Day 331: Who shall bring forth deliverance?

Voltan cherishes the English language in its infinite richness. Its heroes: Shakespeare, Milton, Blake and Cooper. Its poems and songs. Its depth of synonyms. Its portmanteaux. Its pickings from all over the world. Words such as crabapple and blancmange bring pleasure.

Unless, of course, they are uttered in swift succession by Zane when announcing the evening's menu. That his febrile mind should concoct such a dish is not surprising, but Voltan cannot imagine where he found the necessary fruit and eggs. Voltan put this to Zane over a quivering spoonful.

'From Mr Tidy,' was his reply.

'And who is Mr Tidy?'

'Little bloke, comes round in a little boat. Sells all sorts off the back. Sort of a mobile, marine grocer.'

Voltan groaned. Super Secret Sea-Base Beta had been compromised yet again. 'What next? Newspapers and milk delivered in the morning? A chat with the postie over a morning coffee?'

'Well, it's a bit...'

'This is not suburbia! This is a secret, evil, ocean-based lair! It is supposed to be self-sufficient! It is supposed to be secret!'

Zane, taken aback, said nothing.

'And yet, thanks to you, our cover is blown so wide open that little people have started to view us as a commercial opportunity! What have you got to say for yourself?'

Zane fidgeted with his blancmange. 'Wasn't me,' he said. 'It was Bibi that asked him if he could get us some stuff in.'

'Miss Billingbrox? How has she had contact with the outside world?'

'She saw him out of her porthole and, sort of, shouted down.'

'Saw him out of her porthole?'

'Yeah, he was on his round, see?'

A sinking feeling gripped Voltan's stomach. 'His round?'

'Yeah. He delivers to some of the other sea-bases round here too.'