by Terry Jones
'Nine hundred and twenty-two…' The bomb was still counting.
'We've got about thirteen minutes!'
'Very well,' said Bolfass, still stern-faced. 'We shall have to apologize to the Blerontinians.'
'But they were trying to kill you!' exclaimed Nettie.
'That is because they have no moral code that forbids them,' replied Bolfass, with undeniable logic.' I shall write the letter of apology as soon as I get a spare moment.'
'If we don't do something about the bomb,' exclaimed Dan, 'we're all of us going to be nothing but spare moments!'
You are right!' said Bolfass. 'I shall have it defused at once!'
Nettie insisted on being with the bomb while it was defused. 'I feel I owe it to it,' she said, when Dan tried to dissuade her. 'Besides, if it goes off, it doesn't matter whereabouts on the ship any of us are.'
The Yassaccan bomb disposal expert agreed, as he put his tool bag down beside the bomb.
'Four hundred and thirty-four…' said the bomb.
'Hi, bomb!' said Nettie.
'Four hundred and thirty-three…' said the bomb. Nettie somehow knew that it was not going to let itself be interrupted. This was the last countdown.
'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 8D, 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…'
'Congratulations!' 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 helpfully.
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 manual. 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 8D-96 Full Force Mega-Scuttler, Your User-Friendly Bomb' stuffed behind some water pipes.
'The 8-96 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 8D-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.
21
'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 dearoused vis-à-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 w
e'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?'
'BLOODY GENIUS!' screamed the parrot over the intercom.
'Parrot!' yelled Captain Bolfass. 'What are you telling us?'
'Bloody genius!' repeated the parrot.
'PARROT!' Bolfass yelled into the intercom. 'We're looking for the missing central intelligence core for Titania's brain, do you know where it is?'
There was a silence.
'PARROT!' yelled Bolfass, but Lucy had removed her hand from the intercom button and was now using it to caress The Journalist's face as if his smooth features were a fortune-teller's crystal ball.
'Why's Captain Bolfass so interested in what a parrot says?' Nettie had turned to Corporal Inchbewigglit.
'In Yassaccan tradition,' whispered Corporal Inchbewigglit, 'parrots are the messengers of truth. We have a saying: "From the mouths of babes and parrots".'
Lucy, meanwhile, was wondering why she had said yes to everything The Journalist had just suggested. She thought she had probably made a terrible mistake, If only she could see the future in those strange orange-coloured eyes of his. 'You're crazy!' she said.
'Ohhh!' moaned The Journalist, and he chewed her bra-strap.
'Ahh!' said Lucy.
'Haaaa!' murmured The Journalist.
'Oh-uh!' replied Lucy.
'Oooooh!' he said.
'Oh! Uh! Ooh!' added Lucy.
'Ya! Ha! Haa?' asked The Journalist.
'Uh!' confirmed Lucy.
'Uh?' asked The Journalist again.
'Uh!' repeated Lucy.
'Uuuuuhh!' The Journalist was almost lost for words at this point. But Lucy carried on the conversation:
'OH!' she said.
'Ah?' He wondered how she could be so certain.
'AH!' She nodded. She was absolutely certain now. 'AH!'
And at that moment the entire company from the Captain's Bridge burst into the side chamber off the Grand Axial Canal, and stood riveted to the spot while they watched a highly qualified lawyer from Wilshire Boulevard and an underachieving member of the Blerontinian press corps doing the sort of things to each other that give inexpressible delight and pleasure to the participants, but which only tend to provoke ridicule from casual observers, and about which, therefore, I will not go into detail. Suffice it to say that the moment the Bridge party burst into the room, the parrot gave the loudest squawk it had given to date, and Lucy fell off the table onto The Journalist's face.
'LUCY!' exclaimed Dan.
'Parrot!' yelled Bolfass. 'Where is the missing intelligence core for Titania's brain?'
'Bloody Genius!' squawked the parrot.
'Don't talk rubbish!' shouted Bolfass.
'BLOODY GENIUS!' screamed the parrot.
'I ASKED YOU A QUESTION!' yelled Bolfass. It was also according to Yassaccan tradition that
parrots were supposed to answer any questions put to them.
'Squawk!'The parrot momentarily forgot its powers of speech.
'ANSWER MY QUESTION!'
'SQUAWK!'
The parrot flew off into the shadows at the further end of the chamber.
'Damn it!' Bolfass knew it was bad luck if a parrot refused to answer your question.
'I can explain everything,' Lucy was telling Dan.
'No! You can't! You can't explain ANYTHING!' screamed Dan. And Lucy suddenly thought: 'He's right!… He's absolutely RIGHT!'
'Perhaps that is your answer!' It was Nettie who had suddenly stepped forward and taken Captain Bolfass by the arm.
'Dear lady, it is good of you to trouble yourself with this matter, but I fear the parrot has not given any reply. I am doomed.'
'Didn't you tell me that this Starship was designed by some genius?'
'Leovinus!' exclaimed The Journalist. 'He was here on the ship when we crashed on the Earth!'
