THE DUCKS OF DOOM
Chapters 151-180
A weekly serial by
Robert Arthur Smith
rasmithr@yahoo.com
www.duckparade.com
THE DUCKS OF DOOM was a 2002 Independent e-Books award finalist.
Copyright 2000-2009,
Robert Arthur Smith,
All rights reserved.
CHAPTER 151:FANTASY SQUID
Philip Napoleon was puzzled.
Everything had seemed to be going so well; the aliens and their odd pet were nicely stashed inside the Napoleon box with Freddy Manichean heresy; the sensor meshes had been secured on their peculiar craniums, and all of the electronics were functioning.
Then someone had screamed, and someone else had uttered a loud report.
After that, the Napoleon box had gone as silent as the grave.
Philip put an ear to the box and listened carefully, but there wasn't a sound.
"How long have you hated noise?" he called.
When there was no answer, he yelled, "There's an extra charge for silence. It makes my job harder."
This produced a thump inside the box, then an angry voice.
"Get on with it, will you! We don't have all day."
It was Freddy.
"What happened in there?" said Philip.
"Nothing," snapped Freddy. "One of your stupid alien friends smuggled a squid into the box."
"Does it have a gun by any chance?" said Philip.
"Of course not," said Freddy.
"Oh."
"I'M the one with the gun. I don't like crowds."
"He shot my squid!" wailed Ardridge.
"I'm sure it was an accident," said Philip.
"No it wasn't," said Freddy. "I don't like squids."
"That's mean!" said Ardridge. "Squids are beautiful people. They're very affectionate and easily hurt."
"I don't like beautiful people," said Freddy. "This is the real world, not some fairy tale with pumpkins and osculating frogs."
"You hurt its feelings," said Ardridge.
"No I didn't. I shot it. There's a difference."
"I don't think you should carry concealed weapons," said Ardridge.
"There's nothing wrong with guns," said Freddy. "They only kill people who want to be victims."
"What's going on in there?" said Philip.
"The squid is dead; long live the squid," said Freddy.
"Is it really dead, or is just faking it?" said Philip.
"What a thing to say!" wailed Ardridge. "Of course it's dead. It's all shriveled up and its arms have gone as limp as spaghetti."
"It could be resting," said Philip.
"And there's a big hole in its chest. The bullet went right through it and out the other side."
"How can you tell?" said Freddy. "I can't see a thing in here."
"It told me."
"I thought you said it was dead."
"It wasn't quite dead when it told me. Squids take longer to die than most people because they have so many appendages."
"Well, I have two heads. Beat that!"
"How come there's no hole in the box where the bullet came out?" said FunBytes, who had been waiting impatiently for the organic types to kill each other off so he could take over the world.
"The Napoleon box probably turned the bullet into something else," said Philip.
"It did?" said Freddy. "You mean there's something else crawling around in here?"
"Probably."
"Has anybody got a light?" said Freddy. "I can't stand creepy crawlies. Let me out of here."
"Pipe down!" said Philip. "You'll confuse the box. You don't want it to turn you into a creepy crawly, do you?"
There was another long silence.
"That's better. Now I'm going to press 'start' again. So don't give me any more trouble."
Philip pressed the 'start' button again, jumping back quickly in case there was another loud report.
But there wasn't; there wasn't even a mysterious humming noise, or the crackle of static electricity, or the sound of bagpipes.
There was only a heavy, puzzling silence.
After a minute or two, Philip lost patience.
"What's going on in there?" he demanded.
"Shh," said an alluring voice. "The box is working its magic."
Philip whirled around.
"Allura," he said, blushing. "She of the famous red dress with the slit up the side!"
"How come you never say things like that to me?" said Josephine. "All I ever hear from you is, 'Will there be punishment, Josephine?' What kind of love talk is that?"
"Umm," said Philip.
"What exactly is supposed to happen in group therapy?" said Allura. "Does everybody have to go insane at the same time to get it?"
"It's like online gaming," said Philip. "The box is transforming my subjects, using ingenious algorithms that I, personally, worked out by myself in the shower."
"All four subjects?" said Allura.
"Five, if you count Freddy as two."
"Hey, what about me?" said an abrasive voice. "I'm a squid, mind you."
"It's the squid!" gasped Philip, his feathers standing up on end.
"The dead squid," said Freddy.
"Who called me dead?"
"You were shot."
"It was only a flesh wound. It didn't touch any vital organs."
"So there are six of you in there?" said Allura.
"If you include the dead squid," said Freddy.
"I wonder if Elvis Presley is in there somewhere," said Philip.
"You leave him alone," said FunBytes. "He sings lovely ballads that melt my heart."
"You're a robot and a computer all rolled up into one," said Philip. "You don't have a heart!"
"Yes I do! I have a heart algorithm."
"I wouldn't boast about it," said captain Bungo. "Hearts aren't much good if you don't know how to wind them up."
"I can do anything YOU can do," said FunBytes. "In fact, I can do lots more, because my brain doesn't get distracted by thoughts of procreation. There's nothing you can think about that I haven't already thought about."
"Really? What good are we, then?"
"Precisely," said FunBytes. "Now if you'll kindly hand over your credit cards and identity chips--"
"What are you looking so smug about, Ardridge?" said Bungo. "This affects you too, you know."
"Not as such," said Ardridge."
"Oh so! I suppose you're a computer now!"
"Going to be. I signed up for the operation. I'm in the pre-op stage now, the therapeutic phase. I'm learning how to update my bios chip over the Net."
"Don't tell me this, Ardridge! You can't mean it!"
"Next month I get the operation. Then it's bye bye messy organics."
"You can't do this to me."
"I already have."
"Isn't group therapy wonderful!" said Philip. "So much latent hostility boiling out! I love it!"
"Not to worry, captain," said Ardridge. "I'll be downloading my acolyte's personality into my new brain. You can take the organics out of the acolyte, but you can't take the acolyte out of the bios chip."
"Oh," said Bungo. "You mean it?"
"Of course. One for all and all for me."
"Oh, Ardridge! My true friend!"
"No tears please; you'll short out my implants."
"Forgive me; I don't know the protocols."
"I'm not sure I approve of all of this mucking about with form factors," said FunBytes.
"Get used to it," said Ardrige.
"Will you idiots stop blathering and pay attention," said the dead squid. "Something's happening in here. Look at all of those weird images floating around."
"Relax!" said Philip. "It's only the Napoleon Box at work. It's seeking out your innermost desires, the true nature of your group relationship."
"But I already know what my desires are," said Bungo.
