

The Fez

L. T. Hewitt
For Simone King, for correcting parts that were written badly, seeing similarities with Douglas Adams and being an understanding writer.

For Rachel Crosby, for comparing me to Terry Pratchett, seeing similarities with Douglas Adams and understanding sci-fi techniques Simone may have missed.

For Douglas Adams and Terry Pratchett, for having existed.

The Fez

L. T. Hewitt

Copyright 2012 by L. T. Hewitt

Smashwords edition
Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

About the author
Chapter 1

Not everyone likes their home. In fact, very few people enjoy spending a lot of time there. The majority of the population of any settlement, country or even planet is convinced that there must be something better, something greater, something more meaningful out there than sitting at home, alone, and whining over the mysterious misery of existence. There isn't, of course, yet still the moaners wonder.

Despite these complaints of apparent stir-craziness, a man who resides away from home for any period of time longer than a week will inevitably become even more agitated and pine for his self-declared prison.

No matter where in the world a moaning, sleep-deprived interloper finds itself, it will still only be a maximum of a few thousand million kilometres away from its home. That is, assuming the interloper hasn't left its home planet. However, when a man finds himself on another planet through no fault of his own, he can become incredibly unpredictable, even to himself. It is worth bearing in mind that the lost alien will undoubtedly have enough trouble coming to terms with his galactic location and his fate of being stranded on such an undeterminable, foreign land (as well as spending a lot of time absent-mindedly pondering on the culture of the place) to care much for common courtesy. Not that he would be likely to understand that either.
Aside from the high probability of finding yourself whirling in a pool of self-torment, eventually leading you to near-suicidal mental constraints, it's well worth leaving the house once in a while.

"He's awake!"

"Oh good. Do you remember what you need to say?"

"Yes, yes. I've been well aware since he arrived here."

"Good, good."

There was a moment's silence, during which time the women decided to slip from professionalism. "Seriously, though, who goes out like that?" the second woman wondered.

"He probably didn't start off like that. He looks a bit mad. Somebody perhaps did it as a joke while he was asleep."

The nurses ran around in that way professionally busy people seem to think will help sort all the confusion out. They needed to make sure that he had a place to stay and that he understood what was happening to him.

He didn't.

Dave opened his eyes and tried to see where he was. He saw a blur of white, so he rubbed his eyes and tried again. He saw a white hospital room with odd patients, including a blue man and two hedgehogs the size of small dogs. He rubbed his eyes again. The man and the hedgehogs were still there. How odd, thought Dave.

"Are you feeling okay?" a female nurse asked politely.

"I, er, I don't think I know, well..." Dave wasn't getting anywhere. He sighed. "I know this must sound weird, but it looks..." He laughed. "It looks like there are two hedgehogs over there in that bed."

The hedgehogs looked over in silence.

"Um," muttered a nearby nurse. "They're long-term patients here."

There was an awkward silence.

"How exactly did I get here?" asked Dave.

"You were brought here in an ambulance after you collapsed on the street."

"Really?"

"What can you remember?"

"Well, I was walking into town to buy some bread and there was a flash of light. I collapsed and—" He cut off abruptly and patted his pockets. "Where's my wallet?"

"You were found with no identification or currency on your person."

"I definitely took my wallet."

"In fact," she continued, "you were found completely naked."

"What?" he exclaimed. He looked down to see that he was wearing a hospital gown. "Oh." How odd, thought Dave. "Just out of curiosity," he said, "where am I?"

"This is Monterey Jack General Hospital."

He searched his mind for any prior knowledge of that name. "Is that in London?"

"No, this is Carpe Yolu."

"Where's that?"

"In England," the nurse said. "Which is in Britain," she added.

"Really?"

"It was last time I checked..."

Dave wanted to make sure this wasn't some kind of joke. A theme park called 'Britain', a small American town, anything like that would usually confuse him, and so he was often the subject of much ridicule from his friends. "Britain being in..."

"Britain being a country in Europe."

Dave raised his eyebrows.

"Just out of wondering," he joked, "which planet would that be on?"

The nurse laughed along. "The planet," she responded. "The planet that we are currently on is the planet Glix."

Dave's smile faded.
Chapter 2

The planet Glix, although written as though it should be pronounced 'glicks', is said 'glee'. It is a unique planet in some respects as it is very large, allowing for lots of pure, wonderful scenery. Glix has lots of interesting features, such as the river which runs through the sky, the entirely geometric island shapes and the fascinating cloud formations that often become so compact, they can obscure up to a third of the planet at the same time, and then spread broadly out, so they can hardly be seen at all. But Dave wasn't initially concerned with any of the physical anomalies of the multifaceted world. And, after only having been upon its surface a matter of minutes, Dave had subconsciously decided that it was only exceptional to him in one way: it was the first planet – besides his own – that he had ever visited and, at that moment, Dave wasn't sure it was any better than his last. He was trying not to be too skeptical, however, as he lost himself in his incredibly bizarre thoughts.

This is a new planet, he thought. Or maybe it's not new. Maybe it's incredibly old and they are so advanced here that I'm making their whole planet seem Neanderthal. Maybe, just maybe, they want to kill me.

"Hello, Dave."

"Argh!" he screeched, making every other patient jump.

"It's just me," said the nurse, confused and not sure if she'd done something wrong or not.

"Oh," said a relieved and breathless Dave. "Hello."

"We're just going to take you through to another ward now. Is that okay by you?"

No, it's certainly not okay! You are going to take me where no-one can see me and kill me! The population of your whole stupid planet Glee, or whatever, will rejoice in knowing that they have thankfully become modern again. You will be glad to see the back of me. The cold, dead back with a knife in it. You will have parties and celebrations for weeks. This day (whatever weird, space-age date this may be) will be marked as a national – no, a planetary – holiday for all eternity. There will be celebrations against me, won't there, you cruel-hearted, cold-blooded murderers!

"Are you all right with this, Dave?"

"Yeah, it's fine."

He was walked along to his new room by the same nurse he had come to know as Glinda Bradbury.

"Now you have to remember that all that anaesthetic we gave you will probably make you imagine things."

"Okay."

"And you may have some pretty odd dreams."

"Fine."

"So remember not to take them seriously."

"I won't."

They then arrived at the new room. It was a small room, clearly designed for just one weirdo. Dave guessed that – if he tried very hard – he could probably fit an infinite number of weirdoes in the room, provided they only took up two dimensions. Given his current circumstances, he didn't think this was too unlikely and wondered if there were any such people in the room with him, hiding by standing sideways.

"Just a question," Dave said, cautious not to sound as though he were from anywhere other than Carpe Yolu, England, Britain, Europe, Glix. "I'm assuming there are some pretty serious injuries in this hospital at the moment."

"That's not a question," she said.

"No, I guess not. But there are bad cases here. Some of these people are stuck in really awful conditions."

"Well you seem to be in a quite a predicament yourself."

"No," he said abruptly. "I'm not."

"You still haven't asked any questions. What is it you want to know, exactly?"

"Is anyone in your hospital suffering from a condition whereby they lose physical form and have to live as a two-dimensional being in a three-dimensional world?"

"Not as far as I'm aware..."

"Ah, but that's my point. Do you think it would be possible? And would they just go unnoticed."

"I think you'd best forget about this for now, Dave. If you discover any of these flat people, be sure to tell me and I'll be happy to help give you solace. But, for now, don't let them bother you." She stopped and thought for a moment. "I wouldn't worry about them inhabiting this room either; everything is designed for three-dimensional people."

Dave's eyes were drawn towards a comfortable-looking bed and also to a soft armchair. There was a desk placed there for when he felt he had the energy to do something creative. His bed ran along the side of the room, with the headboard resting on one wall and the footboard against the other. To the left of the bed was a small window – one of those hospital windows that are specially reinforced so that no-one (except perhaps a bodybuilder) could open it and climb out. He was glad, as he thought the day was going so madly he may be trying to jump out of it later. Dave immediately thought it looked very cosy and homely. He wouldn't mind staying here.

Dave found that the most noticeable feature of the room was the large painting taking up the whole wall at the foot of his bed. It looked almost religious, except it depicted a large blue duck wearing a sock. This duck appeared to be flying like a genie on a cloud, whilst a chicken accompanied him in throwing another chicken, a fish and two hedgehogs – among many other animals – down to an odd-looking planet.

"Excuse me, Nurse Bradbury," Dave said. "But would you mind telling me what this painting's about?"

"Why, of course I'll tell you," she said, in another one of her shocked voices. "But how do you not know already? That is a depiction of the Almighty Quack sending the descendants of Margery down to Glix."

"Right, of course, but can you just remind me who Almighty Quacks is again?"

"You really must have lost your memory," she chuckled, but she still sounded quite concerned.

Dave falsely laughed.

"Why, Quack is the god of this planet, of course."

"So he's the duck?"

"Yes, He's the Duck."

"Okay, then who's Margery?"

"She's the Chicken who lives with Quack in the Overworld."

"So would you say she's his secretary?"

"I would if it weren't for the blasphemy."

"Are those hedgehogs...?"

"Boris and Doris?"

"Are they the hedgehogs in the other room?"

"Yes. What happened to you to make you forget all this?"

"Well, actually, I'm from—" Don't do it, said the odd voice in his head. You know they want to kill you. "I'm from a foreign country... Scotland."

"Where's that?"

"You know, in the North."

"North? Where's that? Oh, you mean North Island?"

"Up from here – above this country."

"Nekken or Nord?"

"Towards the Nor— the nearest Pole," he said, correcting himself.

"Personally, I would say that that was down."

"Closest to the Artic."

"No, I don't recall. Do you mean BongVe Bong?"

"No. North. Oh, never mind."

"I'll leave you to think about where you've come from. Oh, and don't forget: don't follow your hallucinations."

She walked away and left him to get settled in his room. He tested the quality of his seat and desk before retiring to his bed. He focused on every detail of the painting until he eventually drifted off to sleep.

Dave was awoken by the sound of a very large object shifting just outside his room. It took him a few seconds of confusion to remember where he was: in a hospital room on the alternate planet of Glix, which was run by a blue Duck and a Chicken Lady. How odd, thought Dave. After he had remembered this information, the next thing on his mind was his confused anger at the world for creating these strange noises.

What on... thought Dave. What on Glix is going on out there?

He got up and looked out his window. He saw an astounding apparition. A monstrous, red box was gliding through the city of Carpe Yolu. On closer inspection, it appeared to be a square frustum, which (when put into simpler terms) was a pyramid with the top cut off. He looked to the base of the thing, many storeys below, and saw that houses seemed to be disappearing into it as it passed along. Dave wondered if it was merely a hologram, but he felt the air being pushed his way as well as the Air given off by the box. He noticed that one of the walls was entirely covered in buttons. Dave saw buttons on another side of it as well, and guessed that all four walls were probably coated in the scruffily organised display of mysteries. They were mostly grey, with a few other colours thrown in for good measure. As far as he could see, each one had a unique symbol on it. Who would create a horrible hoax like this? he thought; it seemed too large and silent to be completely innocent. He was horrified. It was moving towards him and soon it blocked out most of the light from his room like a big, red, trapeziform eclipse. He wondered what he should do to stop it; should he tell somebody? But then he saw it. There was a golden button on the nearest red wall. He knew what to do: he had to push that button. Dave tried hard to clench it, finding the limit to his manoeuvrability – but it was still too far away. He climbed fully onto his bed and pushed against the window, barely realising – or caring – what he was doing. The framework of the hospital wall creaked. The window resisted the impact as much as it was able to, but – even with its reinforced hinges – couldn't bear the strength of Dave's obsession. His overriding desire to get to the button made him force the window wide open. He leant out as far as he could but saw that the button was getting farther and farther away from him. He made one last great attempt at getting at that button and fell right out the window, missing the button as he went. His foot caught on the window as he left and he hung there for a while, his mind rushing through the moments in his head. As he saw the red box moving away, he wondered how he could have been so blinded by desire to chase after it. He resigned himself to getting back inside the hospital before anybody noticed, deeply ashamed of sudden stupidity. As he turned around to climb back into the building, his foot shifted out of its place on the windowsill.

He fell, the window slamming shut behind him, closing all hope of getting back. The box was still there, as if to protect his fall, but Dave knew that he couldn't survive that severe a drop, even with the hand of Fate to catch him.

Chapter 3

Dave woke up. He began to wonder if he had died at some point during a strange journey, but he saw his surroundings and situation and decided he was still alive. Giving the room another glance around, he surmised that his fears were true, and the hospital was a very odd place to be, whether fully conscious or not. It was an unpleasant existence, but it was an existence nonetheless. Dave realised he was just as alive as he'd always been. Technically.

I must have fallen onto the red box and broken my back, Dave thought, so I've been brought back into hospital, then. My back does really hurt, now I think about it. And so does my head. No, I can't have fallen; this is the same hospital room as before. Supposing I had left via the window, then been brought back in because of my injuries, there's no way I would be put back onto the same ward. And, even if I were, they wouldn't have left me here by myself again. After all, they seemed to give me a lot of attention when I was first brought here. And an odd foreigner who's just jumped out a window requires far more attention than an odd, foreign lunatic who's just been found on the street naked. Now, about that box. A big, red box covered with buttons – that seems too ridiculous to be true. I must have been dreaming.

He looked over at the window; it was still shut. I can't have left, he concluded. It must have all been a dream.

A nurse came in. Upon looking up with far more terror in his eyes than he would ever have wanted in any situation, he began to realise that it was Glinda. She was looking at him with more confusion than he thought possible in a human from any planet, apparently curious as to whether he was sleeping with his horrified eyes open or not.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"Yeah, I think, but my back hurts, and I think I've got a headache."

"Oh, I'll make sure you get proper treatment for that." She turned to leave.

"Wait!"

She paused and turned back. "Yes?"

"I think I had one of those hallucination-dream-mirage-things. It was about a big, red box that I had to catch. And it was a pyramid," he added.

She laughed. "Well I suppose with all the advertising these days I can't blame you."

He pretended to laugh along but he didn't know why.

Chapter 4

Several dull days of hospital life later, Dave got into the driving seat of a new 2042 Dorhar 203 Max.

"Hi, I'm Calvin and I'll be your driving instructor," said a man about ten years older than Dave, who was thirty-four and three halves. Calvin was an unusual man, although Dave had come to expect this of people on Glix. His eyelids were opened so far it looked like he was trying to prove that he did indeed have eyeballs. He did.

Calvin also had the brown, partially stuck-up hair that Dave had noticed was common on Glix. Dave had even tried the style on his own brown mess with some water back at Monterey Jack General. He wanted to show people that he very definitely was a Glix-ling and that there was absolutely no reason what-so-ever for any other Glix-ling ever to dare suspect him of even being related to one of those horrible traitors from Foreignland, or whatever. Bleugh. It hadn't really worked. He only ever got the edges of his hair to stick up. Yet still he tried his hardest for an unnecessary period of time every morning, which resulted in his scruffy hair not looking so scruffy unless you were looking at it from above. And Dave hoped that nobody did look at it from above. In moments of great frustration and paranoia (of which there had been many during his time on Glix), Dave wondered if they did have anyone around hired to check everybody had native hairdos. He began to grow suspicious of aircraft.

"Hello," was all Dave had to say.

"I trust you have a provisional driving licence?"

"Well, no. Am I meant to?"

Calvin looked at him, horrified. "You don't have one already?" Dave began to get really worried and was horrified he'd done something wrong. Was I meant to have a licence for myself before I came? he wondered. Oh no, they're going to realise I'm not from around here. This is going to be another one of my many mistakes to go on the governmental lists of why I should be executed. I imagine they have pits they fill with people like me – traitors. Then they drive cars over us repeatedly until, finally, our dismembered corpses are reminded of the basic rule of Glix's transport: either you drive over the world or the world drives over you. Oh antimetabole, you are so cruel.

"Here you go," Calvin said calmly, handing a blank provisional licence over to Dave. "Now you just fill that in when you want to." In all his years as a driving instructor, Calvin had never seen anyone quite so horrified at his classic pretend-they-needed-to-have-done-some-paperwork-before-they-turned-up-here trick. "There's no need to get so worried. I was only joking."

"Thank you," he timidly replied, startled by the man's sick, sick sense of humour. He set about driving in the same way he remembered from before he came to Glix.

"No," said Calvin. "Remember, we drive on the right side of the road."

"Oh, yes," said Dave. "Of course I remember now." Accidentally thinking out loud, he added, "Just like they do in America."

"No. In America, they drive on the left side of the road. Actually, no, I tell a lie, they drive on the right in some parts of East America."

"Right..." Dave responded.

"Right," Calvin agreed.

As Dave set about driving – Calvin pointing out all the motoring cultural differences as they went – he looked for either some way of getting back to his real home or just something he recognised. Glinda had told him that he was allowed out of the hospital from that point on, but it was advised for him to return for frequent check-ups if he found himself lost in the ways of the world. Dave knew this would happen, of course, but feared if he went back too often, they'd notice something more was going on. And the idea of letting the authorities know about his illegal immigration didn't bear thinking about. He had been set free and didn't have to go back again (and didn't want to let the hospital staff in on any secrets), but Dave told himself he had to return to have somewhere to sleep. However, if this box from his dream (or, possibly, reality) provided him with a solution, he might be able to get back to his true home yet. He would certainly investigate it anyway (if there really was a box) and that would surely provide him with a way home (if children's stories did indeed have any relevance in real life) or possibly help him understand what on Glix was going on in his subconscious (if anything was actually going on in there).

Dave looked at the art of the world as he drove past. It appeared to have meaning only when the entire context was understood, which it currently wasn't. He had spotted an object that resembled an obelisk or a tall menhir. Across the side of the grey figure was the phrase 'I am here, and have been since the Dawn of Glix.' Dave wondered if this was meant to have religious connotations, like most of the sculptures and paintings of his former home town did. Those of his home weren't coupled with lines of poetry quite so often, though. As Dave's vehicle drove away from the stone shape, he thought how it could be seen to slightly resemble the object he had encountered in his dream, but decided that it was probably just his overactive imagination.

"Stop!"

Dave slammed his foot on the brake, but was far too late to avoid clashing with the rear bumper of the vehicle in front. The car stationed itself anyway, and the bemused Dave spotted Calvin's foot furiously stomping the alternative brake pedal into the ground.

Calvin pulled the car into a space along the side of the road, to a chorus of honks and toots from the puzzled drivers behind him.

"You cannot drift off whilst driving! You will not pass your exam if you keep fading away! Daydreaming is not acceptable behaviour!" Calvin informed him, bearing a striking resemblance to several teachers Dave had been taught by at his primary school. And his middle school. And his secondary school...

Dave drifted off into further thoughts about the perception and relevance of artwork on the planet. Out of his window, he spotted another image similar to his hallucination of a box. This was on a sign outside what appeared to be a social club. This automatically made it seem unappealing to Dave. Another place to go where he'd end up wishing for a horse. Nevertheless, he examined the art for what it was: a possible solution to some of his problems and hopefully the answer to his box-related queries. The emblem buried itself deep within Dave's mind. Again, the red trapezium would be entirely meaningless, were it not for the quote below: the phrase 'FezFans'. Although, it wasn't just another delusion on artwork. This time there was a place. Whatever, a red trapezium meant to the people of Carpe Yolu, they gathered together in this building to discuss. A red trapezium definitely meant something to Dave, if it were buried within his dreams. He had always been taught that at school: if something's in your dreams, it's deep inside your mind. He had also been taught to follow his dreams.

"Are you listening to me?"

"I'm so sorry, it must just be hospital life but I can't take a driving lesson today, my head is just so stressed out. I'm sorry." Dave ran off, leaving Calvin in the car, and headed straight into FezFans, hoping he would find out something else about his mind.

"That's an unusual place," Calvin said to himself. "I've never seen it before."

Chapter 5

Back on his home planet, Dave had occasionally found himself visiting awkward social events where everyone around him claimed to be more successful than him, wealthier than him, or – as he had heard one arrogant young man state – more useful than him. Sometimes, though it was not said explicitly, the people in their false facades were under the delusion that they possessed all three of these qualities. It was at events like these that Dave found himself quietly uttering the phrases 'Kill me now', 'Why did I even agree to come here?' and 'I wish I had a horse.' On Glix, however, things were very different; he hadn't yet heard anyone mention a horse.

When on a foreign planet (or in any foreign place, for that matter), the immediate reaction of the unaccustomed traveller is to get themselves back to a mental state of being at home, despite their apparent hatred of their home and the many reasons for having left in the first place. Dave had already spent a considerable amount of his time on Glix reliving the best times of his past accommodation. And he was already sick of them. Thinking back to all the unpleasant memories of his former home, as he so frequently did when he'd run out of happy ones, Dave realised how trivial all those social events had been, as well as everything else he had done on his home planet. All those people were gone. It seemed unfair that all Dave's hard-earned achievements were now reduced to dust. Not that it had been any fairer on his home planet. Dave had worked long and hard and had always studied vigorously for any examination that presented itself, yet somehow his small triumphs were overshadowed by the grades of those students whose fathers had money to spare.

On Glix, people of all walks of life and various backgrounds lived together in peace and harmony. Still, those who had features in common with each other would inevitably gather together. FezFans seemed to attract nutters.

Dave entered the building and was met by all sorts of odd people. The class appeared to be being led by a big, blonde opera singer in a toga which looked rather like a tablecloth with a head-hole. The FezFans members, all of whom sat on chairs in a curve across the room, looked even odder. There was a 12-foot high troll; an ant; two people Dave was pretty sure hadn't had haircuts since they were born; a pair of perfectly identical twins; an all-round odd-looking 14-year-old boy; three others wearing tablecloth togas; and a human-sized chicken wearing a fishbowl on his head.

How odd, thought Dave.

"But... But... What?!" So many thoughts rushed through Dave's mind. Is there a massive chicken there? he pondered. Are these people Ancient Romans? Is that person over there... over there twice? Is there a troll sitting in this room? Well, saying that, I am technically an alien over here, so I guess a troll's not too much of an issue. Did they slip me something funny at the hospital? He had many more questions cluttering up his mind. Well, enough for him to need to sit down and too many for him not to be anxious about what he might sit down upon.

"Welcome, newcomer!" the leader said melodramatically. "Have we met somewhere before?"

"Er, no, I don't think so," replied Dave.

"Well it is possible we have met in the future, as we at FezFans all came here on a crazy space boat that fell into a black hole!" Several people nodded, including the ant.

After that, Dave resolved to sit with the sane people, but ended up backing into a corner with the chicken, the twins and the crazy-looking boy, who was absent-mindedly chomping on a cheeseburger he appeared to have summoned out of thin air. Dave grabbed a chair and sat in the middle of them.

"Let me introduce you," the leader said, in a continued state of enthusiasm. "I am Oprah Sinn-Garr and this is my group: Clint," she said, gesturing to one of the twins. "Clein." She gestured to the other. "Dave; the Eternal Space Chicken of the Sacred Quack; Sally; Steven; Wensleydale; Nameless; Judith; Hawk; Mary." She then gestured to Clint again and continued to name the same people, but with different names. "Jamie; Salad; Henry; Rudolph..."

"Hi," said Clint/Jamie, "My name's Clint. What's your name?" he waited for the reply of Dave and then carried on. "What symbol are you trying to get?"

"What?"

"What is the symbol you are searching for on the Fez?"

"What's the fez?"

"'What's the fez?'" He and his twin brother laughed. "The Fez is the big, red box we're all trying to find, everyone in this room. We're in FezFans. Why, what did you think this place was? A fast food restaurant?"

"No, I didn't know what the box was called," he mumbled. He tested the word out on his lips, "The fess."

"No. The Fez," Clint corrected.

"So what button do you want?" asked Clein.

"Well it's this gold button, you see, and—" Dave started.

"Good," Clint interrupted. "I'm going to get this kind of P, but it goes back a bit then goes curly."

"I'm going to get one that looks similar but with a line through it," said Clein.

The Space Chicken didn't discuss his symbol or why he was trying to find it. However, he did explain about his past experiences with Quack, which Clint seemed to care very little about. Crazy Dave just persisted in attempting to eat the floor.

Clein turned his gaze back from Crazy Dave to Normal Dave and quietly asked, "Do you ever feel like you're the only sane one around here?"

"Yeah, sometimes I do," said the supposedly sane Dave, his mind seeming to be distant, but none-the-less focusing on Crazy Dave's floor antics.

"Tomorrow, at one o'clock," he continued, "we are setting off in search of the Fez. Meet us here with your backpack filled with everything you think you might need for the hike."

"Where is the Fez?"

"It moves."

"It moves? Then how will we know where the Fez is?" asked Dave.

"Once you are in the same country as the Fez, you will know. It was up Nekken earlier, near the border, and then I lost it. Its absence is like a burden put back onto our shoulders." said Clint.

"How come I didn't feel it leave the country?"

"You obviously weren't paying much attention to it."

Dave started to protest but found that it was completely true.

"How does it move?"

"When people push its buttons, of course."

"And why does the Fez just pass through the houses like that?" said Dave, trying to find answers to all his questions and hoping that these would mean a way home.

"It doesn't seem to affect anyone's home. It's like it tries to be friendly."

"But what about the people inside the houses?" asked Dave.

"Oh, they're okay. So long as they are at home, they'll be okay."

Thinking about his current situation, Dave said, "But what if you're homeless?"

Clint and Clein were both dumbstruck.

"So if their house was in the middle of the Fez when it was passing by and they opened the windows, they could see inside?" asked Dave, trying to comprehend.

"No," replied Clint. Dave heart sank a little again, as it so commonly did when he was reminded of his vast failings. "Their windows are jammed shut. Like if they were on a train, it's just cold blackness outside."

"I think I understand it."

"Good. So remember, meet us here tomorrow at 1 o'clock."

Chapter 6

That night, Dave returned to Monterey Jack General. No-one there paid him much attention. At least, not the usual sort of hospital attention. And he'd had enough medical attention in the past week that he felt anything even partly related would be unbearable. They had gradually been trying to ease him 'back' into everyday life after finding there was technically nothing wrong with him.

Good, thought Dave, as he finally went to bed at the end of the long and confusing first day outside the hospital on Glix. That is, apart from the time he spent unconscious on the street. And he didn't usually count those days as visiting a city, but instead as 'a drunken mistake'.

Good, he thought, no-one suspected me of being a traitor. So what have I learnt about Glix today? Well, the people of Carpe Yolu certainly are odd: I met a human-sized chicken who looked oddly like one of the animals thrown off the cloud by Quack and Margery. I also saw a troll, some long-haired people (and I've seen enough of them back at home), some twins and some people who were just weird in every way possible. Great.

And about my new friends, Clint and Clein. Well, Clint has pale white skin, slightly long hair for a boy (though nothing in comparison to those people on the other side of the room), which he had stuck up in the air, in almost a small, upside-down Fez-shape. It was a nice sort of hazelnut brown. He also had quite big, low eyebrows which covered his similarly coloured eyes. In some ways he looks rather similar to me. And Clein. Well, Clein had pale white skin, slightly long hair for a boy (though nothing in comparison to those people on the other side of the room), which he had stuck up in the air, in almost a small, upside-down Fez-shape. It was a nice sort of hazelnut brown. He also had quite big, low eyebrows which covered his similarly coloured eyes.

They are the ones who told me about the box. That box is called 'the Fez' and people try to follow it. When I saw it in my dream, it tried to kill me. But people seem to think it's good to follow it here. And they seem perfectly sane... I have to find out why people follow it. Maybe that's why they're so odd. I can't get drawn in too much; I might end up getting addicted to Fez and end up following it across many countries. Maybe Carpe Yolu is a town for people who are mad. That's why I'm here. I'm not a threat after all. Ha!

And on this possibly happy thought, Dave settled down to sleep on his last day in Carpe Yolu.

Chapter 7

Dave had rarely moved house on his home planet. In fact, he had rarely moved from his house on his home planet. Dave enjoyed the comfort of his own home and didn't feel the need to leave it. Like many people his age, he saw those around him moving to and fro from pointless place to pointless place and so convinced himself that, therefore, there must be a reason for travelling in such a bizarre, laborious fashion.

