'How are you feeling, bomb?' Nettie asked.
'Please don't talk to it while I'm defusing it,' said the bomb disposal expert. 'It could be dangerous.'
'Have you got enough time?' asked Dan. 'Four hundred and thirty-two...' said the bomb. 'Depends,' said the bomb disposal expert, unscrewing a metal plate from the cabinet 'If it keeps counting at this speed I should be OK, but sometimes on the last countdown they can speed up. This is a 8D-96 Full Force Mega-Scuttler - if it were an 8G or even a 9A we'd be fine. They put a servo-control mechanism in to stop that problem. But with the SD, well... you just never know... Ah! This seems to be all in order...'
While he had been talking the bomb disposal expert had removed the metal plate and exposed a dull red button which read: 'DEFUSE THE BOMB'.
'Fortunately on the 8D they still included this automatic defuser - just to make it simple for us bomb disposal experts.' He pressed the button. Immediately the bomb stopped counting. There was a pause. Then a siren went off, the red button saying 'DEFUSE THE BOMB' lit up and started flashing, and a glass cover slid across the button, preventing anyone from touching it.
'Wait a mo... said the bomb disposal expert. 'This doesn't seem to be quite right...'
'Congratulatlons!' said the bomb. You have successfully defused the 8D-96 Full Force Mega-Scuttler. The Mega-Scuttler, however, is linked into the intelligence cybersystem of this starship, and unfortunately that system is currently incomplete. The bomb has therefore gone into Default Mode. Please refer to manual.'
'Where's the manual?!' asked the bomb disposal expert - his voice betraying an edge of what Nettie (although she desperately tried to find a more comforting word) could only categorize as 'panic'.
'You're the bomb disposal expert,' said Dan.
Meanwhile Nettie had discovered a small booklet tucked under the bomb cabinet. She riffled through the pages.
'How to preset the timer for cooking large joints!' she read.
'That's the manual for the gas oven!' exclaimed the bomb disposal expert, grabbing it off Nettie and starting to read it avidly. Any technical manual was of interest to a Yassaccan. It was the sort of thing in which they could always find solace and escape - especially when under pressure.
Meanwhile Dan and Nettie were scouring the Engine Room for the right booklet. By the time the bomb disposal expert said: 'Look! It has the self-cleaning function!' Dan had found the 'Easy-To-Use Manual for the SD-96 Full Force Mega-Scuttler, Your User-Friendly Bomb' stuffed behind some water pipes.
'The SD-96 Full Force Mega-Scuttler is designed to be the Ultimate User-Friendly Exploding Device,' he read. 'All operations are simple and self explanatory.'
'Give me that!' cried the bomb disposal expert, snatching the manual from Dan's hands. 'Default Mode,' he read. 'Once the bomb has gone into Default Mode, as a result of an incomplete intelligence system on board ship, the following conditions will apply: You will not be able to reach the defuse button. You will not be able to touch the bomb or the bomb cabinet. You will not be able to do anything any more to the bomb. So leave it alone. D'you understand? Good. The SD-96 Full Force Mega-Scuttler will now explode in exactly six Dormillion days from the commencement of Default Mode,'
'Shit!' said Dan.
'Shit!' said Nettie.
'Shit!' said the bomb disposal expert.
22
'How long is a Dormillion day?' It was Nettie who was first to ask the obvious question.
'Thirty-six Dormillion hours,' said the bomb disposal expert.
'How long's a Dormillion hour?' asked Dan.
'Seventy-eight Dormillion minutes,' said the bomb disposal expert. 'It's about... well... How can I tell you? There's no point of reference.'
The three of them thought for some time and were just about to agree that it was impossible to convey any idea of time from one star system to another, when Nettie said:
'Got it!'
I won't tell you how she worked it out, but it was pretty clever. If you can't work it out for yourself, you'll have to write to the publishers of this book for a self-explanatory leaflet entitled: 'How Nettie Worked Out The Length Of A Dormillion Day'.
'So... six Dormillion days must be roughly equivalent to ten Earth days!' said Nettie, after a few quick calculations.
'God! Nettie!' said Dan. 'You're so clever. Why didn't I think of that?'
The trio had just reported back to the Bridge of the Starship.
'How do we get it out of Default Mode?' Bolfass was questioning the bomb disposal expert.
'Our only hope is to find the missing central core of the ship's intelligence,' said the bomb disposal expert. 'If we can replace that, then I can probably defuse the bomb. Otherwise it'll blow in six Dormillion days.'
Bolfass turned to his assembled crew. 'Men! You hear the seriousness of this situation. Our beloved home of Yassacca has been ruined by the construction of this Starship and the failure of the Blerontinians to honour their debts. We built in good faith. We put our entire way of life at risk to construct the most fabulous and beautiful starcraft the Galaxy has ever seen. The Blerontinians betrayed our trust. The only chance our world has of returning to its former prosperity is by our repossession of the Starship Titanic. If it is blown up by this treacherous bomb, the future of our world is grim indeed.
'Therefore I command you to search this ship again. I know we have scoured every last inch of it, but that missing central intelligence core must be on board somewhere, and we must find it...'
At this moment a scream was heard over the loudspeaker system.
'Lucy!' exclaimed Dan.
I have to explain what had happened to Lucy and The Journalist since the brief exchange of gunfire outside the Embarkation Lobby. The moment Nettie, Dan and Corporal Inchbewigglit ran after the retreating Blerontinians, The Journalist grabbed Lucy and pulled her into a side chamber off the Grand Axial Canal.
'What on Earth are you doing, The!' exclaimed Lucy, although it was pretty obvious that what The Journalist was doing was undoing the buttons of her pinstripe power-suit as fast as he possibly could, whilst at the same time apparently trying to see how far into her ear he could stick his tongue. 'The!' cried Lucy. 'Stop it!'
'No! No! No!' moaned The Journalist. 'Once we Blerontinian males have been aroused by a female, it takes us many many years - sometimes a lifetime - to get de-aroused vis-i-vis that particular female.'
'What are you saying, The?' cried Lucy.
'Marry me, Lucy!' cried The Journalist, burying his face in her now exposed bra.
'Oh yes! Yes! Yes! The!' she cried.
'Squawk!' cried something else.
'We can get engaged and have a white wedding and a wedding cake and Dan can give the best man's speech and we'll have a honeymoon!' exclaimed The Journalist.
'Squawk!'
'Darling The!' cried Lucy, tears in her eyes. 'What am I doing? What am I saying?' Part of Lucy's legal training had suddenly started to reassert itself. It was something on the lines of: don't commit to anything that you may later regret. 'But I'm getting married to Dan! We're going to run a hotel! What was that squawk?'
'Squawk!' said the thing that was squawking. 'It was that!' exclaimed The Journalist, and suddenly a large parrot flew out of the dark recesses of the room and landed on The Journalist's shoulder. It was at that moment that Lucy screamed, and as she screamed, as luck would have it, she had inadvertently put her hand down on one of the ship's intercom buttons, with the result that her scream was relayed all round the Starship Titanic.
'Squawk!' said the parrot. 'Bloody genius!'
Back on the Captain's Bridge Bolfass pricked up his ears. 'What did that parrot say?'