfighter. “In my time, we had a saying: ‘Two’s company, three’s a crowd.’ But six? Six is a full-blown party.”

Zara giggled, the sound like wind chimes in a gale. “Oh, Buck. You are so full of… antiquated charm.”

She leaned in, her multifaceted eyes sparkling with amorous intent. Buck decided that international relations were definitely his new favorite part of the job.

Then, the hanger door controls shrieked.

A massive, magnetic blast door slammed open with a sound like a dying galaxy. Standing there, illuminated by the harsh emergency strobes, were Colonel Wilma Deering and Twiki.

Wilma did not look like she was enjoying the party. She looked like she was about to court-martial someone with her glare alone. Her stance was rigid, her mouth a tight, perfect line of disapproval.

And Twiki?

Twiki froze. His internal circuits audibly groaned. Then, the little robot’s head began to spin.

“Biddy-biddy-biddy-biddy! Oh, wow,” Twiki managed, his voice processing unit working overtime. “Buck, I think your diplomacy just… hit a major snag.”

“Colonel Deering!” Buck gasped, instantly trying to disentangle himself. It was like trying to escape a sentient, amorous spiderweb. He got an arm free, only for Zara, reacting to the surprise, to wrap two new ones around his waist for comfort. “This isn’t what it looks like!”

“Really, Captain Rogers?” Wilma’s voice was dangerously low and cool. She stepped into the bay, her eyes taking in the iridescent alien currently draped over him. “Because from here, it looks exactly like a Level 4 Breach of Protocol, Section A, Subsection 2: ‘Conduct Unbecoming a Directorate Officer with a Multi-Limbed Diplomatic Guest.’”

“Biddy-biddy! Protocol breach!” Twiki added, waddling forward. He pointed a metallic finger. “My data banks are showing a 98% probability that you are, what the 20th century called, ‘bust-ed.’”

“It’s a cultural exchange!” Buck protested, finally winning a wrestling match with arm number five, only to have arm number three accidentally knock over a cart of magnetic wrenches. A wave of tools instantly clamped themselves to the nearest bulkhead with a series of loud, metallic CLANGS.

“Zara was just… explaining the… neural mapping of Xylosian courtship rituals!”

Wilma raised a single, perfect eyebrow. “Through the application of four-handed neck massages?”

“Biddy-biddy! I’d like to see that data map,” Twiki muttered, clicking. “Talk about hands-on research.”

Zara, sensing the tension, smoothly retreated, gathering all six arms into a respectful, albeit slightly confused, salute. “I believe I have breached Earth Defense Directorate etiquette. My apologies, Colonel.” She turned to Buck. “You remain… singular, Buck Rogers.”

She vanished into the hanger shadows, moving with grace that was entirely unfair.

Wilma was still staring at him. “A cultural exchange.”

Buck straightened his jacket, looking at the floor, which was now suspiciously messy with tools. “Yeah. A… very detailed exchange. I may need a refresher on the protocol. Perhaps you and I could… discuss it over some 25th-century synth-coffee? To ensure I don’t make another breach.”

Wilma stared at him for a long, painful moment. Then, the corner of her mouth twitched.

“You are impossible, Rogers.” She shook her head. “Finish cleaning up your… ‘cultural exchange’ mess, Captain. We have a briefing in ten. And Rogers?”

“Yes, Colonel?”

“Biddy-biddy! Keep your third eye open, Buck! I’m scanning for an encore!”

Wilma smiled. "Precisely. Try not to cause an interstellar incident before breakfast next time." She turned and marched out, leaving Buck alone with the small, clicking robot.

“Biddy-biddy-biddy! What’s up, Buck?” Twiki looked up, his faceplate reflecting the hanger lights. “You really know how to make a connection across the galaxy. You want me to scan for more silk-weavers, or are you sticking to two arms for a while?”