Our friends are enjoying a well-earned rest after their recent sojourn on a
strange fictional planet. Tim has finally finished opening the last of his
birthday gifts and he, Dix and Rowan are playing...with his new game of
British Monopoly (tm).

Tim has just rolled the dice and now moves his marker, a jewelled crown, six
spaces.

Tim [rubbing his hands gleefully:]  Aaaah...Buckingham Palace.  The high-rent
district.

Dix [picking up the dice and adjusting her marker, a tiny knight on
horseback:]  Uh-oh, Ro,--we're in big trouble.

Rowan fingers his dwindling stack of bills and nods.

Rowan: That's the last time I pick the plum pudding -- it keeps rolling off
the board. (To Tim:)  What will you take for the royal residence?

Tim: Oh, forty million pounds, sixpence.

Rowan: Bugger.  Can't manage the sixpence...

Dix moves her game piece and lands on 'Go To Gaol.'

Dix:...'and do *not* collect 200 pounds.'  I think these things are loaded.

Tim [piling his "money" into neat stacks:] They seem all right to me.  Go
ahead, Rowan, roll a seven and see what happens to you.

Rowan rolls an eight, barely missing Tim's palace:  Ah. At least my last sixty
pounds are safe for the moment.

Frank, Tim's border collie, has been lying on the rug in front of the
fireplace.  Suddenly he jumps to his feet and barks excitedly.

Dix:  Do you want to roll for Tim, Frank?  Maybe you can change his luck.

As she speaks, there is a tiny clap of thunder and a weak bolt of lightning in
the room and all the lights go out.

Tim:  Don't worry -- El Nino is probably at it again.

Dix:  I'm calm but you don't need to hold me quite so tightly, whichever one
of you it is --

Rowan:  I was about to say the same thing.

Tim:  I can't move...seem to be stuck in my chair.

The room is gradually lit by a soft octarine glow...then the furnishings melt
away and our trapped trio find themselves lying in a flowery meadow under a
pale *green* sky.

Ricewood, Chief Chef of Cuisine University, is sitting nearby on a large
boulder, looking at a stop-sundial in his hand.

Ricewood:  Better...but still not good.  You should have been here forty
minutes ago.

Dix:  Why?  What happened then?

Ricewood [sighing:] You might have been able to avert the Toadstool Conspiracy
of the Melting Waffles.  What I meant was that everything here on Slipped-Disc
World has been slowing down lately.  Things are critical and we need your
assistance.

Tim: Couldn't you just send us a telegram?

Rowan: By carrier pigeon, preferably.  I nailed the last one with one shot and
it was delicious.

Ricewood slowly raises a hand:  Oh, no, look behind you...

Tim, Dix and Rowan turn and see a shimmering woven carpet about 16 feet long
lying in the grass.

Tim: And now you'll tell us that that's a Flying Carpet...

Ricewood:  Now it's a Creeping Carpet.  And it's developed a taste for human
flesh, so I wouldn't let it creep up on me if I were you.  Hit it with a rock,
that's the best way...

                   *                 *                   *

Discouraged by a hail of stones thrown by Tim and Rowan, the Creeping Carpet
slowly withdraws with a fluid rippling motion.  As it disappears among the
trees at the edge of the meadow, it is making a sad warped woofling noise.

Dix:  Charming.  The more I see of this place, the more I appreciate
Hollywood.

The large boulder Ricewood is sitting on heaves a rumbling gravelly sigh and
stretches a craggy arm-like appendage.

Ricewood:  Settle down, Dermot.  I'll let you know when your nap is over.

Tim:  Ah, I know that you'll have difficulty in believing this after our
stunning success last time, but we aren't really your basic invincible
warrior-type individuals.  Why don't you advertise for soldiers of fortune or
all-powerful wizards?

Ricewood [smiling:]  It's your...innocence of such things that makes your
assistance so invaluable.  Slipped-Disc World is old in evil plots and
irresistible spells, but it has nothing that can stand against the truly
naive.