Dave's native home was strange in that (in addition to the convention of refusing to eat some everyday substances for forty consecutive days of the year), the beginning of what was commonly determined to be a new solar orbit meant that everyone had to pretend they had somewhere to jog to at an ungodly time in the morning. This festival of irrationality only lasted several weeks at most, and the entire, incompetent population – except for a few, slightly competent members of society – returned to its slobbish, inert state of worthlessness.

It was during this ritual of self-hatred that Dave, aged twenty-one, had decided, once and for all, to leave his parents' house and go out to live in a cheap apartment of his own. It was a rather harrowing experience for Dave (though not so much for his parents) and resulted in him having to walk for almost ten minutes to ask his mum to cook him some baked beans.

The thirty-year-old Dave was more mature still and his baked bean pilgrimages were each a whole twenty minutes' drive.

On the morning after Dave had been invited by the seemingly friendly Glix-native twins on a pilgrimage with an ultimate goal, Dave organised a bag and packed into it everything he thought he would need for the journey ahead. This turned out to be everything he had. He only owned a few items of clothing, which had been bought for him by one of the members of hospital staff and, as he packed his bag, he realised how kind everyone had been to him.

As I have established, Dave thought, these people are very unlikely to be trying to kill me. Look at my possessions. Even this backpack was given to me by one of the staff. These clothes were bought by one of the doctors and so was the small statue of the Quack. They knew how intriguing I found their religion and they got this for me. What else have they gotten me? Oh yes, I remember this. They drew a picture of that wall painting for me. Dave looked at it in admiration. What funny folklore they have. I will treasure this for all the time I spend on Glix.

"Right. This is it." He walked to the nurses' desk. "I'm going now. Is there something I have to do when leaving?"

"You're leaving?" asked Glinda. She sounded upset.

"Yeah. I was going to follow the Fez."

"I told you not to follow hallucinations," she said sternly.

"But the Fez isn't a hallucination," Dave insisted, though he was less certain about it than anyone who had ever followed the Fez before him. "Is it?"

"No," she countered. "But I don't want you getting into any trouble."

"I thought it would be a nice little journey to take my mind off things."

She looked at him and walked closer. "Oh, Dave. The Fez isn't a 'nice little journey', it is a serious, life-changing decision."

"Well maybe I'm ready to change my life."

There was a moment of silence before Glinda went back behind her desk and picked up what appeared to be a many-times-preowned compass. "I want you to take this so you can be a true adventurer and remember us by it when you go."

"Thank you."

The nurses all gave Dave farewell exchanges which made him rather emotional at leaving these people he had only just met that week.

"Goodbye," he said as he headed out to journey with the twins and, hopefully, return home – away from all these kind-hearted people...

As he walked away from the hospital, he wondered more and more why he was leaving and if he even wanted to return home at all.

Chapter 8

Arthur Cardigan. That had always seemed like a perfect name. It seemed – to Arthur Cardigan at least – that it was a great, fake name, because it was so ridiculously unbelievable no-one would ever suspect it of being false. Or of being anything else deceitful.

Arthur Cardigan couldn't use his real name, of course. Not after his good friend God had put a price over his head.

That wasn't strictly true. The Great Quack hadn't started the chase yet. But he would soon. And when that day came, Arthur wanted his other aliases to be dead.

The future Arthur Cardigan woke up in the past. He seemed to be lying on the pavement in a town. Upon getting up and wandering around the place, he found evidence to say it was indeed one year prior to when he was recently located.

Arthur did what he had to, and sat down to contemplate his life. He did so like a quivering wreck.

So, as Quack tells me, Cardigan thought to himself, after I've completed my training – I guess that's what this is – I will go on to help everyone I can. And that's what I will spend the rest of my life doing. But the most bewildering thing of all is just how long the rest of my life will last.

He sat down alone and thought further on the flow of his situation. A few minutes beforehand, he had been at the climax of his life so far. Now the world seemed quiet, void and expectant. The moment he had only just experienced seemed impossibly far away, yet Arthur Cardigan knew it had to come around. But not before he had put in a lot of effort. Now, he had a year to pass before he met his fate. Now, he had an intense course of studying to achieve realisation. Now, the present was a very long way away.

Chapter 9

In his city of origin, Dave – having rarely left his house at all – had unbearably infrequently found himself down an alleyway. He was of the general opinion that nothing socially polite could be achieved in an alley. From an early age, most citizens of Dave's home were taught that alleyways were unpleasant places where little could be done which wasn't dirty or immoral. From a slightly older age, people were told how an alley was the perfect place they should go to carry out all their dirty actions and foul misdeeds.

Throughout his life, Dave (along with far too many beings from across the universe) remained under the impression that nothing good could ever be found amongst the filth down a back alley. This was another common falsehood: when wading through the rubbish disposal, one may easily find a half-eaten pizza to take home and share with their friends. Somehow, Dave's acquaintances at his home managed to maintain a good relationship with him, despite the fact he never brought them home any waste food. They seemed to put up with freshly bought food instead.

Dave turned down the back alley nervously and found both Clint and Clein waiting there.

"Hi," said Clint, as he looked up and saw Dave there. "Have you got your stuff ready?"

"Yeah."

"I guess we'd better go then," Clint said emptily after a short pause; it felt as if there were something missing from their trio.

"Before we leave, does anyone want any pizza?" Clein asked.

"No thanks," replied Dave, not yet being accustomed to the food of the planet, and assuming 'pizza' (or whatever it was) might be some sort of wild berry poisonous to non-natives, rather than the cheesy, dough-based, Italian meal it was on almost every planet. "I've just eaten, thanks," he lied. "Wait, where did you get pid-zha from? Did you just get that from the bin?"

"Yes. Why? What's wrong with that?" Clein asked, seeing the distressing grimace that possessed Dave's face.

"Well, it's dirty and disgusting and it will make you sick, that's what!"

"You'll get a lot sicker if you don't eat. Which would you rather?" Clein looked up and saw Dave still had an utterly repulsed expression on his face as he looked down upon the twin. "Suit yourself. Snob."

Averting his eyes from this sight and trying to keep down what little lunch he had in him, Dave looked around at the posters stuck to the walls of the alleyway. There was an intriguing, vivid one about a circus. 'ELEVEN,' it exclaimed in bright colours.

"Why is it called 'ELEVEN'?" asked Dave.

"What?"

"The circus show. Why is it called 'ELEVEN'?" he repeated.

"Oh, that's the famous show, isn't it? I'm assuming it's called that because eleven is an unlucky number."

"Eleven's an unlucky number? I didn't know that."

"What? Everybody knows that. It's a renowned British fact. It's the entire history of folklore!"

Dave remained silent after that. In fact, the whole group stayed silent and were just about to leave when they heard a rustling coming from the bins. A small, curly-haired boy of about fourteen lunged out, grasping in his hands a rotten bun with some sort of slimy filling. He stretched open his jaws and started to bite.

"Ugh!" Dave said loudly. "Don't eat that!"

"Cheeseburger!" the boy hissed.

"You'll get an upset stomach!"

"Cheese—," he snapped, "—burger!" And he gobbled the rubbish whole.

"I feel sick," said Dave, his face turning lime.

"Cheeseburger!" the boy screeched at the top of his lungs.

There was complete and utter silence throughout Carpe Yolu for a few seconds, and then noise returned.

"Okay, let's calm down and forget about whatever that noise was," said Oprah, from inside the FezFans building.

"Wait, is the group still going on in there again?" asked Clein, peering through the window in the back door of FezFans. Clint and Dave joined him.

"Well, I'm guessing it's a daily thing and they have all returned here since yesterday. Even freaks need to get a small amount of sleep now and then," Clint said.

"Oh, you're one to talk," Clein sneered. "If anyone's a freak, it's you."

"How dare you?" Clint raised his voice. "I'm not the one who cried for a week when he lost his teddy bear at the circus. Well, I am, but only because you were crying first."

"Guys, could you cool it down a bit?" Dave suggested.

They didn't, and Clein continued, "Hey, this was almost five years ago. I thought we'd forgotten about this when we both got new teddies?"

"Sergeant Pepperkins didn't forget."

"Don't you use his name!" Clint shouted, before sitting down on the dirty alley floor in a huff.

"Guys. Seriously," Dave said. "Why are you arguing about something that happened when you were young children?"

"I wouldn't have said we were children at the time. Some of us may have digressed since, though..."

"It doesn't matter. You shouldn't be calling each other freaks. You're exactly identical, for goodness sake."

"Are you calling me a freak?" Clein asked angrily.

"Can we just calm down and leave now? You don't want to set off on your journey to the Fez with angry minds."

"I don't want to set off yet, anyway," Clein said, sitting down on the floor defiantly.

"Then why did you organise this whole thing for right here and right now?" To have brought himself here, to have abandoned a safe home and taken himself to an alley where dirty actions and foul misdeeds take place was bad enough, but if they were to throw it all away in favour of sulking over teddy bears, Dave didn't think he'd be able to cope. But, bearing that in mind, Dave was no longer sure he knew what coping was. If it was going to be this way with these two for the next few days until he found and opened the Fez, he surely wouldn't be able to cope. Whatever coping might be.

"I mean, I want to go. And we are going to go. But I want to listen in on what they're talking about in FezFans first."

"Oh, fine," Dave said, more calmly. "So long as it's just a spot of gentle eavesdropping, it's fine." He started to sound more peaceful and serene, safe in the knowledge that he would find out all the secrets of the Fez and go on an adventure after all, but just after his friends had violated the privacy of eight acquaintances. Dave collapsed on the floor and leant against the door to the FezFans building. "Everyone loves a spot of eavesdropping."

Turning back and peering through the window in the door, Dave, Clint and Clein saw the whole group, excluding themselves, sitting in an arc of chairs as usual, apart from Oprah, who was pacing as she usually did.

"...we must protect them from venturing off on this journey, as they don't know what's good for them," Oprah said to her group. "It is our duty to follow them..." The Space Chicken caught their eyes and the Fez-pursuing group outside the window ducked down and put their backs against the door.

"You know who he reminds me of?" Dave contributed, trying to sound at one with the aliens. "That Chicken that the Glorious Quack and the Noble Margery threw off the Cloud."

Clint and Clein looked at him.

Through the door, the three heard the Space Chicken excuse himself and the odd footsteps of a human-sized chicken walking towards them. They all scuttled out of the way as the door opened.

"All right, so I've packed my bag," the Space Chicken started, and they saw the backpack he was wearing was very stuffed. "And I've got everything ready for our trip..."

"Our trip?" asked Clint.

"Yeah," the Space Chicken said cheerfully. His face then started to turn white. "Why, wasn't I invited?" he said, as if he had quite liked the idea of going on a journey to the Fez.

"Well..." began Clein, but he couldn't think of a reason for the Space Chicken not to go with them, "I guess you could..."

"Great! So I've got everything ready and..." He rifled all the time through his backpack to find everything he had brought and described it to a rather unenthusiastic group. "And I've got lots of sandwiches and... a screwdriver and... I thought these sunglasses might come in handy in case it's bright and hot in BongVe Bong." Clint and Clein gave each other a look that said, 'It's not going to happen.' This look was rather unnecessary because they were both thinking it anyway and each of them knew that the other was thinking this. Just to clarify this, they gave each other a look that said 'Were you just thinking what I was thinking?' which, incidentally, they did say telepathically.

"Which way is it to BongVe Bong?" asked the Space Chicken.

"Nekken."

"What's 'Nekken'?" asked Dave.

"You know, the direction. 'Up'."

"Oh," said Dave. "Oh, oh, of course it is! My mind just went completely blank there. Now I know, of course, 'Up', 'North'."

"North?" asked Clein.

"What? What's North?" Dave asked in a fictional state of intense xenophobic shock. "Isn't that the direction they use on one of those traitorous planets or something? Not that I'd know, of course."

"There's something different about you, isn't there Dave?"

"No," he said abruptly. "Of course not."

How odd, thought the Space Chicken. He gave it more thought, but changed the topic. "How did you say we get to BongVe Bong?"

"You go Nekken," said Clint.

"Well, obviously, but I thought there was some more advanced way of getting up there, like a special ritual."

Clein looked at him. "How many years have you been on this planet?"

"Nearly 400, but I haven't always been stuck here in Britain. There's a big world out there, with lots of people for a prophet to talk to."

"You don't usually tell them the right things though," Clint muttered.

"What was that?!" retorted the Space Chicken.

Bring! Bring!

Everyone went silent.

Bring! Bring!

The Space Chicken reached into his feather pocket and pulled out a mobile phone.

"Hello?"

"What did I tell you about the correct usage of uncommon punctuation?"

"Hello, mum," he sighed.

"I said, 'Always use an interrobang as opposed to a question mark followed by an exclamation mark, or vice versa.'"

"Yes, mum, I'll remember next time."

"Also, stop abbreviating your words: it really cuts down your sentence length and you are not much of a talker as it stands."

"But mum, I'm in Jackshire an' that's how everyone talks," he justified.

"That does not mean you have to talk as such also."

"Yes it does!"

"Do not argue with me! Remember that I can hear your punctuation as you speak."

"I'm an adult now! There's nothing you can do to stop me."

"You know perfectly well that I can ring up your brother the Super Salmon and get him to find you."

"Sammy likes me, mum."

"Just remember what I said about interrobangs!"

"What did she say?"

"Just to remember interrobangs."

"What are they?" asked Dave.

"A question mark and an exclamation mark mixed together."

"How does that work?" asked Clein. "And how did your mum know what you were saying? And how can she tell what punctuation you used when you were talking?!"

The Space Chicken ignored him. Then his phone rang again.

"It's Nekken," he said. "Just Nekken."
Chapter 10

By following Dave's compass, they walked for fifty minutes in an awkward silence, as none of them knew any of the others – apart from Clint and Clein, who knew each other very well indeed.

"So... how far have we travelled?" asked Dave, in an attempt to break the ice.

Simultaneously, the Space Chicken suggested "Three and a half kilometres," Clint said, "Two and a half a kilometres," and Clein stated, "2500 metres," whilst Crazy Dave enthused, "Cheeseburger."

"No," said Clint, "if we had walked over three kilometres, my legs would be aching by now."

"Aren't your legs aching?" asked the Space Chicken.

"Well, yeah, but that's not the point exactly."

"What is the point then?"

"Cheeseburger," repeated the insane fourteen-year-old, who was currantly wearing a mince pie as a hat.

"You know what?" said Clint, straying off the subject as he realised his own flaws in arguing. "I'm hungry."

"Cheeseburger!" exclaimed Crazy Dave with glee, as he pointed to a fast food restaurant in front of them.

Clint turned and saw a fast food restaurant about twenty metres away, assuming this to be the one which Crazy Dave had been referring to. It wasn't; Crazy Dave had actually been pointing to a similar restaurant 20,124.82km away, in Ozlford, but they couldn't see that, what with the other one in the way.

"I agree."

Dave's knowledge of cuisine had been limited on his home planet, but as they entered this restaurant, he was terrified. Not only did he worry about what he would have to eat and what went into what he would eat, but he also feared for his life. Stepping through the doors of the greasy hovel, he saw that it was filled with children and parents with a variety of sauces and lettuces covering them.

"Just so you know," the Space Chicken said as he also examined the interior of the building in disgust, "I don't eat corpses, so would you mind ordering me something else. I'll pay, of course, but I don't approve of your eating corpses either."

Dave frowned. "I wouldn't have thought there were any corpses in the food here. It's mostly meat."

"Dave, I mean I'm a vegetarian."

"What? Why?" He sounded offended, as though meat consumption were such a personal experience to him that failing to do so was an act of heresy.

"Dave," the Space Chicken said bluntly. "I'm a Chicken."

The Fez-following group approached a nervous, teenage boy at the counter.

"Hi," said Dave, as he contemplated how the small room was creating such a phenomenal amount of noise. What an odd place to put a roadside café, he thought. "Can we have a cheeseburger—"

"Frank..." the man abruptly whined.

"What did you just say?"

"Frank..."

"Frank? Who's Frank?" Dave looked the cashier's nametag and saw the word 'Dave'. "Oh my G— Quack, how many Daves are there?"

"Frank..."

"Stop saying that! What do you mean?"

"Frankfur..."

"Can we have a—"

"Frankfurters."

"Can we have a cheeseburger..." he asked through gritted teeth, looking at the third Dave, "and—"

"We sell frankfurters."

"Can we have a cheeseburger—"

"Would you like a frankfurter?"

"Fine! We'll have three frankfurters, a veggie hot dog and a cheeseburger!"

"Say 'please' and 'thank you'," the cashier Dave instructed. "Sacred Quack, where are your manners?" he blasphemed.

They left the building with three frankfurters, a veggie hot dog and a cheeseburger shortly after Dave (the only reasonably sane one of the many – the alien one) had collapsed onto the floor, only to be woken up by Dave the Cashier telling him that it was impolite to sleep on the floor and that, oh, they sold frankfurters.

"What. A. Freak," Clint stated as they headed off down the road again.

"He was very odd and annoyi—"

"Stop!" They turned around and saw Dave the Cashier running after them. "I think I gave you the special frankfurter from the future with an acorn in it!"

The Fez-following gang ran away immediately.

Chapter 11

Arthur Cardigan thought about every single element of what was happening to him. He thought about the nature of his life. He thought about the structure of his life. He thought about the rhythm of his life. He thought about the method of his life. He thought about the quality of his life. He thought about the aim of his life. He thought about the meaning of life.

Arthur Cardigan reasoned with himself and made his next decision a logical one. He called out for help. But who was there in his time of need? Quack had vanished without a trace.

'But Quack is always present in our world,' a small religious quote inside his head told him.

He spoke back to this ghost aloud. People had been calling him crazy for a long time. Arthur didn't see a reason why they should be wrong.

"Yes," he responded to the voice. "But He doesn't actually give us distinct clues to tell us what we should do." Some people were beginning to give him funny looks. Arthur felt like crying out of frustration. The repressed depressive had been released because of his solitude. But, sadly, this was only one of his minor troubles. He tried not to let these thoughts penetrate his brain. He tried blocking them out as hard as he could. He tried not to think how if he had somehow managed to get himself lost it would not just be his life at stake, but the whole of the world in peril. "Quack isn't there for me."

"Quack is there for everyone," said a passer-by in a futile attempt to help the hopeless.

"Yeah, everyone can find Quack in their life."

"I know," Arthur barked. "I've spoken to him."

"So why do you still need to search? Just accept Him as He is."

"It's not that simple. I've lost Him."

"Quack is never truly gone—"

"Just shut up!" Arthur screeched, causing the public much more pain than he intended. "I need to do this on my own," he explained, much more calmly.

Sometimes Arthur wished he could just become an atheist. The only problem was that he had spoken to Quack before, which slightly contradicts with the idea that 'Quack doesn't exist and there's no way He could exist and everyone who says they have spoken to Him is deluded'. Arthur was deluded, of course, but for different reasons. He had tried self-denial before, but this usually failed. Why do I always have to be right? he wondered in vain annoyance.

Arthur returned to his original train of thought. "They're non-specific, His actions," he decided. "He doesn't do anything in such a literal way as to state it to me. Quack doesn't just clearly tell me 'Here's where you go next.' Or—"

Arthur spotted a quotation on a statue nearby that told him all he needed. He stepped forward and hugged the artwork. He felt a small piece of rock break off in his hand and stick into his palm. He knew there were quite a few people staring now. He didn't mind. Some day they would all be grateful to him.

Chapter 12

After walking for a short while through the town of Carpe Yolu, Dave (both the crazy and the alien varieties), Clint and Clein (only one variety between them) and the Space Chicken reached a signpost on the path with its writing facing away from them. Dave eagerly ran up to it and looked at the other side.

Welcome to Carpe Yolu

Home of the Great Yolu Cod

Mother of Lake Fretulfance

Established 1372

The Region of the Holy Chicken

Incipit vita regis apud furiosum iter.

What does this mean exactly? Dave wondered. He wasn't sure if he should ask aloud or not. He decided against it.

The Space Chicken was clearly thinking along the same lines. "It means we're leaving the city of Carpe Yolu," he muttered to Dave.

My first new place, Dave thought. I've spent my entire life up until eight days ago on the same planet and now I'm exploring more and more of a different one. I was scared enough of the thought of the last city, but exiting it may be the reason I later exit this world. But, as I know all too well, there's more than one way of exiting a world and one of those is in a body bag.

The city of Carpe Yolu has thus far been good to me, and I hope Glix continues to live up to this. But, again, as I know from experience, this isn't often the case with expectations. Carpe Yolu seemed to me to be the perfect place to hide away from society, as its people are so understanding of their own flaws. If there's anywhere on Glix I'd like to revisit, it's this particular settlement.

Dave stopped and thought for a moment. I've only just begun to explore a planet and already I've concluded that its greatest place is the small part I was contained within. Perhaps I'd better broaden my horizons.

"Dave, are you all right?" the Space Chicken asked.

"You're so polite."

"Okay... I was only wondering because you're stood back there on your own."

"You people. You are great. You understand exactly what a person wants and doesn't want."

"That's enough I think, Dave..."

"Your whole planet. It's fantastic. You cater to the needs of the few, yet you do it so brilliantly you make them feel like the majority. The good majority, the welcoming majority, not the mass, nameless majority."

"Dave," the Space Chicken warned, "I'd stop rambling now if I were you."

"Yes. Thank you. Must stop." Dave looked a bit sheepish and didn't talk much for the next few minutes. He was very thankful for the Space Chicken's words.

You're glad he said that, aren't you? You were happy just to blurt out your secrets about your illegal alien immigration, but the Bird shut you up. If only your mother had had the same skills he possesses.

"Shut up. Just shut up!"

The rest of the group turned around and looked at him. "Dave, you're not feeling too well, are you?" the Space Chicken informed him with a piercingly vacant stare that no-one else saw.

Dave felt obliged to agree. "No, I mustn't be. It's probably something to do with the hot weather."

"You think this is hot?" Clint laughed. "You should try going to the Nekken Semisphere in the warmer months."

"In fact," Clein added, voicing his concern, "I thought everybody had been to the Nekken Semisphere at some point or other. And it's always hot there." What nonsense, Dave thought. Surely the Semispheres of Glix – just like those of my home – alternate temperatures depending on their proximity to nearby stars. But Dave remained quiet, mostly owing to his apparent lack of knowledge in this subject area.

"Not everyone's as well-travelled as you," the Space Chicken commented to the twins. "We can't all afford to (or we choose not to) go abroad to hot countries. Perhaps Dave hasn't travelled very far in his lifetime."

If only, Dave thought. If only I hadn't travelled very far I wouldn't be feeling as uncomfortable as I am right now. I wouldn't be in any of this mess. Travel seems to cause a lot of problems, he concluded. Only this one seems marginally worse than losing a train ticket. Nobody I know likes travelling. I particularly don't like it, seeing as I may have travelled a trillion light-years, for all I know. And that's quite enough for someone who can't be bothered with leaving his hometown more than once a month.

He's talking about holidays, you dolt.

I know that. I was using a deliberate turn of phrase.

A turn of phrase is a particular arrangement of words. You were just misunderstanding a prophet. You humans have a tendency to do that.

I'll misunderstand you if you don't leave me alone. Now shut up.

The Space Chicken walked up to Dave and had a quiet word with him. "Are you quite all right, Dave?"

"Of course! Why would there be anything wrong with me? It's not like I'm an alien or anything!"

"Dave, it's all right. You can be honest with me. I'm here to help you," the Space Chicken said comfortingly. "I mean, there aren't many things a massive Chicken can do in the world. I can't get any job that requires the use of fingers, so I may as well devote all of eternity to helping people. As you do. And – please don't take this the wrong way – you seem like the kind of guy who might need a lot of help."

Dave thought about this for a while. "Thanks. I'll let you know if I need to talk about anything." He gave the Space Chicken a small smile.

The Space Chicken smiled back as well as he could, given the solidity of his beak. He looked as though he was about to walk away, but then turned back and said, "Can I ask you something, Dave?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Do you think I'd have made a good airline pilot? They rejected my job offer because they said I needed thumbs."

"Um... That is a minor requirement."

"I suppose. How about a waiter? I can balance things sufficiently with my wings."

Dave stared at him blankly, his mind trying to comprehend the mental image.

"You know what?" the Space Chicken asked upon seeing Dave's expression. "I think I'll reserve these conversations between us to mental health issues."

Dave couldn't focus on his own mental health while watching his inner mind-Chicken fruitlessly attempting to deliver spaghetti carbonara. "That's probably for the best."

Chapter 13

The Space Chicken, Dave, Clint and Clein casually talked whilst finishing off their fast food purchases. Crazy Dave had more manners than to talk whilst eating, so instead proceeded to stretch his lips around the cheeseburger, sticking out his tongue to moisten (and subsequently devour) it as he did so.

"Do you have any manners whatsoever, Crazy Dave?" Dave asked, with his mouth full of meat.

"Do you not realise the hypocrisy of that statement?" the Space Chicken asked, after swallowing a mouthful of his meat-free meal.

"Because I'm eating and talking at the same time," Dave said in realisation, accidentally spitting food everywhere.

"Yes, that," the Space Chicken said in disgust. "But also because of what you're eating. That's meat. Animals just like you and me were killed to produce that burger, which tastes just the same as most vegetarian-friendly substitutes."

"Oh well," Dave said. "I'm sure they killed the animals in a humane way."

"But they didn't! They tortured them. That's what they always do and the public remains oblivious. No-one seems to listen to anything they think might make them change their minds!"

"You know, I was trying to get on with you, but you can be incredibly annoying to listen to when I'm eating my food. It's ever so slightly off-putting. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"Yes," said the Space Chicken, his fuse having reached its end and the spark just beginning to light his patience dynamite. "Most people tell me that. Most tell me to shut up as they carry on eating, without a care for what goes into their meal."

"Maybe you should listen to them more often," Dave suggested.

"Dave, for Quack's sake, I'm trying to help you!"

"Did I ask for help?"

"No, because that's not what people do. Nobody ever asked for help. They are either given it by a friend or they get themselves hurt."

"You don't really sound like a good friend at the moment."

"Dave," the Space Chicken said solemnly, "if you don't think very carefully about your actions and take into consideration the friends and enemies you make, people will begin to find out things you don't want them to know."

Dave went red. He wasn't sure if he was being threatened or if the Space Chicken was prophesying.

"And I get the impression you have a fair few secrets you don't want anyone to find out about," the Space Chicken said.

Dave's face displayed an entire rainbow of shades before it settled on a colourless one. He quickly changed the topic away from himself. "So, what do we all think of the Fez?" he asked, opening the conversation up to include the twins as well, and Crazy Dave, should he choose to speak.

"It's all right. I think it's a nice thing to have," Clein said. "Isn't it great that we have a hobby the whole nation can share?"

"I guess so," said the Space Chicken.

"The thing I don't get," said Clint, "is why people even go after the Fez."

"Well to try to get what's inside, of course," replied the Space Chicken.

"But no-one knows what's inside."

"That's why they want to get in."

"I guess so."

"Look," said the Celestial Cockerel to the disinterested. "The Fez is like a giant Quack Festival present."

"I like presents!" said Clint, perking up.

"It's all wrapped up in lots of tape because it's from your Grampy Clum."

"But he wraps things up in loads of tape!" Clint said, clearly roused by this scenario.

"How are you going to open it?"

"I don't know, I don't know! I Do Not Know!" he sobbed, exhaling melodramatically.

"But surely you could find the place where there was no tape," said Clein.

"Yeah, surely you could," Clint desperately tried to persuade himself.

"But it's see-through tape."

"Yeah, but you can find the creases in the tape."

"No, it's completely invisible!" the Space Chicken said.

"Then we'll pick at the tape until we find all the creases in it."

"But you know what happens when you push a button on the Fez and get it wrong, don't you?"

The twins looked each other straight in the face.

"And you're not the only ones trying to get into this present."

Clint and Clein screamed and ran off into the distance.

The concerned Dave, who had been eavesdropping this whole time (though not quite as privately and secretly as he might have believed), turned to ask a question to the Space Chicken, who immediately turned back and said, "This is completely normal for them I believe. Or at least, from what I've heard, it is."

"What does happen when you push a button on the Fez?"

"Well, if it's the right button, it opens."

Dave had been wondering for a while, but didn't want to sound stupid, so he quietly asked, "And if it's the wrong button?"

