More talking
“So there must be lots of these Spyders by now,” said Steve. “I heard that Spyders breed like rabbits!”
“That can’t possibly be true,” said Greg. “Rabbits are mammals so therefore the young are carried internally by the mother until birth. They then have to be weaned and fed milk from the mammary glands until able to fend for themselves. On the other hand Spyders are invertebrate arachnids. They lay eggs by the thousand and some of the offspring, those that aren’t eaten by their siblings, will grow to maturity independent of their parents.”
There was a large thump as Hanny smacked Greg with a large wet lettuce leaf.
“Pedant!” she said.
Hanny looked ahead into the village of Far.
“Do you see a mass of Spyder webs? Are we being stared at by eight million eyes as a possible lunch? No? No! Because the original bunch of Spyders were all male. Old Tom Cobbler only brought the remaining sons he had left from his fourteenth coupling. They decided a ship full of males was better than bringing any females; something to do with becoming a ladies lunch if you don’t get away fast enough after a session. It seems Tom Cobbler was a particularly romantic Spyder with the ability to run very fast. And fortunately they are not parthenogenetic!” she added.
“Bugger me; is this turning into some sort of Science textbook?” asked Peter.
“So are they all incestuous jobby jabbers then?” asked Greg.
Two more large slaps were quickly administered. Hanny reminded Greg that any references to personal sexual preferences would not be tolerated. This is a Politically Correct Adventure and no retarded Goblin was going to ruin it!
“You can’t refer to me as ‘retarded’ if this is a Politically Correct Adventure!” declared Greg.
Hanny looked at him and looked at the large piece of wet lettuce. Greg was right of course and Hanny should not be making fun of his lack of intellect. She really had no idea what it feels like to be Thick as a Brick.
“As fate would have it,” continued Hanny, “they are particularly good dancers; not that that has any link to your allusion about their sexuality, I might add; in fact I just did add,” added Hanny.
The Disco Dancing Spyders from Mars were developing an interplanetary reputation for the quality of their moves. All night dance parties were the order of the day for the Spyders. It was rumoured that Old Tom Cobbler was planning an infinite disco party that would last forever.
Waltz or Watusi, Madison or Margerena, Twist or Shout the Spyders would let it all go. So what that it was blokes dancing with blokes, anything goes when the party starts swinging. These guys could light up a party like a roomful of burning cats. To watch Tom Cobbler slide around the dance floor doing The Poltergeist was nothing short of sensational. When he lined up with his sons they moved from an unbelievably tight Jacklin into Line dancing that would set the Queens foot tapping. Salsa, Rumba and Cha-Cha-Cha shimmied out across the universe like beetles on a pool of mercury.
These guys were hot.
“Here’s a bit of advice for you lads for tonight,” said Hanny. “There’s a good chance we’ll end up discovating somewhere and will no doubt start shimmying with some Spyders. Don’t get too close as they can be carnivorous. They have a tacit agreement not to eat any of the locals but travellers are fair game.”
“Oh dear!” sweated Steve.
“Don’t worry though,” she continued. “If you think things are looking a bit dicey just shout ‘Okey Cokey’. It’s a call to dance that the Spyders just can’t turn down. But then they just stand there totally mesmerised.”
“Why’s that?” asked Peter.
“Try to think it through shit for brains. How would you react if someone says ‘put your left leg in, your left leg out’ when you’ve got four left legs? It throws them completely, and gives the quick-thinking traveller enough time to get away.”
The lads mused on Hannys musings. Far was not the place to go. Should they set up camp and consume a few bottles of Imp Ale?
Or might they risk a night down the bar dancing the conga with the eight-legged inhabitants?
No, a quiet night in counting their toes seemed a much safer bet.
Tomorrow they could be Far away.
Fairy Hanny 