"Talking about My Grill," or
"Eight Legs Into Danger," or
"Things to do in Baker, CA with a Cat," or
"Ninety Minutes of Death"

By Phil Foglio, Allison Lonsdale, Terry Pratchett and Tad Williams

"Just hold this for a moment," said the biker nun, passing the tire to Schwartz in his long raincoat and three homburg hats, as they stood by the sign to Baker, California.  This is a very unusual roadsign -- on one side it says, "You are now entering Baker, CA."  On the other side it says, "You are now entering Baker, CA."

Schwartz accepted the tire.  "And just hold this for a moment," said biker nun number two, also handing over a tire. Since Schwartz was a very intelligent alien tarantula as well as a private eye, he had eight legs with which to fulfill this strange request.

"Why, if I may ask a large group of leather-clad nuns driving Harley Davidsons, are you taking one tire off of each motorcycle at the Baker California street sign?" he asked.

"Because," they said, "the road to Baker is extremely narrow."  As they proceeded to demonstrate by opening the sign and driving inside.

Struggling to fit his hairy eight-legged bulk into the interdimensional gateway, Schwartz focused his eight eyes on the memory of an alleyway in Los Angeles, where he had found a tragically mutilated banana slug half-crushed by a margarita glass.  Its salt-encrusted death wound almost made Schwartz lose his lunch as it cried out, "Don't detonate the kitten!"  Somehow, that chance meeting led him to join forces with the leather-clad biker nuns on this quixotic quest.

Schwartz's mandibles clattered on the carbon fiber wimple in front of him as he sat on the pillion of the eighth biker nun's motorcycle.  There were the normal swirly effects that you get, sort of blue going round and round when you're going through space-time and there's nothing that anyone can do to stop it, when the mists that had also been swirling around in order to save money on the SFX budget cleared and the motorbike was roaring alongside a column of armored men.  Schwartz could hear them chanting, "Sinister, dexter, sinister, dexter. . ."

Once the cohort had been left behind in the mists, after a very brief conversation in which Schwartz discovered that he still hadn't managed to meet an intelligent human being, he and the biker nuns, with a great backwash of various chemical fumes, pulled into the parking lot of Mom's Last Rest Stop Between Here and Anywhere.  Mom was off sojourning in post-apocalyptic Rome that weekend, but reservations were still being taken for a journey to the Betelgeusian swamps. 

Schwartz, with thanks for the assistance, detached himself from the motorcycle and walked into the rest stop.   It wasn't your normal rest stop -- for one thing, the gravity constant was more relative than you would normally find in a Little Chef.  At the moment, gravity was largely sideways, but because of those little prickly things Schwartz had on the bottom of his feet he was able to make it into the back room, where his contact was waiting for him in a booth.

In addition to occupying the booth, the contact, a hyperdimensional being, was also occupying most of the seats in the booth but at slightly different times.  This had the effect of requiring Schwartz to move frequently,  but since that meant he didn't have to stare at any one part of the being for a long time he found it acceptable.  The being was suitably enigmatic, as these beings are, and congratulated Schwartz on finding Baker in the first place and the rest stop in particular, as it had been demolished in 1957. 

"The job involves," it said, "a missing bit of machinery.  I'm afraid I cannot reveal to you what it does, what it's for or who owns it.  But I will tell you that it turns things. . .blue."

Attempting to focus some of his eight eyes (a process that would have been terribly expensive before modern computer graphics), Schwartz ransacked his knowledge of badly translated puns, due to a creeping suspicion that someone had made a grammatical error in the transdimensional translator, mistranslating "blue" for "blown," and what they were actually looking for was a detonator.

"What do you know," he asked the hyperdimensional being, "about the kitten?"  It was a long shot, he reasoned, but it might just pay off. 

Several of the hyperdimensional being's facets began to flicker.  "How did you find out about the kitten?" it spluttered.  "You're not cleared for that sort of information." 

"You'd be surprised how much I know," said Schwartz. 

"Was it that damnable banana slug?"

"Funny you should mention it," Schwartz said casually.  "I hear you make a lethal margarita."

Parts of the hyperdimensional being shrugged.  "You must appreciate that I'm trying to find out who's abducting all these towns," it said.  "My investigation of several places, including London, England and Washington wherever the hell that is, has revealed that these locations have been entirely removed from the face of the planet. It won't be long before humanity starts to notice."

"Old news," said Schwartz.  "I believe the Kitten is behind this. Of course, it only appears to be a kitten in this particular dimension.  However, I think that I have located the piece of machinery that will defeat it, " he said, pulling out a laser pointer from one of his many pockets.

