by Terry Jones
'Shut up!' said The Journalist. He had a small piece of paper which he was now stuffing into one of his many pockets (although he didn't have nearly as many as Scraliontis).
'Hey! Hey! You can't leave me here!' Lucy had gone from abject terror to incensed indignation in less time than most people could go from feeling OK to still feeling OK.
'I can't waste time!' snapped The Journalist. 'It may go off any second!' And he made for the door.
'DON'T LEAVE ME TIED UP IN HERE WITH A DEAD BODY!' screamed Lucy. Something in her tone of voice — maybe the sheer volume of it — made The Journalist stop. He turned and looked at Lucy, in her power pinstripe, tied to the bed — her black hair falling across her face.
'Shit!' he said. The actual Blerontin phrase was: 'North of Pangalin' which was a particularly unpleasant suburb of Blerontis, the capital of Blerontin, but the meaning was: 'Shit!'
He limped over to the bed and untied Lucy.
'Just don't get in the way,' he said.
'Don't talk to me like that!' fired Lucy.
'Oh! You're going to be a great help! I can see that!' replied The Journalist as he set off down the corridor towards the stairs up to the Embarkation Level.
'Wait!' Lucy shouted after him. 'I've got to find a supply of oxygen!'
'Forget it!'
'But it's getting hard to breathe!'
'Not as hard as it will be once we're tiny fragments floating in space!' retorted The Journalist.
Lucy was by now running alongside him. 'You're an alien, aren't you?' she suggested, as they waited for the Doorbot to open the door to the Second Class Area.
'No,' replied The Journalist. 'You're the alien. This is a Blerontinian Starship in case you hadn't noticed.'
'Point taken,' said Lucy. She really wasn't used to being talked to like this. Dan would never have dared. 'Oh my God!' she exclaimed as the doors opened and she took in for the first time the majestic sweep of the Grand Axial Canal Second Class.
'She plumett-ed
And hit his head
And gave him six pnedes as a tip!'
…sang the gondoliers.
'Ohh!'The Journalist gasped as he stepped down into the nearest gondola, and missed his footing. Lucy caught him and held him for a moment.
You're hurt,' she said.
'Let's get on!' he returned. 'We have no idea when the bomb is timed to go off.'
Lucy helped him down into the gondola, and the singing stopped.
'Take us to the Engine Room,' gasped The Journalist, holding his stomach.
'Si! Si! Nitrogen-Loathing Respecters of Pressed Veal!'
'And make it fast.'
'Si! Si!'
The gondola set off down the Great Canal at no greater speed than any other. Lucy looked across at her former assailant: he was rocking backwards and forwards, hugging himself.
'Are you cold?' asked Lucy. She certainly was. But The Journalist didn't reply; he just gritted his teeth and Lucy suddenly realized he was in real pain.
'What happened?' she asked, and touched his arm.
'That bastard — Scraliontis — stabbed me with a table lamp,' growled the ex-murderer.
Lucy stifled a laugh. 'How can you stab someone with a…'
'It had a sharp end,' interrupted The Journalist.
'Are you in pain?' asked Lucy. The Journalist grunted. Lucy leaned towards him and moved his hands away from his stomach. The unfamiliar smell of a being from another world caught her unawares — it was not unpleasant, quite the contrary, but it made her head spin.
'Leave me alone!' he growled.
'Let me look at it!' Lucy pulled him back onto the pillow and tried to open his clothes, where the congealed blood was thickest. 'I have no idea how to undo this,' she said.
'Thought-seal,' he said, and suddenly the garment opened so that Lucy was able to pull it back and reveal The Journalist's gouged flesh.
'Oh! It's nasty!' she said. 'Look!' Suddenly she made a quick movement. The Journalist yelled, and she pulled a large shard of glass from his abdomen. The blood welled up again from the wound.
'I couldn't see it!' he gasped. 'Thanks!' And he held up a small packet. 'Here!' he said.
'Oh! Thank you!' said Lucy, accepting the gift in what she felt was an appropriately grateful way. 'What is it?'
'A plaster,' said The Journalist. 'Stick it on before I bleed to death.'
'A lady she say we ought to sing while passengers are in the gondola and not other way round,' confided the gondolabot, clearly feeling the need for a bit of small-talk. 'We think something may be seriously wrong.'