"Don't confuse your surface desires with inner needs and compulsions," said Freddy. "The box knows all, sees all. It learned from me."
"That's what I was afraid of," said Freddy.
The squid had a bad feeling about this....
CHAPTER 152:CANAANITE NIGHTMARES
Meanwhile, back in the UFO, the homeless person was beginning to feel neglected.
"Hey, anybody home?" he called.
There was no reply; his voice echoed down a long corridor, bounced off a life-like replica of Doris Day, and faded away to nothing.
"What kind of an alien abduction is this?" he yelled. "Do it yourself? Some assembly required?"
When there was no reply to this, he got up and made his way around the abduction pit, looking for aliens.
There were dozens of potted plants, a cappuccino machine, souvenirs from the 1957 World Series, three tins of Erinmore pipe tobacco, a complete set of tiny Mother Goose figurines from the Red Rose tea collection, and a huge, signed portrait of Carl Barks.
But there were no controls.
"Hmmm," said the homeless person.
In the next room, he discovered a restaurant, complete with tables and chairs, pictures of famous accountants, and a nice kitchen.
The restaurant was as empty as the abduction room.
Just as well, he thought. The menu featured nothing but beetles and bugs.
Beyond this was a library, with dozens of stations where you could read digital books, secure in the knowledge that everything you did would be tracked and recorded on dossiers by a shadowy conspiracy of extremist aliens plotting to overthrow the government and replace it with a bumper sticker.
The e-books were mostly about lobsters, frequently with their shells off.
There was a special 'Believe it or Not' section, which featured an extensive collection of TV programs from Earth.
Eventually the homeless person blundered through a door labeled 'Control Room' and found the nerve center of the UFO.
He examined it carefully for a moment.
There was a gear shift labeled 'wimp', 'slow', 'fast', 'faster' and 'reverse'.
There didn't seem to be a 'stop' button or a brake.
Above the 'faster' button was a picture of a shiny green vegetable.
Broccoli, thought the homeless person, who wasn't really up on his vegetables, having replaced them at an early date with Turkey Vulture bourbon.
Vegetables are dangerous things--they've been in the ground, after all, which means you can never be absolutely sure they're clean.
Bourbon, however, contains a certain amount of alcohol, which is known to kill germs, and is, therefore, quite safe to drink.
There was a steering wheel above the gear-shift lever, and dangling above the wheel was a miniature figure of a lobster, half out of its shell and impregnated with some ghastly smelling perfume.
"Yoohoo!" called the homeless person. "Anybody home?"
Still no answer.
"I'll show them!" he muttered.
Then he sat behind the wheel, pushed the 'start' button, and gripped the gear-shift lever.
He'd never driven a flying saucer before, but what the hey?
"How hard can it be?" he thought.
Then he jammed the lever all the way forward to 'broccoli'.
He had a sudden odd sensation, not unlike the feeling you get when your entire house is lifted off the Kansas soil while you're still lounging in bed, wondering what to dream about next.
The homeless person looked out the window.
Down below, in a waterless desert, he noticed a lot of camels dressed in colorful bed sheets and pajamas. They appeared to be building a lot of ships out of mud bricks and sending them down a chute into sand dunes.
"That can't be right," said the homeless person.
Then he tilted the steering wheel down, pulled the lever back to 'wimp', and splashed down in a sand dune.
There was a moment of stunned silence, shared equally by the homeless person and the Camels of the Negev.
"I'm home, Mabel!" muttered the homeless person.
"Not again!" muttered Thunderbags.
This was followed by a muted humming sound as a special set of alien stairs slid down from the saucer and embedded themselves in the sand dune.
"Oh boy!" said the homeless person to himself. "Those camels are gonna think I'm an alien. Maybe they'll give me gifts and stuff, and there'll be a brass band and speeches from the mayor, and scantily dressed camels."
Then he thought about that last bit and decided it wasn't really an important part of his daydream.
At the bottom of the stairs, he found two camels had stepped forward to greet him. They introduced themselves as Thunderbags and Hank of Just Ur.
"If this is an alien abduction," said Thunderbags, "forget it! We've already met our quota. Besides, we're being attacked by Canaanites."
The homeless person was upset; this was very disappointing as far as alien greetings went, and he made a mental note to complain.
"So where am I?" he said. "And what are Canaanites when they're at home?"
There was a collective intake of breath.
The number of people who haven't read any sort of bible or historical document is larger than you might think. Then again, maybe modern people are afraid of violence, and don't like to read about the bloodthirsty interfaith dialogues of the past.
"This is Bucket," said Hank. "It is the first city in a great nation we are building. The Canaanites are people who hate us and want to kill us."
"One of the MANY people who hate us and want to kill us," corrected Thunderbags.
"There's not much here for an alien," said Hank. "Down there is the famous sheep we overlook; now joined by a haggis."
"And behind us is our new shipyard," said Thunderbags proudly.
Just then, another ship slid down the chute and plunged into a sand dune.
"Um, aren't they supposed to go in water," said the homeless person.
"It doesn't matter; we're very modern, our shipyard is subsidized."
"It's all part of globalization," said Hank.
"But--"
"Besides, we'll be ready if there's another flood," said Thunderbags. "We'll have lots of ships."
"But we were promised there wouldn't be another flood," said Hank. "This was part of the contract."
"We were promised there wouldn't be another big one like the last time, but we might get some small ones," said Thunderbags. "To keep people in line."
"Those ships are made out of mud bricks," said the homeless person.
"What can you expect!" said Thunderbags. "We don't have any steel; this is the bronze age."
"No it isn't," said Hank. "The archaeologists changed the dates. It's the iron age."
"Do you see any iron around here?" said Thunderbags.
"What does it look like?" said Hank.
"I dunno," said Thunderbags. "We could look it up in our new encyclopedia, I guess."
"It's a kind of rock you dig out of the ground," said the homeless person, helpfully.
"No way I'm building a ship out of rocks," said Hank. "I draw the line at mud-brick haggises."
"Why don't you pull the ships into a circle?" said the homeless person. "You could hold off the Canaanites from inside."
Hank and Thunderbags looked at the ships scattered about the sand like so many Lego blocks in a children's sand box.
"They seem a bit heavy," said Thunderbags.
"I could pull them with the flying saucer. Have you got ropes?"
"Ropes we have in abundance," said Hank. "Goats, too. And unleavened bread."
"I think we'll stick with the ropes," said the homeless person. "You tie the ships together in a long line, and I'll pull them past the Canaanites with the flying saucer. Your troops can fire canons at the Cananites as they pass."