Rowan:  You're too kind.

Dix:  So for your purposes it's best that we blunder blindly into whatever
horrid disaster your local monsters have cooked up?

Tim:  And our not knowing what the problem is, or where to go,--

Dix: -- Or what to do when we get there,--

Rowan: -- Would, in fact make our unspecified task possible?

Ricewood:  Exactly.  As for the problem, I've already told you:  we've been
visited recently with the Time-On-Our-Hands Plague.  The days keep getting
longer, everyone moves more slowly, no work is being accomplished and our
young people listen to music that consists solely of rude suggestions, badly
pronounced.

Dix:  Sounds like summer vacation to me.

Ricewood:  Even our river, Old Sludgy, has almost stopped flowing.

Rowan:  Dammed, perhaps?

Ricewood:  We're ALL damned if you three don't stop hanging about asking silly
questions and get busy and set things right.

He pulls a rolled-up map out of his robe and hands it to Tim.

Ricewood:  This will show you the trouble spot.

Tim unrolls the faded parchment.  It is written and drawn in Olde Discishe,
but in the northeast corner of the Sometime Mountaine Range is a green circle
with the words 'Trubble Spotte' in glowing red ink.  At the southern point, a
meadow ('meddowe') is indicated with a legend reading 'Yu Ar Heere.'

Rowan:  That looks like a good hundred kilometres as the crow flies.

Winged Thing, hearing his cue, flutters out of the grove of trees and alights
on Tim's shoulder.  He opens his flap and a 4-inch-tall fairylike creature
pops out.  Seeing Rowan, the fairy flies over and lands on his collar and
begins to play with his hair.

Ricewood:  This is Windblossom...you'll need her when you meet the Bouncing
Aratnids of Pondlily Grange.

Before Dix can ask the obvious question, Rowan pulls her out of the way of the
Creeping Carpet which has slunk back unobserved and was about to sink its
fringe into her ankle.  Rowan picks up a large rock and the Carpet slithers
away in frustration.

Ricewood:  Better put that one back -- it's Dermot's toenail and he might miss
it when he wakes up.  Now, hurry along...you three are the only beings who are
still capable of hurrying, so make the most of it.

Tim: Aren't you coming with us?

Ricewood:  No...I think...I'll just...sit here awhile...and try to...remember
how...my legs...work...

               *                   *                        *

An hour after leaving Ricewood reclining limply on Dermot the troll and
muttering to himself, Tim, Dix and Rowan are traversing the wind-swept crags
of the Sometime Mountains and not particularly enjoying themselves.  The
Winged Thing, riding Tim's shoulder, whistles a cheery song that fails to
cheer anyone up noticeably.

Windblossom, the fairy, has formed a definite attachment to Rowan and keeps
trying to win him over with her stock of enchantments.  She has already tried
conjuring up a basket of fresh rainbow trout, which he waved aside, a large
orange tortoise and two dozen handpainted neckties, all of which caused him to
raise an eyebrow wearily.  Now she plays her trump card and he is suddenly
encased in a suit of solid gold armor...

Rowan: Damn!! (sinking to his knees as gold is one of the heavier metals)
Right,-- that's it.  Back in the knapsack, Missy!

Pouting, Windblossom creeps into Winged Thing's open flap and slams it behind
her.  Rowan's armor disappears -- along with most of his clothing; he's left
wearing his Y-fronts and a baleful expression.

Dix:  Love that umm, look, Ro.

Tim [under his breath:]  If you like exhibitionism...

Rowan snaps his fingers at Winged Thing and Windblossom peeks out nervously.
She waves her hand and Rowan's shirt and trousers reappear.  Winged Thing
tucks her back under his flap and a rapid scratching sound commences...a long
strip of parchment unrolls from the interior of the uncanny knapsack.

Tim looks at the parchment distastefully:  Oh, Lord, it's in verse.