'Just get us to the Engine Room!'
13
By the time they had reached the Engine Room, Lucy had managed to convince The Journalist that her name really was Lucy.
'But you know what that means in Blerontin?' The Journalist was in some pain from the laughter. He'd managed to stop at last, and Lucy was feeling a bit piqued.
'No,' she said coldly. 'What does it mean?'
'I can't tell you,' he replied.
'I'd like to know.'
'No no no no no — I just couldn't!'
'What's so funny? Go on, you've got to tell me!'
'Maybe when I know you better — oh! argh! ha ha ha! It hurts!'
'Well, what's your name?' she asked.
'The Journalist,' replied The Journalist.
'That's not a name, that's a job description,' objected Lucy.
The Journalist shrugged. 'On Blerontin newshacks aren't allowed individual names — it's an ancient law — something to do with avoiding the cult of the personality or something.'
'I can't call you The Journalist!'
'Just call me "The",' he said, and opened the luminous blue doors of the Engine Room.
A quick look inside drew his attention immediately to the small cabinet in the corner. The Journalist strode straight across to it, opened the doors, glanced at the two buttons, and without hesitation pressed the one marked: PRESS TO ARM.
Immediately a flap opened and a large black steel egg with fins rose up out of the top of the cabinet. At the same time a voice boomed out 'You have just activated the 8D-96 Full Force Mega-Scuttler — 'A Bomb To Be Proud Of' — created especially for you by the Mega-Scuttler Corporation of Dormillion. This will be a fairly big explosion so please stand well back — about twenty-two thousand miles. Countdown to detonation commencing at once. One thousand… nine hundred and ninety-nine… nine hundred and ninety-eight… nine hundred and ninety-seven.'
Lucy couldn't believe what she'd just witnessed. She looked at the two buttons again through her translatorspecs. 'Why, for crying out loud, did you press the button that says: "Press To Arm" for?' she exclaimed.
The Journalist was hopping round the Engine Room kicking himself.
'I didn't know it was a Dormillion bomb!'
'What difference does it make? A bomb's a bomb!'
'I can't explain!'
'I need to know!' insisted Lucy.
'No you don't!'
He was perfectly right Lucy, herself; wondered why she was pressing this point. She grabbed hold of The Journalist's shoulders and shook him.
'Look, you stupid jerk!You've just done something really stupid and I have a right to know why!'
'All right!'The Journalist seemed to calm down. 'It's just that the Dormillion for "Press To Arm" is very similar to the Blerontin for 'Please Press Dog". It was just a simple mis-translation!' he groaned. 'I was wondering what the dog had to do with it!'
'Great!' said Lucy.'So now we really are up shit's creek without a bucket!'
'Nine hundred and ninety-three… nine hundred and ninety-two… nine hundred and ninety-one' continued the bomb.
'WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO?!' she yelled.
'We're going to keep calm,' said The Journalist.
'Good thinking, "The"!' snorted Lucy summing up her not inconsiderable reserves of sarcasm. 'You clearly have a mind the size of Arnold Schwarzenegger's humeral ligament! We're running out of oxygen. The
temperature's rapidly becoming suitable for an Arctic Winter on Pluto! You've just activated what was otherwise a harmless bomb and now you have the nerve to tell me to stay calm!'
'Who's Arnold Schwarzenegger?' asked The Journalist.
'Arrrrghhhhhhh!'Lucy decided that a good scream was probably the wisest course of action under the circumstances.
The Journalist suddenly screamed as well. Lucy looked at him. 'I'm sorry.' he said. 'It's just I can't think when you do that.'
'I'm sorry too.' Lucy felt stupid. The Journalist smiled, and then, for no apparent reason, gave her a kiss on the cheek. Lucy was so surprised to be kissed by an alien, with beautiful orange eyes, she simply stood there, and heard him say:
'The dock is counting once every innim! That gives us about sixteen edoes before it gets to zero!'
'How long's an innim?' Lucy wanted to say but her mouth wasn't working. All she could do was stare into those strange and beautiful eyes as she heard him say:
'What we must do is find the life-boats!'