'Maybe he has the missing part?' It was all so clear to Nettie, although she didn't know why.
Something clicked in The Journalist's mind. 'Of course!' he exclaimed. 'When he ran off the ship — he was brandishing this glowing silver strip in his hand…'
'The central core intelligence!' exclaimed Bolfass.
'That's why it isn't on the ship?'
'So…' Captain Bolfass was putting two and two together but rather slowly.
'In order to get the missing central intelligence core for the ship's system, we've got to find this Leovinus character.' Nettie had decided to take over the deduction process. 'Leovinus is on Earth. But we can't get to the Earth because we don't know where it is, and the only way to find out where it is, is to get hold of the missing central intelligence core and refit it into Titania's brain. Gentlemen, we're screwed.'
It was then that the docking sirens sounded. The Starship Titanic was preparing itself for landing on the planet of Yassacca.
22
The celebration party was a gloomy affair.
Everyone tried to make the best of it, and kept toasting the Earth folk for their invaluable help in beating off the insurance loss adjusters; several speeches were made extolling the return of the great Starship to its rightful home, but nobody could forget that within a couple of days, the ship would have to be towed off to some distant part of the Galaxy, where it could explode without doing any more harm than destroy itself.
The Yassaccans could see no prospect of recovering their economy. Meanwhile Lucy, Dan and Nettie could see no prospect of ever returning to their own planet. They had each been given translation blisters (like small plasters worn behind the ear) so that they could still communicate now they were away from the influence of the ship's automatic systems, but that had done little to reconcile them to the prospect of exile on an alien world.
'But surely,' Rodden, the Navigational Officer, had cornered Nettie, 'you must have some idea of where this "Earth" place is? I mean you must at least know whether it is in the Notional Northern Hemisphere of the Galaxy or the Notional South?'
'Well… no…'
'Is it on an outer or an inner arm of the spiral?'
'I haven't a clue,' said Nettie.
Rodden shook his head gloomily. He hated talking to dumb blondes. 'Well if you really have no idea where you've come from, I really can't get you back there. The only thing that could is the Starship and that can't remember because its brain's missing! Seems to be a common complaint…' he added, unnecessarily, and wandered off, rather to Nettie's relief.
Nettie looked around at the gloomy party. She felt sad, and yet, there was so much beauty in this gentle world she found herself in. Yassacca! It was a nice name for a start. And she was sure there were worse places… Slough… New Maiden…Basingstoke… Nettie found herself split in two. One part of her was saying: Come on! Make the best of it! This is home from now on! And the other half was telling her not to give up… that somehow, deep down inside her, she was convinced that she would be able to get them all back to Earth. Nettie felt a bit foolish for feeling so convinced of her own ability, but there it was — she just couldn't shake the feeling off, though she had no idea why she had it.
In the meantime, she tried to e
njoy the sad celebration.
The very smell of the snork roasting over open fires seemed sad, as it wafted under the gloomy Yassaccan pines and then mingled with the softer, sadder scents of the night jasmine and the weeping oleanders that crowded Corporal Golholiwol's garden. The Yassaccans took it in turn to host important national events, and it just happened to be Corporal Golholiwol's turn. He had provided seven snorks for roasting, plates of fish and fruit and fresh vegetables from his garden. Unlike the Blerontinians, the Yassaccans took no interest in canapés and preferred good plain food washed down with plenty of Yassaccan ale and sweet potato wine.
The Journalist gloomily thought it all pretty poor fare, but he tried to hide his contempt for the lack of 'fish-paste', tiny chicken vol-au-vents and cocktail sausages on sticks.
But, no matter how much Nettie complimented him on his crackling, Corporal Golholiwol refused to emerge from his gloom. 'In the old days,' he explained to Nettie, 'we would have roasted seventy snorks! I would have been able to provide so much fish we could have filled the Ocean of Summer Plastering! And all the beer and wine… well! It would have flowed from those fountains you see over there in the centre of the garden… ah! These are thin times indeed for Yassacca.' And he gloomily stared into the empty ale mug he held in his hands.
Captain Bolfass was also gloomy. He kept trying not to stare at Nettie, who had discarded her GAP T-shirt, hand-knitted waistcoat, and mini-skirt in favour of a simple Yassaccan shift, slit up to the thigh and embroidered at one corner. She looked breathtaking, and the poor Captain's breath was so taken that he sighed and tried to imagine how he could ever have lived without her.
'Who are you mooning over now, Captain Bolfass?' asked his wife.
'Excuse me, my dear,' replied Bolfass, 'it is just that that young Earth woman has stolen my soul with her beauty.'
'Poor dear!' said Mrs Bolfass, taking his hand and stroking it. 'I'm sure you'll get better.'
'Ah!' sighed Captain Bolfass. 'I do hope so… I do hope so…'
'Perhaps you should see Dr. Ponkaliwack?'
'No…no… I'll be all right… ' sighed the Captain. (On Yassacca, being 'in love' was considered a form of illness.)