Mom Says:
After sleeping as fast as he could on maps of Marrakesh, Morocco, North Africa and Spain, a French phrasebook and a narrow pamphlet entitled, “Things Cats Should Avoid Doing in an Islamic Country,” Agent Octavian was hurried into Q’s London lab.
“Mistr Q,” he said. “I gots a bon to pik wift yu about that LingwaTron—“
“Oh, yes, dear boy! A thousand apologies! We’re working on that. In fact, you get to try out the prototype LT 9001-K, and we’re including an extra battery for good measure.” Q gripped the lapels of his tweed jacket proudly while one white-coated young subordinate set a small pile of gadgets on the table where Octavian sat, and another slipped a black matte collar around his neck.
Despite himself, Musashi began to purr. “This mai nu camra collr?” (And you can tell he was distracted because he forgot to think of himself as Agent Octavian. As Jimbond would say, "It can happen to the best of us.")
“Indeed. We disabled the GPS function for you. In an emergency, you can re-enable it by typing in ‘Schroedinger’ on the keypad, but mind you spell it correctly. The paw-sized piece is the receiver for your human partner. With that you’ll be able to communicate, and you can send him the data you’ve downloaded.”
“Whut’s dada? Is that like som weerd old paintin styl? I thingk ther wuz somthin on that in the frayzbook I slept on.”
“Er, no. Data, with a T. Information, in this case, photographs.”
“O, rigt. Cors.”
In the wide space behind Q, several of these serious young men and women in white coats were running a projector that projected pictures of waterfalls, forests and beaches on the far white wall. Off to one side, a young woman looked at her clipboard and then at her watch.
“In this small case that can hook to your harness, you’ll find a micro-fiber rope ladder and MHDO tablets for emergencies.”
“Um, Q, mebbe yu din’t reeliz, but I am a kittee peeples. We don’t do ladders. An whut’s emaitchdeeo?”
“MonoHydroDiOxide. As long as you have the least bit of spit in your mouth, taking one of these tablets will give you a mouthful of water. It’s taken us decades to achieve.”
Octavian noticed that he said nothing about ladders, and assumed that poor Q was embarrassed, so he said nothing more about it. “What these othr thins?”
“The spikey-looking thing is a Spaw: part spike, part straw. If you stick it into something that contains a liquid, you can suck the liquid out through it. Since you’ll be near the desert, it helps to be prepared. The round black one—I’m particularly proud of this—is a TRUST-R, a Titanium-Reinforced, Ultra-thermal Sleeping Tire, with Rubber coating on the outside, to give it that abandoned, bald tire look. We figured that a sleeping-bag shaped object would be noticeable, but an old tire? Hardly.”
“OK! Collr, rope, tablits, paw and trustee. Got it!”
“Er, yes. Quite. Thank heavens I don’t have provide a sports car for you every time you go on a mission. I must say that 007 has no respect whatsoever for—“
Then the world exploded. Musashi leaped!
At least that’s what it felt like. Dizzy and terrified, Musashi opened one eye, and found himself clinging by his claws to the soft material that made up the ceiling. As the dust subsided, he saw that the white-coated woman was writing things down on her clipboard even as Q was yelling at her colleagues.
“Of all the ridiculous, irresponsible—“
“It’s just the timing mechanism—“
“Um, Q?”
“Next time you do such a—“
“Um, Q? Halp? Halp! HALP! MMMRRROW!”
Q and his helpers looked up.
“Oh, my dear boy. I am mortified. A thousan—“
“Jus getz me down, Q, an mebbe I won’t tell Jimbond to trash yer nex 7 cars. K?”
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