Dan was still deep in argument with the desk lamp in the Embarkation Lobby. It was an argument he had become familiar with over the years with Top Ten Travel. But there was something wrong. Somehow he just wasn't getting his points across. This damned desk lamp seemed to be coming out on top every time. Then Dan realized the problem was the air — or rather the lack of it — he just wasn't getting the amount of oxygen into his brain that a travel agent needs to argue for a free upgrade.
He was panting and gasping. He was also on his knees and his head was beginning to spin.
'If you want me to go to the Press and blow this story up, I'm quite happy to do so…' He knew once you were reduced to this line of attack the cause was probably lost. They'd never get into First Class, they'd never get to the Captain, and they'd all die of asphyxiation and cold. Great.
At that moment, he heard footsteps running across the loggia of the Central Well and an exhausted Lucy, accompanied by a strange man with bright orange eyes, staggered into the Embarkation Lobby. The two of them collapsed next to Dan and lay there trying to get their breath.
'Who's this?' Dan was surprisingly indignant for someone who was in the process of dying of
asphyxiation.
'Bomb!' gasped The Journalist.
'You're a bomb?' said Dan.
'No!' Lucy felt she had to explain. 'The, this is Dan. Dan, this is The.'
Dan blinked a few times.
'There's a bomb on board! It's about to go off!' The Journalist managed to get out. 'We've got to get to the lifeboats!'
'They're in First Class!' explained Lucy.'Naturally.'
'Now that is outrageous!' Dan received this new ammunition gratefully and turned on the Deskbot. 'If I tell the Travel Association that, they'll blacklist your whole fleet forever!' Wow! That was some threat. Dan knew,they'd had it levelled against the Top Ten Travel Co., Inc., countless times.
The Deskbot tapped its fingers on the desk and gazed up at the ceiling.
'D'you hear?' exclaimed Dan. 'I'll close this whole goddamned company down!'
'Listen you Dumbbot!' The Journalist had grabbed the Deskbot by its scrawny stand. 'This is a matter of life and death! There's a bomb about to go off in…' He checked his watch. 'In ten edoes! Pangalin!'
'How long's that?' asked Dan, but The Journalist wasn't listening. He was too busy shaking the robot. Suddenly there was a crack and a flash and all the lights went off for an instant.
'Hey!' cried everyone, and the lights came on again — although there was no cause and effect between the shout of 'Hey!' and the recommencement of illumination.
'I'm sorry. There is nothing I can do unless you have a Galactic Gold Credit Card,' replied the robot in a simulated strangled voice.
'Pangalin!' repeated The Journalist.
'Please mind your language,' croaked the Deskbot.
'Don't you have a credit card, The?' asked Lucy appalled to think her new friend might be not the most solvent character on Blerontin.
'Not a Galactic Gold!' he said.
'Who is this?' Dan had switched back to Indignation Mode.
'You've got to earn over seven pnedes a week to get one of those beauties!' The Journalist was still trying to strangle the Deskbot.
'It's getting really hard to breathe!' choked Lucy.
Ice was now forming on the edge of the desk. Dan pointed at it. 'You call that Super Galactic Class comfort?!' he choked.
'Take your hands off my flex!' choked the Deskbot. 'You'll short me again!'
'Get us into First Class NOW!' choked The Journalist. 'Or I'll smash your lampshade!'
Lucy had collapsed on the floor, and Dan rushed to her, 'Where did you find that guy?' he whispered into her ear.
'Save… your… breath…' panted Lucy.'
'Help!' screamed the Deskbot. 'Security!'
'May you rot in Pangalin!' yelled The Journalist.
It was at that moment that an extraordinary thing happened. Or, rather, it was at that moment that an extraordinary thing crawled into the Embarkation Lobby, across the highly polished floor and up to the Deskbot.
It was clearly alive — although only just — and it was very old. It was wizened and blackened. In its twiglike fingers the creature held a Personal Electronic Thingie. It waved this under the Deskbot's nose and croaked in an ancient voice: 'Upgrade… All of us!'
The Deskbot immediately sprang to attention and became perceptibly brighter.
'Of course!Madam! What a pleasure to welcome you to the First Class facilities of the Starship Titanic, You will find them without equal anywhere in the Galaxy! Please go through and have a pleasant trip!'
