He turned slowly, surveying the ground from a towering bluff. The hot desert air ruffled his hair, and the sun beat down oppressively.
“Man, I wish she’d sent one of the other Generals out here,” Nephrite thought to himself. “At least Mars was reasonably cool.”
Pasting a serious frown on his face, he walked a short distance to where two youma were unpacking the pile of crates he had transported with them to this barren hunting ground. So far, a small pavilion stood against the wall of the bluff, with a deck chair and card table set out in its shade. Seeing this, his eyes narrowed.
“Where are the cooler and my divination apparati?”
“Umm…” said the taller youma, putting down the small box in it’s hands to press a finger against its lips.
“Box eighteen,” grunted the burlier youma, without pausing in the task of moving three crates and a barrel from one side of the camp to the other. “And box twelve.”
“Get them out,” ordered the General.
“Right,” grunted the burly youma, as the other continued to think. A few moments later, it reached the destination for the three crates and barrel, put them down, and picked up the two top crates and the barrel again to carry them across to yet another corner of the campsite. As Nephrite observed this, his eyebrow began to twitch.
The burly youma returned to the crate it had left behind, and turned it onto one side, revealing two large labels. One read 18.
The other read This side up.
Neprite’s eyebrow twitched more.
The youma grabbed the edge of the crate with both hands, ripping off the lid with a strenuous groan and a shower of nails, splinters, packing pieces, and loose bits of lumber.
“Why,” asked Nephite calmly, “do you not use a crowbar for that?”
“Crowbar’s in box fourteen,” grunted the youma.
“Where is box fourteen?”
“Left it behind.”
Nephrite’s eyebrow twitched more.
The youma started sweeping through the contents of the crate, shovelling out great armfuls of sawdust, crumpled newspaper, polystyrene nuggets, blankets, cookpots, sleeping bags, flagpoles, empty bookcases, an anvil, and china.
After a few minutes, having created a pile the size of a small car, it paused to rip the side off the crate, no longer being able to reach the remaining objects in the crate. A second pile of assorted things was soon developing beside the first. Nephrite regarded the detrius threatening to overrun his pavilion with disfavour, especially since there was as yet no sign of either cooler or divination equipment.
Finally, under three beach towels, a printing press, and two large baskets of cheese, the last object in the crate was revealed: an insulated cooler. Nephrite directed that it be placed next to the deck chair, sat down, and flipped the lip off while he awaited the unpacking of his divination paraphanalia.
“It’s empty.”
“What did you expect to find in it?”
“Water.”
“In the barrel,” grunted the youma, rearranging a stack of crates to unearth crate twelve.
Nephite walked to the barrel.
“How,” he asked after a few moment’s inspection, “do I get the water out of the barrel?”
“Keg tap.”
“Where is the keg tap?”
“Box fourteen.”
(Posted Sun, 25 Feb 2007 15:16)
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らんま1/2 © Rumiko Takahashi
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