Chapter V
Shnibbidy Bob Joe was almost asleep behind his refrigerator. His handy old digital watch said that it was night (of course, his handy old digital watch had also confidently proclaimed the time to be 11:11 A.M. for forty years now) so he figured it must be time to get to bed. The next few hundred digits of pi scrolled peacefully across his resting mind, and along with them visions of money, fame, sausages, and other such long-lost dreams. In fact, he didn't really even hear the loud argument taking place just outside his refrigerator home, didn't hear Darth Vader choke the blundering High Admiral to death, and didn't hear the voice of the Sith Lord as he sat in the dark long after midnight, softly chanting, "One from Dakota where beetles sing, One with a sword claimed by all as a King..." Shnibbidy Bob Joe lived for the sake of pi. Even his cousin Eleanor was fading in his memory. He just didn't give a darn about the affairs of the Galaxy anymore.

Han Solo looked up into the divinely handsome face of the young man he had accidentally deprived of a pocketwatch earlier in that very strange day. Beatrice's eyes were gleaming with a frosty azure flame-to be sure the adjectives didn't quite agree, but it was the only way Han could describe that look-and his blond hair was flopping over his eyes in a sort of mysterious-roguish way. For the first time Han noticed how tall Beatrice was, and how powerful his grip was on the back of Han's new fur coat. It was not the last time he would get the feeling that there was something a little uncanny about Beatrice-well, even less normal than being named Beatrice. The renowned hunk had something more to him than a sharp tongue and a pretty face.

"Hello, Beatrice," Han said, rather timidly. Luke and Aragorn looked at the handsome man and snorted at Han's words. Princess Leia appeared to be occupied with other things.

"Oh dear." Beatrice looked down at him and sighed heavily. "I was afraid the instant I met you that you were the one spoken of in the prophecy. No offense, but you just seemed sort of an...er...idiot, if you know what I mean. Oh well-" He straightened up again-"If the Powers have chosen you, then you are the one it was meant to be. And your companions. The first six of the 9.75 walkers." He stared around impressively at Han, Luke, Leia, Aragorn, and SOS-180.

Abruptly Aragorn moaned and let his head droop down to the tabletop, upsetting Leia's whiskey with a loud clonk.

"No way," he muttered. "No, no way. I get away from one band of prophecy-obsessed nutcases back home on Roughly Central Earth, only to land among a bunch of medieval British prophecy-obsessed nutcases, and then get rescued from that only to join another band of mystico-maniacs. I'll never escape this wandering fate. Alas, alack..."

"Aragorn?" Luke prodded the tall man tactlessly in the shoulder. "Yo, dude, what's up?" "...I'll be wandering the parallel universes until I die at this rate, running after one obnoxious group of questers after another. And perhaps Roughly Central Earth will fall for lack of my leadership, and the Shadow will fall over all the lands. The Shire will be destroyed-" here he knocked his forehead against the table-"and all the little perian, and Minas Tirith will be torn stone from stone-" knock, knock-"and the Elves will all be slaughtered...Elves...Rivendell...Arwen, oh Arwen, I've failed you, forgive me, forgive me..."

Aragorn broke down sobbing for no apparent reason, to his much- baffled audience, at least.

Luke whistled and twirled his finger around in a circle to the side of his head, making a sound curiously like that of a cuckoo clock.

"Well, you're certainly sensitive," Han snapped. "C'mon Skywalker, the guy's had a rough life. God knows the road's enough to leech the wits out of anyone who walks it long enough. He's just out of his head, just like we are, just like..." His voice trailed off, and he glanced nervously up at the tall and shockingly handsome figure of Beatrice towering above him in stern silence.

Princess Leia was tilted back in her chair with her mouth open, staring, completely stunned, at Beatrice. She didn't seem to be aware of any of the conversation going on around her. No help there, Han decided. He settled for shooting Luke a dirty look, then noticed with twinge of gratitude that someone had left a wallet containing $1500 plus several million bucks' worth of free Spiral Galaxy Salon haircuts in his lap.

Luke took the hint, and patted Aragorn awkwardly on the shoulder.

"Er...sorry dude. Wish I could do something about it."

"Oh, you can't." Aragorn looked up and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "You're just a pawn in this crazy scheme, too, we're both captive in the hands of the mystic people. Why, if I ever get my hands on Gandalf again, or even Merlin lackwit, I'll..." He smacked one fist limply into his palm, then blinked away another tear. "But that's beside the point. I'm just afraid that Roughly Central Earth has fallen into the evil clutches of Sauron in my absence, and that all my friends are...are...dead!" Sniff, sniff.

