“Extremely frosty,” said St. Ungulant, beaming.
“And the roast pig?”
St. Ungulant's smile was manic.
“All brown and crunchy round the edges, yes,” he said.
“But I expect, er . . . you eat the occasional lizard or snake, too?”
“Funny you should say that. Yes. Every once in a while. Just for a bit of variety.”
“And mushrooms, too?” said Om.
“Any mushrooms in these parts?” said Brutha innocently.
St. Ungulant nodded happily.
“After the annual rains, yes. Red ones with yellow spots. The desert becomes really interesting after the mushroom season.”
“Full of giant purple singing slugs? Talking pillars of flame? Exploding giraffes? That sort of thing?” said Brutha carefully.
“Good heavens, yes,” said the saint. “I don't know why. I think they're attracted by the mushrooms.”
Brutha nodded.
“You're catching on, kid,” said Om.
“And I expect sometimes you drink . . . water?” said Brutha.
“You know, it's odd, isn't it,” said St. Ungulant. “There's all this wonderful stuff to drink but every so often I get this, well, I can only call it a craving, for a few sips of water. Can you explain that?”
“It must be . . . a little hard to come by,” said Brutha, still talking very carefully, like someone playing a fifty-pound fish on a fifty-one-pound breakingstrain fishing-line.
“Strange, really,” said St. Ungulant. “When icecold beer is so readily available, too.”
“Where, uh, do you get it? The water?” said Brutha.
“You know the stone plants?”
“The ones with the big flowers?”
“If you cut open the fleshy part of the leaves, there's up to half a pint of water,” said the saint. “It tastes like weewee, mind you.”
“I think we could manage to put up with that,” said Brutha, through dry lips. He backed toward the rope-ladder that was the saint's contact with the ground.
“Are you sure you won't stay?” said St. Ungulant. “It's Wednesday. We get sucking pig plus chef's selection of sun-drenched dew-fresh vegetables on Wednesdays.”
“We, uh, have lots to do,” said Brutha, halfway down the swaying ladder.
“Sweets from the trolley?”
"I think perhaps . . .
St. Ungulant looked down sadly at Brutha helping Vorbis away across the wilderness.
“And afterward there's probably mints!” he shouted, through cupped hands. “No?”
Soon the figures were mere dots on the sand.