‘The bomb still might go off any second!’ Lucy reminded him.
‘The bomb? Oh! Pangalin! I’d forgotten!’ The Journalist thought-sealed his clothes.
As they raced down the Grand Axial Canal, Second Class, they didn’t realize that they had missed bumping into Dan on his way back to the Beauty Salon by exactly one eight-hundred and sixty-fourth of a second – which, by an incredible coincidence, was exactly where the bomb had got to in its countdown, when Lucy and The Journalist arrived back in the Engine Room.
‘Eight hundred and sixty-four… eight hundred and sixty-three…’ said the bomb.
‘Why’s it only got as far as eight hundred and sixty-three?’ wondered Lucy.
‘You’re beautiful!’ replied The Journalist.
Lucy became aware that he was still looking at her in a rather odd way, and she suddenly wished he’d concentrate on the problem in hand.
‘Maybe it doesn’t count when we’re out of the room?’ she suggested. She pulled her companion out of the door, but as she started to listen, Lucy suddenly felt the alien’s hands around her breasts.
‘Ohh! Lucy! I can’t stop thinking about you!’ he murmured as he nuzzled her neck.
‘Eight hundred and sixty-two… eight hundred and sixty-one…’ continued the bomb even though they were out of the room. That was one theory out of the way, thought Lucy, disentangling herself from The Journalist’s embrace.
Back in the room, she stared at the bomb and tried to think, but it was hard with an alien sticking his tongue in her ear and saying he loved her more than anything on his world.
‘Please, The!’ exclaimed Lucy. ‘We haven’t got time for that now…’
‘You started it…’ he reminded her. ‘Once we’re roused, us Blerontinian males tend to be very single-minded.’
‘I’ve met your type before,’ said Lucy, trying to push him away.
‘Just put your hands on my thing again!’ he was whispering in her ear.
‘Stop it!’ cried Lucy.
‘What?’ replied the bomb. ‘Oh damn! I thought you were talking to me! Now you’ve made me lose count! Recommencing countdown. One thousand… Nine hundred and ninety-nine…’
‘I love you!’ said The Journalist. ‘You’re all I’ve ever dreamed about.’
‘That’s it!’ exclaimed Lucy. ‘We’ve got to keep talking to the bomb.’
‘Please put your hand here…’ said The Journalist.
‘Listen!’ cried Lucy to the bomb. ‘Which baseball team won the World Series in nineteen hundred and ninety eight?’
‘Nineteen hundred and ninety-seven… nineteen hundred and ninety – now I’ve told you before about interrupting me while I’m in the middle of a countdown. If you want a bomb you can have a good chatter with, you should have got the Mega-Scuttler Pro which has multi-tasking, speech recognition and general chattering software and therefore makes an altogether more expensive bang. As it is you’ve got me and I’m doing my best under increasingly trying circumstances.
Recommencing countdown. One thousand… Nine hundred and ninety-nine…’
‘You have the most wonderful skin,’ moaned The Journalist, biting Lucy quite hard on the eariobe.
‘Ouch!’ cried Lucy. ‘Look, The, you’ve got to stay here and keep talking to the bomb, while I go up and find the Captain’s Bridge.’
‘I can’t bear to be separated from you!’ He clutched at her arm.
‘If you don’t stay and talk to the bomb we’re both going to get blown up!’ she replied.
‘Just bring me off once more!’ pleaded The Journalist. ‘I’ll be able to think properly then. Honestly! Blerontinian males need to have two orgasms before they can think straight. It’s well known!’
Lucy sighed; brushed the alien’s hair straight and wondered what on earth she’d got herself into…
16
While Dan had gone to talk to the bomb, the prematurely aged Nettie had taken the opportunity to look around the room in which she found herself. At first she thought it must be some sort of torture chamber or at least an interrogation room. But, once she’d put on her translatorspecs, she realized she was in the ship’s Hairdressing Salon and Beauty Parlour. The thumb-screws were actually elaborate nail-clippers, the electric chairs were highly ergonomic sitting structures, and the individual gas chambers were hairdriers. It was obvious once you read the motto over the doorway: