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.

7

The vicious rabbits had been brought back under control. The over-excited dot police had been calmed down by their Chief, and the Yassaccan protesters lay groaning in mangled bloody heaps on the ground. It had been a totally successful exercise in crowd management. Flortin Rimanquez saluted smartly as he reported back to the Gat of Blerontis.

'Everything under control, your Magnificent Beneficence,' he said. 'You may proceed with the launch.'

'But Leovinus is still missing,' replied the Gat, who was extremely concerned that he might miss out on the great photo-opportunity of being seen arm in arm with the Greatest Genius the Galaxy Had Ever Produced. It was exactly the sort of thing his sagging poll-ratings needed, said his publicity agent. 'Whatever you do, get your photo next to Leovinus.' It was, indeed, the single most important thing on the Gat's mind throughout the whole proceedings.

'With regret, Your Ultimate Lordship,' said the Chief of Police with another sharp salute, 'the crowd down there is fifty million. They are getting extremely restive. I humbly suggest that we get this launch over and done with so my boys can start dispersing them at once -otherwise we might all be sorry.'

The Gat could see what he meant. The crowd had already closed in over the bodies of the unfortunate Yassaccan demonstrators, and he could see fights breaking out all over the launch area.

'Very well,' he sighed. 'No thank you!' he added, as the minor official offered him a 'fish-paste' sandwich.

'I'm afraid you have to, Your Magnificence, it's all part of the ceremony!' whispered the minor official hurriedly.

The Gat groaned and took the 'fish-paste' sandwich. The band struck up the Blerontin National Anthem and the crowd all stood on their heads - as they always did as a mark of respect to the monarchy.

'Sirs, madams and things,' intoned the Gat of Blerontis into the ceremonial microphone. 'This "fish-paste" sandwich is delicious!'

A cheer went up from the crowd. The Gat sighed again, it was such a pathetic ceremony, he thought. 'And now it is my privilege to launch this - the greatest Starship ever built! Fellow Blerontinians, this is a proud moment for all of us. I name this Starship... Titanic... May luck be with all who fly with her.'

And so saying, the Gat let swing the be-ribboned bottle of French champagne* so that it smashed into the bows of the ship. At the same moment, the minor official pulled a cord and the sheeting that hitherto had covered the great Starship fell to the ground in a gentle cascade of pink silk.

- - - - - -

* It may seem odd that a civilization that had never even heard of the planet Earth and certainly had no idea of its existence should use French champagne for such an occasion. The explanation is rather complicated and involves a lot of stuff about time-warps and Black Holes and an Inter-Galactic Smuggling Ring. If were you I simply wouldn't worry about it and just get on with the story.

- - - - - -