Beeker shrugged. “I find it as bland as you, sir. But for all we know, from our captors’ point of view, this may be the equivalent of five-star cuisine.”
“Nobody gives prisoners five-star cuisine,” said Phule. “Not even the condemned man’s last meal.” He stopped and looked at his butler with sudden apprehension. “I wish I hadn’t thought of that.”
“One would not expect an alien race to be cognizant of that tradition,” said Beeker. “We need not fear on that account, sir. Nor, I think, do we need to fear that they are fattening us for the slaughter.”
“Beeker, you can’t imagine what a relief it is to hear that,” said Phule. “My whole outlook on life just brightened, you know? Why, I can almost reconcile myself to spending the rest of my days locked up in this…whatever it is.”
“You really shouldn’t attempt sarcasm unless you have a proper sense how to deploy it, sir,” said Beeker. “Sarcasm ought to come from a position of assured superiority. It undermines the entire effect to end a sentence with a phrase that so openly admits one’s ignorance as `whatever it is.’ “
Phule stared at the butler a moment, then sat down in a corner of the enclosure. “The ironic thing is, I’ve just figured out what this place is, five seconds too late to get any use out of it.”
“Really, sir?” Beeker’s eyebrow went up a notch. “What, pray tell, would you call this place, then?”
“A torture chamber. What else would you call a place you have to share with somebody who corrects every remark you make?”
“Perhaps you are right, sir,” said Beeker. “I hadn’t seen it in quite that light. And after all, it does work both ways.”