"Well, Sir Sword-Bearer," said Beatrice briskly, "if you must borrow trouble, you'd better do it handier home. You've got enough to worry about without worrying about the other dimensions. Roughly Central earth is fine, perfectly fine, and Gandalf is approximately three days from reaching the Shire for Bilbo's birthday party. And yes-" he added, seeing some sort of nonsense word springing to Aragorn's lips (and subsequently running off whacking a large drum and cackling madly)- "Rivendell is fine. Arwen is fine. Honestly, Aragorn, for a King, you're remarkably pathetic."

"Now wait just a minute!" Aragorn stood up with a crack of breaking chair, his powerful hand straying to the hilt of a vicious-looking broadsword. "How am I supposed to know that you aren't a servant of Sauron, attempting to draw me away from my mission on Roughly Central Earth? You, an unnaturally hunky guy from goodness-knows-where, suddenly saying that I'm part of another prophecy, and I need to go save another planet? I don't want to believe you at all! And calling me 'pathetic' sure isn't winning any points, mister!"

"You are pathetic." Beatrice looked down his perfectly proportioned nose at Aragorn with undisguised contempt. "Sometimes you put me very much in mind of a cocker spaniel, with the-"

"So now you've been watching me all my life, and know all my secrets, eh!" Aragorn's voice rose to a yell. Once more the bar fell silent, deciding unanimously that this tall dark man was quite the most interesting form of entertainment the bar had ever seen in its long history. "Well, I tell you now, Beatrice, only a servant of Sauron could claim that kind of knowledge! Stand up and fight to the bitter end, Man With a Woman's Name, and you will see what kind of a man is Aragorn son of Arathorn!"

Aragorn whipped out his broadsword again and leveled it expertly for Beatrice's chest, upsetting Han's margaritas-"Hey!" Han yelped indignantly- and crushing what was left of Luke's lemon juice glass.

"Man With a Woman's Name?" Beatrice's eyes blazed ferociously at the sword-brandishing figure above him. Princess Leia sighed and indiscreetly leaned back so her head was touching his waist. "That's it, Aragorn, you've said enough. No one makes fun of my name and lives!" Beatrice suddenly and dramatically whipped an ancient-looking, gooey candycane out of his shirt and pointed it at Aragorn-Princess Leia sighed again.

"Gorkum jujitsu!" he shrieked in some arcane language unknown to all but the combatants. "Yo fo urgus Napam Calistoga! Effeltarf whiffle Republicanses lugglysnarfs!"

Aragorn flew fifteen feet in the air and landed with a thump on the ceiling.

"You won't get me that easily, fiend!" he shouted, waving his broadsword, his face turning red from all the blood rushing into it. "I won't be stuck up here for long. Grommets and doubloons, ipsum, so there, servant of Sauron!"

Aragorn turned three somersaults in the air as he fell off the ceiling, landing elegantly in a heroic heap of arms and legs at Beatrice's feet. Before the startled candycane-wielder could do anything about it, Aragorn was up again and swinging his sword an uncomfortable distance from his head. He seemed to be berserking, or something else similarly Norse, because he hardly seemed to have human fears at all. Or human common sense.

"I'll get you, my pretty," he howled, hacking away at the dodging Beatrice, "and your little dog, too! God save the Queen, and damn the torpedoes, men, full speed ahead! Bonzai! HA HA HA HA HA HA!!! For God and France!"

"You're crazy!" Beatrice managed to shout under the continuing barrage of clangs as Aragorn's sword dealt grievous blows to beer flagons. "Aragorn, stop, I surrender! You're going to kill yourself or me or some innocent bystander!"

"Frankly, my dear," Aragorn roared by way of response, "I don't give a damn!" Little flecks of foam went flying along with the metal shavings. "Down with Communism! To be or not to be, that is the question."

Aragorn struck one more time with his sword and hit, by chance, a large wine cooler, causing the blade to unhappily break in half. Aragorn stopped dead, stared at his mutilated weapon for a moment or two, then slipped off the table in a stream of overturned beer. He flopped limply to the floor, staring up blankly at Beatrice and the others who crowded around him.

"Et tu, Brute?" he gasped finally, and promptly fainted.