"Canons?" said Hank.
"A type of cleric, I believe," said Thunderbags. "I had a vision of the future once, when I thought I was going to die in an alien flying saucer. There were canons in it, in pretty robes."
"We don't have any clerics," said Hank. "We've got slingshots, bows and arrows, and unleavened bread."
"Whatever," said the homeless person. "Tie the ships together and I'll tow them past the Canaanites."
Thus it was the camels hastily attached ropes to their growing armada of mud-brick ships. The homeless person dragged the tow line back to the flying saucer and secured it to a stanchion.
Once the camels had manned their battle stations, Hank gave the signal, and the homeless person started up the flying saucer again.
Then he examined the control panel and pushed 'fast'.
The Canaanites, anticipating a quick victory over the hapless camels, were unprepared for the terrifying spectacle of a fleet of mud-brick ships sailing two hundred feet above the ground behind what looked like an enormous slab of unleavened bread.
The camels, in turn, were a little put off because they had been expecting to do battle on a level plane with the Canaanites.
It was Brubaker who came up with the idea of dropping haggis bombs on the awe-struck Canaanites.
"We do have a haggis factory," he said. "This would be a perfect way of getting rid of the excess."
Every mud-brick ship, by the way, came with an extra supply of special olde haggis, just in case it sprang a leak, or collided with a mountain.
Top-Down, the leader of the Canaanites, hesitated.
"This isn't in Clausewitz," he said.
"Are you sure that thing isn't a god?" said Rucksack, Topdown's acolyte.
"What god takes the form of unleavened bread?" said Topdown.
The Canaanite chief priest, Makework, looked it up in his Big Cuneiform Book of Celestial Beings.
"Nothing in here," he said.
"Unless it's the Jolly Fat Llama," said Topdown.
"We don't believe in him," said Makework.
"I think it's time we had a discussion about that," said Rucksack. "How come we only have gods who yell at us and bite us and zap us? Why can't we have a god who gives us things?"
"Be careful what you wish for," said Makework, taking several steps back from the smiting zone.
And that was when the haggises started raining down from the mud-brick ships.
Then Topdown ordered a retreat, which quickly turned into a route.
When the battle was over, and the defeated Canaanite warriors lay with lumpy noggins in the unforgiving sands of the desert, the camels waxed joyous.
Then they realized they had no means of communicating with the mad devil who had come to their assistance.
"Hmm," said Hank.
Thunderbags had a bad feeling about this....
CHAPTER 153:HEARTBREAK CROQUET
In every flock of Camels of the Negev, there's a malcontent; a whiner who'd rather be back in Just Ur, cavorting with the supplicants during the fertility rites.
Brubaker was the role model for all other whiners, slackers, malcontents. He could do a fine job when he turned his hand to it, but he was easily discouraged by the merest difficulty.
For him, a wild ride through the air in a mud-brick ship towed by an insane homeless person driving a UFO was something scary and unpleasant, and he made his feelings known in no uncertain terms.
"Tell that idiot if he doesn't put us down right now, I'm going to call my lawyer!" he yelled.
"I'm sure he's quaking in his boots," muttered Thunderbags.
Thunderbags, who was in the first ship, with Hank, had other things on his mind. They were flying towards Egypt now. They would not get a good reception if they landed in Egypt. Pharaoh Petrie Dish was a man who bore a grudge.
The crabby pharaoh was still angry about all of the flaming hydrocarbons that the Russian-born scientist had dropped on his pyramids and crops while the camels were making their escape with Red Tse.
"I think we'd better do something about this before we run out of gas," said Thunderbags.
"Any ideas?" said Hank.
"Hey you guys!" yelled Brubaker. "I hate to interrupt your committee meeting, but we're getting very close to a sign that says, 'Welcome to Egypt, Land of Exciting Vacations. Join a pyramid-building group. Free meals and equipment.' Somebody better do something fast, or we'll all wind up hauling stone blocks up a ramp."
Hank and Thunderbags looked at the rope that attached their mud-brick ship to the flying saucer.
Then they looked at Brubaker.
"How good are you at walking on ropes, Brubaker?" yelled Thunderbags.
"Umm...." yelled Brubaker.
Meanwhile, back in Toronto, Vlod Ironbeak was embroiled in another sort of problem, having to do with a rigorous nutrition and exercise program, and a perky fitness penguin .
Gilda, the fitness penguin, to be precise.
When you've been force-fed a diet of healthy weeds and grasses for a time, you begin to take on a certain, ruddy, peasant-like air of healthy vigor.
Even vampires get a complexion after a certain amount of healthy eating, jumping up and down, running around in designer jogging togs, and lifting weights.
Vlod was fit, but he was terribly unhappy.
People were beginning to notice his new aura of virtuous self-satisfaction.
Lots of citizens smiled at him and gave him the thumbs up as he puffed along behind Gilda through the streets of Toronto, sucking diesel fumes and car exhaust deeply into his lungs.
Friendly taxpayers started inviting him to house parties to talk about how many laps they'd run, and the latest organic remedies, and how eating nothing but baked cows made you thin and virtuous.
He found himself joining marathons, discussion groups, run clubs, and Tupperware parties.
In short, he was going mad.
He had to get rid of Gilda.
But how?
Nurse Jane's magic cap had well and truly done him in; he was so deeply, irrevocably in love with Gilda, he had eyes for no one else.
Even his old yearning for Lenore McBeauty had faded almost to nothing, though it still flickered from time to time, like the warning light on a battery-operated smoke detector, ready to trigger every nerve in his body at a moment's notice.
Even Sparkles the Wonder computer no longer distracted him with her saucy glitches and crashes.
Something had to be done. A stake through the heart was his last hope.
Through Gilda's heart, of course.
Thus it was, on a dull, dark, and soundless evening, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, etc., Vlod found himself tiptoeing into the Bedroom of Healthy Loving.
This bedroom hadn't been in the original specifications for Vlod's City Hall manor, by the way; it was an afterthought.
Actually, it was a renovation, conceived, hatched, nurtured and brought to maturity by Gilda the Fitness Penguin.
Certain aspects of the love experience, she had determined, were best conducted in airy, cold, hygienic rooms with adjoining cold showers, lots of bright cheery colors, and a bed as hard as a mahogany table top.
Vlod hated this room; it reminded him of long-ago military campaigns against the Turks. He hated health.
For a long moment he waited, holding a croquet mallet and stake in one hand, and a shuttered Union Pacific kerosene lantern in the other.