"Yes, well, that's all well and good, " sneered the hyperdimensional being.  "Your clever little device may be of some use to you when you confront the Kitten -- but how will you cope with The 3-Year-Old Girl?"

Schwartz started in dismay.  "Nobody told me The 3-Year-Old Girl was involved!" he said. "I play rough, yeah, but there are limits!"

The hyperdimensional being allowed certain facets of his being to return to the current dimension, and Schwartz was allowed to step off the table again.  "I heard you consider yourself a smart guy -- well, a smart something, anyway.  Yes, rumor has it that The 3-Year-Old Girl is involved, and nobody knows what she's going to do when she's no longer The 3-Year-Old Girl."

"What about the rumors about The 3-Year-Old Girl, the ones spoken in hushed whispers throughout Betelgeuse, Las Vegas, and the rest of the known galaxy?" Schwartz asked in a hushed whisper.  "That she's not really a 3-Year-Old Girl?"

"Well, it's not that simple," the hyperdimensional being said.  "You see, sometimes she is.  The thing that most entities don't realize is that she is indeed a 3-year-old girl, but they aren't the same three years.  However, there is one being that will allow you to defeat her if you run across her.  It is a creature of the swamps -- no one dare speak his name of visit him unless faced by dire peril."

Schwartz said, "I know of whom you speak, but I don't know how to find him."

At which point Schwartz realized that the hyperdimensional being had neatly steered him away from any discussion of the banana slug and the detonator, not to mention the salt-encrusted margarita glass.  However, he had to acknowledge that in the face of The 3-Year-Old Girl threat, all others faded into insignificance.  He hoped that the hyperdimensional being would give him some clue to solving the mystery, instead of pointing and laughing while he scratched his head.

The hyperdimensional being lowered its voices and said, "Well, there are legends that say the swamp creature is so fearsome because he spent years locked in a privy." 

That was when Schwartz realized the origins of a particular swamp on a particular world -- the famed Bog by Dunnyville. 

Thinking of privies made him realize it had been awhile since he'd last "spun a web."  Excusing himself, he made his way to the rest stop's rest room, carefully bolted the door behind him, learned the bolt didn't work, and did what everyone does but spiders do better by pressing five legs against the door.

He'd barely started to spin when the nature of the walls changed and a voice said, "I was a 3-Year-Old Girl, and I can change my nature and shape.  However, I can only marginally change my spelling.  And when you walked into this recently-built rest stop, you walked into the 3-Year-Old Grill."

Most of us, when faced with the prospect of having a conversation with our immediate surroundings in a rest room, tend to find ourselves at a loss for words. Schwartz was no different.  The idea of having to carry on a conversation while unrolling small bits of one's co-conversant was even more strangely disturbing.  However, during his time as a private dick Schwartz had been in a lot of strange and unpleasant situations, and this was just one more of them. He was just really, really glad that he didn't have to use the bidet.

"I'd like to know," he said, "after so long in which you've stayed completely clear of this part of the galaxy, why it is that every time I turn around now I hear your name?"

The 3-Year-Old Girl, who at this point was also a 3-Year-Old Grill, cleared her throat, which made the mirrors wobble gently.  "Schwartz, we've had encounters before.  We can't just give away plot points while Foglio is waiting his turn," she said.  "What you need to ask yourself is how are you going to get back to the detonator, and why are you carrying the kitten?  I realize you haven't been aware that you're carrying the kitten, and moreover I realize that you're going to spend a long time trying to figure out how I managed to hide the kitten where you would carry it without realizing it was present.  But Schwartz, I'm a vengeful sort -- I have been hosed by the universe enough times that I intend to go down big time, and I intend to take all of you with me."

"Ha!" said Schwartz.  "What you don't realize is that the actual location of the kitten isn't really important.  The knowledge that I have it is all I need to fulfill that part of my contract -- I can allow others to extract the kitten."  At this point, he exited the rest room and returned to a more wholesome environment, but The 3-Year-Old Girl had abandoned all pretense at subtlety and was communicating from all around him. 

Schwartz looked into the face of the nearest coffee urn.  "So, 3-Year-Old Girl, what exactly is it that you want?"

"I want what anyone wants -- more time," The 3-Year-Old Girl  said.  "I've used up all of my three years -- I want four years." 

Schwartz was confused, and that didn't happen often.  "But how will the detonator allow you to get that?"

"Oh, you fool," said the 3-Year-Old Girl, "do you really expect me to reveal my plans like some stupid villain in a story?"

"Well, yes, I do," Schwartz said.  "I mean, look around the corner, past this page. You are in a story."

