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 news-hacks 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 SD-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 22,000 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 translator-specs. 'What, for crying out loud, did you press the button that says: "Press To Arm" for?' she exclaimed,
The Joumalist 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 berk! 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-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, summoning 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 Joumalist.
'Arrrrghhhhhhh!' Lucy decided that a good scream was probably the wisest course of action under the circumstances.
The Journalist suddenly screamed as well. Lucy stopped her screaming and 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.