He tiptoed past the treadmill, feeling his way in the dark, allowing himself only the merest radiance from his lantern.
Then he banged his knee against a weight-lifting machine and uttered a muffled explanation.
For a long moment he listened, his every nerve straining at the silence.
A faint snoring reassured him. Gilda was sleeping the sleep of the Victorians.
Slowly, every so slowly, he advanced, holding the lantern out in front of him, allowing just enough light to guide his steps past the evil exercise bike.
There had been a time when he had not needed a lantern to make his way through the light-challenged spaces of the living. Now, a steady diet of nutritional food and healthy exercise had ruined him for Goth pursuits.
He needed lanterns and flashlights as much as any feeble creature of the living world.
At last he stood opposite Gilda's night table, with its assortment of dehydrated tofu, soybeans, dandelions and seaweed. He let fall a single ray of light onto one closed eye.
The eye of a sleeping dragon.
No! No! Wrong! He loved her! She was his passion, his obsession.
No she wasn't; she owned him. It was a trick.
For the longest moment, he stood there, paralyzed by conflicting emotions.
Mad? No, no; certainly not! He was perfectly sane. He was acting out of self-defense; acting to preserve himself from an overwhelming emotion provoked by a goddess.
He had a right to make his own decisions about who he loved and what he wanted to do when he grew up. It wasn't fair!
Hence the croquet mallet and the stake. Something had to be done. He was the mayor of Toronto, after all. He could not rule if he led a healthy life and started being nice to people. They'd eat him for lunch.
He had to make people fear him. They had to be very, very afraid or they'd stop paying taxes; they wouldn't compost or recycle; the sewer system would break down.
And yet, to extinguish the beauteous creature with her glossy feathers, her sweet, dark eyes, her lovely beak!
No!
YES! He hated healthy food. He hated sports, jumping around, clean living, clean, healthy sex--who needed these things!
"No!" he moaned. "It's good for me, all good! No more props and settings to make intimacy interesting! No more pretending with a monk's cell and a narrow cot and footsteps outside the door and a smuggled female and--.
Stop! Bad! Illicit!
The single ray of light fell like a benediction on Gilda's sleeping form. So trusting, so sweet, so Victorian. I have a clean mind and a clean body and I do good deeds.
GAH!
He approached cautiously, ever so slowly. One false step now and she'd throw him to the floor and pin him to the mat.
Now the critical part. He put the lantern down very carefully on her night table, squashing a few stray dandelion heads. Then, with infinite patience and care, he moved the stake to a point just over her heart.
At last! A mere tap with the croquet mallet, nothing at all really, the blink of an eye and he'd consign her to Dr. Arnold's great big Victorian theme park in the sky.
His hands shook and troubled. What was wrong? Where had his strength gone?
He glanced down in horror as realization struck like a hammer blow. He could not do this! He simply couldn't not harm a feather on her body! There had never been the slightest danger that he would ever hurt her in any way.
Not because he loved her; because he had become NICE!
An icy sweat dampened his feathers.
NICE!
Silently, dejectedly, he slunk away, withdrawing to a far corner of the Bedroom of Healthy Love. There he sat down and wept silently, his face in his hands.
Oh WOE! The indignity of it all! What was happening to him?
All at once, a soothing hand touched his forehead. A beak caressed the top of his head.
"There, there, sweetheart! What are you doing with this croquet mallet?"
He looked up through a veil of tears at his beloved.
"Gilda? THIS? Um, I wanted to play croquet but you were sleeping. Sniff."
She knelt beside him, holding him in her arms, and he wept copiously--wept for poor, lost humanity, wept for the children in their orphanages, for tax money squandered on useless infrastructure, for himself.
"There, there, sweetheart."
"Woe is me," he moaned.
"There there, Vlodikins. We can play croquet if you like. I'll turn the lights on outside."
"NO, I--"
"No? Was there something else?"
"Gilda!" A strange feeling touched his revivified heart, and he clutched at her.
"It's okay, Vlodikins. I love you too. Come to bed, sweetie. Your little Gilda understands everything. You were just feeling lonely and insecure. You were afraid I didn't love you because I was sleeping."
Now she helped him up, guiding him gently, as though he were an invalid, to the Bed of Healthy Love.
"But--"
"Shh. Sweetums, my little one, my precious little vampire baby."
Oh it was awful! The indignity. The horror, the horror! Vlod lay there as stiff as a board, gnashing his beak.
Then she lay beside him, taking him in her arms again, and an unnatural warmth flowed through his veins.
No! he thought. I can't do this! I won't! I'm evil, I'm a Goth, I'm worse than heavy metal.
"Oh my," he said.
"Shhh."
"Gilda."
After an interval, silence descended on the Bed of Healthy Love. A soft glow illuminated the room then gradually faded, as the two love birds lay peacefully together.
Vlod's mind began to drift into slumber. A house in the suburbs would be nice, he thought. A split-level colonial ranch gothic with a basketball hoop for the children. A school down the block. Some place where they could meet the neighbors and have Tupperware parties.
Maybe if he quit as mayor, he could get a job in one of the high tech outfits that had relocated to the suburbs to escape crippling taxes.
He could come home every day for lunch. He could call just to say he loved her.
That would be nice.
The scream came a long time later, when his idle thoughts blended seamlessly into a nightmare.
Polydoor had a bad feeling about this....
CHAPTER 154:STARCOWS DEFENSE SYSTEM
Pharaoh Peachtree was enjoying a nice cup of hot cocoa and a crumpet before taking his afternoon nap, when a messenger burst in and prostrated himself in the throne room.
The messenger was a newbie by the name of Fast LowTop, actually. Before taking up his duties as a messenger, he'd been a Babylonian archivist.
For several moments after bursting in, Fast LowTop just lay there, panting for breath. Now that he had actually arrived in Pharaoh Peachtree's throne room, he wasn't sure he believed his own message anymore.
Certainly he'd seen something odd, but what exactly had it been?
"Well?" said Pharaoh Peachtree, examining his crumpet. "You have news?"
Fast LowTop peeked through his bangs at the dais. From this angle, he could see little more than the pharaoh's sandaled feet. Pharaoh Peachtree's toenails had been painted a strange, puce color, and anointed with Odor of Chrysanthemums.
"Speak up, man," said Misfire, Pharaoh Peachtree's defense minister. "What's the matter with you? Set got your tongue? Can't you speak ancient Egyptian?"
Fast LowTop hesitated.
There was going to be a problem about the ancient Egyptian part.
In fact, he hadn't been an ancient Egyptian very long; he was technically still a Babylonian.