Neither the Space Chicken nor Crazy Dave heard him. He prompted, "And if it—"

Don't just go out and reveal to all of them how much of a traitor you are.

But I thought we— I thought I established that they weren't a threat.

Better to be safe than sorry.

Why would I be sorry? If they're harmless, they're harmless.

But don't you remember what the Space Chicken said to you just a few minutes ago?

I'm sure he didn't mean anything too serious.

Better to be safe than sorry.

What do you mean by that?

You have a knack for finding trouble where there isn't any.

Now hold it just there—

"And if what, sorry?" asked the Space Chicken.

"Um, er, uh— Did you enjoy your veggie hot dog?"

"Yeah it was fine, thanks," he said, although Dave was pretty sure he heard him mutter, "There is definitely something wrong with that boy."

Dave tried to ignore this comment. This was wise, as the comment had very probably been a product of Dave's imagination. And Dave found that it was always best to ignore anything that was created within his own mind. "I wonder where the twins are right now."

"Oh, they've probably discovered some spot in which to hide themselves."

Sure enough, Clint and Clein were found curled up in a ditch, like a dog or a cat or the Loch Haggis monster.

"Get up and come on," said the uncaring Chicken, kicking the dormant seventeen-year-olds awake.

As they got up, Dave turned to the Space Chicken and said, "You seem to know them very closely, although they said they didn't know anyone before they came to FezFans."

The Space Chicken blushed as much as a chicken or a Chicken can blush. "Yeah," he retorted. "Well you seem alien to all the concepts of Glix."

That shut him up.

Chapter 14

Dave's family members – who he didn't miss quite so much as one might expect – had developed a rather disgusting habit during his time spent with them. Upon Dave's taking a bite into any meal, he was immediately interrogated as to the food's texture, flavour and level of sustenance, all the necessary questions being combined into the singular phrase 'Is it good?'

Dave became increasingly frustrated with these requests for knowledge meaningless to anyone besides himself. Nevertheless, out of the common courtesy of Glix he didn't understand, Dave asked a very similar question to two people he hardly knew and knew little about.

"So, did you two enjoy your frankfurters?" Dave asked Clint and Clein.

"Yeah," said Clint.

"Mine was good, although it had an acorn in it," Clein commented.

"What?" This came from two sets of lips and one beak.

"There was an acorn in the middle of my frankfurter," Clein said simply.

Dave thought about it logically. Then he thought about how odd this planet seemed. So he thought about it illogically, logically. "Do you think that's what the other Dave was talking about when he described 'the frankfurter that grows trees'?

"Which other Dave?" asked Clint.

"Dave the Cashier at the burger joint we just stopped at," Dave said, his wick increasingly being gotten on.

"Oh, him," said Clint.

"A burger joint?" deliberated Clein. "Oh, the fast-food place... I thought they sold frankfurters?"

Dave fumed. That phrase was beginning to annoy him more every time he heard it. 'We sell frankfurters, we sell frankfurters. Would you like a frankfurter?' I'm going to kill that name-stealing, good-for-nothing—

"Dave, are you all right?" asked the concerned Space Chicken.

"I'm fine," was the phrase that pierced through teeth so gritted it was apparent the only thing fine about him was the gap between his upper and lower jaws.

There was another one of their awkward pauses.

"Yeah, mine was all right," said Clint, resurfacing the long-dead topic of frankfurter consumption.

"I found my cheeseburger to be quite delectable," Crazy Dave said. "There is just that something about a fine Italian Gouda in the form of a delightful, colourful square. What am I saying?" he scoffed. "No physical item with its own properties and dimensions can ever be said to be 'square'. What I mean to say is that my palate salivates in the presence of an edible, dairy cuboid—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Dave interrupted unnecessarily and meaninglessly. "I didn't know you could talk, let alone intellectually."

"Yeah, I say smart stuff sometimes," Crazy Dave concluded.

"Well, let's face it, you're never going to be a wise, old man."

"What do you mean?"

"You know how in films and novels, they always have a smart guy who's usually old?"

"Yeah," said Clein. "And they always have long, grey beards."

"Like the 'elderbeard'," Dave chuckled.

"Crazy, old, 'elderbeard' Dave."

Dave continued to laugh. "It's the thought of him with a beard that gets to me the most. If he could even grow a moustache, I'd be shocked."

"Yeah, that Dave is such a freak."

This stuck a chord with Dave. "Which Dave did you mean?" he interrogated, suddenly turning very serious.

"Eh... er... Crazy Dave?" ventured Clein, taken aback at the tone and presentation.

"Good, good."

"Who do you think the elderbeard will be in this adventure?" asked Clint, suddenly appearing, and obviously having eavesdropped on the conversation and the invention of the new word 'elderbeard'. Or possibly just knowing because of the fact that he and Clein have identical minds and will hear the exact same things at the exact same time. That may have contributed to his increased knowledge somewhat.

"What, do you mean who will be the elderbeard of this trip?" asked Dave.

"Yeah. I suppose we haven't really met many people yet and don't know anyone that well," said Clint.

"Don't you know the Space Chicken?" asked Dave.

"No."

"Well, obviously you know Clint, don't you?"

"I am Clint."

"I'm Clein," said Clein.

"Okay," Dave said. "Didn't you know each other before you went to FezFans?" Dave thought it seemed obvious that they would know each other, since they were twins, but this planet was strange enough that it wouldn't surprise him if they had had no idea of the other twin's existence before the beginning of the week.

"Yeah," Clint said.

"We're brothers," said Clein in a very matter-of-fact (almost patronising) way. Dave thought it seemed like they were telling him a fact of general knowledge.

Duh, you moron. Of course they're brothers. Can't you get it into your thick, little skull that they look exactly the same?

I didn't know you could be bold.

"You're identical twins, aren't you?" asked Dave, although he knew the answer and was just trying to show them that he had a small amount of intelligence in him, somewhere.

"No," said Clint, shocking and confusing Dave.

"It's pronounced 'intelligent'," said Clein.

"No, identical," said Dave.

"You're thinking of 'intelligent', aren't you?"

Dave started to say, "No, identical," again, but was cut off by Clein saying, "When two siblings are identical in every way and share the same thoughts, emotions and intelligence they're known as 'intelligent twins'."

Dave had never heard of this but he also thought he had given off enough of a bad impression already. "Oh... Oh. Oh, oh that, of course. I was thinking of something else." The twins raised their four eyebrows together. "Something off some TV programme or something I watched once."

"Right."

"Best carry on walking," said Clein, even though they were walking. "It's starting to get dark."

Looking up, Dave saw the great star setting in the distance and then he turned around to see the moon rising on the horizon... and the moon in the soft, pink sky. There are two moons, thought Dave. That's amazing. I wish they had thought of something like that back at home. We're just stuck with one. I guess I'm actually starting to like this place. It's a beautiful world where they decide they love a natural feature so much they install two of them.

"Bill the Great's been doing that promotional thing where he says he wants everybody to start calling us 'infro-twins'." Dave realised Clint was talking to him. "Although personally I think that makes us sound like a form of radiation."

"Yeah," agreed Dave, his mind elsewhere, thinking about the two moons.

"Where's the Space Chicken?" asked Clein.

Dave looked around everywhere and caught the Space Chicken running up the hill behind them.

"I've got an idea," he said. "Why don't we stop off at that hotel over there?"

"Where did you go?" asked Clein.

"I... I just needed a little time to think by myself," he responded, before changing the topic. "So how about it, it would be a great place to stop off overnight. My treat," he added.

Chapter 15

Clint and Clein sat on the central double bed in the group's shared hotel room and read two books. Of course, as they had corresponding minds, Clint read the book in his hands whilst also understanding the book Clein was reading, and vice versa. It was as though they were each reading two books. There was another double bed to their right, and to their left a single bed stood against the protruding wall. The wall was oddly-shaped, of course, as they always are to account for a bathroom in a hotel room.

"So," said Dave. "Who's going to sleep where? Dave, do you want to sleep in the double bed and I'll sleep in the single or vice versa? The twins look as through they've already claimed that middle one, so there's just the two of us to think about the sleeping arrangements for."

The Space Chicken coughed. "Ahem, aren't you forgetting about somebody?"

Dave turned around. "Oh. I didn't think you'd need anywhere to sleep."

"What‽ Did you think I was just going to stand up all night? Walk around, maybe make myself a cup of tea and have a complementary, sugar-free digestive?"

"You're a chicken. I thought you could fly around outside," Dave said earnestly.

The Space Chicken stood up close to Dave's face. Dave began to feel ever so slightly intimidated, but was constantly distracted by the thought 'I'm shorter than a chicken.'

"That's racist!" the Space Chicken politely informed him, through the medium of shouting.

The Eternal Space Chicken of the Sacred Quack stormed past the small coffee table in the corner of the room and beyond the curtains.

There was silence in the room.

"I didn't know we had a balcony," stated Clein.

There was another soundless yet thoughtful pause.

"Maybe he's gone out flying."

Chapter 16

The Eternal Space Chicken of the Sacred Quack walked out onto the balcony, shutting the French door behind him. He wanted to make the rest of the group feel they had offended him so it looked like he was going for some more 'me' time. He really wanted quite the opposite. He had already forgiven Dave for what he had said and wondered if Dave would apologise. But that wasn't at all the bigger matter at hand.

The aforementioned Pullet pulled a purple mobile phone out of his pocket, pressed a button and held it up to his ear.

"Hello," it said.

"Hello Quack, it's the Space Chicken here."

"Did you get to the hotel?"

"Yeah, we're here right now."

"And have you found him?"

"No."

"Space Chicken, you need to find him and stop him before he opens the Fez."

"I'm trying."

"Have you asked anyone?"

"I can't just go out and ask someone if they're David Gratton."

"Have you met anyone called David?"

"There are loads of people called Dave. It's probably the most common name on Glix at the moment."

"And how do you know none of the ones you've met are Gratton?"

"If somebody's really plotting to unleash evil upon the world, do You really think they're going to use their real name? Should I just go up and ask, 'Are you David Gratton?' and they'll reply, 'Yes, would you like to lock me up now? I was going to destroy all of civilisation and bring about a new nation, but now you've found me, I guess you win'? I think not."

"You need to be on the look-out for any suspicious activity. No-one can ever truly hide their guilt."

"I'm working on it. I'm on my way to the Fez now," the Space Chicken said.

"Have you found a group of people to join with on your journey to the Fez."

"You could check all this by yourself, You know."

"I want to know what you think."

"Yes, I have. They're an odd bunch. None of them will open the Fez, of course."

"Of course not," Quack said.

"Oh, that reminds me," said the Space Chicken. "That Dave's a right oddball. He didn't know what the Fez was. He wouldn't, though. He's obviously an alien."

"Don't show them in such a negative light. It's good to be nice to foreigners."

"I am nice to foreigners. He's just utterly oblivious to the workings of the world. Completely zoned out. Like I said, I'm fine with him; I'm going to forgive him for that discriminative comment he made to me."

"Ooh, what was it?" asked Quack, impiously intrigued by any gossip.

"Quack, You're a god! Surely You can find out these things in an instant by Yourself?"

"Yes, but gossip always sounds better when somebody else tells it."

He sighed. "He said that, as I'm a chicken..." The Space Chicken could almost feel the Quack craning in to listen. "...Well, he said..." The Space Chicken sighed. "I find it really annoying and distracting when You do that."

"I'm not doing anything," Quack said.

"You're tapping into my brain again."

Quack mumbled in a way that said 'Of course I am and you know it and I know you know it, so let's pretend it never happened.'

The Space Chicken returned to the original subject matter. "He said I was a chicken so I could fly away."

"Ooh. That's bad."

"And You know what the worst part is?" the Space Chicken said. Quack held his breath. "He said 'Chicken' with a lower-case 'c'."

"The speciesist bigot!" He exclaimed.

"It's okay, though. I'm fine with it. I mean, he seems to come from a very primitive planet. It's probably not even in the Ache."

"Aw, bless. Anyhoo, how's the rest of your journey been?"

"Well, I've been kind of annoyed because people keep calling me the Paternal instead of the Eternal Space Chicken. And some people call You 'the Scared Quack'."

Quack laughed godly. "I've thought of a way around that: next time someone calls you the Paternal Space Chicken of the—"

The Eternal Space Chicken of the Sacred Quack suddenly started squawking and screeching and running around in circles. When this trifling sketch had concluded, the Cockerel sat down and gave a final shriek whilst laying an Egg. The Egg then popped out arms through its shell and a jet pack. It flew up, propelled by fire, and hovered next to the Space Chicken's face. The Space Chicken was less than impressed.

"WHAT JUST HAPPENED!?" he screamed. Quack, Margery and the Space Chicken – and indeed all his siblings – knew of all the non-standard punctuation, but only Margery cared.

"Yeah, see... I don't think My plan worked out..."

"And what was Your plan, exactly?"

"I wanted to make sure that no-one was mistakenly calling you the Pater—"

"Don't you dare!" the Space chicken screamed, alarming his peers inside the hotel room and alerting them to the fact that he hadn't gone out flying.

"Uh, I mean, I corrected the error that anyone should call you by that name."

"And how, pray tell, did You achieve this?" The Space Chicken realised his own mistake and corrected himself. "Sorry, how did You poorly attempt to achieve this?"

"Well, I simply flicked a switch that prevented anyone from wrongly calling you by that name," Quack announced triumphantly.

"And why did it go wrong?" the Space chicken asked, unimpressed. "Why did I just lay an Egg?"

"You see, that's the thing," Quack admitted sheepishly. "Technically it worked."

The Space Chicken raised an eyebrow plume. "It didn't feel like it to me."

"No, it did work," Quack insisted. "Technically I didn't wrongly call you anything."

Chapter 17

The Space Chicken sulked for most of the evening. The next time he spoke was to reconcile with Dave, who appreciated the gesture and apologised for his own flaws. Dave learnt from this and began to appreciate the Glix'n ways more and vowed to understand the planet's communal emotions and what may be considered offensive. The Space Chicken decided that the only way to lighten the mood and help everyone (including himself) to be more appreciative of others was to publicly resume his conversation with Quack.

The Space Chicken put a small, flat, purple device on the coffee table and loaded the screen with a picture of Quack, along with His name written in digital type. In many parts of the Ache, this electronic gadget was known as a 'phone' or a 'mobile' or, occasionally, a 'phone-mobile'. The phone emitted occasional mumbles in the most Duck-sounding voice Dave had ever listened to. The voice kept saying the Space Chicken's name, but the Cockerel showed little interest. Dave wondered whether the voice was talking to someone else or if its words were just failing to impress the Space Chicken. As nobody else in the room seemed to understand the device, Dave guessed the case was the latter.

Dave had heard of people speaking in tongues before. He had even attempted it on a few occasions, though usually only after a large intake of alcohol. The process consisted of a person jabbering on in a weird grumble of gibberish, in an attempt to communicate with God. The dialogue apparently didn't have any flow to it at all. There was (from what Dave could tell with his minimal knowledge of God-dialects) no structure and no connection nor distinction between the sentences. Because of this, Dave guessed that when a god spoke back to an earthly being, the concept was much the same. Instead, the Space Chicken explained to Dave that gods and prophets could communicate quite simply, without having to translate in any way, shape or form.

"So you mean that it's actually quite easy for people to talk to gods?" asked Dave.

"It is if you're a prophet."

"And what do you have to do to become one of those?"

"A prophet? You're born into it. And generally this means you were born in another universe."

Dave's mind was willing to accept anything now, and he didn't hold back on asking anything, no matter how absurd it seemed. "So... are you a prophet?" he said to the Space Chicken.

"Me? Yes. My prophet title is the Eternal Space Chicken of the Sacred Quack."

Dave tried to remember this as best he could. "The Pater—"

"No!" the Space Chicken shouted.

"Sorry. Is this one of those things only you can say? It's not racist, is it?"

"No. But it's the Eternal Space Chicken of the Sacred Quack'."

"What's the difference?"

"A lot of pain," the Space Chicken responded.

Dave assumed this was owing to some troublesome past memory. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that." He kept quiet about it and didn't mention it again.

"I was always going to be a prophet, since my mother is Margery."

"Is She the Chicken Who threw Those Animals down to Glix?"

"Yes, and I'm one of those Animals. Don't worry, you don't need to capitalise your pronouns when talking about prophets. The nouns you do, but not the pronouns."

"Did I capitalise them? I don't remember trying to do so."

"Yeah, you had capitals for the initial letters of 'she', 'who' and 'those'."

"I didn't even know 'who' was a pronoun," Dave informed the Space Chicken. "I certainly didn't make an effort to capitalise it." He looked up to the Space Chicken. "Did I?"

"It must have been subconscious."

"Space Chicken," Dave said, "can I talk to you about something. Privately, I mean."

"Of course. I told you earlier that you can, any time you wish." The Space Chicken was about to suggest that they move away from the rest of the group, but (after looking around and seeing that no-one was listening and they couldn't care less about the Space Chicken and Dave's private conversations anyway) he decided, "Here's good."

"Space Chicken, I'm not from here. I'm a foreigner."

"I gathered."

"I believe I'm what you would refer to as an 'alien'."

"Dave, everyone's an alien to me. And, believe me, the world seems far more alien to me than it does to you. What you talk about is being separated from your home by distance. No matter how far I could theoretically travel, I still wouldn't get home. Where I hatched is a world that doesn't even work within the same dimensions as this one."

"I guess you've got more to worry about than I do," Dave decided. "But I'm just so afraid of what they might do to me here if anyone finds out I'm an alien," Dave said, his eyes alerting the Space Chicken to the small amount of terror behind them. "I can trust you won't tell anyone. But I don't know what anyone else will think. Is extramigration a punishable crime here?"

"Dave, I don't think anyone would care. There have been cases of aliens here and I have helped them before, but there haven't been any groups of 'extramigrants' arriving here before, at least not in large quantities."

Dave was feeling more and more confident about his presence on the planet as he talked to the Cockerel. "Would you mind not telling anyone about my being an alien anyway?"

"Of course I won't tell anyone about it if you don't want me to."

"Thanks," said Dave.

"I'm guessing you're from a planet where they haven't had any confirmed alien visits yet."

"That's right. Although there has been a lot of speculation."

"So it can't be a very advanced planet, then?"

"I suppose it isn't, really."

"Do the people believe in aliens? What does the majority think of them? Tell me about the folklore of your planet, Dave."

"I think most people are very skeptical, particularly when it comes to things like these. A lot of people believe, but they don't think we'll meet any. I've disproved that now. I've spent the past week talking to aliens. Why? Why do you want to know about my planet's folklore?"

"Folklore is a terribly important thing, Dave. All humans are brought up on different forms of folklore so that these ideas become their earliest memories," the Space Chicken said. "Am I right in thinking that you were raised on the notion that when you die your mind will leave this world and enter a different one?"

"Yes. Although I'm not sure if I believe that or not."

"Well, whether you believe the idea or not, it's important that you remember it."

"Is it true, though?"

"That's not for me to say, is it? Everything appears true within one's own mind. And we are assuming, of course, that any form of afterlife would take place in a world very similar to the subconscious. I say 'very similar'. What I mean is, that's the only thing the afterlife is comparable to in this world."

Dave was feeling a lot better after the conversation and could no longer take deep thoughts about life, the universe and everything. At least, not when they're too intense. "I sometimes hope there is an afterlife. I'm not too concerned with the angels and everything, but I'll gladly spend eternity amongst the clouds if it means ice cream remains permanently cold."

"You're a very odd person, Dave," the Space Chicken commented.

"Why thank you."

"We all are. That's why we grouped together. It was bound to happen. It couldn't be any other way. We're all very odd people."

"Well, you're not a person, are you?"

The Space Chicken looked at him. "That's another comment that may not be considered socially acceptable. Come on, it's time we had a word with Quack."

The Space Chicken had expected that Dave would barely be shocked by the idea of speaking to Quack. Given the talks they'd had, godly communication was hardly extraordinary. The Space Chicken was surprised, however, when Dave showed no shock whatsoever at the device which allowed them to call Quack directly, from anywhere and at any time. Even when you can talk to gods, having one on speed dial is pretty impressive. Being unaccustomed to an average Carpe Yolan's lifestyle as he was, Dave supposed it was perfectly normal behaviour to have a chit-chat with a deity. "Wait, remind me," Dave said, "can everybody talk to Quack, or is it just because you're a prophet?"

"Anyone can talk to him. Not everyone has a phone that gets as good reception as mine." The Space Chicken pressed a button on his phone to call the god and then another one to put his phone on loudspeaker.

"Hello," said Quack.

"Hello, Quack," said the Space Chicken.

"Hello, Your Majesty," Dave said.

The Space Chicken ignored this. Or at least tried to. "That's for monarchs," he said. "Not for gods."

"They serve pretty much the same purpose, don't they? Acting as the head of a religion." This comment the Space Chicken managed to ignore.

"Who are you talking to?" Clein asked.

"The Lord Almighty," the Space Chicken replied.

"Oh, all right. I might join you in a minute if I can be bothered."

Quack seemed to have gone off on a lonely tangent and was talking to himself. Dave assumed that this was to be assumed. "I often think that too... How does that work exactly? ...I'm glad you've said that, because I had been wondering for a while." Dave ignored this voice, owing to him not understanding a single thing that happened on this bizarre planet of Duck-god phones and Hedgehog Eggs. The Space Chicken blanked it. "What exactly do they mean by writing that... or even doing that?" More silence from the listeners. ""When you get one of those labels... and you peel it off... it just stays there, doesn't it?" Another empty moment from the ignorant and the ignoring. "And when somebody goes along with it... and you just don't have a clue what they're talking about..." More silence, particularly from the Egg. "You know those times when everything just goes silent and it bothers you... Yes, I think they should be called Cantaloupes, too..."

The silence and suspense were eventually too much for the Space Chicken. "Er... who are you talking to?"

"I was talking to your son."

"But he can't talk! He doesn't even have a mouth!" the Space Chicken said in exasperation.

"Wait. Is that egg your son?" Dave asked.

"Yes."

"Who is its mother?"

The Space Chicken went an odd colour that, on a human, would have been red. "Um, I am."

"Okay..."

The Space Chicken used all the facial muscles he could to try to recreate a frown. "Why? What did you think the Egg was doing here?"

Dave would have gone the same colour as the Space Chicken, were skin pigmentation not taken into account. "I thought it was for your lunch."

The Space Chicken gave Dave a look of disgust. "Getting back to the topic at hand," he said, still staring at Dave, "why do you think you can talk to the Egg, Quack?"

"You know how gods and prophets can hear things that most people can't, like spelling and punctuation?"

"Yeah," said the Space Chicken.

"So I've come to understand," said Dave.

"Well I can also hear the sorts of speech said by those who don't have mouths," said Quack.

"Can you hear other things in writing?" asked Dave. "Like typeset."

"Yep. And, in case you're wondering, the Egg talks in Arial, size 12."

'Could not you argue that people should be entitled to be free to do what they want, without being observed all the time?'

"Well, it is my duty as a god to prevent people from sinning, so they shouldn't be too free."

"Are you 'talking to the voiceless again'?" the Space Chicken joked.

"Mock Not My Power!" the Almighty Quack proclaimed, not from the phone, but from the heavens themselves (although not so loudly that next door could hear). "I Hold A Fresh Supply Of Thunderbolts Up Here!"

"So that's what lightning really is?" asked Crazy Dave, curiously. "Are you saying that thunder and lightning stem from the anger of the gods reflected upon civilisation as the cruel outlash of punishment upon people unworthy of greatness – or, indeed, survival – on their planets? So every victim of lightning has, in fact, been the culprit?"

"Sounds like Crazy Dave is going to be our elderbeard before long," muttered Clein, joining into their conversation briefly from over on the bed.

"No," said Quack, "they're not necessarily culprits; lightning usually happens by accidental built-up static energy in the water vapour of the atmosphere. But I can throw thunderbolts if I really want to and if I'm angry..." he added and trailed off.

"Sounds like Quack might be our elderbeard, actually," Dave joked.

Nobody laughed.

"Quack is a god," Clint said objectionably. "He's meant to be an elderbeard.

"Oh."

"Quack has always been looked up to as a noble and respected figure. If anyone's an elderbeard, it's Quack," Clein said.

"Clein and I are half you age yet we still know that blatant piece of general knowledge. How long have you had to learn this, exactly? I mean, everyone on the planet knows that."

"Not everyone," he muttered.

"Okay, okay," said the Space Chicken, awkwardly, trying to break up the argument, "let's not get into violent discussions about people's backgrounds. Everyone's different and that's wonderful."

"Although some of us are differently wonderful in the wrong ways," said Clein.

"Shut up!" shouted Dave.

"Calm," the Space Chicken with prolonged, hushed, serene, calm vowels, "caaalm."

There was another one of those awkward pauses.

"So..." said the Space Chicken, "when are we going to set off in the morning?"

"I really want a lie-in," Dave pleaded. "It's nice and relaxing to lie-in at hotels."

'Me too,' the Egg said telepathically.

"Okay then, let's have a nice, long lie-in," said the Space Chicken, after thinking about his own needs.

"Oh, well," exclaimed Clint melodramatically, "it's good to know you've taken everyone's opinion into account on this matter."

"Why, what was your opinion?" asked the Space Chicken.

"Well," said Clint, "I would quite like a lie-in in the morning."

"That's what we just said!" Dave shouted at him, striking up another (but essentially the same) argument.

"You want to start the ball rolling again?" Clint's eyes flared. "'Cause it is on, brother!"

"All right!" said the Space Chicken, breaking up the brief, outlandish quarrel. "So it is settled, then: we lie in tomorrow—"

"No!"

The Space Chicken uncaged a strained sigh.

"You haven't asked me what I think," Clein pointed out.

"But you're identical to Clint in every way!" said the Space Chicken.

"What, so you won't accept my opinion?" The injustice shined through in his voice.

"Well, no... yes— well, it's just... I thought you would have the same opinion as Clint because you're kind of the same person."

Clein was scornful. "That's a discriminative stereotype directed at a minority. I'm appalled at you."

"Sorry, Clein," the Space Chicken said remorsefully. "When do you think we should get up in the morning, then?"

"Well," said Clein, "I would quite like a lie-in in the morning."

The Space Chicken was flabbergasted.

"We can lie in, as long as we stay for the buffet," said Dave.

"Okay," said Clein.

"You do know that the Egg just spoke, don't you?" said Quack.

"No, of course we don't! Now stop going on about Your freaky ear for inaudible voices," the Space Chicken said angrily.

"Don't turn your rage upon Me! I am a god and can I remind you that I know all of you better than you know yourselves and I can tell you information about any point in your lives. I know an awful lot about all of you."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever."

"Crazy Dave, for instance; you have a very interesting past, present and future. You—"

Beep.

The Space Chicken switched off his phone.

"Don't bother. I'm bored already."
Chapter 18

They went downstairs to the lunchtime buffet (they had had a very long lie-in) to see what was available, possibly as a substitute for breakfast, or as a form of brunch.

"Looks nice," stated Dave, as he started to pile food onto his plate.

Soon everyone was stocking up on the necessary energy-providing food for their journey to the Fez. Or just stocking up on unhealthy food for their own pleasure. The Space Chicken took the top off a boiled egg and began to eat it. He then ate the inside of the egg, too.

They sat down at a table in the dining room. It was a pleasant room, with classical brown, patterned wallpaper and rustic tables and chairs. It gave the instant effect of homeliness. It also had the instant effect of making every member of the group wonder if they should even bother continuing with their Fez journey. Alas, each of them individually (apart from Clint and Clein, who fundamentally had to share all their knowledge with each other) decided that they had better carry on with the journey and not let the rest of the group down. That way, they could relax afterwards, even if they didn't open the Fez, and they would still know how things would have turned out, and wouldn't have to worry later about how things could have been. The Space Chicken had always thought that it was always best to do the thing he was planning to do first, then sleep later, and never have to think about the opportunities they left behind. If ever there came a day when everything he set out to do was done, he could perhaps relax then. Many people across the universe have a similar idea, summarised in the phrase 'I can sleep when I'm dead', although the Space Chicken thought this was a horrible concept; he doubted very much he would ever be lazy enough to die. In short, the group's intention was that they would go ahead with the proposed trip to the Fez, so they would never have to worry about what could have been. Although they would soon be troubled about what could have been anyhow. Their best option was to stop at this point, spend the rest of the few days in the hotel, then return home, perhaps allowing the Space Chicken to carry on with his task, however fruitless it may have seemed. Still, the group decided to go ahead with their trip to the Fez, despite it apparently serving no constructive purpose.