"Well, well, well, that was interesting," said Luke finally, prodding the downed warrior with his toe. Aragorn grunted faintly and muttered something about flying monkeys. "I can see we're going to have a very lively-quest, or whatever happy dangerous-type thing you're trying to get us hooked up on."

"It'll be quite a life experience," SOS-180 chirruped, "that is, if my joints don't completely crust over with dried beer first."

"It's not my choice," Beatrice said impatiently, bending forward and trying to lift Aragorn's deadweight (which was made rather difficult by the fact that Princess Leia was hanging determinedly onto his belt.) "If I had a say in the matter, I wouldn't even be here working strange magic with a candycane and leading quests. But two thousand years ago-"

"Two thousand?" yelled Han, Luke, and SOS-180 in the same instant.

"Yes." Beatrice waved an irritated hand at them, and his other hand at Aragorn. Aragorn promptly levitated several feet in the air, and floated over to his chair, landing neatly upright (although his head had a disturbing tendency to loll.) "Yes, two thousand years. I am quite the unlucky chap. But...you know..." He glanced around at the hordes of sushi that were staring curiously at the little group of humans. "We'd better leave the Yoshimoto. It's not safe to talk of such matters here, because His spies might be watching from the crowd."

Aragorn woke up with a start then, smiled pleasantly at Beatrice, and requested a lemon tart with coffee, black, please.

"I think we'd better be going now, Aragorn," Han said kindly but firmly, taking Aragorn by the upper arm and levering him out of his seat. "There are a few things we need to discuss in a more secure location."

"Things..." The cloudy look suddenly lifted from Aragorn's face. "Oh yes, that's right, we were discussing quests, and I remember distinctly wanting to kill the blond guy over there." He jerked his head at Beatrice. "Lucky I was too polite to draw blade on him, eh?" He winked at Han, shot a venomous look at Beatrice, and started for the door on his long, agile legs.

Luke snickered.

Han looked concerned as he started after the clearly senile fellow, picking up someone's credit card accidentally on the way.

Beatrice looked even more concerned, and tried to follow the three other men, once more made difficult by Princess Leia, who was latched onto him much like a whelk on a rock, except that not many normal whelks emit heartsick sighs every five seconds.

There is, in fact, according to the Wellenforf Galactic Encyclopedia, one Vuebegonian species of whelk that does this, oddly enough. At precise intervals of five seconds, every single whelk in the colony emits a heartsick sigh, making for quite an awe-inspiring spectacle. There are various native legends used to explain the bivalves' extraordinary behavior, none of which really carry any scientific credibility and most of which involve a lovely clam-maiden. At any rate, mad scientists from all over the galaxy flock to see (and try to capture) the famous Vuebegonian Sighing Whelks. But that is just wildlife Vuebegon-style, and the Vuebegonian Sighing Whelks do not in fact enter this story until much later.

Now then, back on topic:

Beatrice glared needles down at Princess Leia, who just sighed louder and collapsed against his knees. Luke snickered again as several attractive blonde women rose indignantly from their chairs at the back of the room and started toward Princess Leia in a vaguely threatening manner, waving cleavers and handheld laser pistols.

"Just who do you think you are?" one shrieked. "Beatrice is my man, and you have the audacity to go flopping all over him like that! You get away from him this instant!"

Princess Leia smiled dreamily into the muzzle of the woman's pistol, and turned back to Beatrice. One could hear the thrum of her built-in earphones blasting "All You Need is Love."

Fortunately, Beatrice decided that now might be a good time to beat a retreat, and began stumbling after Han, Luke, and Aragorn, dragging Princess Leia by his ankles.

They never heard about what happened to the cleaver-wielding ladies in the sushi bar. Of course, to fish, cleavers are the ultimate Weapon of Horror, so it was likely that law enforcement was called in to cart them off and deport them to Vuebegon, about the world's worst place for a person with all their faculties intact to live. Considering it seriously, Han gave their sanity...two months.

At any rate, they pushed their way out through the crowded sushi bar, and strode-or hobbled, or bumped-down the street, turning the corner and following Beatrice down a small dark alley. Behind a long row of dumpsters Beatrice stopped, sniffed the air a couple of times, and keeled over backwards, momentarily stunned. Princess Leia smiled idiotically as 150- odd pounds landed on her stomach, then sniffed the air as well. Her eyes rolled unpleasantly up in her head. Luke, Han, and Aragorn exchanged meaningful looks, wondering if perhaps this wasn't the best place for a council meeting.

