Starship Titanic

6

While Leovinus had been thus engaged with business matters, The Journalist had been trying to pump information out of the workman who claimed to have come on board to reclaim his parrot.

'Come on!' said The Journalist. 'Nobody's buying that! What are you up to?'

'I have a pet parrot,' said the workman, doggedly sticking to his absurd story. 'I always take it with me when I'm working. I know Mr Leovinus wouldn't allow a bird on board, so I've been keeping it hidden. But when I came back to get it just now, I found that some bastard had opened the door of the cage and it's escaped.'

The Journalist heaved his eyes heavenwards. He was used to hearing cock-and-bull stories but this parrot-and-bastard one didn't even get off the slippery starting-blocks of meretriciousness. 'Look,' he said. 'I'm a journalist. I know when there's something fishy going on, and I know that you're hiding something. I'll cut a deal with you!'

The workman turned on him: 'I'm really very upset! I loved that parrot.'

'You tell me everything you know about the Starship and I'll not tell Star-Struct Inc. about the parrot.'

They had just reached the Central Dome area, and the worker was hurrying through the gallery surrounding the Central Well towards the port Embarkation Lobby.

'Why's the work got so behind? They've been cutting corners, haven't they? Leovinus seemed to be in the dark about it. And all these stories about the financial problems - they're true, aren't they? What's going to happen tomorrow? This ship isn't in a fit state to take off, is it?'

'That's right!' said the worker, as he strode across the Embarkation Lobby. 'Everything you say is true.'

'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!'

And then it happened.

It was one of those ironic moments that fitted perfectly into Leovinus's current architectural style, and it gave The Journalist his first piece of hard evidence that corners had indeed been cut during the construction of the Starship Titanic.

Scraliontis had, of course, been the main instigator of the plan to reduce the construction costs of the Starship. It had become clear that the whole project could never break even - let alone go into profit. It was, in fact, heading for total enormous financial disaster. His and Brobostigon's reputations and personal fortunes were both on the line. There was only one clean, simple, rational solution - and that was to scuttle the ship, and claim the insurance.

The ship was, of course, already heavily insured, and Scraliontis made sure that those policies were beefed-up and that all moneys repayable were routed through companies owned by himself and Brobostigon. Construction costs had to be cut to the bone, and building restricted to the merely cosmetic. He had, unbeknownst to Leovinus, instructed contractors to halve and then quarter the specifications of any number of elements on board.

One of the materials that had been severely cut back was the metal employed in the barrier-rail surrounding the Great Central Well. 'After all,' Scraliontis had remarked, 'there aren't going to be any passengers to lean on it so why make it unnecessarily strong?'

The reason, he now realized, was that it might not be a passenger who leant on it; it might actually be the project accountant who, in a moment of forgetfulness, whilst under assault from a parrot, leant back against it. But the realization came too late. Scraliontis heard the feeble metal crack and next moment found himself falling backwards into the abyss.

By the time the horrified Journalist had made it to the broken rail, and looked down, Scraliontis was a tiny figure - still no more than a third of the way down the Great Central Well - turning gently in circles, waving his arms and shouting up ever more faintly: 'Bloody parrots!'

The parrot in question alighted on The Journalist's shoulder.

'Bloody accountants!' it said.