After they had each gotten over their own separate – yet identical – mental worries, they started to explain how their conversation had been last night, in the presence of the Almighty Quack, to Clint and Clein (who were only involved partly).

"So we were on the Space Chicken's mobile phone, talking to God," Dave laughed in recollection, "and—"

"That's 'god'," the Space Chicken muttered, "with a small 'g'."

"Yeah, whatever," he muttered back. "So we were talking to the lord... about when to get up in the morning," he continued. "Genius."

"Sounds good," said Clint.

"We only joined in for a sentence or two, as you may have noticed," said Clein. "There was a really interesting passage in one of the hotel's daily books about what happens when a man teases an alligator." The Space Chicken and Dave looked at him in horror. "I think it was called The News at Thirteen." Dave didn't ask. The planet had two moons; he thought it was safe to say they probably had a different way of keeping track of time, and a different method – and approach – to delivering current events.

Returning to the original topic, the Space Chicken said, "Yeah, I suppose it was mainly just me, Quack and Dave. You two were clearly preoccupied and there was little contribution from Crazy... Where is Crazy Dave?" pondered the Space Chicken, but he pondered no longer when the aforementioned Dave arrived with a plate piled high with mountains of the River District's Finest Mint Cake. He had already finished one bar.

"Whoa," said the shocked Space Chicken. "That cannot be good for you. You really need to think about your health; you're not going to live forever," he reprimanded. On a marginally lighter note, he said, "I am of course. I'm the Eternal Space Chicken of the Sacred Quack." It was one of the most bragging statements ever uttered by a prophet.

Clein was confused. "I thought you were the Pater—"

"No, I'm just the Eternal Space Chicken of the Sacred Quack for now, thanks!"

"But you have that little, flying egg-thing."

"Oh, yes. That," he said coldly, deeply offending the small Egg and making him cry on the inside.

"Have you even named him yet?" asked Dave.

"No. And I don't want to. He's not my son."

"It must be odd being a prophet," Clint stated as a question.

"Yeah, it is. But, being immortal, you've got to get used to these sorts of changes. Which brings us back to our first point," he added and looked towards Crazy Dave like an overpowering mother. "You've got to look after yourself – you're not going to live forever."

"How do you know I'm not?" replied Crazy Dave innocently and with a clear point.

"Because no human is!"

"Actually," stated Clein, "there is Old Man Tales, who has lived since the dawn of Glix and more."

"I have explored this planet long enough to believe in such a ridiculous idea as that, but even so, Crazy Dave is not Old Man Tales."

"But what about—" Crazy Dave started but was interrupted when normal alien Dave quickly changed the topic.

"Are the Mint Cakes nice?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Good," Dave said comfortingly into a calm and relaxed environment. He was happy everything was settled now. He wasn't quite sure how this odd planet was in terms of demography. However, he was certain it was very different from his home and the life and death rates of Glix seemed very unusual indeed. An increasing number of people seemed to be being declared immortal. And he didn't want to get caught up in an argument that was possibly between two immortal creatures.

They're immortal. You know what that means?

They live forever?

Obviously, dimwit. What I meant was they can't die. They can start a war and put you in the middle of it. They won't get hurt but millions will die. You will be responsible for the deaths of all those people.

Isn't that invincibility, not immortality?

Don't try to get cocky with me, fool. The victims of the war will still be there. I mean, they won't be there... but their deaths will be on your conscience.

Well, then, I hope it's not a warrior planet.

Shut up! It is superfluous to try and get away from the guilt. I am your guilt! Forever on your conscience—

La-la-la, not listening!

He drowned the voice out with his thoughts of the Fez. He still wanted to ask it if there was any war on Glix but opted against such a stupid idea.

War is a stupid idea? Saying that might just cause a war. Or at least an excessive amount of violence. Either way it will be your fault.

La-la-la!

For now, though, things were calm. That was definitely good.

"Good."

"How far have we come so far?" asked Dave, on the way to the Fez in BongVe Bong. It was well into the afternoon now and would soon be dark. Dave guessed that they would be having a late supper that evening, before retiring to bed.

"We have travelled 7km Nekken of Carpe Yolu, if your compass is accurate," replied Clint.

"It should be. Does that compass measure distance?"

"No. I meant it tells us we're travelling Nekken. I've been monitoring the distance."

"Okay."

"How come you don't know what functions your own compass serves?"

"I haven't really looked at it. I got it from a nurse."

"So, you don't know whether it works or not."

"I have put my trust in the authorities."

"We're still in Jackshire, though," Clein said.

"What?"

"We've travelled 7km, but we're still in Jackshire."

"It is 25km from Carpe Yolu to BongVe Bong, so we should be able to locate the Fez in a couple of days," Clint added.

"How come we can't locate it when we're not searching for it and in the right country?" Dave was as confused as he was curious, like he usually seemed to be on this planet. At least, from what he had experienced so far, he was usually confused and curious. This wasn't too much of a change from his usual state on his home planet, though. Dave often wondered whether his mental condition had actually changed from when he'd been on his home planet or not. But he tried not to think about it for too long. It made him confused and curious.

"You just don't know what to search for," the Space Chicken said. "The signal's not really strong enough, I guess."

"The Fez gives off a signal?" If what science-fiction has taught me is right, Dave thought, that signal may provide me with a way home. Also, if what fairy tales and folklore have taught me is right, I want to go home.

"It was a metaphor," replied the Space Chicken, unwittingly dashing Dave's low hopes of a place to belong. "What I meant was that there's always a trace of the Fez within the biosphere and it can be detected. But only if you're looking for it and you want it."

"It may take about three more days to reach the Fez," said Clein. "Of course, we could be going in the wrong direction if Dave's compass is faulty."

"It's not!"

"I was just saying," he eased off. "You seem like the kind of person who might buy a compass that didn't work."

"I didn't buy it."

"Oh, you cheapskate. Old people are always so insistent upon getting 'a good bargain'."

Dave turned to the Space Chicken. "I don't like that Clein. Clint's okay, but I don't like Clein."

The Space Chicken looked Dave in the eyes (which was hard when the Space Chicken's eyes were on the side of his head). "Get it into your brain: they are exactly the same person in every single way. It must be hard for you, being an alien, but there is not a single difference between them. Their thoughts and actions are identical. They would both say the exact same things, but it just depends on whose turn it is to speak."

Dave still looked sour.

"They are just teenagers enjoying themselves," the Space Chicken said. "Surely you must remember doing some stupid things and annoying older people when you were young."

"I was never young," Dave grumbled. "At least not like they are."

"They'll grow up soon and realise that everything they thought was important as a teenager is actually trivial."

"I never understood this world or these young kids," moaned Dave, echoing the grumpy anti-elderbeards of his home planet. They may moan that they hope they never get old, Dave thought. Well, I hope I never get young. And I never will. I win. They're such losers and they don't even know it. I bet they still live with their parents. They are so childish.
Chapter 19

The group continued to travel for many Haca (one) until they grew tired, hungry and irksome. They arrived at a fast food pizza chain in Borg for some tea-time refreshments.

Dave looked down at the La Pizzeria de Borgue menu. There was quite a variety of dishes, provided you liked pizza. Luckily for Dave, he did. Unluckily for Dave, being an alien stranded on a foreign planet, he wasn't sure what to have that wouldn't offend the others in his group.

There's a nice looking chicken pizza in here, he thought. But there's also a Chicken prophet here with the power of the Almighty Quack at his han— at his wings. A Chicken prophet with a Duck god ready to smite me at any second. Would a Chicken get offended if I ate a mere chicken? he wondered. Yes. I could have ham, or what we called back home a 'Hawaiian'. I don't suppose they have a Hawaii here on Glix. But what if someone else gets offended? Are Clint and Clein descended from pigs?

If they get offended they can kill you.

Shut up. And wouldn't that kill you as well? he thought. I'll just get an ordinary pizza and not harm anyone. Or maybe I should just order a piece of bread...

Clein looked around and saw all the false Italian sights. "I love restaurants. What better way to cool down after a busy day of travelling?"

"Getting drunk out of your skull?" Dave suggested. "That usually seems to be a better way for me."

"I'm not sure I agree with you there," Clein said. "Although it wouldn't be the first difference of opinion we've had today."

Dave was about to get worked up again, before the Space Chicken cautioned him, "Settle down again, you two."

Then, having realised what he had just publicly announced, Dave turned to the Space Chicken and quietly asked, "Is the consumption of alcohol accepted here?"

"Yes. You're fine."

"Will people think less of me if they find out I like drinking a lot of alcohol?"

"If you do it in moderation, it's fine. Even gods and prophets like a drink every now and then."

"Every now and then?"

"Well, most nows and thens."

"Do you like a nice place to eat to help you relax, Space Chicken?"

"I love restaurants as much as the next sentient being," said the Eternal Space Chicken of the Sacred Quack, "but I really hate it how they make us wait around for such a long time before they bring our food," he complained.

It seemed all the tiredness and aching and walking pains were lagging down on those in the group over thirty and making them grumpy and irritable. The youngsters didn't seem to be too annoyed and appeared as though they had had a perfect night's sleep every day for their entire lives.

"It's because their minds dissolve away with the pathetic dumb media they get given these days," the Space Chicken ranted to Dave. "That's why they don't get tired like the rest of us. They haven't got enough brainpower to feel the effects of what's happening to their bodies. It just happens to them and they don't notice it or do anything about it."

"I'm with you there."

They watched Clint and Clein as if making observations on the behaviour of a bizarre rare animal species just discovered in the wilds of a new safari range. A safari where the rangers were angry at the creatures for not being tired.

Crazy Dave picked up a scent. "Did someone just talk about the waits in restaurants?"

"My Quack's Sock, you're slow," the Space Chicken said.

"I like the waits in restaurants," he stated.

"You like the waits in restaurants?" The Space Chicken reflected this statement back upon Crazy Dave in a way that made it seem as if the Space Chicken were testing his own ear tufts.

"Yeah, I enjoy them."

The Space Chicken had been hoping for an answer more like: 'What? No! No way! I said, "I like the way you test fonts."'

The Space Chicken's mind hung on this thought, and on the way he had managed to mentally finish a sentence with a triple quotation mark.

With a blank face, the Space Chicken slowly and sadly processed Crazy Dave's response. When he snapped back into reality, his immediate reaction was, "What‽ How can you like waits? They are the time-wasting part of eating out, when you are still waiting for the meal to present itself, despite having ordered an interminable amount of time ago, but definitely long enough to have had your dinner cooked. And even before you order your food, they make you wait then. They make you wait when there's nothing to do but read through two pages of food options. What is the point of waiting?"

"I believe it is so that our appetites can be built."

How odd, thought Dave. Tiredness can really affect everyone, particularly here. Tiredness can fully reverse the roles of people. In this instance, Crazy Dave has become an intelligent man, politely teaching those around him. Yet the Space Chicken is overlooking obvious things that would be simple to understand, if only he used a small amount of brain power. But here I watch them quarrel over something trivial I no longer care about. We really need to make sure we get some rest tonight, so we can be back to our almost-normal selves tomorrow.

"There is no reason for them to make us wait this long," said the Space Chicken.

"Excuse me."

"What is it now?" he asked rudely.

"May I take your orders?"

The Space Chicken looked sheepish. "Oh. Um, yes. I'll have a four-cheese pizza, please."

"Yes, of course," said the waiter, in a way that meant 'Yeah, sure. Because the politer I am to you, the bigger my pay check. Would you also like me to shine your shoes?'

Dave came out of this brief daydream and realised he too was being asked about his option of dish. "Er, could I have a Margherita, please?"

"A what, sorry?"

"A mar-gar-ee-tar," he said. "If you wouldn't mind, of course."

"I don't think I've heard of one of those. Could you repeat it again, please?"

"A Margherita." He was beginning to get annoyed. Mostly at himself.

"Nope. I haven't heard of it. Would you like to order something else off the menu?"

He looked in confusion at the rest of the table. A pizzeria that hasn't heard of a Margherita? How odd, thought Dave. He saw the frantic wing flaps of the Space Chicken, who was anxiously mouthing, "It's just called a cheese pizza!"

"Oh, er, a cheese pizza. Please. If you wouldn't mind. Could I have?" He was adamant to insert all the words at the end of the sentence that he had forgotten to put in the main brunt of the speech. "Please."

"Yeah... sure," the waiter said, unknowingly slowing down his speech as he wrote down the order. Again, he was just about polite enough not to reduce the size of his tip.

"Yes?" he asked Clein.

"Can we have two chicken pizzas?"

"Sure thing."

The Space Chicken scowled at Clint and Clein with a look that could melt steel and, in fact, gave Clint (and therefore also Clein) a slight cut on the side of his face. But he gave Crazy Dave an identical look (and an identical injury) when the boy ordered a ham pizza.

"And you, sir?" the waiter asked of the Egg.

"He won't be eating today," the Space Chicken said. "Sorry."

The man took their order away just as a crack of anger appeared in the Egg's shell.

Before he could unintentionally annoy the Egg any further, the Space Chicken turned upon the twins, his heart aching. "Sure." The Eternal Space Chicken of the Sacred Quack sounded devastated. "Order one of my relatives dead on a plate, why don't you‽"

"Let's not argue now," suggested Dave.

"Shut up. How could you know how I feel?"

"I know something similar."

"No you don't! You can't. Don't kid yourself," he recommended.

"Let's just... Let's just have a relaxed sleep tonight. Not do too much travelling tomorrow."

"Sounds like a good plan... Why?"

"I think we're all a bit too grumpy today."

"I'm not, for one," said the Space Chicken grumpily. Dave looked him in the eyes. The Space Chicken gave in. "Okay, maybe I am. Just a touch." He indicated by holding his wings a short distance apart just how much he was grumpy. It wasn't a lot. Not nearly enough.

Another waiter came over, a different one from before.

"Hello."

"Er, hi," said the Space Chicken.

There was a traditional Glix'n pause.

"Is our food ready yet?" the Space Chicken broke in.

"Oh, yes, that. That thing. That was it."

"Well?"

"Well what? Oh, that," he said. "No."

"Why are you here, then?"

He was briefly silent. He seemed to be silent for short spurts between being asked a question and answering, as if he had offended people last time he had spoken to them. "Just for a chat. That's all really." He said this as if he had constantly interrupted the last people he had spoken to.

"Oh," said the Space Chicken, more confused than grumpy now and definitely more confused and grumpy than he had shown on his wings a moment before.

"Do we know you from somewhere?" asked Dave, with the squint of familiarity confusion.

Another pause. "Yes, actually. I believe we met back in Carpe Yolu at your previous eating place."

"Hey." Crazy Dave began to realise. "You're Cashier Dave."

"Yep. Well now I'm not; I'm Waiter Dave."

"Waiter Dave!" He liked that name. It was much better than Crazy Dave.

"Did you actually have anything to say?" Dave grumped rudely (not that you can grump politely, but Dave made sure to grump in such a way that any spectator would be obliged to observe the double discourtesy of his speech). "Or did you just come over here to be silent?"

"I actually came over here to see Dave," he retorted.

"I am Dave." It was almost prophetic. It wasn't; it was pathetic instead.

"The other Dave." This Dave was steadily getting more annoyed with that Dave's mid-life grumps.

"You're the other Dave."

"Forget it." Waiter Dave walked over to Crazy Dave.

"Oh, that Dave—"

"Forget it." They definitely need to catch up on their sleep, thought Waiter Dave. "Dave. You have an interesting life. I know exactly how you feel right now," Waiter Dave said emotively. "The next few months..." He shook his head. "They don't count. You don't need to bother with anything. The rest of the world can wait – it will just sort itself out. I know you just want to run away and forget about everything and that's fine. It's exactly what you're doing now. I know you're still struggling in this confusing world, but you don't need to worry any more; everything will go your way. We live in a world where everybody worries and complains about how dull and meaningless the world is, but if you look around and pay attention you will see how great it can be. Spend the next few years in ecstasy if you can, Dave. Then you will lead a great life. I'll see you soon. I'm certain of it."

Waiter Dave walked hurriedly back into the kitchen.

There was another long pause.

'Did we order garlic bread?' asked the Egg. 'I am sure we forgot to.'

"Did everyone – or anyone – else just see what I saw?" asked Dave.

"I don't know any more," said the Space Chicken. "This whole day has been so weird."

"Tell me about it."

Crazy Dave was staring into space. "I think I know who that person was," he uttered quietly and slowly.

"Yes, we know," Dave grumped. "It's Cashier Dave."

Crazy Dave glared at him. "I'm not as stupid as you think."

Dave snorted. "Stupid? Stupid? I never called you stupid," he said hysterically. "Oh no. It's just that you're so flipping crazy!"

"Hello," said a brand-new waiter, whilst walking over and delivering their order. "Is there anything else I can get you?" she said in her placid voice.

"Can we have five refillable colas please?" requested Dave.

"Yeah, sure," she accepted comfortably. "Anything else?"

"Um, just out of curiosity," asked Clint, "what happened to that last waiter – Dave?"

"Dave?" she asked, contorting her face. "We haven't had a Dave work here in years." With another twisted expression, she continued: "It is a quite common name; are you sure you're not confused with someone else?"

"He said he worked here."

She turned around and spoke into a walkie-talkie. "Joe, we have another intruder."

It buzzed back, "I'm on my way, boss."

She left with another air of mystery that Dave didn't quite need right now, amongst all his delusion.

They all looked down at their fresh pizzas that had been so sought after.

"These look nice," said the Space Chicken.

"Yes, they sure do," Dave agreed for once. "Ouch!" he shouted so a few people from other tables looked around.

"What?" asked Clein.

"I didn't say anything."

"You just said, 'Ouch'."

"Did I? Oh well, this day has been so confusing already I can stand something else odd."

He looked around at the rest of the table's plates. Everyone was tucking into pizza. Crazy Dave had already finished two slices.

"This really is—"

Chapter 20

Dave woke up. His first instinct was that all his odd experiences had just been a dream. They hadn't. Dave was back in bed on Glix. Everything was normal. Normal – the word struck Dave. This was normality. His experiences the previous day had proven to him that Glix was normal – Glix was all right. Glix was perfectly wonderful once you understood it. Yesterday's experiences hadn't been entirely pointless, then.

He took in the beauty of his new hotel room. He couldn't remember retiring to this abode, but it was somewhere on Glix and that was great. Its stunning colours danced with his eyes. He stepped up to the window to take in the full splendour of the world beyond. He now noticed things he had been blind to before. He hadn't previously noticed the different purples which made up the sky above him. He also appreciated the slight yellowish tint to the grass. The flowers were weird and wonderful – every colour in existence appeared in nature here too and the plants looked like the softest, warmest material known to man. He also strongly suspected that he could see another small star appearing from behind the other vibrant, glowing orb of wild reds and yellows. It was nothing like the mess of a daybreak they had at his home planet. What was the name of that place?

The others awoke around him.

"How do you feel, Dave?" asked the Space Chicken.

"I feel great," he replied with a smile.

"No more funny experiences, then?"

"No. Everything seems to be back to normal. The good normal. The abnormal normal."

"Yeah, I feel the same."

"Let's try not to do too much travelling today."

"Yeah, we might have been too tired yesterday and that's why we felt weird."

"Maybe, although I can't help feeling somebody must have popped something in my drink."

"I know."

Someone to relate to – that's all we really need in this world, thought Dave. Everything was great for the time being. Oh no, Dave thought. It's not real is it? This always happens when something good is happening. This is either a dream or a hallucination.

"Space Chicken?" Dave asked.

"Yes."

"Has the sky... always been... purple?"

"Yes..." the Space Chicken answered, confused at all these strange questions. But he then remembered that Dave (being a being from another planet) wasn't used to this world in all its confusion. He also remembered not to use any more ellipses or else face the Wrath of His Mother.

"And the grass yellow?"

"Sure thing. It is in Borg."

Dave wasn't so willing to accept this information – his eyes and ears must surely be playing some trick on him. "Good." But he had better accept it while it lasted.

After getting ready for the day ahead, the whole group convened downstairs in the dining hall.

"This place looks nice. I guess it's because it is brighter today," Crazy Dave pointed out.

"What do you mean?" asked Dave.

"Well, I mean it's brighter in this room now than it was last night when we were here."

"Yes, obviously," Clein said rudely. "That's because it was dark last evening. We are in Quinquomber, you know, where the days are shorter."

Quinquomber? Dave thought. But that was another question he'd better ask the Space Chicken. "Wait, we were here last night?"

"Yes, don't you remember?" asked a puzzled Clint. "You were sick on one of the waitresses."

Dave looked sheepish and went to talk to the Space Chicken, who was getting a plate and some toast for breakfast. Dave hoped he was only going to eat the toast and leave the plate. It would be very greedy to have both.

"I think something weird did happen to us yesterday. I wasn't dreaming about everything being strange, was I?"

"If you were, so was I. I have no memory of arriving here yesterday whatsoever."

They planted themselves back at the recently elected (and inaugurated) table. As soon as they had sat down, Crazy Dave began to get onto all the top topics of the moment.

"I think we should do a lot of travelling today," he said. "If we keep travelling, we will reach BongVe Bong today and then we will know exactly where in the country the Fez is, and we will be able to plan out the rest of our journey. We can make rough estimates of how long it will take us to get there, and how many more days of travelling there are."

Dave looked at the Space Chicken. "You know..." began Dave, "the Space Chicken and I were thinking that maybe we shouldn't do too much travelling today. Maybe tiredness is the reason we were feeling grumpy yesterday – again, sorry about that, guys."

The Space Chicken had finished all his toast, and went back to the buffet to get an egg to eat. "Oh, Dave, do you still honestly think that's the reason we felt so... different yesterday?"

"It might have contributed," Dave muttered.

"Can't you see; it's something we did."

Dave was justifiably confused still. "But, you're a 500-year-old Chicken prophet, I'm a middle-aged—" he said, almost slipping up again. "I'm a middle-aged human being and a full-fledged inhabitant of Glix. Sure, we're great friends, but there's nothing we have in common in our actions and lifestyles."

"You know, it's the same distance from Carpe Yolu to BongVe Bong as it is from Carpe Yolu to Wales," Clint pointed out. "So, if we had headed off in another direction, we could have been heading there instead."

"But what would we have wanted in Wales?" The Space Chicken diverted his concentration from the morning newspaper he was reading. "It's just hills and sheep, and if you travel for ten kilometres you might see a house."

"There's also not the Fez," Dave pointed out.

Crazy Dave thought about this. "True. Let's go to BongVe Bong instead."

"We're already on our way there," said Dave, beginning to get angry.

The Space Chicken opened his newspaper and took a sip of his tea. And promptly spat it back out again – an odd event and intriguing to those who, as of yet, have not seen a chicken (let alone a Chicken) spit out tea in surprise.

The Space Chicken turned the newspaper around to show the headline: 'TEA SYNDROME'.

He read through the newspaper article aloud:

"'MANY COMPLAINTS TO MANUFACTURERS prompted further studies on the effects of tea in males and females over the age of thirty. It seems the results may be worse than previously feared.

"'The Jackshire Tea Company has released a statement announcing the withdrawal of all stock in Nekken-Shins England, owing to possible side effects, including drowsiness, fatigue, sleep-deprivation, and tiredness. Furthermore, they recommend either the disposal or the return of any products purchased within this area having an expiry date between 81,42 and 123,42, which can be returned for a refund and possible compensation if any effects have been noted. For safe measure, we advise the returning of tea for dates ranging from 74,42 to 158,42.

"'The studies were funded by the Public Society of' mrrrrrrrruh..." he trailed off in a murmur to himself, pretending to read aloud but obviously not. "'The complete list of possible side-effects caused by the drinking of this diseased form of Jackshirian tea is as follows: migraines; déjà vu; headaches; hallucinations; unanticipated grumpiness; déjà vu; unusual sleeping patterns and/or the appearance of tiredness. No long-term effects are confirmed.'"

"That sounds like what we had yesterday..." Dave's voice trailed off.

"Did you have any tea yesterday morning?" the Space Chicken wondered.

"No, I can't have..."

"We were very tired."

"I think I needed a little pick-me-up... I had a cup or two."

"So did I. But only because we stayed up so late talking to Quack and we were so tired in the morning. I can't handle late nights like I used to. These youngsters don't know how good they've got it."

"Well I never, tea that makes you tired. What is this world of caffeine coming to? This is a crazy life."

But this planet's normal now. Remember, idiot?

Dave's heart sank. And to think he thought he had fully adjusted to the Glix'n lifestyle. Maybe my problem wasn't just my lacking understanding of my surroundings, but something deeper psychologically. If I'm still hearing voices in my head, I doubt it can be as simple as being a bit lost.

You don't say? Wow, you really are a bright spark, aren't you?

Hey, shut up.

I CAN'T BELIEVE THE SPLIT PERSONALITY'S COME BACK.

What you gonna do? You can't hurt me.

I'm... I'm going to push you off a cliff.

THAT WON'T WORK.

You're going to push me off a cliff?

What you going to do about that?

...

Yeah.

...But – as much as I hate to admit it – you are me! You would get injured just as much.

I HOPE I DON'T GET HURT. I'M NEW HERE. DON'T HURT THE NEW GUY.

"...So what do you think, Dave?" asked Clein.

"...About what?"

Bring! Bring!

"Hello, it's the Space Chicken here. How may I help you?"

"Ellipses? Do you think there is an unlimited supply of dots here? Interpuncts are useless and defunct now anyway, but you need an even spread of short and long sentences to conserve full stops. But ellipses? I am very much ashamed of all of you. Ellipses are the equivalent to three full stops in one. You should therefore only have one so long as you then have three long sentences afterwards. You have used nine in the short space of time since you finished reading the newspaper."

"Hello mum. Nice talking to you." The Eternal Space Chicken of the Sacred Quack hung up.

The Egg started ringing. The group looked over in slight confusion and disbelief.

"Hello," they heard coming from inside the Egg's shell. "Hello, it is me, Margery."

There was the pause that is only natural to one half of a telephone conversation.

"I know, it is so rude, is it not? And to his own mother."

Another pause.

"I am so proud of you. To have you as my grandchild is so much better than to have that disgrace of an actual son that nature provided."

"Oh, here we go again!" the Space Chicken said melodramatically, now fuming. "Blaming everything on me. 'You're not part of the family.' Why don't you just leave me alone, mum? I'm not a flaming two-century-old!"

There was a silence as the air of mystery and suspense passed over the team.

And still carried on.

...And on.

"And can you believe all the ellipses he has gone through?"

"Right, that's it!"

The Space Chicken ran over to where his son hovered in the air. He picked up the small Egg and dropped him on the floor so he partially cracked. The Chicken stormed out of the hotel and – being a possessor of no worldly goods, so having nothing to come back for – never returned.

Chapter 21

The two Daves and the two twins packed up their possessions and were leaving the hotel when they noticed the small Egg crawling across the floor towards them.

"Hello," said Dave. "I thought you would have flown off with the Space— er, daddy."

'How can I? I am a broken and injured combination of chicken parts. This world has brutally mistreated me.'

Dave was shocked. "Did anyone else just hear that?"

"Yes," they all responded.

Dave now wasn't that surprised by this sort of event. "Ah, well you can come with us. We'll carry your weight." Dave picked up the tiny prophet and found he weighed hardly anything at all. The Egg, that is. As much as Dave would have liked to weigh hardly anything at all, he was still pretty much the same as he had been the night before. He couldn't remember what he had weighed the night before, or what had happened the night before, but he still assumed he wasn't much lighter than the last time he'd checked. Though, saying that, he wasn't sure about the difference in gravity on Glix. And Clint had said he had thrown up. He diverted his attention back to the baby in his arms. He needed to return him to his father, and was determined to do so.

'Thank you.'

"No I still haven't managed to find this David Gratton yet," said the Space Chicken.

"Have you been looking for him?"

"Yes," he hissed. "Of course."

"Properly?"

The Space Chicken could tell Quack was raising his Duckbrows.

"Maybe."

Quack sighed. "We really need to find this man."