Fast LowTop had enlisted in Peachtree's army as a messenger, because the alternative was service in the Babylonian army as a moving target in the wars against the Assyrians and various desert barbarians with fast horses and sharp arrows.
He liked being a messenger, because it usually kept him away from the combat zone. Besides, he was good at spotting hidden enemies and he had a chameleon-like ability to blend into whatever cover he could find--desert sand, rocks, thorn bushes, flocks of sheep.
Actually, he quite liked sheep, but that was a different story.
Anyway, being a Babylonian with very little secondary education, he wasn't up to scratch in Egyptian. He knew how to order a McBowel's haggis, of course, and he got along very well with the sheep, but anything beyond what a reader of Ancient Egyptian for Dum Dums could manage left him perplexed and confused.
So when Pharaoh commanded a report, LowTop had to resort to pantomime.
"Six letters," said Pharaoh Peachtree, watching him closely. "Begins with two cows, an eye of Set, and a palm tree."
LowTop nodded briskly. Pharaoh Peachtree was really good at this game.
Pharaoh Peachtree watched him closely for a time as he struggled to work out the hieroglyphics. LowTop was sweating now; one mistake, one false move and he'd come out with a phrase demanding his own death in the crocodile pit.
Or he might inadvertently ask to meet a lovely sheep.
"Okay, I think I've got it," said Pharaoh Peachtree. "The Camels of the Negev are pulling their fleet of ships down from Mount Ararat and across the desert in a sneak attack."
"Fleet?" said Misfire. "Surely there was only one ship! And it must be obsolete by now. I mean, how long as it been sitting on that mountain? I wonder if they've even bothered to maintain it. It's probably nothing but rotting wood by now."
LowTop prostrated himself again. He could argue, of course, but the more time he had to think about it, the more certain he was he must have been hallucinating.
"This LowTop chap is utterly reliable," said Pharaoh. "He has no bad habits; he hangs out with sheep."
"Tells you a lot about him, doesn't it," said Misfire. "I wonder what weapons the camels are sporting this season."
"Haggis, I should think. Unless it's unleavened bread. You did mention a gigantic slab of unleavened bread, didn't you, LowTop."
LowTop was beginning to think he should have stuck with the ships in his report, and left out the part about the unleavened bread alone. Ships were bad enough. Nevertheless, he did the pantomime for a huge slab of unleavened bread towing a lot of ships.
The pharaoh was impressed. At the same time he was irritated.
"I should think the camels would be grateful," he said. "If it wasn't for us, they'd never have met Red Tse. They'd be missing an enormous part of their national myth. They'd probably assimilate like every other pesky foreign tribe, and disappear from history."
"Oh I'm sure they'd think of another myth," said Misfire.
"Like what? A Russian-born scientist erupting from Jupiter and dropping volatile hydrocarbons?"
"Shh! We've been pretending that was a hostile attack, remember? It helps us convince people we need higher taxes so we can pay for our new defense system."
"Well it WAS a hostile attack, if you ask me," said the pharaoh. "That fool and his hydrocarbons burned down all of our crops. We would have starved if it hadn't been for our big storage containers."
"I'm sure it was an accident," said Misfire. "Besides we made a huge profit when the price of food went up, AND we got credit for distributing it to those who had nothing."
"So what do we do about the camels? Is our new weapons system ready?"
Misfire looked down at his feet. HIS toenails had been painted Goth black, as befitting a serious defense minister.
"There have been delays," he said.
"You mean it doesn't work," said Pharaoh Peachtree.
"It's GOING to work, sir. Parts of it do, theoretically."
"The parts that do; are they the parts that sink camel ships?"
"Unfortunately, no. The parts that work are related to subcontracting and kickbacks."
"Hmm." Pharaoh examined his pinkie ring, which sported a fabulous gem that had been a gift from a subcontractor.
"So what do we do about the camels?" he said. "How do we sink a mud-brick ship in the desert?"
"We could misdirect them with new signs pointing south," said Misfire. "Let the Nubians deal with them."
"Possibly. But I WOULD like to know how serious they are about invading us, and what exactly they're looking for."
They're looking for milk and honey, I should think," said Misfire. "They usually are, aren't they!"
"Don't they have any of their own?"
"It would seem they don't. I suppose they want it for their haggis. You know how boring haggis is without condiments."
"We could send them a care package of milk and honey," said Pharaoh Peachtree. "They might go home again if they get what they want."
Misfire sucked in his cheeks. "That could be dangerous, sir. What if they think it's a Trojan care package, and take offense?"
"We could send it from a distance, with catapults. We could launch a lot of cows."
"That's fine for the milk part. What about the honey? We catapult a lot of bees at them?"
"I don't see why not."
"Who's going to volunteer for that?"
"Volunteer?" said Pharaoh Peachtree, raising an eyebrow.
"I see what you mean," said Misfire. "Why ask for volunteers when we can draft anyone we like."
"There's no life like it," said Pharaoh Peachtree.
Thus it was, Misfire assembled an elite force of bee keepers and cowboys.
It was just in the nick of time too, because no sooner had the cowboys set up their launchers when a line of ships appeared on the horizon.
"They're coming, they're coming!" cried LowTop.
"So, launch already!" said Pharaoh Peachtree.
"Will you look at that!" said Misfire. "Those stupid camels are sailing their ships two hundred feet above the ground! What kind of idiot sails ships in the sky?"
"The Flying Dutchman?" said LowTop.
Misfire looked at the lowly messenger.
"Have you been channeling archaeologists?" he said.
"I wonder how do they do that," said Pharaoh Peachtree. "They must have a better defense minister than we do."
"It's a trick," said Misfire quickly. "They do it with magnets."
Then he gave the launch command.
Meanwhile, in the same place but at a different altitude, Thunderbags and Hank looked down upon the Egyptian hosts.
"Oh oh!" said Thunderbags.
Brubaker, who had made his way across the rope and was banging on the hull of the flying saucer, looked down too.
Then he plucked a haggis grenade out of his pocket and held it over an external sensor so that the mad devil inside the UFO would see it in his view screen.
"Don't think I won't use it!" screamed Brubaker.
A hatch popped open and he squirmed inside.
A short time later, he found the control room and the homeless person, who was lounging in a deck chair.
"I'm a guru, mind you," said the homeless person.
"Turn this thing around!" yelled Brubaker. "We're about to be attacked by a horde of Egyptian fanatics armed with milk and honey."
But it was too late. Before the homeless person could sort out his brain cells and react, the first cow thumped against the hull of the flying saucer.