"You think I could slip away while he's out?" Aragorn muttered, jerking his shaggy dark head at Beatrice. "Maybe we ought to leave him here and try to rebuild our lives, what do you say? I have no desire to go around holding secret councils behind extremely ripe bins of refuse, and I doubt any of you do, either."

"Whatever you say, Aragorn," Han said with a cautious smile. He really didn't want to be on the receiving end of Aragorn's berserk wrath, although he himself was rather curious about this whole prophecy deal. And maybe he could make some money off it. He needed a job desperately.

Luke, however, appeared to have no worries about Aragorn's possible negative reaction. (Or else he just had trouble integrating cause and effect.)

"Yeah, very good," he snorted. "Now, how are we going to move her?" He gestured at Princess Leia, pinned beneath Beatrice's deadweight. "And it's not like she wants to leave the blond guy."

"We could leave her," Aragorn suggested hopefully.

"Dude, she saved my butt," Luke said firmly. "We were all going to die on a falling elevator and she saved my butt. I don't want to leave her here."

"Falling what?" Aragorn raised one eyebrow. "Never mind, I'm leaving, if you want her to come, go and wake her up."

"Okee-dokee, then." Luke shrugged and gasped in a large supply of air, then strode behind the dumpsters. With his foot he nudged Leia in the head. She grunted but did not stir. He nudged with greater force. A couple of strange verses involving a king and a whelk-maiden came jumbling unexpectedly out of her mouth, but she still did not snap out of it.

Luke shrugged, bent down, grabbed her head with both hands, and shook violently.

Princess Leia awoke with a yell, flailing at Luke with her fists and cursing in nearly all the languages that existed, and some that didn't.

Beatrice went flying, landing with a resounding crack on the cement.

And woke up, of course.

"Yeowch!" Beatrice exclaimed, after adding a few new words to even Princess Leia's impressive vocabulary. "Are you trying to kill me and run or something?"

"Well..." began Aragorn, without much tact.

"No, certainly not," said Han, helping him up and filching his wallet with the same motion. "We're only sorry you passed out because of the smell. We can't wait to hear all about this...mission...thing, can we folks?" He exchanged a meaningful look with Aragorn, who made a meaningful gesture with his finger. Han scowled and mouthed, Well you don't have to be so touchy about it, whereupon Aragorn made another meaningful gesture with his swiftly unsheathed dagger.

"I saw that, Aragorn," Beatrice said sternly. "That kind of attitude is not going to get us anywhere!"

"What?" queried Aragorn innocently, carelessly slipping the dagger back into its sheath.

"You gave Han the finger," Beatrice continued. "That is not nice behavior."

"Oh," said Aragorn, leaning against the wall.

"Look, sir King, I want you with us about as much as you want to be with us, but you got to because the Prophecy says so. Six of the 9 ¾ we have here now, including you, and you will not be able to get out of it."

"Oh," said Aragorn.

"DUDE!" Princess Leia yelled suddenly, apparently having recovered her wind. "People, stop fighting! Aragorn, Beatri......" The word trailed off into a long sigh, and Han feared for a minute that they'd lost her again. Fortunately she regained her composure. "Yeah, you two, stop fighting. Let's get this thing done before this stupid chapter gets any longer!"

"I suppose I can't argue with that," Aragorn grumbled, "since I'd really rather we get out from behind a dumpster soon. And if I really have no choice..."

"You don't," said Beatrice firmly. "The Prophecy says."

All of a sudden Beatrice's eyelids dropped closed, and he began to chant in an eerily distant voice. SOS-180 stared at the opening of the alleyway trying to convince himself that the voices were not real. The four other humans instantly felt a strange heaviness in the air, almost tangible forces of Fate and Destiny running up and down their spines and raising the little hairs on their necks (and playing spin-the-bottle, and getting drunk, and holding head-bursting rock concerts on the dumpsters. Only Beatrice had enough power to notice this, however, and he was thoroughly occupied with Freaky Whispering.)

"One from Dakota where beetles can sing, One with a sword claimed by all as a King, One for whom juice of the lemon is lord One who unwitting steals gems for his hoard

One golden-haired siren with voice of a crow One Seeker, one android whose haunted eyes glow One giant Sea Squid, one reckless Elf-maid All led by an Ancient, long shrouded in shade.

The nine and three-fourths, in legends foretold Shall arise to do battle with the Powers of Old And will hasten the end of the dark forces' reign With but one thing to bind them: a lacking in brain."