Needless to say, this annoyed the 3-Year-Old Girl.  "Fine -- you have your kitten, now get out of here," she grumbled.

Schwartz fled, not noticing the stream of toilet paper stuck to his feet until everyone in the rest stop had snickered at it.  Now why had the banana slug warned him not to detonate the kitten, he wondered, apart from the fact that it was sad to blow up cute fuzzy creatures with big eyes (unless you were into that sort of thing).  He then remembered that cats possessed an understanding of time unlike all other species (re: their ability to run up walls when nobody was looking and teleport through them to the other side).  If the kitten was detonated (preferably after it had been surgically removed from Schwartz, of course), one possibility was that it would open a rift in the time-space continuum from which the 3-Year-Old Girl could extract a fourth year.  The other possibility would be to detonate the kitten near the hyperdimensional being and seize another year from its fragmenting dimensions.

Schwartz found a phone booth and tried to look up kitten removal services in the Yellow Pages.  His search was interrupted by the roar of Harley engines, and the eight biker nuns cruised back into the parking lot of the 3-Year-Old Grill.

"How are you getting on, Mr. 8-Legged Detective?" asked the head nun.

Schwartz said, "I think I haven't a prayer.  I wonder if you could help me -- well, me and Him both.  How can I get rid of a kitten?"

"Oh, that's easy -- unclaw all of its legs from one of your hats at the same time."  And with that, the head biker nun, Sister Maledicta, very carefully unpicked the kitten from Schwartz's hat, where it had been clinging through the entire episode except for a small period when it had climbed down and teleported through the bathroom wall when Schwartz hadn't been looking.  "My word," she said, holding the kitten aloft, "have you looked closely at its collar?"

Schwartz accepted the kitten carefully in two of his legs and examined the collar, especially the small tag that said, "This End Up."  Strange, Schwartz though, that anyone would put such an obvious instruction on a kitten, when it is known, nay proverbial, that kittens always land on their feet.  Therefore, Schwartz thought, the tag couldn't mean what it seemed to mean.

As he waved three times to the departing biker nuns, Schwartz turned back and sauntered towards the front of the 3-Year-Old Grill.  As he reached the door, he noticed that the gravity generator had moved and the gravity had moved with it -- shooter canisters, saltines and large wodges of ketchup were now floating into new positions.  It occurred to him that "This End Up" could be of some use in such an environment, where normal gravity did not pertain.  Hmm, thought Schwartz, if I could modify a local area so that the "This End Up" tag would become significant and meaningful, I could simultaneously comprehend the use of the kitten and perhaps thwart the 3-Year-Old Girl in her plans to extract a new year for her through a process that would undoubtedly make that year pretty damn rotten for the rest of us.  All I have to do is figure out why "This End Up" is so important.

And Schwartz realized the answer was obvious.  Kittens always land up.

Taking careful aim, Schwartz threw the kitten into the gravity field.  The kitten spun madly, then stopped at an odd angle.  That was the heart of the 3-Year-Old Grill, and he knew what he had to detonate.

However, Schwartz realized that while he knew what to detonate, he didn't have the detonator.  Unless, perhaps. . .the detonator was the kitten.  When the banana slug gasped, "Don't detonate the kitten!" Schwartz reasoned, it didn't mean don't blow up the kitten, but to use it to blow something else up.  And it all had something to do with the badly translated pun referring to making something "blue" instead of "blown."

He examined the kitten as it hung in zero g, trying to figure out how to detonate it.  There were no obvious levers or buttons, and he despaired that his Boy Scout training hadn't prompted him to carry catnip, valerian or kitty treats in one of his many pockets.  The laser pointer might do the trick, he thought, but how?

And then, Schwartz had an idea. Slowly, he reached into the gravity field and stroked the kitten, and it began to purr.  The purr grew louder and louder, at which point Schwartz realized he needed to get the hell out of there.

If he could only figure out how.

With a mighty roar, eight Harley Davidson motorcycles burst through the rest stop door.  Leaping aboard the motorcycle behind Sister Maledicta, Schwartz said, "Please, you can get the hell out of here, can't you?"

"We surely can," said Sister Maledicta.  And together they roared out of the rest stop, past the sign saying, "You are leaving Baker, CA." as the 3-Year-Old Grill/Girl exploded in an exciting gout of CGI flame behind them.   They may have accidentally run over an innocent Enron executive on the way, but since these are totally fictional creatures it's highly unlikely.  And with that, the story came to an end.

© 2002 by Phil Foglio, Allison Lonsdale, Terry Pratchett and Tad Williams. All rights reserved.