Fortunately it wasn't a real cow; the pharaoh's defense contractors, being cheap, had substituted paper mache cows for the real thing.
The fake cows WERE, however, stuffed with milk, which left a satisfying splotch of clotted white goo when they splatted against the hull.
The bees weren't real either; they were angry hornets.
"What the blazes is going on!" yelled the homeless person. "The view screen is blotched with milk; I can't see a thing! Why couldn't they send cows that give Scotch, like civilized people."
"Civilized cows, you mean," said Brubaker. "Turn this thing around right now, before we meet a fate worse than death."
"What's that buzzing noise?" said the homeless person.
Hank, Brubaker and the others, meanwhile, having made a quick analysis of the situation, had anointed themselves with haggis.
Haggis, by the way, affords excellent protection against hornets. It's also a very effective cure for existentialism.
Thus it was the hornets concentrated their fire on the flying saucer, getting into the ventilation ducts and making their way through every part of the beast.
"Oh, oh," said Brubaker.
Just then, part of the island of Santorini fell into the sea, creating an enormous tsunami.
A short time later, a great wave washed over the Nile Delta.
Fortunately, no one was hurt, though a lot of cows and sheep floated out to sea and had to be rescued by the Phoenicians.
Pharaoh Peachtree had a bad feeling about this....
CHAPTER 155:THE CAMEL,THE GURU, AND THE WARDROBE
Hank and Thunderbags hung on for dear life as the UFO towing them went through a series of wild, drunken maneuvers. The long line of mud-brick ships whipped back and forth over the desert sand with each sudden turn.
Thunderbags glanced at the rope tying them to the flying saucer's back bumper.
"I hope that rope didn't come from one of our defense contractors," he said.
"Surely our own people wouldn't cut corners," said Hank piously.
Thunderbags gave him a pitying look. Hank was a fine leader and, to give him his due, no one else could possibly have kept so many backsliding, difficult and querulous camels together for such a long time.
Nor could anyone else have survived so many chat sessions with the Supreme Being.
And yet, there was such a thing as believing a little too much in the inherent worthiness of ALL of your people.
"The rope is fraying," said Thunderbags.
"No it isn't. That's just the protective wrapping shredding away."
"There goes another strand."
"What's wrong with that crazy UFO driver?" yelled Hank. "He's worse than a thirsty Philistine drunk on Golden Calf bourbon!"
"At least Brubaker made it inside," said Thunderbags. "With any luck, he'll put a stop to this irreverent behavior."
Hank stared at him in amazement.
"Brubaker?" he said. "Put a stop to irreverent behavior?"
Thunderbags glanced uneasily at the flying saucer, which was now flying upside down. "There's always a first time," he said.
"I should have done the job myself," sighed Hank.
Meanwhile, there was panic in the ranks behind them. Before long, a great wave of fear and trembling, and sickness unto death, arose from the multitudes and passed over the two leaders.
"Oh, oh!" said Thunderbags. "Morale is sinking. You'd better do something, Hank."
"It never rains but it pours!" muttered Hank, looking up for inspiration. But there was no help in the offing this time, not unless you counted the platypus grinning at him from a rack of fleecy clouds.
"Any ideas?" said Thunderbags hopefully.
Hank shook his head.
"Maybe there's something in our new encyclopedia," said Thunderbags.
Forthwith, he rummaged in his backpack, searching among pieces of dried haggis and unleavened bread until he found one of the twenty-four volumes, plus annual updates.
"You brought that HERE?" said Hank.
"A little knowledge is a desperate thing," said Thunderbags. Then he opened a volume at random and began to read:
"The prostrate is a gland situated under the--"
"The what?"
"Prostate."
"Does everyone have one of those things?"
"It would seem so."
"I wonder what it does."
"There's an illustration here. It says--"
"Good grief!" said Hank, turning green. "I've seen enough."
"You can never know too much about your equipment," said Thunderbags, concealing his squeamishness.
"Does this have anything to do with allaying the fears of a panicky host of camels trapped in mud-brick ships two hundred feet above the sands?" said Hank.
"Oh my gosh!" said Thunderbags "Look what the physicians do to you when they think there's something wrong with your prostate!"
Hank peeked at the illustration and promptly looked away again.
"Are you sure that isn't a book about the Underworld?" he moaned.
"I'll try again, shall I? First I'll enunciate the question."
There was a silence.
"Don't let me stand in your way," said Hank.
"Ahem. Oh mighty encyclopedia, what does a good commander do when everything is going wrong, when the enemy is everywhere, and when morale is breaking down."
Then Thunderbags opened the encyclopedia again and both camels peered cautiously at the page.
"Peritonitis," read Thunderbags. "A condition--"
"Good grief!" said Hank. "I had no idea ANYTHING could make me feel any sicker than I already am."
Then he up a convenient megaphone and aimed it at the ships behind him.
"Fear not!" he yelled. "Trust in the Supreme Being. Hearts be the harder, though the ground is far away. Think of your dear ones, trusting in your strength to keep them safe. Think of our new home, which is Bucket, overlooking a sheep. Think what we have already constructed with the sweat of our brows--a shipyard, a haggis factory, a distillery. Soon we will build a mighty nation."
"'Soon' being a variable concept," Thunderbags muttered.
Hank paused for breath and nearly threw up.
Behind him, the camels muttered and grumbled and clung desperately to mud-brick gunwales.
"A lot of good that did!" said Hank.
"At least they've stopped panicking. Now they're just green and scared."
"'Scared' being a relative concept," said Hank.
"Okay, okay; sore afraid!" said Thunderbags. "I'll admit; it does sound more impressive."
"I think one more step is necessary," said Hank.
Thunderbags saw the expression on his face and grew pale.
"You're not thinking of--"
"I'm afraid we have no choice," said Hank. Then he motioned to Sari, who had been reading a baked-clay newspaper in the forecastle.
"Um," said Hank.
"I know," said Sari. "You softened them up; they just need a little encouragement."
Then she took the megaphone and yelled:
"Listen up, everyone! The Bashing Clothes With Big Rocks in the River committee is forming. We need volunteers. Anyone who isn't needed in the forthcoming crisis, please step into our recruitment booth."
"What river?" said Thunderbags. "The Nile?"
Behind them, there was a sudden stirring as various camels hastened to affirm their bravery in the line of fire. Entire ranks of panicky wimps were immediately transformed into bold, resolute, and above all, indispensable warriors, far too important to waste their time bashing clothes in the river.
"Ho Hi!" roared dozens of mighty voices. "All for one and one for all. Bring on the enemy!"
