Hic haec hoc

"That's the trouble with the younger generation," wombled the older generation, "they can't spell 'sieve' these days."

    "Maybe it was deliberate," chimed in Arthur, helpfully.

    "Shall we ask her," asked her (Theodora).

    "Well, we'll have to find her first (not third)," objected Mr T, who had become welded to a deckchair; some inconsiderate bastard had left some warm treacle (molasses to you, dear American viewers). He tried to stand up and failed painfully.

    Donkey Hoatee reappeared at that moment; he had never really existed anyway. "Jump aboard my fine green stalliom, and let the quest for Liz begin!"

    "Hic!" said Hannibal, who had got quite shozzled on the pooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo×10⁵³p deck.

    "Haec!" said Geoffrey, who knew Modern Greek.

    "Hoc!" said Simon, who didn't.

    And the quest for Liz went "Fweeeeeeee!!!"

    (It is not wise at this point to immense oneself in a vat of Napoleon Blownapart. Run, Doctor! Nurb! Nurb!)

    So, Emlyn, what happiⁿg'd nest?

Pieces of marmalade

"Excuse me, I didn't like to say anything, but I told you so. I'm very sorry," said Mr T, falling. They were all falling, except Hannibal, who was still hidden on the pooop deck. Perhaps that's where the ship got the idea.

    "I told you they were holes," said Arthur, coming to rest. Outer space proved to be made of rather dusty black felt. Pieces of Wilkinson's Tawny Marmalade had been used to represent asteroids. Some of them were stuck on the poop deck, but that's another universe. Hannibal came to the muddle-headed conclusion that God had toast and marmalade for breakfast. "He must be English." Typical.

    Arthur, in fact, had put his leg through one of the holes. "Help!" he said. "My leg isn't in the universe!" "What is it like?" asked Theodora, falling up. "Illogical," said the Older Generation, severely. "More like..." Arthur speculated, "warm molasses."

    Probably because the Antiplautus was filling his shoes with the latter, through an icing bag. "Now for the courgette and the fine seive," he murmured diabolically. He was happy in his work.

Upside, downside

{Written upside down}

    Arthur flinched. He looked around him. Everything seemed normal.

    "There appears to have been a gravitational anomaly in freezer bay 5, sir," explicated Mr Data, blinking into existence in much the same way that large blobules of cow don't.

    The communicator bleeped. "Picard," said Arthur, and then wondered why.

    Mr T yelled, "I don't know what the hell's going on around here, Captain, but the engines are gee whizz safe again."

    "Have that man ejected," called Hannibal, coming out of the lift onto the bridge. "Hey, this place is smaller on the upside than the downside."

    "Oh haven't you realised yet," exclaimed Theodora meaninglessly and went and hid the Hannibal on the poop deck.

    "We are about to enter orbit around the planet Cheesecake."

    "Can I have that big slice, please?" enquired Mr T, suddenly falling through a particularly wibbly area of space/time and emerging a paragon of politeness.

    "The cheesecake is with the gravitational anomaly in freezer bay 5, sir," said Mr Data, who was for every apparent reason covered in blue goat's cheese (that's cheese of the blue goat, not month of the hairy frog). "I would advise a swift coordinate reshuffle, followed by a polarity-reversal of the neutron flow, then a quick two hours of Inspector Ttorse, three months' vacation amongst the frozen mauve ice-packs of Glacion VII, a large collection of hamster-hats, this is the bog lipoleum mordering the lipoleum beg, this is the cheese-grunker, this is the cabbage-switch, this is the oozing bucket-mcflodgeon-trumpet of Hell, this is the primorbial atom, this is a proximate demonstrative pronoun of the Inglizh lingvodge, where is my parsnip-fool, this is me in front of the solar panel, this is my great-grate-grandwibble behind the moonset, and this is the end of the sentence," said Data and exploded delightfully. (Hair by Auburne's of Hampsteaf.)

{Right way up again}

Gravity returned and the ship blew.

"Whooo! Whooo!" it said. "That is illogical," murmured the older generation, who had been in the subtext all along.

Curses

But the Antiplautus raised his eyebrows and put them back again several times, rapidly and expressively. Then he folded his hands and bent the fingers the wrong way in that manner which causes the majority of earth-people to wince. Then he twirled his very twirly moustache. Then he realized; he too needed an audience, or at least a woman with big dark eyes and no voice, and a railway track.

{Musical score}
cur-ses! cur-ses!

he said.

Not very good stars

    "To be or not to be — this is a monologue," shouted Arthur, and immediately wished he hadn't. Now turn over, back, up and nwod until you reach page 16.

    "It sure as hell ain't a solilo-quy," said Theodora, who proved to be American. "But it's a very important question."

    "I was thinking about it," said Arthur, "when I was up in that tree talking to Reason. It seems like a very long time ago."

    "Five hours, forty-six minutes," said Theodora. Arthur embraced her, pitifully. "I'm so glad you said that," he said. "I thought you would say 'It was on page 10'. We haven't had any time before. Or space."

    There was space now. It was black, and there were holes in it. Arthur had never noticed before how black space was. He had never been in a spaceship before, either.

    "I suppose those things are supposed to be stars," he said. "They're not very good."

    "Of course them's stars," asserted Mr T (for "Tambourine", on account of the jangling, and his predilection for gospel music). "They sure ain't feet, anyway."

    "They look like holes to me," said Arthur.

    "The engine's gonna blow," reminded Mr T.

    "Don't give him the satisfaction," Arthur said, slowly. "He's up there, looking through one of those holes." Mr T picked him up by the head, rather uncomfortably, leading Arthur to suspect that he had blasphemed. Theodora looked worried; there wasn't room for God as well as Reason.

To the starship Milwaukee

"I'm page 13," said Page 15, who had a lot of hang-ups. Also, everyone was sitting on him, both literally and metaphorically, which was confusing. "You are the metaphoricity of your own metaphor," explained Antiplautus, drawing suspicion on himself. "How did you know that?" asked Arthur. "I didn't" — so triumphantly Antiplautus — "How did you know?"

    Hannibal moved on the face of the waters. Which was probably because he was in a canoe. "Vote for me!" he said. The metaphors voted with their feet. They elected the moo-cow. "Grass for all!" the cow said, floating. Its objective correlative didn't because it wasn't on Page 13.

It was time for the narrator to interpose himself (or herself) into the dialogue. There was too much of it (and the dialogue). It had to be stopped. Hannibal realised that a machine-gun was not enough. He dived out of the room (which was octagonal as well as pink), clutching Mr T as he went. Theodora and Arthur exited swiftly through the trapdoor. Then the grenades flew, as well as the Howitzers. Thus was the room destroyed.

The four remaining characters found themselves aboard the starship Milwaukee. Arthur commanded that the ship head for the planet Cheesecake; Mr T pointed out, however, that the engines couldn't take any more — or the ship would, apparently, blow.

A new plotline had been opened up, and the crew members looked forward to exploring new civilizations and destroying them — all without a single piece of dialogue.

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(Don't say I didn't warn you — 'cos I didn't.)