the Disease of the Month Club?"
"That's it," Owen said.
"I'll see what I can do, sir." The operator rang off.
After he hung up Owen realized he'd forgotten the dinosaur droppings. Of course he'd have to get a sample for the copraphology exam, but there was definitely more here than he needed. He punched room service again.
"Yes sir," it was the same voice.
"I forgot to mention, can you also send up a shovel?"
"Is this for the oatmeal?"
"No. It has nothing to do with the oatmeal. Well, it has a little to do with it, but not much."
"I'll see if I can locate one, sir. Anything else? You wouldn't want a jackhammer, or perhaps a parachute?"
"No, thank you. Just a shovel."
Ten minutes later a small, dark man in custodial coveralls arrived pushing a cart laden with four stainless steel pans full of steaming oatmeal, three bunches of bananas, and, on the bottom shelf, a square-bladed shovel. His name badge read "Simon." Owen blocked the doorway.
"Thank you, Simon," Owen said. "I can serve myself."
"I'm not here to serve," the man said. "I am here to clean." He pushed forward, and Owen relented. Simon took in the broken furniture, wrinkled his nose at the smell.
"I had a little accident," Owen said. "I'm not feeling well at all."
"I will prepare your bath," Simon said, wheeling the cart toward the closed bedroom door.
=Do you want him to see Wilma?= Bill asked.
Owen threw himself between the cart and the door. "That's okay. I can take it from here." He fumbled in his pocket for a tip, but he had left his money in the other pants.
Simon made a face like a steam roller. "My boss insists I am helpful in every way. I was told this is for your bath."
Owen leaned against the door. "This condition makes me very sensitive. I will take care of it myself."
"My boss will want to know how I did."
"I will give them the best report. I'm afraid this room's kind of a mess." Owen slapped his palm a couple of times against the door.
From the other side came a couple of answering thumps.
Simon's eyes narrowed. "Do you have someone in there?"
"It's just an echo," Owen said.
Wilma butted her head against the door again, harder this time. The door rattled in its frame. She must be up on her hind legs, forefeet against the wood.
"Is this perhaps one of my people you are keeping captive? A woman?"
"Certainly not. It's just my--"
=Your dog.=
"--my Irish setter, Cuchulain."
Wilma trumpeted, an eerie bleat, and slammed the door so hard the latch splintered, throwing Owen forward. She shoved her head around the door's edge and, holding her face sideways, peered at Simon with her right eye.
Simon yelped and fell backwards. He grabbed for the shovel. When Wilma advanced on the cart he scrambled out of the suite on his hands and knees.
Wilma stretched her neck over the top of the cart and shoved her head into the top pan of oatmeal.
=I told you oatmeal was the answer,= Bill said.
#
A woman in a burgundy collarless jacket stood in the hall. She radiated as much personal warmth as a spreadsheet. "Mr. Nice, I am Eustacia Toppknocker, the hotel manager."
"The name is Vannice," Owen said. "Dr. Owen Vannice."
Ms. Toppknocker ignored him, and cruised into the room. Wilma was locked in the bathroom with the oatmeal and bananas. Owen had cleaned up the dinosaur droppings as best he could, and moved most of the wreckage out of the way, but the hotel manager's calm survey of her debilitated luxury suite made him cringe anyway. "I have checked your credit rating and am sure you will cover these damages," she said. "It does not concern us at the Herod Palace how you spend your spare time. But we cannot tolerate an animal in the guests' rooms."
"This isn't an animal, exactly. It's a valuable specimen."
"What, exactly, is it?"
"It's an Apatosaurus megacephalos."
"Which is . . .?"
"A dinosaur."
For a moment she looked impressed. But the veil of the hotelier dropped immediately into place. "We operate an extensive kennel service. You can
"That's it," Owen said.
"I'll see what I can do, sir." The operator rang off.
After he hung up Owen realized he'd forgotten the dinosaur droppings. Of course he'd have to get a sample for the copraphology exam, but there was definitely more here than he needed. He punched room service again.
"Yes sir," it was the same voice.
"I forgot to mention, can you also send up a shovel?"
"Is this for the oatmeal?"
"No. It has nothing to do with the oatmeal. Well, it has a little to do with it, but not much."
"I'll see if I can locate one, sir. Anything else? You wouldn't want a jackhammer, or perhaps a parachute?"
"No, thank you. Just a shovel."
Ten minutes later a small, dark man in custodial coveralls arrived pushing a cart laden with four stainless steel pans full of steaming oatmeal, three bunches of bananas, and, on the bottom shelf, a square-bladed shovel. His name badge read "Simon." Owen blocked the doorway.
"Thank you, Simon," Owen said. "I can serve myself."
"I'm not here to serve," the man said. "I am here to clean." He pushed forward, and Owen relented. Simon took in the broken furniture, wrinkled his nose at the smell.
"I had a little accident," Owen said. "I'm not feeling well at all."
"I will prepare your bath," Simon said, wheeling the cart toward the closed bedroom door.
=Do you want him to see Wilma?= Bill asked.
Owen threw himself between the cart and the door. "That's okay. I can take it from here." He fumbled in his pocket for a tip, but he had left his money in the other pants.
Simon made a face like a steam roller. "My boss insists I am helpful in every way. I was told this is for your bath."
Owen leaned against the door. "This condition makes me very sensitive. I will take care of it myself."
"My boss will want to know how I did."
"I will give them the best report. I'm afraid this room's kind of a mess." Owen slapped his palm a couple of times against the door.
From the other side came a couple of answering thumps.
Simon's eyes narrowed. "Do you have someone in there?"
"It's just an echo," Owen said.
Wilma butted her head against the door again, harder this time. The door rattled in its frame. She must be up on her hind legs, forefeet against the wood.
"Is this perhaps one of my people you are keeping captive? A woman?"
"Certainly not. It's just my--"
=Your dog.=
"--my Irish setter, Cuchulain."
Wilma trumpeted, an eerie bleat, and slammed the door so hard the latch splintered, throwing Owen forward. She shoved her head around the door's edge and, holding her face sideways, peered at Simon with her right eye.
Simon yelped and fell backwards. He grabbed for the shovel. When Wilma advanced on the cart he scrambled out of the suite on his hands and knees.
Wilma stretched her neck over the top of the cart and shoved her head into the top pan of oatmeal.
=I told you oatmeal was the answer,= Bill said.
#
A woman in a burgundy collarless jacket stood in the hall. She radiated as much personal warmth as a spreadsheet. "Mr. Nice, I am Eustacia Toppknocker, the hotel manager."
"The name is Vannice," Owen said. "Dr. Owen Vannice."
Ms. Toppknocker ignored him, and cruised into the room. Wilma was locked in the bathroom with the oatmeal and bananas. Owen had cleaned up the dinosaur droppings as best he could, and moved most of the wreckage out of the way, but the hotel manager's calm survey of her debilitated luxury suite made him cringe anyway. "I have checked your credit rating and am sure you will cover these damages," she said. "It does not concern us at the Herod Palace how you spend your spare time. But we cannot tolerate an animal in the guests' rooms."
"This isn't an animal, exactly. It's a valuable specimen."
"What, exactly, is it?"
"It's an Apatosaurus megacephalos."
"Which is . . .?"
"A dinosaur."
For a moment she looked impressed. But the veil of the hotelier dropped immediately into place. "We operate an extensive kennel service. You can
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