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:

‘WELCOME TO THE STARSHIP TITANIC BEAUTY THERAPY AND HAIR CREATIONRY. YOU WILL LEAVE HERE LOVELIER AND YOUNGER.’

Nettie put out a wizened finger and pressed the button on the wall beside the couch, which was marked:

‘Press for service’. A metal cage on an articulated arm suddenly sprang up over the back of the couch and dangled a few inches in front of her face. At the same time a large glass case began to descend from the ceiling until both she and the couch were encompassed by it. A reassuring voice then said:

‘We have assessed your beauty requirements and, whilst recognizing you have a severe problem, we would like to reassure you that there is nothing that you can wish to be done that we cannot accomplish, thanks to the de-aging and re-beautifying techniques pioneered by Dr Leovinus in this machine. Lie back and relax whilst we return you to the bloom of youth. Normally our therapy would require just a few minutes, but in critical cases such as yours a little longer may be necessary. We apologize for the delay.’

The next moment, the cage fixed itself over her face and the glass case filled instantly with some purple gas. Nettie was terrified for a second, but then relaxed as the perfumes began to enter her nostrils: erotic perfumes, exotic perfumes - scents she had never imagined, scents of far away and wonder… at the same time the feeling on her face was inexpressibly soft and kindly. She lay back and just hoped that Dan had managed to talk to the bomb.

Dan hurried back from the Engine Room to find that Nettie had disappeared. Where he’d left her there was now a glass case filled with purple gas.

‘Nettie!’ he cried, banging his fists on the glass, but with no effect. He looked all round the thing, but was unable to find any off switch or any way he could prise the thing off her - if indeed Nettle was in there.

After nearly fifteen minutes of futile effort, he suddenly remembered he’d need to speak to the bomb again. So he rushed back to the Engine Room as fast as he could.

Meanwhile, The Journalist was still trying to put his hand back up Lucy’s pinstripe power-suit skirt.

‘You see, we’re just not used to casual sex,’ he was assuring her. ‘Blerontlnian women make such a fuss about it. You know… they want presents and they want to be treated nice and taken out to expensive restaurants and all that sort of crap. To meet a woman like you is just great! Let’s do it again!’

‘You said twice and you can think straight!’ objected Lucy, who was trying to focus her mind on what seemed to her more pressing problems.

Yeah, but a hand-job doesn’t really count. Anyway, us Blerontinian males’ll say anything when we’re aroused.’

‘Sixty-three… sixty-two… sixty-one…’ said the bomb.

‘Hey! Bomb! Just what d’you think you’re doing?’ Lucy suddenly remembered what she was meant to be doing.

‘Pardon? Sixty…’ said the bomb.

‘I said: Bomb! What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’

‘Don’t talk to me! Don’t talk to me! This is a tricky bit! Forty-nine… no! Fifty-nine… I mean eight… damn! damn! There I go again, losing concentration. It’s all your fault! Recommencing countdown. One thousand…’

‘And I’m aroused now,’ said The Journalist.

It was at that moment that Dan burst into the Engine Room. He found the alien, whom he’d already taken an agreeably violent dislike to, kneeling behind Lucy, apparently rubbing himself up against her back.

Lucy shot to her feet. ‘Dan !’ she exclaimed. ‘Thank God you didn’t get blown up!’

‘Nine hundred and ninety-six…’ said the bomb.

‘Am I interrupting something?’

Yes!’ said the bomb, ‘Now I’ve got to start all over again! One thousand…’

Lucy could tell Dan was not in one of his better moods. ‘No!’ she said. ‘We’ve just discovered how to confuse the bomb.’

‘Talk to it,’ said Dan. ‘Yeah! Nettie found that out.’

‘Oh! Of course she would have!’

‘Nine hundred and ninety-four…’ continued the bomb.

‘Earth sexuality seems to be very different from Blerontinian,’ observed The Journalist.

‘Is it really?’ Dan was sizing the alien up, trying to decide which bit to punch first.

‘Yes,’ said The Journalist, putting his arms round Lucy’s waist. ‘On Blerontin, males get what we call “jealous”, if one male finds another male fondling his girlfriend he can even become extremely violent.’

Dan had just decided on the alien’s nose as the first point of contact, when Lucy managed to disengage herself from the amorous The Journalist, and ran over to Dan. ‘We’ve got to get off this spaceship as soon as possible. I suggest The, here, stays and talks to the bomb while we go and find the Captain.’

‘But, you don’t understand…’ began The Journalist.

Dan decided to hold back his iron fist of retribution for the moment. He would save it for another time. ‘I understand only too well,’ he replied. ‘We’ve got to make the Captain take us back to Earth now!’ And he was off out of the Engine Room and racing back down the Grand Axial Canal towards the front of the ship.

‘Look - it was great making love with you,’ Lucy said to The Journalist, who was now standing behind her and attempting to fondle her breasts again, ‘but we’ve got to get back to the real world! Our real world.’ And she tried to remove his hands from her blouse.

‘But Blerontinian males cannot just “turn off” like that!’ explained The Journalist. ‘We need multiple satisfactions before we can return to a state of equilibrium!’

Lucy had attended self-defence classes for two years, when she had just qualified for the law, and had always slightly regretted the fact that she’d never had the chance to put her skills into practice. Consequently it was with some satisfaction that she suddenly realized this was such an opportunity. She decided to use the standard response to the amorous-alien-fondling-you-from-behind assault. It was textbook stuff. She drove her right elbow hard into his stomach.

‘Oooouuph!’ gasped The Journalist.

Then she twizzled half-round, caught his left wrist and threw him over her shoulder onto the Engine Room floor.

‘Oooouump!’ grunted The Journalist.

Lucy spoke to him firmly in her best lawyer-speak: ‘You stay here, and keep talking to that bomb! While I go and find the Captain!’

Then she was out of the door, racing after Dan.

‘You don’t understand,’ The Journalist called after her, ‘there isn’t any Captain on this ship!’ But Lucy had gone.

‘Nine hundred and seventy…’ said the bomb.

‘You don’t know what you’re doing!’ yelled The Journalist. You’re going to need me!’

‘Pardon?’ replied the bomb.

‘I wasn’t talking to you!’

‘Damn!’ said the bomb. ‘Recommencing countdown. One thousand… Nine hundred and ninetynine…’