There was a hiss of air returning to the cabins and an instant rise in temperature, as the ship registered the arrival of four First Class passengers. The door to the First Class Area swung open and Dan and Lucy, The Journalist and the Ancient Creature stepped through into another, and even more amazing, world.
14
'Nettie!' exclaimed Dan.'My God! You're Nettie! What's happened to you?' But the Ancient Creature, whom Dan had rightly identified as Nettie, couldn't reply. The moment they passed into the First Class Section, she collapsed and lay as if dead. The Gap T-shirt hung around her shrunken frame like an over-large pullover. Her jewellery looked foolish and ill-advised on her scrawny wrists and neck. What on Earth — or off the Earth — had happened to her?
What had in fact happened was this.
The Starship Titanic was powered by the latest and most incredible invention of the great Leovinus's genius. No one knew how he had done it, and he had kept it an absolute secret, but somehow he harnessed for the Starship — his beloved masterpiece — the vastest source of power in the probable Universe: a captive Black Hole.
Naturally something as powerful as a Black Hole needed very careful handling and had to be surrounded by incredible safety precautions. Unfortunately, safety was one thing that neither Scraliontis nor Brobostigon had first in their minds, when they began to reduce the specifications for the construction of the ship.
'There won't be anybody in the Engine Room,' explained Scraliontis, when even Brobostigon had queried the wisdom of reducing the Incredibly Strong Glass Company's spec for the window into the Black Hole.
'But you know what Black Holes are like…'
Actually Scraliontis didn't; he was an accountant and not an engineer. In any case Black Hole Technology was a brand new concept straight out of Leovinus's brain. 'Just take Leovinus's lowest parameter for the glass shield!' he snapped. 'We can't afford any more.'
It was Nettie who discovered the problem thus caused by Scraliontis's cost-cutting, as she climbed the ladder, looking for the phone to the Captain's Bridge. The force of the Black Hole had simply plucked her off the ladder and absorbed her through the Incredibly Strong Glass Company's below-spec window.
Once in the Black Hole, she had begun to spin around for — as far as her body was concerned — hundreds of years, travelling millions of light y
ears round in tiny circles. Fortunately, she still had her Personal Electronic Thingie on her, and this had dutifully clocked up all the miles she travelled.
Nettie herself didn't know how she had escaped. In fact, she had been thrown clear of the Black Hole when The Journalist had short-circuited the Deskbot. Nettie was, miraculously, still alive, and, even more miraculously, still had the presence of mind to realize that she had accumulated millions of light years of Space Miles — enough to get them all free upgrades to First Class.
'Less than eight edoes to go!' exclaimed The Journalist. 'And that's assuming the bomb doesn't speed up its counting!'
'What can I do about Nettie?' cried Dan, holding the Ancient Creature pathetically in his arms.
'Leave her! We've got to find the life-boats!' And The Journalist was off, running along the embankment of the Grand Axial Canal First Class, with Lucy in close pursuit.
'Come on, Dan!' she called.
'I can't just leave her!' Dan yelled back. But they'd turned a corner and were gone. Dan tried to lift the ancient Nettie up, but even though she was emaciated and shrivelled, he was too exhausted to carry her anywhere.
He looked around and, for the first time, took in the extraordinary vista presented by the Grand Axial Canal First Class. If the word 'posh' ever had any meaning, this was it. It was luxury. It was Deluxe. It was Expensive. It was also redolent with the operatic singing of the gondolabots:
'He helped to chalk
Her tightrope walk
So that the lovely lady wouldn't slip…'
Dan had always hated opera. 'Let's go somewhere quiet,' he whispered to Nettie, and finally lifted her up and staggered into the nearest doorway.
Lucy and The Journalist had, meanwhile, discovered that the Star-Struct Construction Co., Inc., had not skimped on the signs to the lifeboats (First Class). There were big reassuring signs almost everywhere you looked. They were illuminated and some of them incorporated flashing arrows. Consequently, the two arrived at the Lifeboat Assembly Station in less than a minute.
'Seven edoes to go!' gasped The Journalist.
As he said this, both he and Lucy discovered that while the Star-Struct Construction Co., Inc., hadn't skimped on the signs to the lifeboats, they had economized on the lifeboats themselves. In fact, they had economized completely and utterly on them.