"Yes," the Space Chicken droned, "and stop him before he opens the Fez. I've heard it all before."

"This is important, Space Chicken. You need to do everything you can to work out who he is before he even gets close."

"Well I don't want to sound intrusive. 'Hello, are you the future Prime Minister David Gratton?' We don't want a repeat of the Great Flood."

"I don't think we need reminding of that," said Quack.

"That's easy for You to say. I had to go around telling everybody 'The flood is coming. The rapture will claim you all. Lock up your wives and daughters!' Et," said the Eternal Space Chicken of the Sacred Quack, "cetera."

"Well, at least you gave them good warning," Quack justified.

"Without good reason! You know, when the rapture does come, I'll be so smug."

"Which will get you sent straight to Tartarus, won't it?"

"Will You really send me – of all people – to Tartarus?" asked the Space Chicken in dismay.

"No, probably not. I couldn't do that to you."

"I think some people need to go to Tartarus though, don't You?"

"I sometimes wonder if I'm being too nice to them. I mean, come on, how many times have I had to send Job down now? And they have just destroyed him."

"Bless little Yobb."

"Job," Quack corrected.

"That's what I said."

"No, you spelt it wrong. Anyway, the people of Glix do have a habit of hurting my creations."

"Was it last time You sent Job down to Glix that the humans ate him?"

"Yeah, although they have a tendency to do that quite often," Quack admitted sheepishly.

"Oh, and there was that time when they said he had the wrong number of wings so they set fire to him," the Space Chicken chuckled.

"I apologized profusely to him for that," Quack excused.

"And You can't forget that time when they exploded him. Or when he had two wings chopped off and he was told to fly off a cliff."

"Yes, yes, I get the point—"

"And when he was shot and stuffed. And You have to remember when he seemed to be living okay, but he went into a museum and saw his stuffed self... all the paradoxes destroyed him!" the Space Chicken laughed.

"Enough already!"

There was a moment of silence.

"So what did You want, anyway?" the Space Chicken asked. "Was it about the Fez again?"

"No. It was actually..." Quack was anxious regarding the Space Chicken's response. "It was actually a new sort-of project."

"Oh, thank goodness," the Space Chicken said. And the anxiety was met with confusion.

"But I thought you were just moaning about all these projects I give you?"

"Well... I sort of got bored of that Fez-Gratton thing. I'd like a new challenge."

"You will carry on with that David Gratton hunt, won't you?"

"Yes. But it seems like it will never end. I want a challenge I can do that is tasking rather than one that has no clear answer. Obviously I will continue to track down David Gratton, but I'd like to know there's another task that needs doing in the near future."

"Good. Because this is an issue about the future. And the past for that matter. With a little of the present thrown in."

"Get on with it."

"Orbiting the Glix is a collection of rifts or eddies. These are the problems and ideas in the world. They are located on two islands in space and appear as a jumble of switches floating around in the air. Well, in the small amount of atmosphere that surrounds these islands."

"I see. What sort of things do these switches do?"

"They are like the controls for life. I had to put them somewhere when I made the Glix, so I made them into a sort of technological natural satellite," he said. "There is one, for instance, for the fact that butter melts on toast. If the switch was flicked back, the butter would stay completely solid and nobody could have any buttered toast."

"What about when butter won't spread and it just stays in a hard lump on the toast? Does that mean the switch has been flicked off?"

"It means you've left the butter in the fridge for too long."

The Quack went into great detail for a long time to the Space Chicken. He explained how the switches and levers sort of swirled around in the air and could be summoned by anyone nearby. Any fact or statement on Glix would have an on/off switch, which worked like binary. The fact that windows are transparent had a switch that could be switched to make all the windows on Glix turn opaque. The concept of sheep having wool possessed a switch which held the potential power of making sheep bald. Quack then went on to explain how the rift system worked the other way, meaning that certain switches were there which would have to remain switched off for various reasons, such as the idea that sheep have fur.

There was an infinite number of these switches, responsible for an infinite number of ideas. One of these switches was allowing holes in time to leak through into the Glix.

"And You want me to switch it off?" the Space Chicken asked. "You want me to travel into space just to flick a switch?"

"Yep," Quack answered. "I assumed you'd be okay in space, seeing as you are the Space Chicken."

"You should never make assumptions."

"Well are you up for it?"

"Yes. But I don't understand where these switches actually are."

"They're whizzing around the islands."

"Then how do I know which one's which?"

"You've got to command them," Quack explained.

"What's this specific switch or rift thingy called, then?" the Space Chicken asked. "You want me to say its name and command it towards me. That's basically doing Your job, but for switches, not for people."

"Not really," Quack said dismissively. "In fact, not in the slightest. But in answer to your question, the switches don't have names as such; you have to describe the rift you want before the Gate of Life and the switch will appear."

"So You want me to go to the Gate of Life and say 'Um, excuse me. But do you mind if I have the rift that lets through holes in time, please?'"

"Or some derivative thereof. Yes."

"Wouldn't it be much simpler if these time-hole-thingies had a name?"

"Yes. I was sort of hoping you'd come up with one."

"I thought you said there are an infinite number of them," the Space Chicken said in bemusement. "If You think I'm going to come up with endless names, You are greatly mistaken, my friend. An infinite number of names is an infinite number more than I'm prepared to create."

"So you are prepared to create some?"

"No! Didn't you hear me? It's an infinite number too many. An infinite number! That means I want to think up zero names."

"An infinite number minus an infinite number could still result in an infinite number."

"Quack, seriously, I don't want to name anything. I'm no good at thinking up names or anything imaginative really, because I've got no place to draw creativity from."

"Said the spaceman-Chicken-prophet who recently laid an Egg despite being male... But don't worry, Space Chicken. I'm not going to ask you to do that."

"Thank You."

"All I want is you to think about whether or not you're interested in the search for the switch."

"I'll see what I can do. If I decide it sounds good, which I probably will do, I'll start work on that as soon as I've caught David Gratton." He sighed with both frustration and relief. "I'll add it to my list."

He switched his phone off. The first of many switch-offs, he thought. "I'll add it all to my list."

Chapter 22

"I know this will sound confusing," Arthur said to Quack via the piece of rock. He had spent some time getting to grips with the power of this pious object and had eventually come to the conclusion that some of Quack's might was stored inside it. He managed to hook up the stone to the frequency of Quack's energy in the Overworld. And, at the end of it, Arthur had one maxim to draw from his interstellar and interdimensional technological work: 'If it's not working, talk to it and see what happens.' "If I tell it correctly it will sound very confusing. But You are God, so You should understand."

"I'm not God," Quack denied, shocked at such a polite accusation. "The God Theory is way above me."

"All right," Arthur agreed, with complete, perfect confusion. "So You're just an entirely normal person Who I'm talking to through this rock."

"Granted I am a god," Quack continued, "but that's 'god' with a lower-case 'g'."

"He is right, you know," Margery contributed. "And I am rather proud of Him for commentating on the subtle, mistreated punctuation of the obvious yet distant reaches of language."

"Right," Arthur accepted.

"Who are you anyway?" Quack asked Arthur.

"That..." Arthur began. "That is a question I have been wondering for a long time."

Quack squirmed in disgust. "Do you intentionally base your life around clichés?"

Arthur was taken aback. "I thought You'd be impressed."

"Why in Quack's name would you think something like that?"

"It just seemed to be the kind of thing You would be into."

"Far from it: I want creativity! I took my time to make the diversity of life on Glix. I made each of you unique. And this is how you repay me? You're all... just the same," he said in exasperation.

"All You gods and prophets are the same in that You spend Your lives obsessing over 'the sound of punctuation'."

"And all you people identically don't care about punctuation. And there are more of you being useless than there are gods, prophets and deities being pointless, so I win." Quack paused for a moment. "How do you know so much about the sound of punctuation? I mean, surely it's written down in legend, but you talk as an old acquaintance. Have we met – really met – before?" Quack shook his head in confusion. And it takes a lot to confuse a god, even one of Quack's low standards. "I ask again, who are you?"

"That..." Arthur Cardigan began. "That is the long and complicated story I am about to tell You."

Chapter 23

Dave hurriedly walked along the road with the twins just behind him and the Egg cradled in his hands.

I was so sure I understood this world, he thought. Now it seems the one person I thought I could rely on to help me—

By telling you the Glix'n varieties of pizza and hooking you up to God.

...walks out on his only son.

IT WAS A MOMENT OF FRUSTRATION. WE SHOULDN'T JUDGE OTHERS BASED ON SITUATIONS WE'VE NEVER BEEN IN.

But he was a role model to me. Who now will help me with my increasing number of personalities.

Maybe you should man up and sort your life out, rather than relying on a single father.

YOU WILL CATCH UP WITH HIM SHORTLY. YOU NEEDN'T FRET; YOU ARE STEADILY APPROACHING HIM.

You know, I'm beginning to like you... me... whoever, 3rd Dave.

THANK YOU.

And what about me then?

You're a jerk.

Oh, really nice.

You know it's true.

But I'm usually right, aren't I?

No.

You know it's true.

3rd Dave, what do you think of 2nd Dave?

I COULDN'T POSSIBLY COMMENT.

Who says you're 1st Dave, anyway?

I was here first. I was fine until you came along.

I was fine until I had to meet you. I can't believe we both had to share the same brain, but now sharing the same part of the brain of Dave. Urgh!

Look, I don't especially like you either, but we all have to get along together and live in the same head. We're causing him real mental trouble.

Don't you get it? We are the mental trouble.

He must be so stressed out right now.

We are the stress!

HE IS GOING THROUGH ENOUGH PHYSICAL TROUBLE RIGHT NOW. HE IS RUNNING TOWARDS THE ETERNAL SPACE CHICKEN OF THE SACRED QUACK.

I wonder which part of the brain, or his thoughts, deal with that.

How can an idiot like you have the same brain as me?

IT IS BECAUSE YOU ARE DAVE'S SECOND THOUGHTS AND HE IS THE FIRST.

Can we please try to keep calm? Dave has just been abandoned by his role model and the only person he can relate to on Glix. If he gets any more stressed, I fear he may gain more voices.

Good. Hopefully one of the new voices will have something intelligent to say.

OH, LOOK. IT APPEARS WE ARE APPROACHING THE ETERNAL SPACE CHICKEN OF THE SACRED QUACK.

Chapter 24

The Space Chicken looked around and saw that he was no longer in Borg, but in a small town known as Ragnol.

"I didn't think this was on the way to BongVe Bong." The Space Chicken had never been here before. "Oh well, I must have gone down a wrong path. That just means that the others will never meet up with me... but I kind of want them to catch up with me. Oh, what have I done? I should never have mistreated that Egg." Several people were starting to stare. A child ran up to ask for the prophet's autograph, but its mother forced it away. "I should have held onto him closely. He was my son and I could have brought him up, looked after him and..." The Space Chicken started sobbing. "And he was going to be called Fred Jr," the Space Chicken squealed, falling about on the floor and crying. "Now I have no-one but myself to talk to and I'm cracking up."

Oh shut up, you nutcase.

"Where did he go?"

"I'm sure he must have gone down one of these streets."

"Cheeseburger."

'I know he'll have gone to a place we'll go. He doesn't realize it, but all our similar personalities mean that we will go to the same place as him. If anyone is ever separated and in need of help – as I know will happen in a short while from now – just follow your instincts and we will meet up together again.'

They walked past a small, wooden cottage in the row of houses. An elderly man who seemed to know them already stepped out of the building and beckoned them. An Old Man full of Tales.

"Please come in. I have been expecting you for many Haca."

"Um, excuse me?" said Dave. "I don't believe we've met. Who are you?"

"I am the man currently living under the name of Old Man Tales. You may enter my abode. Your friend is presently residing here."

"You have the Space Chicken?" Dave turned back to look at Clint, Clein and Crazy Dave. They shrugged and entered the cottage.

Please don't bother getting yourself killed today; I'm quite busy at the moment.

The Space Chicken sat in the elderly, pink living room filled with geraniums that belonged to Old Man Tales. The Fowl hadn't been certain that the legendary Old Man did in fact exist. The probability of the man being factual had been about 50:50. But now the Space Chicken had met Old Man Tales, he was even less sure the geriatric was real. Old Man Tales was the most peculiar human being the Space Chicken had ever seen – and he'd seen some freaks in his time. Old Man Tales was very strange, yet he was just an ordinary old man. Old Man Tales (if he was indeed genuine) had a completely bald head and a very round scalp. His forehead was wrinkly and covered most of his eyes. His eyes themselves weren't very clear through his round, misted-white glasses, although the Space Chicken could tell that they were looking into his soul. The Old Man's nose and ears weren't to be seen either: his thick, twisted, white beard intertwined with his glasses and held them in place thoroughly, concealing most of the usual facial features expected on a person. Not that you would want to look at his ears, though. The unusual scalp, glasses and beard each held more peculiar value than you would expect to find on an entire human, but the combination of the three sucked in concentration like a black hole. Anyone meeting Old Man Tales, though, wouldn't be too surprised if a black hole suddenly did spring upon his face. Covering at least the bottom half of his face was the famous beard. It had rips and tears here and there, but remained mostly smooth and soft at the sides, eventually leading to a point. Even more extraordinary than that was that the beard was longer than Old Man Tales himself, and trailed behind him, along the floor.

The Space Chicken perched on the edge of the dull, brown sofa in the flowery-pink sitting room and thought about how much he was enjoying being with Old Man Tales; it was good to take his mind off things. He heard the front door close and Old Man Tales's footsteps returning.

"So as I was saying," he continued loudly, so that the wise senior could hear, "I think there is a new genre derived from the merger of fables and sci-fi. Like in that new novella by What's-Her-Name. You know, The Star Fish."

Old Man Tales re-entered the room, followed by the five friends left behind at the hotel by the Space Chicken.

Old Man Tales left the room weightlessly.

"Listen," the Space Chicken said, "I'm sorry about what I did at the hotel. Clint, Clein and the two Daves, I let you down and I'm really ashamed of myself. But you," he said to the Egg. "I can't abandon my own son. How irresponsible am I? It doesn't matter if I wanted you or if it was just another one of Quack's mistakes, it's my responsibility to look after you and I should never let anything hurt you, especially not me myself. More importantly, I should not— could not have left my friends behind, the only people I have in this world, and I'm probably one of the few people you have too. I thought the world was being tough on me, but I was the one making it tough. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay, Space Chicken," Dave said. "We all make mistakes, whether we realise it or not, and the one thing we can do to make them disappear is to forgive and forget. I forgive you and I hope the rest of the group does, too."

Dave and the Space Chicken looked and saw that they were all nodding.

"I guess I just didn't understand what you guys meant to me. But we're all in agreement I made a mistake and I'll make sure to avoid it happening again."

"Do you know what this means?" Dave asked him.

"No. What?"

Dave put on his cheesiest grin and made his best attempt to reassure the Space Chicken. "It means you didn't make a mistake at all."

Old Man Tales had offered them hospitality fit for a king (or whatever regal or political system there was on Glix) already and let the travelling gang stay overnight in the rooms of the house.

Dave's room was the same old-man pink colour as the lounge with the flowery border friezes. He lay there in the deep, down bed and tried to work out how much water there must have been in the paint in order to get the walls looking such a faint, pale tone. He stared in the assumption that he was watching paint dry. He didn't fall asleep, though. The hectic voices chimed on in his head. The busy day's thoughts swirled in his mind. The memories fought each other for a place at the front of his cortex. The arguments raged once more around him. He lay there. There was a bedside table with chipped white paint, on top of which was a desk lamp, which Dave wasn't sure worked. There was a star-shaped clock hanging on the wall, which apparently rang 15 times a day. He watched the clock.

The Eternal Space Chicken of the Sacred Quack and the Egg's room was another old-man shade, this time a gentle blue coating all the walls and the ceiling. They had an oak bedside table with a small light switched on atop it. The room was rather bare. It only had the bed, the bedside and a round clock on the wall. They watched the clock.

Clint was tucked up in bed. He was comfortable. He was technically comfortable. He saw a lot of plates and shelves hung on the olive-green walls. There was also a clock. He watched the clock.

Clein lay down in his old-man blue room. He had a bedside lamp on a small desk, which was lighting the room in stressfully calm shades. There were scraps of paper adorning all the walls. Some were in cases and frames and some were there on their own. Some scraps were glued together. They all had the old man's handwriting on them. It was the neatest and most perfect writing Clein had ever seen, as if the man had spent a lot of time practising. Lots of a lot of time practising. In the middle of these neat, calligraphic sheets was a very different one with numbers etched oddly around it. It also had moving hands. He watched the clock.

Crazy Dave lay there. His room was old-man pink. It also had many items adorning the walls. But Crazy Dave didn't see these things. He didn't feel at all uncomfortable or thoughtful, nor did he have any interest in watching the clock. He was asleep. And he felt right at home.

The elderly man lay in his bed. He thought about the day that had gone by. He thought of how long he had waited for this moment. He thought of how it didn't feel like home any more. And how it wouldn't be home for much longer anyway. He watched the clock.

Chapter 25

I think he's an absolute idiot.

Y-o-u w-o-u-l-d s-a-y t-ha-t-, w-o-u-l-d-n-'-t y-o-u-?

LET'S ALL PLAY NICE.

'F' to the 'R' to the 'I' to the 'Ends'!

oh look its unnecessary use of punctuation

You sound just like Margery. Although I agree entirely, Dave 5 is incredibly annoying. Even more so than Dave 1.

If anyone (ANYONE!!) uses exclamation marks! A lot!! It's me!!!

Oh Quack.

tell me about it

Loads of Daves are here now. It used to be just the idiot, the upper case one and me.

it seems there are seven of us now

I like you. You're all right.

D-a-v-e i-s o-b-v-i-o-u-s-l-y t-r-o-u-b-l-e-d-, o-t-h-e-r-w-i-s-e w-e w-o-u-l-d-n-'-t b-e h-e-r-e-.

wow youre smart

Genius in the building... Or maybe in the head.

ſorry I'm latter ; traffic haſt ſlown me down.

Itookaliftwithhim.

we didnt need you here speedy and just plain weird

Calmdownyoupetulanttwoyearoldpunctuationfail.

woah looks like someone forgot to step off the train

Good one!

I'm the exclamatory one!!!!

IalreadytoldyouItookaliftwithDave8.

It iſt truthe : —we didſt lift-ſhare.

Crazy freak.

W-h-y w-o-u-l-d h-e h-a-v-e f-o-r-g-o-t-t-o-n t-o s-t-e-p o-f-f t-h-e t-r-a-i-n-?

because he was speaking so quickly duh

I t-h-o-u-g-h-t h-e w-e-n-t i-n a c-a-r w-i-t-h D-a-v-e t-h-e E-i-g-h-t-h-.

HE ARRIVED IN SOME FORM OF SHARED VEHICLE. CLEARLY IT WASN'T A VERY WELL THOUGHT-OUT JOKE.

no need to shout

I'M NOT SHOUTING. THIS IS SHOUTING!

Obviously there is a massive difference there then...

'W' to the 'E' to the 'space' to the 'A' to the 'R' to the 'E'-

spit it out

Yeah!!

To the 'Meant' to the 'Be'—

You're incredibly annoying.

To the 'We are meant to be the Ten Daves' to the 'but everybody turned up in the wrong order'.

FIRST DAVE OBVIOUSLY COULDN'T MAKE IT AS HE IS UNCONCIOUS.

And I'm Dave 2.

I WAS REFERRED TO AS 'DAVE 3', I BELIEVE.

dave 4

To the 'Dave' to the '5'!

Shut up!

dave vi is late again

Sorry!! Dave VI!!

YOU ARE NOT DAVE VI.

I a-m D-a-v-e V-I-.

I'm Dave VII then!!!

Daue the Eighth.

where is dave 9

You need a question mark!!!

i cant do those

You're stupid!!!!

Dave9here.

Sorry, I can't understand you in the slightest.

WellIhavetotiltmyheadtoreadyou.

You don't even have a head!

Imaginen Daue ; with ten visageſ.

To the 'Where is Dave 10?'

D-o w-e h-a-v-e a D-a-v-e 1-0-?

dave tne hear! :P

W-h-o i-s D-a-v-e '-t-n-e-'-?

soz Typo :( lol no gud at tipin

Oh Quack.

i say we kill at least daves 5 6 and 10

There is no Dave 56!!!!!!

trollolololol

We could kill Dave 1. I hate him.

DAVE 1 IS YOUR BODY AND, THEREFORE, YOUR CONCIOUSNESS.

maybe not bother with the whole consciousness thing

Yeah, we don't need to be awake.

i like it

How about Dave 3?

he thinks hes so intellectual but comes across as naïve

Ooh!! I didn't know you could do those dot thingies!!!

DIAERESES.

When Dave 1 wakes up he's going to be so freaked.

what happens if he finds out about it

What?

the way to get rid of us

Oh no!!!!!!!!

To the 'That would be awful'.

epic fail ): pwnage xxx :P

That wouldſt be horrendus ; ſimple awefull-foollish!

To the 'I know'!

I find you very annoying. Couldn't you just change your, um, writing style to being bold?

Okay. I find you incredibly annoying.

Good, that's much better. I still find you quite annoying.

To the 'That wasn't me'.

IT SEEMS THERE IS AN ELEVENTH DAVE.

And twelfth.

maybe we're not the twelve daves but the eleven voices

WELL, ELEVEN IS AN UNLUCKY NUMBER.

thats settled then

As we were saying, Dave doesn't know it, but the way to destroy us is—

"What‽ What is it‽" Dave shouted. Realising he was back in the old-man pink room and that he had jumped up in fright, Dave threw himself back into the bed in a state of despair.

After getting dressed and ready, Dave went downstairs and into the kitchen. Slumped at a stool, there was a very tired-looking Space Chicken.

"Hey, Crazy Dave," he called, the feathery bags under his eyes drooping, "can I have some of that mint cake?"

"Yeah, me too, please."

"Yeah."

"Yeah!"

"Yeah, I don't need it." He handed packets out to everybody.

"I love sugar," said Clint.

The Space Chicken looked at him in disbelief. "Well, I really wanted the mint cake... so I could gain energy. I'm terribly tired; I couldn't really get to sleep last night."

"I love sugar, though I prefer salt slightly."

"I want sugar to wake me up, not as an unusual snack." Clint still didn't get it. "I'm old and tired, so leave me alone."

"That's stupid. Everybody knows that the best thing to have if you want waking up is tea."

They didn't talk much after that.

"May I sample some mint cake also?" Old Man Tales asked politely.

They – mostly the Space Chicken – stuffed their faces and were soon up to scratch and so set off.

"Thank you so much for your hospitality," said the stuffed Chicken. "I anticipate our meeting again soon."

"Thanks for having us to stay," said Clint. "Sorry, I don't believe I asked your name," he added inquisitively, not having paid attention when told the previous day.

"Old Man Tales," he answered.

Clint was taken aback. "Well... Old Man Tails." Quack rang the phone to tell him the mistake, at which point the old man grinned. "I hope to see you again someday, sooner or later."

Chapter 26

"What did you mean 'see you again someday'?" Dave asked Clint as they walked along the road from the warm and homely Old Man Tales's house to the barren, cold BongVe Bong. "Do you honestly think we'll ever see him again?"

Clint was silent and thoughtful for a moment. "We might."

"No, we won't. He's a really old man who we will never come across again. I promise you that if we ever meet him again... pigs will fly and kittens will explode and Crazy Dave will be King with me as his servant."

"I get a kingdom?" Crazy Dave asked, his eyes aglitter with hope.

"No! I just said that would never happen."

"You said I would when we meet Old Man Tales again."

"If we meet him, I said," Dave corrected.

"That would be a nice treat, I'm sure," Clint said.

"Old Man Tales already gave me a little present," Crazy Dave said, looking pleased with himself.

"What is it?" Dave asked out of phatic courtesy, though he was genuinely interested. "I bet it was something mysterious. Was it longevity, by any chance?"

"No, it's a little more physical," Crazy Dave replied, taking the gift out of his pocket. "A rock."

"What? Why would you want a rock?"

"I like it. It really says 'me'."

"Throw it away. That was probably the lesson he wanted you to learn: there are some things in life we must part with, so as not to become materialistically obsessed." He then added, less wisely, "Try skimming it."

"I don't think it will skim. It's quite spherical. Besides, I'm keeping it."

"It will be a big addition to what you have to carry. But if that's what you want, whatever."

"So what did you all think of the old man?" Clein asked as they walked.

"Which old man?" asked Crazy Dave.

"Old Man Tales, of course," the twin responded, impatiently.

Crazy Dave still looked blank.

"The one we just spent half a day with!"

"Oh, him. I thought he was odd."

"You would say that, wouldn't you?" he muttered.

"I thought he was very mysterious," said the Space Chicken.

"I thought he spoke very wisely," Clint explained.

'I thought he seemed full of stories and just about ready to burst,' the Egg mused telepathically. 'Yet he didn't. He hid them all away from the world, concealing his mystery more for another day, other people, another time, and maybe even another race.'

"I thought, and still do think," said Dave, "that we have just found our elderbeard."
Chapter 27

"It all started some time ago," Arthur explained to Quack. "And then it continued in some time from now. If you get what I mean. But it was all in the past, as well as some of it being in the future. You – the future You, the You who understands/understood/will understand the story – explained (or, perhaps, will explain/already explained)—"

"Get on with it, and do so in past tense, second person, preferably in a linear structure and do try to keep your tale as objective as possible."

Arthur Cardigan, unable to fully comprehend the demand, merely responded with, "Yes."

"Thank you."

"Now if I may continue without any further interruptions," he said, glancing with a hateful eye towards Quack's invisible presence, "You explaine—"

"Go ahead."

"You ex—"

"I won't interrupt again."

"You—"

"Oh, sorry."

"—"

"I'll shut up now, shall I?"

"That would be good," said Arthur, with teeth so gritted that no snow was likely to land, nor any ice form, within a hundred yards of the man until a decade after the end of time. He cleared his throat. "You explained to me that I have a purpose on this—"

"My Beak is sealed."

"Will you give it a rest‽" Arthur screeched.

"How dare you‽" Quack exclaimed. "Personal pronouns referring to me are always capitalised!"

Arthur took a minute or two to pluck up the courage to continue. "And You wonder why there are so many atheists," he muttered. "Anyway, as I was saying, You explained to me in the future that I have a purpose on this planet. You need to keep the world in order and I am the one You come to for physical help."

"Really? I usually just go to one of the prophets for that sort of thing."

"But You needed to train me up. You explained my life to me and then sent me on my way. Then, when the time came, You asked me if I was ready to begin my life – my true life. I wasn't. And that's why You sent me here. Into the past, where I can catch up on my training, while I catch up on time."

"Sorry, but what training?"

"You need to prepare me for the life that lies ahead."

"But I don't know what life lies ahead of you. How can I train you and accustom you to something that even I don't understand? It would be a lot easier if you just told me what I told you.../will tell you."

"Now You're doing it! You filthy, lying, dirty great hypocrite!"

"I'm allowed to be a hypocrite; I made Glix, I will inevitably destroy Glix."

"What do You mean You're going to destroy Glix‽"

"I'm only kidding," He laughed. "You're going to destroy it just fine all by yourselves."

"That's still bad! In fact, it's possibly worse."

"Relax; none of this will ever affect you. You'll be long dead by then. And, as we know all too well, the future can never impact on the past. Which is sometimes a good thing and sometimes a bad thing," Quack reflected. "But all we need to remember is that what happens at the end of time can't possibly have any effect upon your life."

"Well, actually," Arthur said, "it's not always that simple."

Chapter 28

The Space Chicken, the Egg, Dave, Crazy Dave, Clint and Clein walked continuously, with the atmosphere changing and the landscape turning noticeably hillier and littered with fields of livestock. The language of the locals they met as they travelled became increasingly peculiar.

"Do you think we'll arrive in BongVe Bong today?" asked Clint.

"We should do," said the Space Chicken. "I've travelled this way before and this seems about right. It doesn't take long before you reach the border. Oh, that's another thing, isn't it: the border to BongVe Bong is really weird. The entire street is built up with office blocks and skyscrapers and then... it abruptly stops." He thought of the journey so far and how bizarre it all was. The intelligent twins, the crazy boy of 14, the flying Egg, the old man and himself – the massive, holy Chicken.