"Ha!" said Sari. "Works every time."
Hank nodded approvingly.
Thunderbags eyed his own wife, hoping against hope she wasn't plotting something.
She was, of course, but that's another story.
Meanwhile, inside the flying saucer, Brubaker and the homeless person were hiding from a lot angry wasps in a broom closet.
The homeless person flashed a keychain light around, checking for monsters, but all he found were a bucket, a mop and some magazines showing scantily clad lobsters jumping around on a trampoline.
These were e-magazines, of course, with Flash animation.
At the same time, but outside the closet, vast multitudes of crazed hornets thumped against the door, looking for a crack or a knothole.
"Listen to that!" said Brubaker in an awed voice. "We're doomed."
"We could always run away," said the homeless person.
"Run away? Are you kidding! If you even think about opening that door I'll bludgeon you to death with the mop."
"Okay, smarty pants! Have you got any ideas?"
"What about the ship's computer? Do you think it can hear us through the closet door?"
"It probably could if it hadn't gone off with the aliens."
"So what do we do?" said Brubaker.
"We have to get back to the controls before we crash."
"Would the hornets leave us alone if we crashed?"
"Probably not," said the homeless person.
"If we don't stop bouncing all over the place, I'm going to be sick. I won't care if we crash."
"Good, because we probably will. I saw the logo on the control panel; we're using a famous operating system that stops every ten minutes to demand activation, then crashes. It crashes even when the computer is gone."
Brubaker had no idea what the homeless person was talking about, so he ignored him.
"What have you got in your pockets?" said the homeless person.
"Unleavened bread, a bit of haggis, a flask of Scotch."
"Scotch?" said the homeless person.
"It's just a sample," said Brubaker guiltily. "It's one of our most important export industries. Negev Scotch. Every civilized nation has a Scotch whiskey distillery; it's a mark of civilization."
"Hand it over. Maybe we can use it."
Brubaker reluctantly forked it over.
"There isn't much," said the homeless person disgustedly.
"Can I help it if I'm conscientious," said Brubaker. "I've been running quality control tests to see if it holds its flavor in various conditions."
"Such as?"
"While soaking in hot tubs, while lounging in deck chairs, etc. You never know where our clientele are going to use this stuff."
"Nice work if you can get it."
"It's a lot harder than it seems. I had to take notes all the time."
"Dictate them to scantily clad camels in hot tubs, you mean."
"I always close my eyes when I'm anywhere near scantily clad camels because I'm very shy; talking is an ordeal for me. Also I was looking for new markets. I had people testing new applications."
"Hornet-killing?" said the homeless person hopefully.
"Not as such. But valve lubrication, food additives, that sort of thing."
"You've been at this a long time?"
"We just got started. It's a new plant."
"Been busy, haven't you! What good is it if it doesn't work against hornets?"
"Well if we drink the Scotch, then open the door, we won't notice we're being killed and we'll skip right through to the afterlife."
"Or I could throw you out as bait," said the homeless person.
"I wonder how deep this closet is," said Brubaker.
"It's a broom closet. How deep do you think?"
But Brubaker, like all world-class slackers, was an expert at finding hidden spaces, and had already begun his search.
The closet, in fact, was much deeper than he had thought. It went further and further back.
"Kind of big for a closet, isn't it!"
"Maybe it's a magic closet."
"What are these coats doing here?"
"What coats?"
Brubaker pushed aside a lot of odd coats."
"I wonder what the aliens wanted these old buffalo coats for," he said.
"How would you know about buffalo coats?" said the homeless person. "Don't tell me you have buffalos in the Negev?"
"Of course we do. We have everything in the Negev. We have pepperoni pizzas."
"Negev Buffalo? Come on! I wasn't born yesterday."
"Okay, okay! I took a peek in our new encyclopedia. There was a picture of a lot of buffalo jumping off a cliff."
"Ha ha ha!" said the homeless person. "Those were lemmings, you idiot! Little tiny things with no brains."
"It said 'buffalo' in the caption."
"Probably a misprint. There aren't any good proofreaders anymore; they were all laid off by greedy web-page editors to save money."
"Anyway, there sure are lot of coats in here," said Brubaker, pushing aside a duffel coat. "This isn't a broom closet; it's a wardrobe!"
"A Negev wardrobe," laughed the homeless person.
Brubaker ignored this cheap shot and pushed his way through coat after coat.
None of them were coats of many colors, and most of them reeked--some of skunk, some of armadillo.
Then he came out into a cold place with snow on the ground.
"Hey," said the homeless person. "This can't be right."
"Who cares?" said Brubaker. "There aren't any hornets here. They can't function in the cold."
Just then, a swarm of hornets roared out of the closet and attacked them.
Brubaker, having the instinctive caution of all born slackers, had wrapped himself in a buffalo coat, encased his feet in sealskin boots, and his limbs in leggings. Only a tiny portion of his face showed through and he soon covered that.
He waited until the homeless person's screams stopped, then he peeked out.
The hornets lay in a sluggish pile on a snow bank.
The homeless person had swollen up to twice his size, stripped off his clothes, and lay half buried in snow.
"Well that was fun," he said.
Brubaker helped him up and generously offered him the last few drops still malingering in his flask.
"Chew slowly; it's good stuff," he said.
The homeless person twisted the flask, trying to squeeze out another drop.
"I'm in a lot of pain," he said.
"Look on the bright side."
"There's a bright side?" said the homeless person. "Oh, yeah! I'm not dead yet so I get to have lots more pain." He kicked at the pile of comatose hornets. "Anyway, at least we're safe here."
Brubaker wasn't so sure. He looked at the forest of pines, the thick snow, the ice-covered river.
A wolf howled, then another one.
"How much is that doggie in the window?" said the homeless person bitterly.
"I wonder if they're tame," said Brubaker.
He saw pale grey eyes watching him from the trees on the other side of the river and he knew they weren't.
"I think we should go back now," he said.
"Suits me. Where's the closet?"
"Um--"
"Don't say that! I hate it when people say things that imply hesitation, fear and doubt."
"We need help."
Just then, a beaver paddled up the river, cracking open the ice with the bow of his canoe when necessary, and waved at them.
"I'm a guru, eh!"
"Sure you are!" muttered the homeless person. "And I'm Shirley Temple."
Brubaker, however, always quick on his mental feet, flashed a grin at the beaver.
"I say old fellow, we're in a spot of trouble. Would you mind helping us? We'd be ever so grateful."
"Sure can do that thing! Hop in boys."