"Hasten, hasten, Time is flying;
(Rather, crawling) folk are dying.
Ye must brave PondeLillye Grange,
Duel with creatures mad and strange;
Find the Key to Krono's Clock
In the Wall of Living Rock,
Shed the blood of Monsters rare --
Only virgins need beware --
Ye are chosen, Lucky Three,
For experienced are thee,
No strangers to Adversity."

Dix:  Well, that's a big help.  Not to say impertinent...

Rowan:  More bloody monsters?  My agent will have something to say about this
you may be sure.

Tim: *Your* agent?  I've got so many commitments right now that as much as I
would love to duel mad strange creatures,--

As he is speaking, a huge fissure opens at his feet and a large portion of the
mountainside drops away.  And Tim drops with it, clutching for a handhold.  He
gets hold of Dix's ankles as he falls and she is pulled over -- but Rowan
drops flat at the top of the cliff and just manages to catch Dix's wrists...

Dix:  Ouch!  Now I know what saltwater taffy feels like.  Ro, can you manage
our weight?

Rowan [perspiring freely:]  Do I look like Superman to you?  No, I can't --
but hang on.

Winged Thing swoops into action and flies above our dangling friends:  a huge
shimmering net springs out of the opened flap and scoops them up, depositing
them back on solid ground.

Tim [out of breath:]  Now we know why these are called the "Sometime"
Mountains.

Rowan:  Quite.  Some of the time, they're mountains; the rest of the time
they're bloody great holes in the ground.

Dix:  That was an impressive rescue, WT.  I wouldn't be surprised if you could
even raise the dead.

Winged Thing's flap creases in puzzlement, then it spits out a slip of
parchment:

"That's simple.  You just take hold of each end and lift."

                      *                   *                    *

Tim, Dix and Rowan, getting more fed up by the minute, continue their unsought
quest to get Slipped-Disc World's momentum back on track.

Twilight has fallen as they trudge down the mountain trail toward the valley
below; the pale-green sky has deepened to a translucent emerald colour and two
pink crescent moons hang on the horizon.

As Dix is admiring the effect, something large and woolly leaps upon her from
a nearby pile of rocks.  Fringes quivering with joy, the Creeping Carpet
engulfs her struggling body...

Rowan:  Good Lord! -- I can't look -- is it eating her?!

Dix [muffled tones:]  No -- it's FONDLING me!! -- Get it off!!!

Tim [pulling a Swiss Army knife from his pocket and advancing threateningly
toward the Carpet and its captive:]  Drop that woman or I'll cut so many holes
in you that you'll have to find work as a fish net!!

The Creeping Carpet turns pale, its colours fading from purple and orange to
puce and beige.  It hastily unrolls and Dix springs out, ruffled but unharmed.
The Carpet cowers at her feet.

Dix:  Hmm.  It *may* just want to be friends...

The Carpet rears up in a begging position and looks at her eagerly, like a
puppy hoping for a biscuit.  Dix pats it on the edge and it "licks" her hand
with its fringe, its colour gradually returning to normal.

Rowan:  That was quick thinking, Tim.  I didn't know you were armed.

Tim:  Ever since last month when we were transported to this,--region,--I've
been carrying this wonderful all-purpose gadget just in case.

Rowan takes the knife from him and examines it.

Rowan:  And you were about to go into battle...with a vicious corkscrew?  Next
time I suggest you use one of the blades.

Tim:  At least *I* was prepared to defend Dix.  I didn't notice YOU
distinguishing yourself in the death-defying stakes.

Dix:  Fellas...

Rowan:  Au contraire.  Dix knows that my last drop of blood is ever at her
disposal --

Dix [aside:]  Yucch.

Rowan: -- I was lulling the monster into a false sense of security before I
implemented my coup de grace.

Dix:  You're both too marvelous for words.  Not to change the subject, but
isn't that a signpost of some kind up ahead?