The strange verse ended with a mysterious whistle of wind through the dumpsters. Aragorn shuddered as Beatrice's icy blue eyes roved around the silent semi-circle and came to rest on him like a silent warning, piercing his heart. Or perhaps he shuddered because of the empty Twinkies wrapper that came flying in with the mysterious gust of wind and plastered itself, frosting-side down, to his face. One never could tell with such things.

"Yes," whispered Beatrice, still boring Aragorn through with his eyes. It was a little hard to hear him over the whine of the electric drill. "Yes, my friends, that is the Prophecy. The first four are obviously you. The android is him." Beatrice nodded at SOS-180, who was shifting nervously from foot to foot humming "Tiptoe Through the Tulips" and valiantly ignoring the voices in his primary control circuit telling him to assassinate Aragorn.

"And the Ancient..." Beatrice drew himself up straighter, and suddenly seemed to draw all the shadows of the dumpsters around him into a cloak of mystery. "The Ancient One spoken of is me. It is I who will guide you on this quest."

"Yes!" whispered Princess Leia, rather indiscreetly.

"Yes," echoed Aragorn. He sat up taller as well, and once more seemed nobler and more kingly, even with a Twinkies wrapper stuck to his cheek. "And Beatrice, though my heart would rather be in Roughly Central Earth where it once was, I am...I am ready to go with you. Only one small detail. Where are we going, and what are we going to do once we get there?"

"We are going-" Beatrice checked his watch. "We are going to ancient Greece. Heroic Age Greece, when the Gods were still (in some cases literally) screwing around with the mortals and meddling in their important business. None of you will know the terrain; I will be your sole guide. And the Cat should be arriving any second now, bearing with him our key to unlocking the Doors of Time. Do not fear, more will be explained. My contacts in ancient Greece are already expecting a large party of people from the Otherworld."

If some maniac with way too much time on his hands had pulled out a permanent marker and scrawled, Huh? all over the four people's faces, the message couldn't have been much plainer.

"I told you," said Beatrice, getting impatient again. "The Cat is coming. The Comm-"

But he was abruptly cut off as a large ball of peachish fur came barreling off the top of the dumpster, landing neatly on the fire escape.

It was, oddly enough, a very fat cat, with long marmalade fur and a bright red bandanna around its neck. There was also a red mark painted on its furry forehead. It glared earnestly down at them out of keen yellow eyes, then opened its fanged mouth wide.

"Mao!" it yowled. "Mao!"

It then leapt up the fire escape and vanished as quickly as it had come.

A large white parsnip came plummeting sadly down through the iron railing at its passing and landed directly between the semicircle of people.

"Behold!" Beatrice said impressively. "One of the Great Root Vegetables!"

Huh?

Han sincerely hoped that this wasn't supposed to make any sense.

"I can see," Beatrice continued, "that you are desperately hoping that this isn't supposed to make any sense."

Han's eyes bugged out with shock. Could Beatrice read minds? Han definitely did not want to have to hang around with someone who constantly knew what he was thinking.

"Well," Beatrice smiled wolfishly. "Since it doesn't make sense yet, you're just going to have to trust me. But be very quiet! It is not always wise to toy with the Keys of Time. We do this only in desperate need. Everyone, gather round in a circle and hold your hands just above the Great Root Vegetable. DON'T TOUCH IT UNTIL I SAY SO-Mr. Solo!"

Han, who had just been considering putting his hand on the vegetable, blanched a little more, becoming a shade of color rather similar to that of the parsnip. Beatrice was definitely a little creepy.

"All right." Four faces in an identical shade of parsnip, plus one confident-looking face, plus one galvanized-with-gold-plating that didn't particularly look anything at all, bent in over the parsnip. At first glance it seemed perfectly ordinary, until one looked closer and realized that there was absolutely no dirt on its pale peel whatsoever. Also, if you looked at it hard in a very dark place (such as the alley) it seemed to have an uncanny shifting glow. (The glow was parsnip-colored.) Five trembling hands and one hydraulic-joint steady one reached out to hover over the vegetable.

"When I say go, everyone." Beatrice bent excitedly over the Key of Time. "Not-Mr. Solo-before. All right. One-um flaucinaucihillipifillicate-Two-shrubberer mulcher grubber-Three-EVERONE, GO!-chikkin nudul ZOOP!!!!

"And don't worry, Mr. Solo," said Beatrice's voice just before the huge billowing cloud of puce smoke enveloped them, "I cannot read minds."