Link Arms with Toads! by Rhys Hughes Read Free Book Online

loss of enamel tiles is a serious disadvantage for future meals. The waiter flicks a towel at him, though whether in guilt or anger is rather difficult to determine. Mondrian catches him by the collar in an attempt to drag him down, but the spiceman is too debilitated and succeeds only in yanking himself from the table.
    Cast adrift in the restaurant, struggling in each other’s arms, the pair lose angular momentum and begin to spiral toward the kitchen. There is terror on the waiter’s face; Mondrian is too dazed to notice. “I want to know the secret!” he wails. “Tell me the answer! How do you manage to stay in business with so few customers? How do you make enough money? Is there a flaw in spicetime on the premises? Do you have connections with minority retail outlets? Tell me about lingerie shops!” Breathlessly, as they pass the inner tables on their doomed course, the waiter points out the ghostly patrons, who look up in misty alarm.
    Mondrian understands the terrible irony. His hunch was right: there really are other dimensions, with rival Spice Centres and Khormanauts. A ridiculous oversight on his part! It is the convergence of these diners, these menu-explorers, which keep the establishments viable. By seeking a reason for the existence of so many restaurants, the parallel spicemen provide that reason. Never has a self-fulfilling process stuffed his mind’s belly with such insubstantial provender. “Our fault!” he bellows, struggling to disengage from the waiter.
    At last, as the warmth of the ovens starts to baste his brow, he is alerted to his precarious situation. He releases the safety catch on his yoghurt tank and clasps the nozzle. “The glare is too bright. I’m unable to aim accurately. I require assistance! Which way?” Placing his cracked lips close to Mondrian’s lobe, the waiter hisses: “South!” The spiceman is bemused. He knows that there simply are no directions in Spice. “When you travel on down toward the ovens,” the waiter replies, “and food gets yellow and hot and creamy, then you’re going in one direction only.” The phantoms are pushing aside their plates.
    Mondrian sees a future removed from them by the merest Naan: curry is a black-beaned meal where taste drowns its speech and kisses. Cream a big cream, but spice snuffs it out before it is half down your throat. Gourmets curry, coriander in a flaming matchbox; the dinner is dripping lava, gushing sweetcorn, nothing! In desperation, the Khormanaut presses the lever on his tank. He hates anything to do with south; north is his favourite direction. The retro-blast of the yoghurt should propel him to safety, but the nozzle sputters ludicrously: the tank is empty! With the fatalism of a dishwasher, he sends another desperate message to Mission Control: “Greenwich, cheque please.”
    They are approaching the chutney-horizon, the boundary between the world of forks and that of cleavers. For the first time, he is aware of other Mission Controls, huddled next to his own. And now the ghosts are busy making their own communications — “Euston, we have a problem!” “Can you read me, Cape Kennington?” “Hampstead, kindly advise!” Mondrian commends his soul to Sydney Cradle and mumbles a prayer. As he does so, the other solid patron in the restaurant activates his own yoghurt tank and blasts from his table, intercepting the helpless pair. He clutches them round the waist and unstraps Mondrian’s useless tank.
    Mondrian gasps. “Nascent Nosegay!” His old enemy has come to rescue him. As the empty tank is drawn through the double-doors and flashes out of existence, the spicemen lock eyes. Nascent’s breath smells sweet; he has obviously changed his diet. While Mondrian ponders this development, Nascent straps his spurting tank to his chest. “Not enough power for all of us,” he explains. “Don’t grieve for me!” Mondrian demands to know the recipe of this self-sacrifice.
    Kicking himself away into Spice,