A grey, weather-stained post half-covered in ivy bears the following message:

"Pondelillye Grange
Trefpafserres Wille Bee Vyolatedde.
(Plumpe Solicyttorres Wellcome)"

Tim:  I vote that we make a nice wide circle around this estate.

Rowan:  Right.  It may make our journey a little longer, but the scenic nature
of the countryside should prove a pleasant alternative to our chances of being
devoured by some alien life form.

Dix [suddenly quite pale:]  Oh, dear...

Tim and Rowan follow her gaze:  a decrepit old mansion half-hidden among
overgrown trees and shrubbery.  A gray-brick pathway leading to the entrance,
and along the pathway and heading toward our friends are a dozen *bouncing*
shapes: rats the size of basketballs.  And to make them just that tiny bit
more repulsive, each "rat" has eight hairy legs...

Dix [sinking to a sitting position on the rocky path:]  Think of something
quickly -- these must be those "Aratnids" Ricewood mentioned,-- and spiders
are the one thing that really ruin my day...

Winged Thing begins to hum musically from his position on Tim's shoulder and
Windblossom slips out and perches on top of Rowan's head.  She stretches out
among his curly hair and begins to tickle his ear.

Dix:  I know someone who's about to get her little gossamer wings ripped
off...

Windblossom sticks out her tongue, then flies away just in time to avoid Dix's
quick grab.

The Aratnids are within a few feet of our adventurers when Winged Thing pops
open and a blast of icy air shoots out, freezing two of the monsters in their
tracks.  Tim and Rowan find that they each have a long slender golden sword in
their hands; they lose no time in slashing away at the hideous creatures, who
hiss and snarl as they give ground.

A strip of parchment flutters from Winged Thing's flap and Dix picks it up.

Dix:

"The Clock is ticking slower still,
Behind the Grange is Krono's Hill;
And ye must foil the Foolish Two
Whose meddling makes the Time untrue."

Rowan:  Oh, good.  I love riddles.  Nearly as much as I love missing three
meals in succession and acquiring as large a set of blisters as humanly
possible from climbing bloody mountains for hours on end.

Tim:  Blisters?  You should see the paper cut I got when I unfolded that map.

Dix [rolling her eyes:]  Give it a rest, boys.  Let's get going.  Oh, and one
of you might get me a rose from that lovely bush over there...

The bush in question is indeed lovely,--gorgeous peach/pink/magenta blossoms
hang heavily among glossy dark green leaves.  Tim hurries over just ahead of
Rowan and reaches to cut off a rose with his knife.

And then the "rosebush" draws him inside itself with one gulp.

                      *                  *                   *

Uh-oh...it looks as if our daring trio may have just been reduced to a duo...

Dix and Rowan stare in shock at the voracious shrub which has just enveloped
Tim in its leafy embrace.  There is a flurry of rustling leaves and strangled
sounds, then all is still...

Rowan is quickest to recover:  Ah, pity.  Well, two is company; three a crowd.
Now that we're alone for a change --

Dix:  If we only had a weapon,-- some pruning shears or a weed-whacker...

Windblossom, smiling nastily, flies over to the bush and sprinkles a
glittering powder over it.  All its leaves and blossoms fall to the ground and
Tim fights his way out of the encircling branches -- free of the devouring
vegetation and also of all his clothing except for his socks.

Tim [shivering, but unaware of his loss:]  Brrrr.  Once the sun goes down,
it's quite chilly in this mountainous area...

Dix [trying not to stare and not succeeding;}  Not bad, Windblossom.  Oddly
enough, my daughter Kelly has the same touch with plants.

Rowan:  Disgusting.  Shameless!

Dix: Yes, well, she loves them dearly, but they tend to wither and die on the
way home from the garden shop.

Rowan:  I was referring to our nude colleague...this is the first time I've
ever seen a plant peel its food.