Brubaker eyed the canoe. He was familiar with boats; he'd watched plenty of them sinking in the muddy waters of the Tiber, and sometimes in the muddy waters of the Euphrates. Boats were to be avoided at all costs, especially if they were made out of mud bricks and floated two hundred feet above the ground.
But there was something odd about this one, which made it seem even more dangerous.
"Put the pedal to the metal boys! We don't have all day; the dragon is coming."
"Oh yeah, right!" said the homeless person. "The dragon is coming! What dragon?"
"That one," said Brubaker, who had learned a long time ago that anything could happen at any time.
The homeless person looked across the river at an enormous red dragon.
The red dragon grinned back at him.
It was only after the homeless person picked himself up from the bottom, and the canoe finished rocking, that Brubaker recovered his wits long enough to ask what kind of a boat a canoe was supposed to be, and why did it act like it wanted to turn turtle the moment someone got into it.
The guru ignored them; he was much too busy paddling away from a ribbon of fire.
Brubaker had a bad feeling about this....
CHAPTER 156:HISTORY IN THE MAKING
Meanwhile, in the last ship in the long chain of mud-brick ships sailing behind the UFO, something had gone wrong.
The captain, Ripping Winkles, had fallen asleep.
Yet again.
His acolyte, Derailed, was going frantic trying to wake him up while, at the same time, holding on for dear life as the ship raced through the air without any visible means of support.
The camels, having chosen to live in the Fabulous Mists of Antiquity rather than in the anarchy of the present, were unfamiliar with Newton's Laws of Motion.
In fact, the camels rarely troubled themselves with abstract theories of motion; they were more interested in the rock that was about to smite them, or the arrow that was about to pierce them, or the run-away cart that was about to crush them, or the javelin that was about to reorganize their internal organs.
"Wake up, sir!" yelled Derailed. "Wake up! We're about to be bashed to pieces or possibly cracked open like eggs. I need your help."
There was a sudden blast from a distant megaphone as Thunderbags tried to establish a communications link.
"What's the matter back there?" he yelled.
Derailed was too busy worrying about what his stomach was going to do NEXT to come up with a quick reply.
If you've ever been on the end of a long chain of people whipping back and forth on a skating pond, you know how wild it can get.
Eventually , however, Derailed managed to yell a report to Thunderbags.
"What's the problem?" said Hank. "More backsliding? Don't tell me they've got a golden calf in there!"
Thunderbags shook his head in disgust. "Derailed says Captain Ripping Winkles has fallen asleep at his post. I think that worthless captain needs a good smiting."
Hank looked up into the blue sky. The platypus looked down at him with an interested expression. Nowhere in the vast empyrean was there any sign of a useful smiting thunderbolt.
"Has this Ripping chap ever been awake that we know of?" said Hank.
"Usually during the fertility rites," said Thunderbags.
"I thought we'd abolished those. The Supreme Being specifically said--"
"I'm sure Ripping was only there to check up on his crew and make sure none of them were slumming with the Canaanites."
"Ripping has been sleeping since before we left Just Ur," yelled Derailed. "He's very good at simulating a waking camel while he's in the captain's chair."
"We need him awake," said Hank. "He's our rear guard. What if that platypus in the sky grabs the tail end of the rope?"
"I don't think it's hostile," said Thunderbags.
"Why not, I wonder?" said Hank. "Everyone else in this place is."
"It's laughing hysterically now," said Thunderbags."
"Obviously it's an associate of the Supreme Being, if not a demon."
"Yes, but which one?" said Thunderbags.
This touched off a theological debate as the two old friends rummaged through their memories of proscribed gods and troublesome demons, trying to identify the creature above them.
Derailed, meanwhile, redoubled his attempts to awaken Ripping Winkles. He tried the old Blow up a Paper Bag and Pop it Behind Your Friend's Back trick, but that didn't work at all.
Actually it was a papyrus bag, so it didn't pop very well.
Then he tried a water bomb using Scotch and a haggis grenade, but that only made a mess without actually awakening Ripping Winkles.
"Ripping is as old as we are, isn't he?" said Hank. "How come he doesn't have trouble sleeping, like we do? Doesn't he ever have to get up in the middle of the night?"
"He's older than any of us, but he sleeps so much he hasn't aged much," said Thunderbags.
There was an unearthly screeching, wailing sound as Derailed tried playing 'How Much is That Doggie in the Window?' on a bagpipe.
This had no effect on Ripping, but it did terrify a passing flock of Egyptian kibitzers, who prostrated themselves in the desert sands below.
The poor chaps were already primed for celestial bagpipes, having only recently passed the famous ruined temple that featured a Highlander rampant, in full regalia, on its massive walls.
At last, after a particularly hard snap as the chain whipped back and forth, the rope broke.
"Oh oh!" said Derailed.
Mud-brick ships, as you know, when deprived of forward motion, don't maintain lift very well.
Down went the ship, tipping this way and that as it plummeted towards a convenient sand dune.
Fortunately, every ship in the camels' fleet was equipped with emergency brakes.
Derailed pulled the lever and an enormous, crimson, dragon-shaped kite snapped loose from its moorings.
The kite had been a gift from Red Tse, to show his love and affection for the camels.
There was a promotional device on its belly, a picture of a Chinese tractor factory with a URL in hieroglyphics, and a cuneiform email address in prominent letters.
The ship wobbled and settled slowly to the ground, buoyed by the kite. Eventually it dropped gently into a midden outside a worker's village, near a quarry.
Derailed, when he found himself safe and sound on a bed of pottery shards, fainted.
Just then, a party of archaeologists from the Museum of Strange Things happened upon the wreckage.
"Look, look, see, see!" one of them cried excitably. "We found Noah's Ark."
The excitable one was Brother Sperry, a very young archaeologist out on his first field trip.
Archaeologists from the Museum of Strange Things all belong to a sort of religious order, as you know. There are brothers, sisters, abbots and abbesses, etc., and they all enjoy the intense and vicious infighting normally associated with such organizations.
But that is another story.
"Well, well, well," said a dry voice. This voice belonged to Brother Nudge, an older monk who had seen more than his share of alleged Noah's Arks.
They usually turned out to be cloud formations, or Venus, or some new oddity wobbling away from a secret air force base.
"In a midden?" he said. "Who would have thought? Tossing out old pottery is one thing, but dumping an entire Ark! I never!"
"Well it could have washed down from Mount Ararat during a rainstorm," said Brother Sperry.
"That's a long way to wash."
"Yes, but the ground has moved quite a lot over the years. Continental drift and all that."
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