'I couldn't see it!' he gasped. 'Thanks!' And he held up a small packet. 'Here!' he said.

'Oh! Thank you!' said Lucy, accepting the gift in what she felt was an appropriately grateful way. 'What is it?'

'A plaster,' said The Journalist. 'Stick it on before I bleed to death.'

'A lady she say we ought to sing while passengers are in the gondola and not other way round,' confided the Gondolabot, clearly feeling the need for a bit of small-talk. 'We think something may be seriously wrong.'

'Just get us to the Engine Room!'

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

By the time they had reached the Engine Room, Lucy had managed to convince The Journalist that her name really was Lucy.

'But you know what that means in Blerontin?' The Journalist was in some pain from the laughter. He'd managed to stop at last, and Lucy was feeling a bit piqued.

'No,' she said coldly. 'What does it mean?'

'I can't tell you,' he replied.

'I'd like to know.'

'No no no no no - I just couldn't!'

'What's so funny? Go on, you've got to tell me!'

'Maybe when I know you better - oh! argh! ha ha ha! It hurts!'

'Well, what's your name?' she asked.

'The Journalist,' replied The Journalist.

'That's not a name, that's a job description,' objected Lucy.

The Journalist shrugged. 'On Blerontin news-hacks aren't allowed individual names - it's an ancient law - something to do with avoiding the cult of the personality or something.'

'I can't call you The Journalist!'

'Just call me "The",' he said, and opened the luminous blue doors of the Engine Room.

A quick look inside drew his attention immediately to the small cabinet in the corner. The Journalist strode straight across to it, opened the doors, glanced at the two buttons, and without hesitation pressed the one marked: 'Press To Arm'..