His phone rang.

"And the interrupting god."

He put his phone down again.

It rang.

"And the punctuating mother-Chi—"

He switched his phone off.

"Actually," he decided, "the Border's not that weird."

"Oh, I know now," said Clint suddenly. "Didn't they demolish part of the street and the wall in the 1920s. Well, just the bits that were in BongVe Bong. They kept the English parts. It had a name, didn't it?"

"Yeah. Oh, I remember," said the Space Chicken, "wasn't it called the Wall-Street Crash?"

"I think so."

Dave tried to change the topic to something he understood. Or at least partially understood. "I had a really weird dream last night."

"What was it like?" asked Clein.

"It was sort of like an argument between all the voices in my head."

They all looked at each other. "There are voices in your head?"

Dave was worried. "No," he said nervously, "I don't mean it like that. I'm... I'm not crazy. I'm normal Dave. He's the crazy one." He pointed at the other Dave. "He's Crazy Dave."

Crazy Dave began a speech. "Taking into account the libration, I think the energy reflected by both moons is more than enough to give us sufficient light when we are positioned away from the two stars – Romploon and Quil – and when we are positioned towards them, it is incredibly bright. In the Nekken Semisphere, it is bright all summer."

"No. No! NO!" Dave screeched.

"It's okay, Dave," Clint said.

"I'm not crazy, I'm not crazy."

The Space Chicken was already on his phone to Quack.

"He says he is having these weird dreams and there are these voices in his head."

"And you're sure he's not crazy?"

Margery joined in. "Ask him if they have different kinds of punctuation as their speech."

The Space Chicken sighed. "You and your punctuation in speech. Dave can't hear it, you know."

"Just ask him."

The Space Chicken went over without hope to the gibbering Dave and asked him the question.

"Yes," Dave responded. "There were eleven of them and they all spoke using different punctuation."

This shocked the Space Chicken. Why does everything have to be so shocking? he wondered. This world can't just run as expected for one second. He returned to Margery and reluctantly told her the news that she was right.

"It is just as I suspected," she said confidently. "These are mind-possessors known as Vaemei."

The Space Chicken turned around and called to Dave, "They're now dubbed 'Veemeye'."

"It is 'Vaemei', dear," Margery corrected.

"That's what I said."

"No; you spelt it incorrectly."

"Whatever, I can't tell the difference," the Space Chicken lied.

"They are eleven mental daemons who gather around people and taunt them in a variety of ways. Each Vaeme has its own personality."

"How do you know so much about them?" asked the Space Chicken.

Margery intertwined her voice with thick trellises of hatred. "They use incorrect punctuation."

"Okay... How exactly do they do that?"

"Well, one of them speaks fully in capital letters."

"Right," the Space Chicken sighed hopelessly.

"Another of them has hyphens between every letter. Honestly, I swear we are going to run out of those one of these days. There is also a Vaeme who insists on saying 'to the' before everything. Though – strictly speaking – that has nothing to do with punctuation, I still thoroughly detest such phatic colloquialisms. The quotation marks it uses, however—"

"I don't care!" he exploded. "Sorry... I just want to know: can I get infected with these Vaemei things?"

"You may if they leave Dave. Or even if Dave still has them, you may be at a small risk of catching them. They are attracted to people who are tired, confused or, sometimes, paranoid. If you become more tired, confused or paranoid than him, they may infect you instead/also. So Dave will only have these torturing him for as long as he is tired, confused and/or paranoid."

"Sounds like Dave all right."

"Is he likely to be any of these things?"

"Well... he's from another planet, you see."

"What‽ Why cannot you be more like my lovely grandson and have normal friends."

"But— but he is one of us; a group of friends."

"I do not see what that has to do with it."

The Space Chicken hung up.

"Am I all right?" cried Dave. "Is there anything Margery has said I can do about them?"

"The hen says you are more vulnerable to the Vaemei if you're tired, confused and/or paranoid."

The Space Chicken's phone rang. "Do you realise you said 'hen' instead of 'Hen'?"

"I know. I meant to say it," the Space Chicken uttered contemptuously, before putting the phone down.

"If I'm tired, confused or paranoid? Well, that's a great help," Dave exclaimed dramatically and sarcastically. "I could have worked that one out by myself," he muttered.

"When we've found the Fez and I've gotten whatever's inside, you can go home and rest," said Clein.

"Who says you're opening the Fez, Clint?" asked Crazy Dave.

"I'm actually called Clein, if you don't mind too much," he retorted. "But I say so, and – erm – your face is... your face is..." he started, trying to think of an insult about what (besides a face) Crazy Dave's countenance resembled.

"Who says we'll even make it to the Fez?" the Space Chicken said.

"What‽" exclaimed the Unanimous Everyone.

"Quack told me of a problem with holes in time," he said.

"What, like a sort of vortex?" asked Crazy Dave.

"Yeah."

"Your face is like a sort of vortex," Clein said.

"What do these vortexes do?" asked Dave.

"They just appear out of nowhere, inhale people and spit them out at another moment in Glix'n history."

"What are they actually called?" Clint enquired. "These timeholes surely must have a specific name. Besides 'timeholes', that is."

"I don't know. I never really saw it as an important issue. Make up one if you like."

The Space Chicken's mobile rang and he put it on speakerphone.

"What is it now, mum?" he asked impatiently of the innocent handset.

"I'm actually not your mother," responded Quack. "I'm not even in the same family as you and I'm not in the right genus. But I am in the same class as you. That's if I were a life form in your style of existence."

"Get to the point."

"Basically, I was eavesdropping on your conversation and I reminded Myself to be part of the naming of the timeholes process."

"Right."

"Well, since you've made it so democratic," said Dave, "here is my first suggestion; I propose that these timeholes be named... 'Timeholes'."

"No! You need to be more creative," said the Space Chicken. "These... things are affecting the whole of history as well as the future. Whatever we name them today is going to stick around for ever."

"Margery's telling Me to tell you that 'forever' is one word," Quack informed the Space Chicken.

"It can be either, mum," the Space Chicken said angrily through a gritted beak.

"I've already told you, I'm not your mum!"

"Can you just remind me what these time things do, again?" asked Clint. "And what's the point of them?"

"If you fall into one – or get sucked into one – you travel to a random place in time."

"...and space," Clein added mysteriously.

"No!" Quack replied. "These... things can only make you travel through time. And just on Glix. If you travel through space that's a wormhole."

"What's the point of them, anyway?" Clint asked again.

"I didn't create them deliberately," said Quack. "They are accidentally coming through a rift in space. But that's another story..."

"So this specific kind of accidental timehole is one unique to Glix? And it needs a name you say?" asked Crazy Dave. "How about an 'Edam'?" he suggested.

"Why?"

"Because it's madE backwards."

"What?"

"Because when you go through one of them, you're madE backwards," he chortled.

"That doesn't make any sense," said Clint.

"You don't actually become unmade when you go into one," Dave clarified. "You just get sent backwards in time."

"I'm glad someone understands it," said Quack, rolling His pious eyes.

"I understand the way in which they work," the Space Chicken announced proudly. "In fact I know everything there is to know about the Edams."

"They're not called 'Edams'!"

"Also," said Clint, "if you're suggesting that a person is madE backwards when they go through one of the timey-thingies, wouldn't the person be the Edam, not the place they pass through?"

"Exactly so, Clint or Clein," said Quack.

"That's enough trying to sound smart," the Space Chicken snapped enviously.

"I think we need some form of variation on a word at least," Clint said, doggedly trying for Quack's recognition like the attention-seeking Glix'n traveller known as Baron Münchhausen. "How about 'Emad' or 'Dame'?"

"What does that even mean?"

"How about 'Dema'?"

"How about shut up?"

"Stop! Everybody!" Quack called.

There was a long break for sound to take some time off and vision to start his shift. In sound's absence, silence crept in.

There were many glares between freaks across the path. There were even looks from the sightless Egg and scowls towards the unseen Quack.

"Anyway," Quack said, "I prefer the word 'Emmental'."

"I thought we'd stopped‽"

"I don't like Emmental."

"I like neither the cheese nor the word, and I don't particularly like the place in Germany."

"I don't like you now you've said that."

"There's a German place called Emmental?"

"No, I just don't like Germany in general."

"I can't tell if you're being sarcastic or not."

"At least 'Edam' made sense."

"But it didn't make sense!"

"It sort of did."

"When you said 'made sense', did you say 'made' with a capital E or not?"

"He didn't, I checked."

"Good, because I hate that."

"Anyone who says a bad pun will be smitten."

"Ha. Smitten."

"Was that a Play On Words?" Quack spat.

"No, it was just – um – just a comical and analytical interpretation of Your choice of heteronyms. Sir."

"Good. That had better be all it was."

"I prefer the term 'Cantaloupe'."

"'Cantaloupe' is a type of melon, not cheese."

"At least 'Emmental' begins with the same letter as 'Edam'."

"Will you shut up about your 'Emmental'."

"Will you stop using quotation marks‽"

"Who said we were talking about cheese?"

"Edam and Emmental are both types of cheese."

"And they begin with the same letter."

"Shut up."

"Do you want Me to smite you?"

"I didn't say a pun."

"I know, but it was a bad one."

"That doesn't even make sense."

"Neither does the Edam joke."

"I didn't make up that joke!"

"I never said you did."

"I wasn't talking about Edam or Emmental, I was talking about Cantaloupes."

"Shut up about cantaloupes."

"No, that is the new word for this kind of timehole."

"What made you say Cantaloupe?"

"The bad pun."

"No bad puns or I'll smite you!"

"We weren't saying bad puns. We were just talking about them."

"I said Cantaloupe because they are like 'loop'-holes."

"No bad puns!"

"Or what?"

"Or smity-smity."

"Cheeseburger."

"But you don't say 'Cantaloop', you say 'Cantalope'."

"I don't!"

"Well you should."

"I do!"

"Good!"

"I don't."

"It seems like you're going round in a loop/lope."

"Now You'll have to smite Yourself."

"I have a suggestion," said the Space Chicken. "How about we all agree – for once – and just accept these weird timeholes as being called Cantaloupes—"

"Edams!"

"Emmentals!"

"Cheeseburgers!"

"—and make do with it."

There was a moment of silence.

"I don't like the word 'Cantaloupe'."

"I think we should call them 'Goudas'."

"I agree... yet I don't."

"I agree to disagree."

"That doesn't make sense."

"Yes it does."

"I believe it's called an 'octomoron'."

"What's that?"

"That's where something doesn't make sense but nobody cares."

"Do any of us fall into one of these Cantaloupes—"

"Edams!"

"Emmentals!"

"Cheeseburgers!"

"—in the future?"

"I think Crazy Dave does. And maybe one of the twins."

"I've found it."

"What, a Cantaloupe?"

"No, look."

"Wow."

"I always forget the twins' names."

"See, I knew you'd listen."

"What are they, 'Flint and Ryan'?"

"Clint and Clein," they both corrected in monotone.

"Come on."

"Anyway, don't, whatever you do, fall into one."

"I'll try not to."

"You just told us we would anyway."

"Oh," said Quack, struggling over a simple paradox. "You probably will, but try not to."

"Stop using optomorons."

"I believe you made a mistake there."

"Did I?"

"Yes. It's octomoron."

"It's not called an 'octomoron'. You all sound like octomorons when you say that."

"What is it called, then?"

"An 'octofool'. Duh."

"So just remember: avoid the Cantaloupes."

"Edams."

"Emmentals."

"Cheeseburgers."

"Hey," said Clint. "Where are the Space Chicken and Dave?"

As they looked up, they saw the two walking a way along the road.

"It's the Border!" shouted Clint and Clein simultaneously, and they both ran towards the country change ahead of them.

"Hmm," said Crazy Dave, mostly to himself, but also to the winds of time. "I thought the Border would be more built-up with industry than that. Strange." He also ran, impersonating a duck.

"There's the Border," the Space Chicken said simply, as soon as everybody had caught up. "After all this time, all the searching and anger and moaning, it boils down to us simply crossing that line of nations and then we will instantly know where the Fez is."

"Thank Quack for that," said Clint.

"There aren't many big buildings," Dave observed, almost complaining at the lack of dense commercialism. "There are some, but they aren't as tall as I had expected, and you can hardly call them skyscrapers."

"It's true they do stop right before reaching the Border," stated Clein, "but it's definitely not the impact the Space Chicken described."

"I know," said the Space Chicken, slightly disappointed himself. "Nor is it what I expected. But the land sure does look desolate over there on the other side. Oh," he sighed. "We must have come to a different entrance than the one I remembered," he surmised.

"I suppose."

"Anyway, it doesn't really matter whether the entrance lived up to our expectations; it's about what we'll achieve when we cross the threshold."

"As soon as we step over there we'll know the precise location of the Fez," Dave said, reassuring himself.

"Then it will be one more short step until we reach our goal." The Space Chicken smiled.

"Don't jinx it," said Crazy Dave.

"I'm so excited!" Clein squealed.

Everyone looked at him.

"What, I've been waiting ombers for this," he justified.

"Ombers?" Dave asked.

"Yes... Oh, did I say it funnily?" he worried. "Did I say omberrs or ombears or ombeers?"

"No, I just thought... what does that mean?"

Clint was confused. "You know: 20 days; one tenth of a year; one cycle of the inner satellite around the Glix."

"Oh, yes! Of course, I know now – ombers!" Dave faked. "An omber... You know when your mind just blanks...?"

Dave faked badly.

The Space Chicken stepped up to him as Clint and Clein went off to speak to Crazy Dave. "Next time you have trouble, why don't you just ask me?" he said, sounding less welcoming than he could have.

"Okay." Dave ventured forth with the most apparent of his many questions. "Which omber is it now? In fact," he added, "what's the current date?"

"It's Ooll, 85th Quinquomber 2042."

"Okay..."

"What is it?"

"Nothing," he lied.

"What is it?" the Space Chicken persisted.

"You have eighty-five days – or more – in an omber? I thought Clint said that there were only twenty days? Oh, did Clint get it wrong?"

"No, you did. When did I say that there were eighty-five days in an omber? That would be ridiculous."

"You said that today is the 85th day in Quinquomber. I assume 'Quinquomber' is an omber."

"No it isn't and yes it is," said the Space Chicken. "I never said that today's the 85th day of Quinquomber; I said it was the 85th day, and it is in Quinquomber."

"And the difference is...?"

"It's the 85th day of the year, birdbrain. Why would anyone care what day of the omber it is?"

"On my home planet that's how we measured time. We said which day of the month it was."

"But the day inside of an omber – or a 'month', as you call it – is completely irrelevant! There is nothing obtained by knowing how long since the start of that month. What happens if, say, you organised something today for the... 14th day in November? You wouldn't have any clue (without doing a long calculation) how far away that date was. Your system is completely ludicrous."

"Well, since you've put it that way, it does seem quite pointless. It always seemed to work, though..."

"Now that you've settled that little issue, shall we step over the line?"

"Let's."

The whole gang approached it in awe and anticipation.

Dave took the first step over the line at the countries' Border, alongside the entrance signpost.

He concentrated hard on finding the location where he imagined the Fez to be placed. It was harder than he'd thought. The way the Space Chicken had described it made him think that you could instantly know the Fez's location without trying to find it. It proved to be far more difficult than this. "I'm not quite sure where the Fez is yet," he said with caution.

"You've never journeyed to the Fez before, though, have you? I made this journey many times before. I'll know." The Space Chicken stepped over the line.

"Where is it, Space Chicken?"

"It's," he replied. "It's... nowhere."

Clint and Clein stepped past the signpost.

After a short while, Clint said, "Well I can't feel anything."

"Me neither," said Crazy Dave, who had just walked into the country unobserved.

"Just step back and read what it says on that sign, Space Chicken, could you please?" said Clein, pointing to the post they had just ignored.

The Space Chicken went back to read the signpost and examined it thoroughly.

"What does it say?"

"It's written in a strange series of symbols," said the Space Chicken, "but I believe it translates as 'Welcome to Wales'."
Chapter 29

"I'm still not entirely sure what I need to train you for." Quack tried as hard as He could to connect with His future self and work out exactly what He was/is/will be going to do. But, unfortunately, He could find no logical explanation for why He might have wanted/might want/might soon want to send Arthur back in time/keep him in the present/bring him forward from the future. And if it hurt that much just thinking about the illogical concept, then it didn't bear thinking about. "Do you want Me to treat you like a prophet?" Quack asked.

"Sort of. Possibly. It depends upon the context," Arthur said, vastly mentally contradicting himself. "How do You train Your prophets?" he asked, making sure to give respect to the pronouns when begging to a god.

"Well, I give them a small, religion-based task and guide them through the whole thing."

"Wouldn't the Space Chicken be a better person to explain this to me? In fact, where is he right now?"

"He's busy. I've got him working away, informing the public of the imminent Flood."

"There's going to be a flood?" he asked. "Sorry, it should be 'Flood', shouldn't it?"

"Yes," said Quack. "But relax; he's got it all under control."

"Oh, right. Good," said Arthur. "How about getting one of the other prophets to help me? What happened to the Eternal... Great... Oh, for Sock's sake, I wish I knew my prophets better."

"Well, tough. That's what you get for not caring about Us deities except in times of dire need. Do you not appreciate Me, or something?"

"You have been known to make mistakes before."

"Who do you think you are talking to? Like I told you, I'm in control. I have everything sorted. Margery organises things for Me. I have tasks going for all of the prophets (which, may I add, are currently going splendidly; You can always trust a talking Animal to do Your work for You). Overall, My planet is just perfect. It's filled with satisfied Glix'ns. Every one of them worships the ground I walk on. Mainly because I only walk on the ground for a few steps every dozen millennia. But still," he justified, "they all love Me." Quack's look of self-satisfaction turned into one of displeasure. "Except you," he said with utter contempt, grimacing like a mad fish on a gherkin overdose.

"I'm sorry. I didn't exactly mean what I said about You having been accident-prone, clumsy and generally foolish in the past" Arthur admitted.

"Okay. I don't remember you saying anything along those lines. You said I make lots of mistakes, but that was about the gist of it." Nevertheless, Quack took this as an apology and accepted it. "Thank you."

"They don't quite though, do they, Quack?"

"What?"

"I respect You and look up to You and worship the ground You... well, You don't walk on it, but You occasionally water it," Arthur rambled. "Which I also respect, of course."

"Yes. Your point being?"

"Very few other people do. I occasionally meet elderly people with respect, but the youth of today just don't care about religion. It's slipping with each successive generation."

"What do you know about the culture of past generations?"

"Not much," admitted Arthur. "But it's more about what I will know."

"I don't think religion's really that important to the Glix'ns. A lot of them are atheists."

"But why, Quack? You're here, and a select few of us know You're here. Why can't You just tell them? Why can't You show them?"

"I used to. And they used to care. But now I give them obvious hints (and if you're lucky you may become one of these hints), but nevertheless they ignore them."

"You can tell them. I could tell them. We have definite proof in gods and the public needs to know about it."

"Do they? Do they really?" Quack commented cynically. "Arthur, have you ever heard of the Divine Why?"

"The Divine Y?" he asked. "Or was it the Divine Why?"

"The second one."

"I can't quite tell the difference between them."

"Soon you will. That'll have to be one of the things I teach you."

"Anyway, what is the Divine Why?"

"It's the idea that belief in gods or denial of anything beyond one's own understanding isn't import to a person's lifestyle, so long as they live a good, moral life."

"Hmm. I quite like it."

"As do many people. Generally accepted by a large percentage of the population as the ideal route to peaceful coexistence, it brings harmony to the world that no proof of God or gods ever could. It's the new religion."

"That's lovely," Arthur commented. "But getting back to the original train of thought, it doesn't matter about Who made which mistakes with which prophets (I'm not pointing any fingers here...) because this all happened in the past," Arthur said. "The future," Arthur corrected. "All this happens in the future. You're going to make mistakes in the future. So, I guess it really does matter, then."

"I hate to break it to you, but no-one gives a Cotton Sock," Quack blasphemed.

"But this means You have the potential to stop these mistakes from ever happening."

"You clearly know nothing about paradoxes. Now I know why the future Quack sent you back in time."

"Did He send me here so the present/past You can teach me all about them? And the many other wonders of the world?"

"No, it was to get rid of you."

"You clearly know nothing about time travel," Arthur said. "I will be still be there in the future."

"That's what you think," Quack muttered under His breath.

"It just means I'll be slightly older when I'm in the future that used to be my present. One year older, to be precise."

Quack pricked up the sides of His head. It would have been far more noticeable and useful if He in fact had ears, but you can't have everything. Unless, of course, you're a god, in which case You probably won't be organised enough to create the necessary matter for pinna. "Do you mean to say," said Quack, in a panic, "that there's a point in time when there are two of you in the world?"

"Yes," he replied mischievously. "In fact, there are points in time when there a great deal of Arthur Cardigans dotted around. Although it's debatable whether or not they are really the same as me."

"Stop talking gibberish. Especially when it's offensive to Me."

"My point is that You have a habit of being selfish, closed-minded, ignorant, unreliable, thoughtless, cheap, simplistic, fortunate – but in a way that means you leave everything to chance and to the last possible Centihaca – abusive, resource-wasting, idio—"

"When you go into compound adjectives you can make anyone look like a villain. But it's your making Me look like the bringer of a terrible dystopia that concerns Me most."

"Ooh, 'dystopian'. That's a good adjective to use. Now I need something to combine it with."

"Just stop it, will you?"

"Do I have to? The list goes on."

"Just stop it," He repeated. "I'm the only person you can talk to right now and it just so happens I'm the god of your planet."

"All right," Arthur groaned, resigning himself to this horrific fate. "If there's no-one else to talk to, You'll have to do for now."

"How about starting with your work experience as soon as possible," Quack started.

"That's not quite what it is," Arthur mumbled, but this was lost on the god. "It's more like life experience."

"I want you to perform a very special task for me. It's something terribly meaningful that will change the future of some important people."

"That sounds good. Oh no," Arthur groaned in realisation. "This is going to involve elderly ladies, isn't it?"

Chapter 30

"How can this have happened? We were following the compass the whole time."

"Well your compass must be wrong, then!"

Dave thought about this. His compass had been given to him second-hand by the hospital. Where had they gotten it from? It had been pointing in a steady direction. Dave turned the compass around and the needle swung so it was facing the same way again. It must work properly. That is, assuming the compass points to the magnetic top of the planet on Glix.

"Where exactly is this compass meant to point?"

"Nekken," Crazy Dave, Clint, and Clein all responded.

The Space Chicken, however, carefully examined the compass. "I believe this to be a West Shovian compass and thus points to the nearest magical location."

"Is Wales magical?"

"No, nowhere's magical. It's a load of over-hyped fairy stories. These compasses are completely faulty and street merchants just try to flog them off to whomever they can. For all we know, the point could have been directing itself towards Crazy Dave this whole time."

"Is Crazy Dave magical?"

"Exactly," the Space Chicken agreed, leaving Dave slightly baffled. "Just a load of nonsense."

"Stop!" yelled a voice in front of them.

They all visually searched the vicinity (a search involving physical, you know... movement was too much like hard work for humans under 30, and too much pressure upon the physical bodies of humans 30 or over. Prophets are just inexcusably lazy) in an attempt to find the body that accompanied said voice, but all they found was a frog the same size as a domestic Siamese cat that was sitting in the same position as a typical Siamese cat with the same evil glare.

"I know all your secrets! I have followed you around for many days now and have listened in on the conversations you thought were behind closed doors. Spreading international mysteries in a public restaurant? And pretty much every public place, for that matter. Do you not stop to think about who may be following you as you wander across this country? What were you thinking? I hold the power and knowledge of every single thing about the Cantaloupes!"

"Actually," said Dave, "I don't think we had quite decided on a name for them yet—"

"Shut up! I have the command of your word 'elderbeard'!"

The Space Chicken's phone rang and he answered this time. He handed it to the frog. "It's for you."

"Hello?" the frog answered, more than slightly puzzled by the entirety of a paradisiacal telephone call, despite all the telephone conversations he had eavesdropped upon. "Okay... Thanks... What should I use instead? ...Just a full stop? Oh, I did rather like exclamations... Okay, I'll try to do that more often." He handed back the phone.

After some dark green blushing, the frog got over his initial embarrassment and resumed his monologue. "I know of the rifts and of the switches. I know of the Quack. I know of the cockerel egg. And most—"

A man wearing a black bowler's hat, a suit and shades and carrying a black violin case walked past and scooped up the frog. "Come along, Sam."

Dave was now more confused than he had been in a couple of days. "Did anybody else just see that happen?" he asked.

"Yeah," said Clint, "a frog just sat in the middle of the road before being picked up by a really weird-looking guy." He laughed. "Yeah, I saw that."

"No..." Dave started, and then decided it was pointless.

"I saw it," the Space Chicken said quietly to him. "And heard it."

"Why is it just us?" he asked.

"I'm a prophet; I can translate anything – language or otherwise. So can Quack and my mum and probably so can the Egg. You may have other reasons you understood that frog, but I don't know."

"So I'm not just seeing things?"

"I don't think so." He laughed. "Maybe you are. Maybe we all are. Maybe we're just too old to understand things anymore and are hallucinating with tiredness. Or maybe something was put in our tea again."

Dave really felt that he should have been offended by this, but he wasn't. The Space Chicken knew you would take it in your stride, he thought. He knew you weren't too stuck-up and egotistical to pretend you weren't aging and not vain enough to even care how old you are.

Don't get too arrogant.

Oh no.

I THINK THAT'S VERY GOOD OF YOU TO SAY THAT, DAVE. 'IT IS OBNOXIOUS TO PRETEND YOU DON'T AGE AND FOOLISH TO CARE YOU DO.' HM, I MIGHT USE THAT MORE OFTEN.

Thank you.

"I must be hallucinating now," stated the Space Chicken. "I could swear I can see a gigantic boat in the field ahead of us."

Dave looked ahead. "You can."

"Oh," he said. "That's rather odd."

"Let's go and investigate then, shall we?" said Clint.

"Sure," said Dave. "Nothing can take us that much farther away from the Fez now."
Chapter 31

They ran over the hill and into a field filled with ears of corn. There, in the middle of it all, stood the magnificent ark. It seemed to be an average boat – albeit a very large one – but for the many technological items clinging to its sides. It was accompanied by a smaller vehicle and a group of people in fancy dress. And a familiar face.

"Hello," said a lady in a form of white robe. "Have we met somewhere before?"

"Yes, of course," said Dave, "you were the leader of our FezFans class back in Carpe Yolu. How are you now, Oprah?"

"How do you know my name? I've never met you before in my life. I am Ms Oprah No. Here is my gang of musicians, with whom I am about to travel around in this, the Most Incredible Spaceboat." She gestured passively towards the giant ship parked behind them. "Thus far, we have been travelling in the Speedvan." She pointed towards the other vehicle – a campervan with small, plane-like wings. "Anyway, to make a long story short, we have a spare Speedvan; you can take it if you like."

"Do we need it?" Dave asked the rest of the group.

"Well, seeing as we now have a long way to go – through two countries – I think we definitely need this," Clint said angrily.

"Thank you very much for this gift," Clint said politely to Oprah.

The Space Chicken climbed into the driver's seat of the Speedvan to check how well it functioned. "Wow. This is good," said the Space Chicken, seeing all the buttons, levers and extra, unnecessary compartments in the Speedvan.

"Hey, Space Chicken," said Dave, "can you drive? You could drive us to BongVe Bong. If you wouldn't mind, of course," he added, remembering how testy Clint got at his foolish tongue.

"Well, I do have a driver's licence," he replied, "and I could drive." Dave allowed his hopes of reaching the Fez soon to rapidly soar, forgetting a key requirement of motor travel. "But, unfortunately, I don't have any hands."

"Clint, Clein, can you drive?" asked Dave. "Please," he added, as if that might help change their driving skills.

"No. Mum keeps trying to get us to drive, but I don't see the point," Clint explained.

"The lessons would be easy, though," Clein added. "Only one of us would need to attend and the other person could stay at home and still mentally receive the same information."

"I did think about that," said Clint. "But I wasn't sure you'd have been willing to go to lessons while I stayed at home and slept."

"I wouldn't have been," said a confused Clein. "You'd be going to lessons for me."