Tim, realizing his condition, hastily steps behind the Grange signpost --
which is inadequate to the task.  Windblossom flutters over for a closer look
and he slaps her away; she goes reeling into a gorse hedge and the sound of
tiny fairy swear words tinkles on the breeze.  Winged Thing sighs and claps
his flap twice and Tim is once again clad like Rowan in black trousers and a
white shirt.

Our friends trek on in the darkening dusk, Windblossom flying ahead. In her
hand she carries a glow-worm lantern that casts a bright light to lead the
way.  Now and then, she shows off with a bit of light-writing:  "Eat at Goblin
House -- And Get Gas," etc.

Tim:  Very funny.

Dix: Infantile.

Rowan:  Did she have to mention food?

Presently a large hill looms up ahead of them, a hill with a great oaken door
that is slightly ajar.  A rosy glow lights the short passageway and our group
enters cautiously.  Inside the hill the walls are made of rose quartz and
aquamarine that seems to be lit from within, spreading a pink and greenish-
blue radiance.

Dix:  Look...at all the clocks!

Clocks and sundials and arcane timepieces of all descriptions fill the rocky
shelves and lean against the walls.  The largest of them stands eighteen feet
tall and has a giant face with half-closed eyes in place of a dial.  Beside
it, three feet up the quartz wall, is a keyhole that has a heavy ornate black
key sticking out of it.  The clock is ticking:
tick..........................................................................
...tock...

Rowan: That clock needs winding.

Tim: Well, there's the key.

Rowan [trying to pull it out:]  Seems to be stuck...

A worried voice comes from behind the clock:  We were wondering about that...
before he got stuck in the clock works.

A furry head with moist, pleading black eyes peers around the clockcase and
smiles apologetically.

Dix:  Oh, no, it's Gaspipe...

Gaspipe: ...the Wonder Wombat, in a bit of a predicament actually...

                  *                    *                    *


We left our friends inside a huge quartz-lined cave filled with clocks -- the
"Trubble Spotte" on the map provided by Ricewood, Chief Chef of Cuisine U.
They have just re-encountered Gaspipe, the Wonder Wombat, who seems to be
involved somehow in the problem of Slipped-Disc World's Time-On-Our-Hands
Plague...

As Gaspipe is trying to formulate words to explain the situation, a muffled
voice speaks from within the huge clock case:

Voice:  Excuse me, my lord...

Rowan's eyebrows go up.  He yanks open the door at the bottom of the case and
looks inside.  Baldrick's face, upside down, smiles at him ingratiatingly.

Rowan: I might have known. Get out of there, you impossible cretin.

Baldrick:  I'm stuck.

Rowan grabs him by the head and pulls.  With a jangling of clockwork, Baldrick
is dragged free and Rowan drops him on the floor.

The clock continues to tick, but ever more slowly.

Rowan:  Explain yourself.  And keep it brief.

Baldrick:  Then you don't want to hear about my deprived childhood, my lord?

Rowan: "Depraved," more likely.  Start with what you're doing here in the
first place.

Tim and Dix sit down on a couple of marble mantel clocks and Dix strokes
Gaspipe behind the ears.

Baldrick:  In the first place I was doing the washing up while you an' your
friends here was playing that Monotony game, an' the kitchen was suddenly
bathed in a unearthly purpley glow an' then I was here and I met that fuzzy
brown bloke an' I was teaching him how to play Turnip Ball -- he'd fling it
an' I would catch it in my mouth and bring it back...

Rowan:  I see.  You were learning to fetch.  Any moment now, you may master
the art of rolling over and playing dead.

Baldrick:  ...but I missed it the last time and it went into that great huge
box thing so I climbed in to get it.

Rowan:  Shut up, Baldrick.

Baldrick:  That's right, my lord.  I got shut up.

Tim: This is unutterably fascinating, but that clock sounds as if it's about
to run down.

Dix:  And if it stops, I have a feeling that ALL Slipped-Disc World may stop
with it...

