‘If you are enjoying your stay on board, why not celebrate with an evening in the Champion Canapé Lounge – featuring canape´s from the All Blerontin Finals for six centuries?’ called the Deskbot.
‘So?’ said The Joumalist.
‘So?’ said the worker, turning on The Journalist and looking him in the eye for the first time. ‘If you see my parrot, give it this.’ He pressed a small metal band into The Journalist’s hand and disappeared through the main doors. The Journalist looked at the piece of metal in his hand; it bore an address and a phone number, which The Journalist recognized as that of the Yassaccan Embassy in Blerontis.
The Journalist spent the next half hour or so exploring the ship on his own. He discovered more unfinished areas. The starboard Embarkation Lobby, for example, was totally unfinished. Large sections of the Second Class Living Quarters were wanting decorating, some were even without beds. He noted everything down, and returned to the Central Dome, when suddenly a figure came hurtling round the columns of the gallery and collided with him.
‘Droot Scraliontis!’ he exclaimed.
‘I know who I am!’ snapped the accountant.
‘Just the man I was looking for!’ smiled The Journalist.
‘Argh!’ Scraliontis jumped and his eyes shot guiltily over The Journalist’s shoulder as if expecting to see the Homicide Police with their vicious trained rabbits pouring onto the Starship to arrest the murderer of the Greatest Genius the Galaxy Had Ever Known. ‘He’s not dead! I swear it!’
‘Who’s not dead?’ The Journalist couldn’t believe how many juicy stories seemed to be offering themselves up to him tonight – if only he could pin one of them down. ‘Who isn’t dead?’
Scraliontis now realized he had made a mistake. ‘Get out of my way!’ he yelled.
‘Not so fast!!’ exclaimed The Journalist, but Scraliontis had reached a point beyond the bounds of politeness. He shoved The Journalist back against a pillar and started to run. The Journalist picked himself up, charged after the accountant and brought him down in what would have been referred to as a rugby tackle if they had played rugby football on Blerontin.
Scraliontis fought with the energy of a trapped animal. He scratched at The Journalist’s face and punched and kicked. The two managed to stagger to their feet, still fighting like two snorks in a bucket of snork-swill (an old Blerontinian expression). The Journalist, being young and fitter, soon had the accountant backed up against the barrier rail of the Great Central Well. As he tried to restrict Scraliontis’s movements, he could see past him down the dizzying depths of the Well… down and down seemingly forever… a breathtaking, intimidating and yet somehow inspiring sight.
‘Tell me what’s going on!’ The Journalist was pinning Scraliontis’s arms to his side. ‘What’s the scam?’
‘Scam?’ sneered Scraliontis. You’ll never find out!’
‘Oh yes I will!’ said The Journalist.
‘Very well! I’ll tell you everything!’ replied Scraliontis. The Journalist was totally wrong-footed. He almost said: ‘Oh no you won’t!’ but he fortunately managed to stop himself.
‘That’s very decent of you,’ he managed to say, but he was not fool enough to let go of Scraliontis’s arms.
‘We’re going to blow it up! How about that for a story?’
The Journalist was now fool enough to let go of Scraliontis’s arms.
‘You mean there’s a bomb on board the Starship?’
‘But you’ll never find it!’ grinned Scraliontis. ‘Because you won’t be alive!’ And suddenly Scraliontis had something in his hand. The Journalist didn’t see what it was, but he felt a stab in the ribs. He staggered back, and looked up: Scraliontis was standing with one of the First Class Dining Room table lamps in his hand; the sharp illuminated tip was dripping with blood.
At that very moment, however, there was a terrible screech and a flash of colours as a large parrot suddenly hurtled out from the arches straight at Scraliontis. The accountant tried to beat it off, but the creature’s wings kept beating at his face and its beak was tearing at his nose and the accountant scrambled back against the barrier-rail, flailing with his arms and screaming: ‘Get it off! Get it off!’