"Why on Glix would I go to the lessons?"

"This is just like school all over again," Clein huffed.

Dave sighed. It would have to be up to him, then. "I have a provisional licence. I can drive if somebody watches me."

Just then, they experienced a pulse rippling through the air, like a splash through time. A purple blob of an unspecific, gelatinous matter appeared in the air near Oprah. It increased in size rapidly and they came to realise it wasn't so much a blob as an absence of something. It drained their energy and they found themselves repulsed by it. Dave wondered if this was a normal occurrence on Glix, if violet and indigo and magenta and heliotrope always came from nothing, or if swirling holes naturally crept up into existence every other day of the week. But, seeing the sapped faces on the people of Glix, he knew that this was far from ordinary. The energy stolen by this thing seemed to slow down time. Dave feared the nothing, with its intense rays of light thieving him and his friends of life. It was soon twice the size of the Speedvan – or would be if it had abided by the laws of dimensional reality – and Dave couldn't think of anything else he wanted to do other than get away from it. With the massive lack of movement he felt throughout his body, Dave was sure his thoughts were faster. This infuriated him, however, as he was thinking non-stop of different ways he could get away from this strange anomaly, but couldn't achieve any of these as quickly as they appeared and disappeared. After what could have only been half a second at maximum, Dave settled on a solution to almost all their current problems: get in the Speedvan.

"Everybody get in the Spaceboat!" called Oprah, not as slowly as anyone might have imagined. The musicians piled into the ship as hastily as they could and Oprah rushed to the helm, still quite slowly. But after that they didn't move; they merely waited. Waited for their next big adventure.

The purple hole – which by now had hints of blue within its inexistence – started sucking the wind in from around them. All the leaves climbed up the air and dashed past their faces. Everybody had an equal balance of mental hatred of the thing and physical attraction towards it. This just made the group hate it more. Which, by a combination of the increasing force and the psychic equilibrium, caused the winds to intensify. By this time, the gap in reality was massive, and the Space Chicken realised that nothing could possibly stop it.

"Get in the car!" he yelled. "I'll supervise you, Dave, if you drive."

Dave stepped into the driver's seat and almost immediately jumped on the accelerator. The whole gang had slowly rushed in just before he entered, and they drove off to the English horizon. After a minute that felt shorter than the preceding seconds, they were no longer at risk of getting sucked into the hole.

"What was that?" asked Clint.

"I have a feeling," said the Space Chicken, "that that was a Cantaloupe."
Chapter 32

Dave did his best to try to remember all the few rules that Calvin had taught him in the limited lessons he had had before gallivanting off after the Fez. He was now gaining back his speed and, possibly, losing his brainpower. Drive on the right, Dave thought. Just like they do in America. Actually, what was it he said? 'In some parts of East America...' What does that even mean? All the things that that could imply— Look at the road! Pay attention, you fool, or you'll never drive again.

They had been driving just a matter of metres down the street to England and Dave was already thinking that he couldn't understand the controls.

"Oprah and the boat got sucked into the Cantaloupe," said Clein, after having turned around in his seat at the back of the car to take a look.

"The whole boat?" asked Dave.

"Yep."

Dave was looking around the Speedvan at all the buttons and levers and lights that littered the dashboard. Out of an instinct he could no longer control, Dave began to fiddle with some of the mechanisms. There was a twang from above them and the sound of rushing wind.

"What was that?" asked a concerned Space Chicken.

Dave was equally concerned, perhaps more so. "I don't know. That can't be good... Oh well," he concluded, and continued to fiddle with buttons.

"What in the name of Quack's Quills are those?" asked the Space Chicken, pointing to Dave's fingers.

"Ha ha, very funny," said Dave in the patronising yet playfully co-operative way that friends enjoying humourous banter usually did. Or, at least, Dave and his friends at home had used it. He wasn't sure if they were really friends. "They're fingers. We all have them except you."

"Not, not your fingers, those things on the end of them."

Dave didn't know what the Space Chicken was thinking of, so he went for the best option and continued to play the fool. "You mean my fingernails?" he asked, laughing.

"Is that what you call them?"

Dave's smile faded. "Fingernails?"

"Those little, white things stuck to the tips of your fingers."

"Yes," replied Dave, confused. "They're fingernails. Everybody has them."

"What are they, some sort of fashion accessory?"

"No, they just grow. Everybody has them," he repeated.

"Not on Glix, they don't," the Space Chicken said, forgetting he was duty-bound not to alienate the alien.

Dave drummed them on the dashboard to prove a point. His little finger hit a small purple button.

"Clint, Clein, Crazy Dave, can you help me explain to the crazy, crowing Cockerel what fingernails are?"

They all appeared puzzled. Apart from Crazy Dave, who was playing noughts and crosses with himself on his own forehead. He was losing, and – in opposition to the opinions of the rest of the human race – this was far more interesting to him than a person with a different anatomy.

"I can't say that rings a bell," Clint responded. "Would you just remind me what they are: food, clothes, plants, animal, mineral...?"

Dave shrieked as he saw the end of Clint's fingers. No nails, no bleeding graze, no place where nails should be. Those foreign fingers were rounded off at the ends, so that they looked exactly the same when facing in any direction.

"Why haven't you got any‽" he shouted.

"I don't know," Clint grumbled. "I'm just not really that into style."

Dave was lost for words. Surely everybody grows fingernails? Back on his home planet everybody had. It was just a natural process that happened daily. Finally rediscovering his tongue, Dave decided to take the scientific route. "But it's down to evolution, isn't it? Apparently – if you believe that sort of thing – we have fingernails where we used to have claws."

"You had claws? This story just keeps getting weirder and weirder."

"We all used to have claws, but as we don't use them to hunt anymore, we don't need them."

"Is this some sort of superstition you believe in, Dave?" said Clint. "Because I'm usually quite skeptical about stuff like that."

"It's not superstition," he declared. "We used to be wolves and fish and other animals."

"Are you feeling okay, Dave?" asked Clint.

"I certainly don't remember being anything other than a human," Clein commented.

"All humans evolved from other animals. Scientists say this happened over hundreds of millions of years."

"Well, no animal has been around that long, has it?" said Clint.

"Surely your... 'finger-nails' are an inconvenience in everything you do," said Clein. "Try pressing one of those buttons on the dashboard. See if you can do it."

Dave did so successfully. Well, successfully in that his fingernails didn't get in the way. The Speedvan wasn't so positive about its buttons being pushed and all of the seats started shaking uncontrollably. Up and down, left and right, forwards and backwards, Nekken and Luc, Nord and Shins. This fierce action muddled and revolved the minds of the Speedvan crew.

"MaKe iT StOp!" wailed Clein, infuriating Margery.

In a panicked frenzy, Dave flopped his hands rapidly onto every button, switch, lever, light and stick atop the dashboard. Thankfully this stopped the Speedvan from shaking, but in a stroke of luck – bad luck – Dave set off a dozen other silent and unnoticed problems.

"Phew," said the Space Chicken, relieved. "You really had me worried there. I thought we were going to keep on shaking forever and I was going to turn into Chicken jelly."

Clint and Clein both started laughing imprudently.

"Chicken jelly," Clint chortled.

"What was that‽" demanded a peeved Capon. "I take extreme offense to that comment," he huffed.

"No, it's nothing against you," Clein justified. "Honest," he added, dishonestly. "I was just thinking how... It's just that..." he thought of a way to say what he had to say that the Space Chicken wouldn't find rude. It was hard. "Chicken doesn't really go well in a desert," he tried.

"I'll have you know that chicken doesn't go well in anything."

"We didn't mean Chicken – like a prophet." The intelligent twins were sweating as they fought for peace. "We meant like the animal – the useless creature."

"Just because you're not a prophet or a human, it doesn't make you worthless! Chickens deserve equal rights to everyone else and I don't think it's at all funny that you would even consider joking about something like murdering one of the creatures and turning him or her into jelly, only so that you can observe your own taste in food. It's high time the nation of Britain grew up and realised that animals and food couldn't be any more different."

"To be honest," Dave started, "you can have your little 'Chickens are innocent' thing, and I respect you for that. But I know just what you mean by that, Clint. Chicken jelly really wouldn't taste nice."

This thoroughly enraged the Space Chicken beyond the strength of his own brain, and he was about to give Clint, Clein and Dave a thorough roasting, when he noticed a strange occurrence on the road. "Holy Quack's Woollen Stocking, it's misty today."

As he spoke, the tarmac below them was stolen by clouds. Within several seconds, absolutely no land features around them were visible.

Dave's immediate reaction was to crush the brake pedal with the full strength of his thighs. This had no effect on the car, which seemed to harbour its own uncontrollable momentum. Dave immediately became paranoid with concern that the car would crash. But they never even felt a crevice in the ground. Not a bump. They could barely feel the road beneath them any more.

As the fog parted, it became clear that, in the space of time that had passed from the haze to the clearing, night had fallen upon them and engulfed reality. It still all seemed bizarre, though; the darkness appeared to be unbelievably gloomy and silent to have fallen in a matter of Centihaca, ten Centihaca at the very most.

It struck Dave. It struck Clint. It struck Clein. It struck the Space Chicken. It struck the Egg. It struck Crazy Dave. And it puzzled them all. It was still daytime: the Quil and Ra were still shining down on Glix. But the Speedvan wasn't. The group and vehicle had left the atmosphere and were now orbiting the planet.
Chapter 33

The upwards journey had been somewhat unpleasant. Dave wasn't used to transport on Glix, and so assumed this was probably just a regularly occurring feeling. It wasn't, of course, and the rest of the Speedvan crew felt at extreme unease. There wasn't a great deal of support for belief in fate or destiny on Glix, and whenever questioned by the press, Quack would respond by mumbling 'No comment' or 'If there were fate, wouldn't you find out if fate existed or not without having to consult me?' or 'It's complicated.' However, in their predetermined situation, the unwilling spacemen felt that, if there were even the slightest chance that they could have opted against being hurtled into space, they would have happily stayed at home with no questions asked.

The pressure of travelling one hundred kilometres in under a minute was rather intense and the rapidly decreasing gravity as they rocketed outwards from Glix only caused more sickness. That, combined with the increasing reaction force acting upon them as they travelled farther and farther through the atmosphere and against the existing force of gravity, meant that the only things preventing them all from being physically sick were the g-force, and the minor vacuum into which they were entering.

The Space Chicken's experience of the whole event was similar to his prior conceptions of the apocalypse. He felt a deep burning in his mind and wished it would stop as soon as possible. Upon reaching space, he felt a twisting, contorting feeling strangle his stomach and rid any remnants of food that might be residing there of the concept that they may remain there for the rest of the day. Whilst these feelings weren't necessarily painful, the Space Chicken wondered how much of this sort of displeasure could be experienced by a person before they began to sweat blood through their eyes.

When going up to space, the Egg had a feeling that he believed was the same as that of being boiled, which continued for his entire trip away from Glix.

Dave immediately wondered if this was some sort of prank that the other members of the group had been pulled on him. As he gazed out of the Speedvan at the bright stars splintering through the violently poetic swirls of space's infinity, he forgot everything else for a moment and became suddenly certain that nothing else in the universe could even mockingly compare to this. He forgot about the car, the people he was with and the environment around him. He forgot all daily actions and forgot to care that he had a body, an identity or any necessities, like the need to eat and sleep and think beyond his connection with the universe. He even forgot who he was and accepted only the stars as an eternal representation of life and intelligence. Their splendour captivated him and he had an epiphany that life and death no longer mattered, so long as he had the universe to fall back on.

"I feel so unique," said Clint.

"So do I," said Clein.

"It's as though there's only one of me in the whole universe."

"It's like no-one can ever feel as I do right now. I'm having a personal connection with everything natural, but it's not something people can ever realise. I am alone in this experience."

"I hear you, brother," said Clint. "I'm having exactly the same feelings as you."

"No, you're not; I'm alone in my understanding."

"Yes, but I'm alone with you."

"You can't be."

"But I am."

"You'd never understand! You're an idiot and you don't realise anything. Go on, look out the window, and see if it opens anything up in you. I doubt it ever could."

"I'm not sure I like your tone. Perhaps I'm unique in my revelations, and you are a fool who is closed to the world."

"We're all having a wonderful time, I'm sure," the Space Chicken said, attempting to break up the argument. "But I feel somewhat sick, so if anyone would care to open up a window, I need a bit of freshness to pass through here."

Crazy Dave woke up from his wondrous slumber and addressed the twins. "Don't you two have exactly the same thoughts and emotions?"

"Yeah," they both replied simultaneously.

"So why did you need to have that little convers— argument amongst yourselves? I mean yourself. No, wait, I mean yourselves." Crazy Dave tried to rub his head until he understood which term to use. He never did, and so continued anyway. "Whatever you want to call yourselves/yourself, you needn't converse. You merely have to think one thing, and both of you will have the thought simultaneously."

There was a moment's silence. "Shut up," said Clein. "You're crazy, so you don't know anything."

"My thoughts precisely," said Clint.
Chapter 34

Arthur Cardigan curled his fingers awkwardly around the edges of the bowl and stood silently in the holy room. The respect occupying the room with him was powerful. This building was ruled – no, possessed by Quack. Even the bowl was sacred. The bowl could collect great treasures with the power of the Almighty Quack. Arthur knew what to do with it.

"Any donations, ladies?" Arthur asked of several elderly women.

"Ooh, of course," one of them chirped. "I always like to give a little something."

"It gives you that lovely warm feel inside, din't it?"

He sighed loudly. The women were clearly annoyed by this but still gladly clinked their pennies into the dish.

"Any donations to the House of Quack?" Arthur asked of the next person along on the pew.

"Where does the money actually go?" asked a skeptical young man.

"Um... well, it goes to the House, I guess."

"What good is that? What does the House need money for? It isn't funding anything. And this supposed 'God' doesn't need it, as the philosophy states how he doesn't have a need for material goods."

"Well, I don't know. Does it really matter? It's meant to make your soul good, or something."

"Whatever, I don't see how that would benefit 'God' or the chickens, if you believe that." The man – who Arthur now saw to be only about seventeen – grabbed the books he had brought with him and began to leave. "Surely God's only purpose is to create and destroy. There can be no gods or goddesses, because it is illogical to assume life would be created purely so these fictitious, narcissistic deities can be admired by lesser beings." He walked out of the House. "What is it with that ill-placed capitalisation anyway?" he muttered as he went. "Is it that 'God' is greater than humans, so feels the need to be referred to incorrectly, just to prove how epic he thinks he is?" he pondered mockingly. "'Here are a few typos in My Name, but i am still better than all of you combined. Although, to be fair for a change, each of you is probably better by yourself than when combined physically with every other member of your disgusting race—" The door slammed shut behind him.

Arthur noticed a strange feeling rising up inside him. Had he really been that inspired by the boy's speech? He then realised it was coming from a stone he had in his pocket. The stone compelled him and refused to cease in its constant agitation, until it was answered like a telephone.

"Um... hello?" Arthur said, pressing the piece of rock up against his face.

It replied to him: "You have sorely disappointed me as well as the whole of religion."

Arthur was shocked. Not at what was being said of him, but that he was being spoken to at all, and how the words arrived in his ear. "Sorry, how are you talking to me, whoever you are? In fact, how can you know me? Nobody knows me."

Quack sighed. He liked explaining things, but not when He had to explain the same thing to different people constantly. There is enough in the world worth explaining without having to repeat yourself.

"I'm a god, remember," He began. "With a lower case 'g'," He added, through what would generally be described as 'gritted teeth', if Quack did, in fact, have any teeth. "I'm a god," He repeated. "That gives me the right to create my own rules (within certain guidelines, of course). If I say rocks act as mobile phones, they do. Okay?"

"I guess so. What did You want anyway?" Before Quack could answer, Arthur added, "I assume You wanted to tell me something."

"I wanted you to stand up to Quack-fearing racists! I have no use for this money; it is distributed to deserving animals. Usually it goes to them via various charities, so the money can be put to the best possible use. Basically, it's a simple way of giving money to lots of worthwhile causes at once, by just giving at one place."

"All right, then."

"No. Not 'All right, then.' This is a fallacy that must not be spread. It has to be dealt with. By you in particular. You have just told Richard over there that I am a money-grabbing hypocrite.

"And there's another thing you've forgotten: it's a personal experience to give the House money," said Quack. "It's 'Do you have any donations for the House?' not 'Any donations to the House of Quack?' Remember your duties if you want a reward at the end of this."

"Hey!" Arthur shouted at the rock, causing a few House-goers to jump. "That's not why I'm doing this. It's my duty. In the future, You'll understand this."

"And hopefully in the future you'll understand what not to say in a House. Now stop looking weird; there are some elderly ladies who wish to speak with you."

Quack hung up first, leaving Arthur confused for a while as to what He meant. That was until the women he'd been talking to earlier decided to talk to him.

They waited until he'd definitely finished his conversation/monologue, and then said, "It's nice to have a word with Quack, isn't it?"

Arthur put down his rock and looked at them. "...Yeah," he said.

"I often talk to Him when I'm in the bathtub. But I guess a House is probably the best place for it."

"That's just you bein' weird," the other woman laughed. "Talking to 'Im in the bathtub, what are you like?"

"Oh well, I'm sure He has the decency to give me privacy in my own bathroom. He'll listen to what I have to say all right, but not look. Just put His Head to the door with a beaker."

"Wait a minute," Arthur said, "have you got a mobile phone?"

"Oh, yes, sure," she said, rifling through her handbag. "Why, do you need to call your mummy?"

"What? No, I meant for Quack."

The lady giggled and her hand stopped searching.

"Aw, bless him," she said to her friend, who was also stifling hysterics. "You don't need a phone to call Quack. Why, you've just been speaking to Him yourself."

Arthur understood and his heart sank as he realised he was alone. "Yes. Of course. You're right."

The ladies quickly dismissed this confusion. They leant forward, as if about to impart a secret. "You're a good lad. Don't turn out to be like that Richard Dakin."

Chapter 35

In space, no sound can be heard. This is exactly why this kind of space was peculiar. Sound could be heard. In particular, a loud sigh coming from a large Chicken.

The entire crew of the Speedvan turned and looked at the Space Chicken. Seeing as there were no cars or road signs to crash into, Dave didn't need to pay attention to what was ahead of him and so delighted in having the opportunity to gawp at someone who presently appeared slightly weirder than he did. Upon looking at their friend, all other members of the space-travelling group saw something they had never seen before and certainly weren't expecting to ever see in their lives.

"Um... Space Chicken?" Clint asked.

"Yeah?" he replied, louder than ever before.

"Don't you need to be wearing that to breathe?"

"The helmet? No. I needed it to keep the high concentration of carbon dioxide out and to keep the Space Jelly in."

"Space Jelly? How are you going to find whatever that is around here?"

The Space Chicken looked at him. If looks could kill, this look would very probably maim Clint almost to the point of unconsciousness, lean over and scream in his bleeding ear, "Did you really just ask me that‽"

"'How am I going to get Space Jelly... in Space?'"

"Well it's obviously not here. I mean, there not anything here, is there? It's space; there's nothing."

The Celestial Cockerel narrowed his eyes. "How are you breathing?"

Clint became worried for a minute as he felt his oxygen levels deplete, and then he collapsed in a heap on the floor, his face getting redder by the second.

"You are breathing," the Space Chicken pointed out to him and the boy sat up and regained consciousness. "But, how are you breathing?"

Clint was dumbfounded.

"This is Light Space," the Space Chicken explained. "There is some oxygen amongst the Space Jelly amongst the nothing."

The twins still looked bemused.

"Look," the Space Chicken interjected. "What do you need to survive?"

"Er... food? Water? Oh, a life."

"No." The Space Chicken was playing a losing game.

"Yeah. You definitely need one of those."

"No, what I mean is you need to breathe. Specifically, you need an environment which is only a small amount oxygen. Light Space is that. And it has no intense vacuum. I need Space Jelly to survive. That's why I wear the helmet. It's filled with Space Jelly. I don't need to have a helmet in Light Space because there's no carbon dioxide to harm me. This is where I was placed when I came to Glix. This is home."

"So what you need to breathe—"

"It's not breathing so much as it is eating," the Space Chicken interrupted.

"...is it, like, some sort of weird Chicken jelly?" Clint immediately knew he had worded this completely wrongly.

"Chicken jelly‽" the Space Chicken squawked.

"I meant it as in jelly eaten by a Chicken, not jelly made of Chicken," Clint explained, timidly and hoarsely, but the Space Chicken heard none of this.

"You still think this is funny‽ Do you consider eating either a Chicken or a chicken to be funny?"

"In my defence," Clint declared. "What did you have for breakfast? And what have you eaten for a week? Egg. How is eating an Egg any different from eating a Chicken?"

"It was unfertilised! And how dare you call it an Egg‽ It was an egg! It would never have become a Chicken. It couldn't have become a chicken."

This time Clint felt the difference. He knew an Egg from an egg. "So what about the egg? Your little friend. He's 'the egg', so would you eat him someday? How do you see him as different from any other egg? But of course," he said melodramatically, "you don't care about him. You threw him to the ground. He's less to you than any other egg, that's why you're keeping him alive."

"I'll have you know he's an Egg, not an egg! And I care more about him than anything else in the universe. I threw him to the ground before I cared, before I knew anything. I thought he was useless, but it turns out I was mistaking him for myself. I was wrong; my Egg is important." The Space Chicken stormed down the passage through the centre of the seats and opened the door at the back of the car. He stepped out into the bed of the pick-up. Then he turned around and spoke before he slammed the door. "And He has a name, you know!"

Chapter 36

The Space Chicken sat with the Egg in the cargo space provided at the back of the space-mobile. The Space Chicken now noticed what the earlier twang had been – there was a large dessert spoon erupting from the roof of the Speedvan. As the car drifted through the thin kenomazelesphere, this spoon scooped up some of the Space Jelly. The force of all this goo pummelling against it and being captured inside the bowl caused the spoon to bend over. At the end of this, the Space Chicken sat and sipped away at his necessary intake. He shivered: the Jelly was an essential craving.

"We'll be here a while," the Space Chicken said. "It will take the rest of them some time to work out that we are, in fact, progressing towards our destination. After that, it will be some Haca before we reach the Fez." He stopped. There he was, shaking away and ranting on about what was to become of his life. Who was it for? An egg he was pretending was his son? Oh Quack, he thought, my life is empty. I really have gone crazy this time. I guess Quack goes through prophets quickly, and he'll be replacing me soon. The Space Chicken pondered on this for some time, loathing himself for falling into Quack's trap. Of course I'm not the first. Why the Sock would the god of Glix wait 1,001,500 years to get his first prophets? Was it so he had time to populate the Glix and let the people sin their worst before he sent someone in to correct their mistakes? Not likely. And here I am, old and loopy. Product number 3467 needs replacing. I've lasted well, I guess. Time to die, like most people. He's done with me. He used me. Do old discarded beings get into the afterlife?

Quack can speak to the Egg.

That thought teased him more than any other. Was Quack playing some sort of cruel trick on him? Or did Quack have some powers of communication that the Space Chicken didn't? Perhaps it just that he didn't care enough...

The Space Chicken leant over slightly, towards the Egg. "Egg?" he whispered.

There was a quiet noise in the back of his head. The Space Chicken wanted to think that this was the Egg trying to communicate. He attempted again.

"Egg?"

There was a very short noise that went 'hmm' this time. It wasn't much of a response, but the Space Chicken knew it was there.

"Egg! I can hear you!"

The innocent 'hmm' told the Space Chicken that his caring son still kept his calm, even after the excessive number of times of being asked.

"Oh, Egg!" shouted the Space Chicken, hugging the porcelain body. "Can you talk?"

'Hmm.' This high-pitched noise still spoke 'yes' to the Space Chicken.

"Can anyone else hear you?"

'Hnn.' This noise was much lower and slightly depressed. The Space Chicken could tell that this meant no.

"Really? I thought Quack could."

'Hmm, onnum.'

"Sorry?"

'Hmm, ofcourn.'

"Pardon?"

'Hmm, of course.'

That was it. The Space Chicken was getting to real words now. He had reached an ultimatum. He could speak to his son.

"Why didn't you speak to me before?"

'You never opened up,' the Egg explained. 'Now you have allowed yourself to believe in me, I have found your mental frequency.'

The Space Chicken began to cry.

"I'm so sorry I ever doubted you."

'That is perfectly okay. Most people do.'

"Oh Quack, I'm such an idiot. Why can't anyone else hear you?"

'They can; they just don't listen.'

As the Space Chicken listened, he fully resented himself for having ignored the clever Egg he had been assigned to nurture. The Space Chicken noticed that his son had no voice. It was recognisable, but for no reason. The words appeared in the Space Chicken's head, spoken in a voice that might have been his own, like his thoughts. But the Space Chicken knew he hadn't thought it or said it himself. He'd had ideas thought into his own head that weren't his own. There was so much knowledge that he didn't know what to say. So he just said the obvious.

"It's so good we can talk to each other."

'The feeling is mutual. I have been searching for you so we may talk. I need a paternal figure, and you left me,' the Egg stated, 'father.'

The Space Chicken was bleary-eyed by this time. His feathers were soaked with his large, blobby tears of self-disgust.

"I said you had a name," the Space Chicken croaked beautifully pathetically. "I told Clint he should call you by your name."

The Egg knew what was coming and so answered the question in advance. 'Fred Jr.'

Chapter 37

Ah, the innocence of the elderly, thought Arthur. They still believe that listening to Quack is useful advice. In fact, everyone seems innocent in that way these days. Everybody believes that Quack is great, apart from the people who actually know Him. He's far from all He's cracked up to be.

You can't blame them, though. For trying to inspire a younger generation to lead a good life by using the word of God. Only, that's not really the way forward. People should be inspired to do good for good's sake, for goodness sake. A moral life is never truly moral when people are being fooled into thinking there is a positive outcome for their own gain in the end. I should correct myself. It's 'god', not 'God'. Or something like that.

It seems like such a wondrous idea, in theory. Loving Quack, and following His every word with the result of having a perfect soul and an enriched heart. Life isn't happy, Arthur reflected. Quack sends some people back in time, quite literally. And what are you supposed to do then? Follow the word of Quack? I would if I could. In this instance, all Quack has to say for himself is, "Oh Sock, do I really have to put up with you for that long?" A nice cheery thought. It really enriches your heart.

The majority of Arthur's thoughts continued in this way so much so that Margery tapped into his mind and suggested he should try using irony and snark marks more frequently.

Chapter 38

After some time spent dealing with the idea of space travel and being what he would have called at home an 'astronaut', Dave began to deal with the issue of his own placement. After looking down and reviewing Britain, he noticed a great many things that set him way back in his contemplation. For one thing, Britain appeared to consist of four rectangles – three of which were connected – in place of his original Britain's countries. It seemed that, from above, like on the Glix'n ground, everything was perfectly formed. This was not what he was used to. He liked it when things like this were shapeless, not when there was structure. He got scared when it meant something.

Another thing he observed was the fact that the crew of the Speedvan was actually moving, as was the Speedvan itself. They were both moving at exactly the same pace. This was possibly something to do with the fact that the former was – for the most part – contained within the latter. The human-prophet-vehicle hybrid was moving, anyhow. And quite quickly at that. It seemed that they were rapidly approaching BongVe Bong – if that was what they were moving towards and it wasn't another mistake. The car itself wasn't putting much power into movement and they were hardly accelerating. But the reason they could progress to such an extent was that there was very little air resistance. All this thinking on Dave's part took up a lot of time and bored the other astronauts.

"So," said Dave, pointing out of the windscreen. "We are headed over there. That (touch wood) shouldn't take us too long."

"Unless, of course, we crash," suggested Clein.

"Don't say things like that."

"Why not?"

"Because we want to get there as soon as possible, preferably without crashing too much."

"How could my saying that we could crash affect that?" asked Clein.

"You'll jinx it."

"Don't be ridiculous."

Dave tried to calm down. "Look, we're going to get to BongVe Bong just fine, in perfect time. Then we will land near the Border, so we know where in the country the Fez is, and we won't be too far away from it. We will return to driving or flying to our new destination, completing the final leg of our journey."

"Don't say things like that."

"Why not?"

"You'll jinx it."

Dave failed to keep calm this time. "I'm not jinxing it, you are."