Gaspipe [mournfully:]  I shouldn't wonder if you're quite right.

The Creeping Carpet hunches closer to Dix's feet, shivering nervously.

Rowan tries again to pull the clock key out of the wall.  An idea strikes him
--

Rowan:  In the Arthurian legends, the Sword in the Stone could only be pulled
out by the future king of England -- a man of matchless courage, purity and
future-king qualities.  Since this 'world' obeys unnatural laws,--Baldrick!
Fetch me that key.

Baldrick, smiling shyly, comes over and pulls the key easily from its place in
the solid quartz wall.

Baldrick:  This one, my lord?

Rowan [taking it:]  Since it was the only one there, yes.

He inserts it in the keyhole in the clock case and it immediately begins to
spin like a top.

Dix: It's winding itself.

SFX: Tick/tock/tick/tock/tick/tock...

Tim:  And it sounds quite happy about it.

Gaspipe:  Oh, how wonderful!

Rowan [modestly:]  Nothing, really. And now I for one would like to get back
to civilization.

All eyes turn expectantly to Winged Thing, who is resting lethargically
against a small cuckoo clock.  His flap opens slowly and a small piece of
parchment droops listlessly out.

"Cannot function in a Moron Zone...Your dogsbody nullifies my powers with his
truly mind-bending lack of mental function..."

Rowan:  It's as I've always said:  if you want anything done right, first kill
Baldrick.

Dix: Well, if you think it will help...

Tim: I _have_ been trying to revitalize my resume'...do you think a touch of
brutality coupled with mindless violence might get me more respect and
possibly a few Bruce Willis-type roles?  I could save civilizations just as
effectively as he does.

Baldrick cowers behind Gaspipe, who is quite unconcerned.  Dix hears a
humming, purring, pleased-with-itself sound near the cave entrance and sees
the Carpet hovering three feet above the floor...

Dix:  Never mind, fellas,--our ride is here.

     *          *          *

With the breeze in their hair, a smile on their lips and a song in their
hearts, Tim, Dix and Rowan soar above the Sometime Mountaine Range, headed
back toward the meadow where they had left Ricewood in a supine condition a
few day ago.  Baldrick, sitting in the economy section at the rear of the
Carpet, notices a loose thread and starts to toy with it...

A few minutes later, just above the meadow...

SFX:  Thump, thump, thump, bump, crash!

Tim, Dix and Rowan all land sprawling in the grass and Gaspipe goes rolling
away to fetch up against Dermot, the troll, who ignores him.  Baldrick -- and
a really huge ball of yarn -- lands on top of Ricewood, who had been running
the hundred-yard-dash for amusement.

Rowan sits up, rubbing his head.  His eyes fall on Baldrick.

Rowan:  Tell me that you didn't deliberately unravel our transportation while
we were airbourne...

Baldrick: I didn't de-liberally --

Rowan picks up a good-sized rock and holds it out:  Run your head against
this.  I don't feel like getting up.

Dix:  Well, if Winged Thing doesn't work under Baldrick's influence and the
Flying Carpet is out of commission -- how are we supposed to get home?

Ricewood [feeling his bruises tenderly:]  Don't worry.  Faced with the
alternative of keeping your umm, animal, here on Slipped-Disc World, which has
enough troubles of its own, all that's necessary is to place him in a state of
suspended animation...

At this moment, Baldrick's head collides with the rock in Rowan's hand and he
drops to the ground with a foolish smile.

Ricewood: Yes, just like that.

     *           *           *

Later, back in Tim's living room our three are relaxing with an after-dinner
drink or several...Dix is fondling a gigantic ball of purple and golden yarn.

Dix:  There's enough here to make sweaters for both of you.  And the dogs,
too.  And even one for Baldrick.  Feel that texture, soft, supple, silky and
warm...

Rowan and Tim together:  NO!!!!!!!

The End

(Until next time...)

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