‘It coming yust out who!’ exclaimed the Head Reporter. At that moment an unseen hand whisked away his script, and the Head Reporter felt a warm sensation all over his lower abdomen.
‘I’ve done it! I mean! It’s definitely Yassaccans! I can see them now!’ That was practically two whole sentences! He could do it! ‘They’ve purpley pinchburps! Oh damn!’ It was one thing not to be able to think of anything – but how could he possibly come out with utter nonsense? That hadn’t been in his nightmare. It was worse!
The truth is that this personal disaster for the Head Reporter was just one in a string of disasters that had dogged the building of the Starship. There had been rumours of corners cut: the cybernet pigeon cursors had been below-spec, the great engine had been mislaid, Leovinus himself had quarrelled with the Chairman of Star-Struct Inc., there had been arguments between Leovinus and his manager, Brobostigon, there had been quarrels between Brobostigon and Leovinus’s accountant, Scraliontis, there had been arguments between Scraliontis and Leovinus and so on and so on.
The fact of the matter was that the construction of the Starship had brought financial ruin on almost everybody involved, including one entire planet. Yassacca had been, hitherto, a flourishing resort of industrious folk, with the most efficient and dependable construction industry in the Central Galaxy. Yassacca had enjoyed centuries of quiet prosperity and a high reputation. They never over-charged. They always delivered on time. They never cut corners. They were a race of proud craftsmen who had nothing to do with Inter-Galactic Canape´s Competitions, and thus were able to devote their wealth to the well-being of their own people.
That was until they undertook the construction of Leovinus’s masterpiece – the crowning achievement of his career – the Starship that even now stands hidden from sight in its launching bay, awaiting the unveiling ceremony.
‘Give us back our happy life-style!’ shout the Yassaccan demonstrators unintelligibly to the Blerontinian onlookers.
‘Planets not Starships!’ roar their placards – to the baffled crowd.
‘Get those bastards out of there,’ growls Flortin Rimanquez, the Chief of Police and Rabbits.
‘Where is Leovinus?’ groans the Gat of Blerontis.
2
Could it be only the day before that Leovinus had held his press conference? He had felt so powerfully complacent as he stepped up onto the platform. His white beard had been specially groomed by Pheronis Pheronisis, the greatest hairdresser on Blerontin, and his eyebrows had been stuck back on with a new toupee tape that was guaranteed absolutely undetectable, In many ways this was the greatest moment in his life.
‘What is it like to be not only the greatest architect the Galaxy has ever known but also the greatest sculptor, the greatest mathematical genius as well as a world-class gamisher and canape´s arranger?’ Exactly the kind of question Leovinus enjoyed.
There had been times in his younger days, when he might have retorted: ‘Go lick someone else’s arse, hack! I’m only interested in Truth and Beauty!’ But somehow, he found that the more wrinkles he counted on his forehead and the more problems he had with his continence and his seven-times table, the more he found a little flattery most welcome.
‘I loved your Pandax Building with the interchangeable rooms and total reassembly potential!’ shouted a young cub reporter with soft eyes and a delightful cleavage.
‘Thank you.’ Leovinus beamed in his most venerable and yet at the same time approachable manner.
‘You look terrific!’ shouted another.
Leovinus was just trying to decide which of the two cub reporters with delightful cleavages he should ask backstage for a little drink, or whether he should invite them both and then see how things worked out, when a male voice cut across:
‘Exactly what was the scientific experiment you were working on when you had your recent accident, sir? And is it true that your eyebrows have still not grown back?’ Leovinus fought off a panic attack, and told himself his eyebrows looked perfectly OK. This hardboiled journalist was merely trying to wind him up. Then he had to fight off a panic attack about the fact that he’d just had a panic attack. ‘It’s perfectly normal to get panic attacks at my age!’ he told himself severely, while at the same time noting, thankfully, the ripple of embarrassment that had swept through the assembled media. ‘I’m lucky I don’t have angina and a sagging bottom at my age!’ Leovinus had always counted his blessings.