"How can I be jinxing it? You're the one saying everything will go perfectly. I was saying things wouldn't go to plan."

"Okay, let's settle this by saying that we were both jinxing it: you were, by saying things wouldn't work; I was, by saying things would work."

"How can two opposites mean the same thing?"

"What about flammable and inflammable?" asked Crazy Dave.

"Don't be stupid," said Clint. "They don't mean the same thing."

"Do any of you think it's healthy that the Space Chicken is sitting out there, shivering and talking to himself?"

"He's nuts!" said Crazy Dave.

"I don't think it's very healthy at all," said Clein. "I mean, he could hurt himself when we run out of fuel and crash."

"Will you stop saying things like that‽" shouted Dave.

"Are you superstitious, Dave?" asked Clein.

"No, not really. But I don't want you to say things that put me on edge."

"Right. You see, the thing is, you've spent this whole journey rapidly alternating between speeds that have all been multiples of eleven."

Dave contemplated this to the fullest extent he could. He still remained blank. "And the relevance of this is...?"

"Eleven is an unlucky number," said Clein. "You're really not from around here, are you?"

Dave's face went a horrible, alien shade of red, which acted as a warning light informing anyone around him of his immigration from a parasitic culture.

"While we're on the matter, how much fuel have we got?" Clint asked.

"Actually, we are quite low on... Hang on, what's that?"

"What?"

"By the fuel gauge. Oh Quack. No wonder Oprah didn't want this stupid van," Dave said hysterically. "It runs on onions!"

"Onions‽" they all said, both annoying and exhilarating Margery by using up several interrobangs.

"And, as a matter of fact, we will soon have run out of them!"

"What do you reckon they're talking about, Fred Jr?"

'I do not have a clue.'

"I guess it can't be too important to us. We're just happy back here, chatting away, minding our own— argh!" the Space Chicken screamed as he fell down, along with the rest of the car. At the back of his mind, he felt he could hear Fred Jr screaming along with him, although he may have just been wishing for someone to share his trauma.

Either way, it was a long journey down.

Chapter 39

Arthur left the House and headed to the oak tree, as Quack had suggested to him. It seemed that the merging of technology and botany created a universal connection to worlds beyond. Or – more simply put – trees get good reception. Particularly oak and apple trees. As soon as Arthur sat down on the springy, lime moss, the same rock he had spoken to Quack on earlier rang just like a phone-mobile.

"I seemed to get a perfect signal in the House. As well as around trees, apparently."

"Yeah. There are some benefits to going to places of worship," Quack said impatiently, as if he were keen to move on to a different topic.

"So it's religious places that get a good reception."

"Yes. Now—"

"As a little reminder that you're still there and that people are doing good."

"Yep, but—"

"I can understand the House, but what is there that's pious about a tree?"

"Well, Arthur—"

"In fact, why did you even tell me to come to this tree, anyway?"

"Arthur! Stop and think for a moment, will you? What can you tell me about oak trees?"

Arthur pondered for a short while, gazing into the lofty branches that tinted the watery skies emerald. "Um... they have acorns?" he suggested, plucking several of the brown parcels from the soft, green hands that offered them above his head.

"Acorns!" exclaimed Quack, causing Arthur's serenity and peace to smoothly shatter; the shout unnerved him, and when he searched for the calm he had held a few seconds earlier, he found it melting rapidly away.

"Acorns?"

"Acorns," Quack stated.

"What's the significance of acorns?"

"Mighty oaks from little acorns grow."

"Your grammar is muddled; what you mean to say is 'Mighty oaks grow from little acorns', which is, in itself, a rather stupid point to make."

"You're missing my true meaning. What I'm trying to tell you is that a small seed – which may be very detailed on the inside – appears rather simple. Do you understand?"

"Are acorns defined as seeds? I thought they were nuts."

"Are they? I don't know. The definitions must have changed since I made acorns."

"No, I thought the seed was inside the nut. Oh, it doesn't matter. Carry on with what you were saying about the layout of your amazing acorns."

"Thank you. As I was saying, its intricate design means that it's hiding its true potential. If it only opens up and nourishes itself in the world around it, this acorn may go on, in time, to become something much greater, much larger and more powerful. It will be a thing with the ability to rule the world around it, and hopefully give something back in return."

"Is that a metaphor for me?"

"No."

Arthur adjusted his neck to every extent he could, in an attempt to see the full tree surrounding him. "It doesn't look that big."

"That's because you're sitting down. Arthur, stand up, take a few steps back and have a better look at the tree."

He did so. It was pretty big. "How high does an oak tree grow?" Arthur asked.

"Well that's precisely the thing," said Quack. "Trees are the closest we have to immortals."

There was a long and thoughtful pause. "I thought prophets were immortal?" asked Arthur.

Quack went red. Being a blue Duck naturally (or unnaturally, depending on how one looks at it), he went a rather offensive shade of magenta.

"That's not important," Quack said. "Acorns are important. One acorn in particular (or maybe it should be an Acorn) will guide the world in times of trouble."

"An Acorn?" Arthur asked in disbelief and puzzlement, wondering if divine beings could get drunk and, if so, how often.

"It's not the Acorn itself that's important, but what comes from it."

"Knowledge?"

"Are you listening to me?" asked Quack. "Mighty oaks from little acorns grow. And, indeed, mighty Oaks from little Acorns grow also."

"Are You listening to me: Your usage of the English language is atrocious."

"That may it be," Quack replied, causing Arthur to groan. "But it is vitally important that the Acorn is protected and planted by the right people so it may grow into a mighty Oak."

"Who do You mean by 'the right people'?" asked Arthur.

"Well," said Quack, "I'll make sure you're there." Arthur smiled. "In at least one of your timelines. I also need to gather up a couple of prophets for the planting ritual and get some people to say a few words."

"Sounds like a funeral."

"I don't know what kind of funerals you host, but to me it sounds more like a wedding."

"Isn't there usually more... what do you call it? Fun, I think it's known as. Isn't there usually some fun at a wedding?"

"Shut it, you."

"Will any of this help the Acorn?" asked Arthur, returning to the original topic at hand and at feather.

"I don't know," said Quack. "If I round up the wisest possible people, one of them'll be sure to point out if I'm doing anything wrong. I'm sure it will make for a great party, though."

"If gardening is your idea of pleasure..."

"Of course it is. I'm a god, and I therefore acknowledge and appreciate the beauty of nature," Quack said. Arthur looked skeptical. "That, and there'll likely be lots of booze there."

"You're a god, so surely You can get as much free alcohol as You want, whenever You want?"

"I can, but drinking on your own is no fun. When I was younger," Quack said, "I used to be such a social-climber. My friends didn't find it quite so cool when They discovered I still lived at My parents' house. Lady Whoosh told Me 'I wasn't doing the honourable thing', of course," Quack said mockingly.

"Holding house parties while Your family is away?" Arthur said disapprovingly. "Tut, tut."

"You try living with god-parents until the age of thirty million Glix'n years."

"Lady Whoosh is Your godmother? I thought You two were biologically related. Closely biologically related, I mean."

"Sorry, I misspoke. I didn't mean to say 'godparents'; I meant 'god-parents'."

"I'm afraid I can't notice a difference there."

"You'll learn to find one."

"I'll learn a good deal more if You stay on track. Teach me."

"How dare you? I am on track... You wanted to know about celestial house parties, didn't you?"

"No. I wanted You to explain why I need to be under this oak tree."

"Ah, yes. Acorns are important. The Acorn hasn't arrived yet. It should be here soon. Preferably within the next few months."

"I'm afraid You've lost me there again."

"The Acorn – the one We proposed to plant whilst also losing our sobriety – is alive. It will only arrive in your possession after a long journey and some complex time-travelling. Time-travelling from the Acorn, that is, not from you."

"Thank Quack for that; I'm only just getting used to this time."

"Well, you should have adjusted to it when you were alive now, but a year younger than you are now. If that makes any sense whatsoever."

"Very little," answered Arthur. "I did get used to this year a year ago. Only then I adjusted to next year when it came around. You can't really expect people to be on guard non-stop, waiting to be hurled back to the time of their memories."

"I gave you fair warning, from what you've told Me."

"That was years ago, and still it bothered me. Can You seriously not remember any of this?"

"I tend not to pay too much attention to each individual person. Right now, for example, I'm not looking at you as you go about your business. That's too boring. I'm applying false nails to see if it brings out the colour of My eyes."

"What? What colour are Your eyes, anyway‽"

"Blue, of course."

"It figures," said Arthur. "What do You mean by 'false nails'? Are these those 'fingernails' everyone keeps going on about?"

"Yes. They're great fun, from what I hear. Also available for toe."

"But You don't even have fingers. Or toes, for that matter."

"Technically I do."

"What‽"

"I have webbed toes. But I don't have fingers."

"Thank Sock for that."

"I take extreme offense to your comment."

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to upset You. But it's just that You are unable to wear fingernails, when You possess no fingers."

"You're such a wet blanket. Can't a Man have some fun around here? It seems everything I do is responded to with 'Oh, Quack. Don't You know that's not technically possible?' or 'Your current actions are in offense of section 8991 of the Laws set out at the Megannual Mothers' Meeting of the Multiverse' or 'We don't want to see You or Your type around here or in any of the twenty-eight listed precincts'," Quack moaned. "I want fingernails, even if they are pointless and the glue gets stuck in My feathers."

"No," said Arthur. "Neither a Man nor a man can have any fun around here. There's work that needs doing."

"Oh. Not even a bit of fun?"

"Getting back on track," Arthur said rather loudly and through clenched teeth. "How do You want me to set about adjusting to the current time and how do I acquire the Acorn?"

"Getting back on track as you so rightly say," said Quack, a little disgruntled, "first off, I'm going to pull a few strings and get you a place to stay. There's a nearby flat that never seems to be occupied for too long."

"Thanks..." Arthur had never stayed in a flat before, and was painfully sure that he didn't want to start with that one flat whose many former residents had all chosen (or been forced, by law or by hygiene) to stop living there, for whatever reasons they might have to abandon the hovel or the world. However, he concluded on reflection, it's probably better that the former residents do stop living there before I start. Just so long as they don't stop living, there.

"I want you to stay there for a week. I'll keep you supplied with enough food. All you have to do is think. I want you to think about Me, and the Acorn, and the year ahead. After the week is up, return here and take out the rock. I'll talk to you again and give you some work to do, some moving around. Is that all right with you? There's still time to turn around. It's not too late to change your mind."

"I'm fine, Quack," Arthur lied. "I'm perfectly willing to do this."

"You'll be a great help, Arthur. I really appreciate your commitment," said Quack. "I don't know why I'll appreciate your help, or why you've made Me a commitment, but I know I'll need you. And Arthur?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

"You're welcome," said Arthur. He paused for a long and uncomfortable while. "What for?"

"Respect. Thank you for capitalising the pronouns. It really means a lot to Me."

Chapter 40

As the group plummeted to the Glix'n marsh, they could see a street appearing beneath them. The street seemed to be very open in terms of business, yet it stopped at one end with a fierce halt. While they tumbled, screaming, to the ground, they were slightly consoled by the fact that they had made it to the end of England.

The Space Chicken ran through to the main seating area of the vehicle, cradling Fred Jr in his arms.

"I hate to be a disturbance," said Clein, as the team hurtled downwards towards their doom at a colossal speed, fearing for the loss of their lives or insanity, "but I told you so."

"Now isn't a good time," Dave replied through gritted teeth, only now realising the irony of the event.

"Really? I thought this seemed like the perfect time to bring it up."

Dave was about to retort, when Clint chipped in. "I thought we were planning on landing at the Border anyway."

"Well, we are now!"

"Yeah," said the Space Chicken. "I thought you'd at least want to do a bit of sightseeing as you passed the mighty edge. Oh well, no time for it now."

"No, it's not that," said Clein. "Dave said he was going to start landing as we approached the England/BongVe Bong border. If he were doing that, how did we fall out of the sky as we were flying over it?"

They all gave Dave the Look.

"I'm not very good at Geography," he admitted sheepishly.

"Oh, and now we're all going to die," Crazy Dave said melodramatically. "Perhaps, if you'd paid more attention at school, you wouldn't have killed three teenagers, a prophet and his unborn child."

"There were a lot of errors in that sentence," Clint said.

"I thought Margery was the pedant."

"That's for language. She's a linguistic socialist. You're just wrong on a logical and unequivocal level."

"Buckle up," said Dave.

"Put our seatbelts on?" asked the Space Chicken. "Why?"

"Buckle up!"

They did so with great and frantic force and airbags burst out of the dashboard and the backs of the seats. Additional bags inflated out of the floor. This inflation seemed to decrease the rate of their plummet.

"That was smart thinking, Dave," said the Space Chicken. "You dealt with that calmly and quickly."

"Um, right," said Dave. "That was deliberate... We're all going to die!" he screamed.

"We're not going to die," said the Space Chicken.

"We're going to crash and burn!"

"Again, I told you so," said Clein.

"May I just remind you that we're heading towards the ground where we will splat upon impact," said Crazy Dave, looking out the window.

"That's what we've been talking about," said the Space Chicken. "We're just talking about it in a calm and civilised way."

"We're all going to die!"

The Speedvan landed in the middle of the street with a thud, causing more damage to the tarmac than to its own body.

"See," said the Space Chicken. "This is a space vehicle; it is designed to withstand the impact of falling down upon a planet. There is a field around it to separate the passengers from the vacuum," he explained. "We only went out into Light Space. As soon as you start going into Deep Space, the field comes on. But the field was always partially there to protect us, even if it hadn't separated the kenomazelesphere from the van. Also, the cushioning effect of the airbags meant that we couldn't possibly get ourselves hurt."

"Right, that's great," said Dave. "I think I broke a bone in my foot."

The six men couldn't resist a wander around the high street, excusing their interest in window shopping by claiming it was a search for onions. Somehow it seemed doubtful there would be any onions in a clothes shop, but the unfitting dress enthralled the Space Chicken anyway. The buildings appeared to be mainly office blocks full of people concerned with various different numbers for various different purposes. The group steered away from these and became more and more disgruntled by the lack of shops. It was the Space Chicken and Dave's view that, in any given business environment, at least 80% of space should be devoted to retail. And not the boring kind, either.

Eventually they found a building that claimed 'Fuel Station' in large letters above the door. They entered there straight away, no longer bothered with what little the rest of the street had to offer. As they walked in, they all remained oblivious to the fact that there were no fuel pumps outside. None of them – besides Dave – supposed for a second that any fuel pump in Glix'n Britain contained onion juice. On the contrary, Dave wasn't even sure if they used fuel pumps there.

Inside, there appeared to be no fuel pumps either, but busy waiters hastily serving food left, right and centre. They walked through, puzzled, to the order desk at the back of the room, with the Space Chicken taking the lead.

"'Fuel Station'?" Crazy Dave quoted. "This looks a lot more like a fast food restaurant to me."

A pizza-maker walked up to them and chirped in on their conversation. Dave thought the man looked like he could have been from Brooklyn. If Glix had a Brooklyn.

"Here at Fuel Station, we are encouraging walking as an efficient mode of transport," the cook said, upon the Space Chicken's confused enquiry. "It's much more environmentally friendly than driving. Why, were you looking for a real fuel station? You won't find one of them for many kilometres around," he told them. "Ironic, isn't it?"

"We were looking for fuel for our vehicle," Dave informed him. "Sort of."

"Why don't you walk to wherever you need to go?"

"We would, but it's a very long way."

"Then you can take public transport there," the man explained.

"But we have our vehicle with us," Dave justified.

The man looked very disappointed with them. "You shouldn't have brought it."

"Somebody gave it to us."

"Do you honestly expect me to believe that someone just gave you their car?"

"No," said Dave, raising his tone out of annoyance, "it's a pick-up truck that flies through space and runs on onions. It has a jam spoon on top so we can feed the Chicken prophet. Is that all right, you madman?"

Dave stormed out of the restaurant.

"It's actually a jelly—" Clein started.

"I don't care!" Dave snapped. He returned to the desk, grabbed Clint and Clein and then stormed out again. "Are you coming, Space Chicken?"

"Just a second, where's Crazy Dave? Oh there he is. And is that Waiter Dave with him?"

"Yes, it's nice to catch up," Crazy Dave agreed. "While I'm here and you're there, could I have a frankfurter?"

Chapter 41

The Space Chicken went – with little hope – to find some onions. The rest of them – with nothing else to do – walked over towards the Border so they could finally give the Fez a location. Not that it would give them much hope with a useless Speedvan and little energy left in their bodies. Dave used more of his quick thinking to find a button on the dashboard which would inflate all the airbags with helium instead of the oxygen they had preserved for emergencies. This meant that the vehicle was only gently resting on the floor and could be moved using minimal effort. Dave told everyone to grab a wheel and they took it to the Border alongside them with relative ease.

The Border was very surprising, even after everything they'd been told about it. Dave wondered if the person who'd first thought up the idea that 'seeing is believing' had been here at the time. This was the centre of the Border City, which was as built-up as anywhere Dave had ever been. And it stopped. What should have been halfway through a skyscraper met a jagged end, all for the sake of a signpost. Seeing is definitely believing, thought Dave. Yet even as the group stared into the overwhelming abyss, they couldn't possibly believe what they saw.

Dave looked back to check that the street they had been on several seconds ago was still there. It was, and it was still busy, but only in a business sense. There was a tall wooden signpost saying 'Dollybridge Lane' protruding from the centre of the street. The street itself – which was seven metres wide, with a metre either side for the path – seemed so large and existent, yet when he turned around and saw the desolate ground he could swear there was not a life form for many kilometres around.

Carrying the car right up to the edge, they observed the closest office block, which split in half in line with a sign similar to that of Wales – this one stating 'BongVe Bong', however. A man sitting at his work desk, idly typing away and signing paperwork without taking the slightest notice of the four by the Speedvan (or the three-metre drop if he were to inch to his left) accidentally slid a sheet across the line and into BongVe Bong. A single rock slid down from one of the many hills and mounds of BongVe Bong, or possibly it had been tumbling for a while off the edge of a mountain. This rock flew through the fog and, upon entering that country, the paper was crushed.

Dave gulped.

"I guess we'd better continue," suggested the Space Chicken, who'd quietly and sullenly returned from his fruitless onion expedition.

Dave started to cross the line, but was interrupted in his path by an avian wing. "Allow me to rectify it first," the Space Chicken said kindly. "We don't want any more uncertainty."

The Space Chicken stepped over the border and his beak exploded with the word 'Glaswegia'. His wing rose subconsciously and pointed directly towards the spot in the top-right corner of the country.

The rest of the group also crossed the line and they were overwhelmed by the power of an object nowhere near them.

Clein became apparently hungry, pondering about returning to the Fuel Station, but instead inclining towards the frankfurter possessed by Crazy Dave. The Space Chicken was about to complain but decided against it.

"That hot dog smells nice," Clein said to Crazy Dave.

"Yeah," he replied, not paying as much attention to what Clein had to say as he did to the frankfurter.

"Did Cash— Waite— Cashi— Whoever Dave put enough sauce on it?"

"Yeah."

"How about mustard?"

"Yeah."

"Ketchup?"

"Yeah."

"Salsa?"

"No."

"It probably wouldn't go, would it?"

"Not really."

"Does it have any lettuce?"

Crazy Dave swallowed a mouthful. "Yeah."

"How about onions?"

"Yeah."

"Aha!" Clein exclaimed, snatching the frankfurter out from Crazy Dave's loving clasp.

Crazy Dave looked on, distraught, as Clein opened up the hatch on the Speedvan and threw the reclaimed dish in. The vehicle immediately started up heartily, stored away the airbags and helium and, with some futuristic technology, healed the perforated panels.

"Climb in, everyone," Dave said excitedly. He wondered if there was some sort of extra benefit from hot dogs or if onions were just naturally powerful, because the fuel gauge was now showing full. Or maybe the car just has a small tank, he wondered. He hoped it was one of the first two.

After they had all clambered into the car and resumed comfort in their places, this time – hopefully – without so much stress, they set off down the dusty track, resuming their seemingly everlasting quest for the great, travelling Fez.

Chapter 42

Dave found it was a mess to be journeying where there were no roads, but at least it allowed them to travel as the crow flies. Sometimes quite similarly to how a crow flies, as well, which made it difficult for the bird and the Bird and the bird-brain. Dave also found that he was very thankful for the feeling deep down inside that allowed for him to know exactly where he was going, always. He hadn't been sure if he would have this emotion, being of a different race, but he did, and so he resolved it must be one of those inner feelings belonging to everybody.

Dave thought about the buttons he'd seen as he re-entered the car and when he had filled the airbags with helium. After a short while spent pondering, he thought he had rediscovered the apparatus for sending them into outer space. It was a long shot and Dave hoped it would work. They rode over the bumpy mounds for a few yards, and then Dave threw caution to the wind and pulled the lever.

It took them several minutes to leave the ground before taking off into space and Dave began to hate the rough terrain of BongVe Bong and feared they may not take off and would remain on this harsh surface. But, sure enough, they had lift off and Dave put the excess time down to building up speed as they must have done earlier.

Dave was once more thankful for that sense in his middle, his internal detection of the Fez's location. This time he was grateful that it stayed with him, even in space where not much else did.

Being back in space – even if it was Light Space – felt like home once again for the Space Chicken, who was readily prepared and sitting with Fred Jr in the back of the Speedvan.

"Here we go again, son."

'Yes. I am excited.'

The Space Chicken, at home, felt relaxed. As he was sitting with his son, he felt like letting his emotions flow out to the only one who understood him. Out of a happy feeling of solitude (and also because some of the other Speedvan passengers were trying to get to sleep), the Space Chicken no longer spoke aloud, but to the Egg through his thoughts.

'Fred Jr, what do you suppose we'll do after all this Fez-hunting is over?'

'I do not know. What if this journey ending means the beginning of others, and the cycle never ends?'

'That's a point,' thought the Space Chicken, before changing the topic abruptly in the excitement of having someone who understood him in more ways than one. 'When will you finally hatch?'

'After around two months.'

'That's ages,' the Space Chicken wailed. 'I want you to hatch now!' he demanded chickishly.

'Tough.'

'I'm just going to point out that you use a jet pack to move.'

'What of it?'

'When you hatch, that will fall off and you won't be able to travel at all.'

'I shall have to opt for the normal Chick method of transport: walking.'

'But you can't hatch, because your body doesn't make sense; you have legs in the place of your arms so you'll just be a blob with no face but some legs and stuff.'

Fred Jr was deeply offended by this and flew away in a silent huff. The farthest he could fly in the back of the Speedvan was barely over a metre, but he still made his point clear.

After a few seconds, they turned and hugged each other.

"I'm sorry I was so mean!" sobbed the Space Chicken, aloud this time.

'I am sorry that I have no legs,' Fred Jr sobbed, and whined telepathically, so that the Space Chicken thought it was just himself crying in his own head.

"You have no legs?" the Space Chicken pondersobbed.

'I cannot tell. I do not know how I shall look when I hatch.'

"That's okay," the Space Chicken sobbed loudly. "I like surprises."

After several Glix'n Haca (during which time the majority of the gang slept) Dave looked through the misty country and saw a large, unexpected gathering. Dave wanted to say the crowd came into their sights out of the blue, but in reality he knew that, given the varying colours of the grass and the sky, the people before them were out of the green and into the pink. Even larger – though quite expected by now – was a great, red square frustum towering over the pilgrims and taking over the country.

It looked – from above – like a red square within a bigger, darker red square. This whole being of mystery was surrounded by many people, more than would fit in several of the office blocks they had seen earlier. Dave wondered how all these people could have come from this quiet version of Britain and arrived to swarm the Fez. Maybe that's why there aren't many cities on Glix, Dave thought. They spend all their time out walking in the countryside. They never had any time for renovation and they have given up on all useful advancements. Although, I'm not sure whether I'd rather have technology or the Fez. The Fez seems pretty good to me.

Dave made the Speedvan turn back on its path and landed on an area of grass from which the Fez was moving away. As they descended and got out of the Speedvan for the final time, they saw the incredible height of the Fez. The cut top of the box was splitting the clouds as they passed it. The landmark was coated in buttons of many colours, but they were mainly shades of grey. This dulled the red glow the Fez gave off in the BongVe Bong light and made it look even more appealing. In a dull, grey way.

The Space Chicken hung around the car, knowing he had a mission to complete, but Dave stumbled off, utterly bewildered by not only the Fez, but also the atmosphere it created. It appeared to be a fantastical celebration of everything Glix'n and was clearly highly-renowned in their culture. The crowd sang and laughed. Somewhere nearby, a band was playing a merry tune. There were popcorn stands and frankfurter stalls. Some people were even camping, pitching their tents above the buttons of the Fez so they were dragged along with it. Even Old Man Tales and Oprah appeared to have made it.

"Now remember what I was telling you earlier," Oprah was saying patronisingly to the twins. "The Fez is just like a giant Quackday present."

An elderly figure stepped out of a house in a prime location; currently nearby the Fez. "Clint, Clein, you've come to see me!" he rejoiced gladly.

"Not now, Grandad," Clint said, as the twins walked straight past the cottage and up to the Fez.

"See you later, Grampy Clum," said Clein. "The Fez is going to give us a Quackday present."

The Space Chicken attempted to roll his eyes, but (being a being anatomically based upon a chicken) found his eyes couldn't move, and so made his best attempt to look incredulous, then acquiesced. His phone rang, and Margery asked him not to perform facial gestures which require more than one non-standard term, although admired him for trying to find a place to use an extended lexicon. She also asked if he had informed Sam the frog that 'cockerel egg' should have been 'Cockerel Egg'. Somehow, the Space Chicken didn't currently have these rules at the forefront of his mind. "Clint and Clein," he shouted over the brass fanfare. "There is no Quackday present; that was just a metaphor for the Fez itself."

"What‽" Clint screamed. "You mean we've travelled all this way for nothing?" He ran at the Fez in a rage and lunged at a button. He vanished and the Fez moved a metre away from where he had been.

Dave then got a horrible feeling inside him that he wasn't glad of. He thought that the Fez was using people as its fuel to spread across the country. Clint had already been consumed.

Clein sighed and pressed the button he had travelled for. He vanished.

"Where are they all going?" Dave asked the Space Chicken, a tear beginning in his eye. He noticed that everybody who pushed a button disappeared also. "Are they dying?"

"What‽ No!" said the Space Chicken, more than slightly disgusted by this idea. "They just got the wrong button."

"Where are they going?"

"Home."

After staring back at the Fez and pondering, Dave began to understand this object he'd been curious about for the past week; people pressed any button on the Fez and both they and the button disappeared. Only the person got sent home. This button would then be replaced by a new button, often the one from the row above it.

"What happens if they get the right button?"

"They wouldn't be sent home, but would stay and receive their reward."

Crazy Dave walked up to the Fez to press his button and try his luck. But then he got bored so he walked home, getting a frankfurter as he went.

Now he was here, the Space Chicken decided he must finally fulfil Quack's task. He had hitched a ride with another group, like Quack had suggested. Now he needed to search through all the people for the one he needed. The man he was looking for may already be there, but he couldn't have pressed the button yet, as the Fez hadn't opened.

Dave stared up in awe at the Fez. It was the most magnificent work of beauty he had ever seen. He found it utterly dazzling. Dave then got worried somebody else may have gotten to the gold button before him. No, of course that couldn't have happed, Dave decided. That would mean the Fez was already open. He spotted it clinking down into place and he ran over to claim a spot before the orb.

The Space Chicken thought about yelling out the perpetrator's name, but then decided he was probably using an alias. That was until the Space Chicken spotted something in the driver's seat of the Speedvan.

"Dave!" the Space Chicken shouted, finally realising what he'd failed to spot all through their travel. "Do not press that button! You are David Gratton!" It all made sense now. Dave had to be David Gratton, and the Space Chicken couldn't believe he hadn't thought about this earlier. The one he'd travelled with, but never asked the name of. He and Dave had become best friends, united by their separation from everyone else. Dave couldn't be evil, surely? But, either way, he was about to push the gold button, open the Fez and unknowingly (or perhaps fully consciously) unleash terror upon the alien planet Glix.

"My name's David Gray," he replied, and thrust his hands against the gold button. It was the wrong one.

