They turned to look at Limpy.
“These Games,” continued Limpy, his voice ringing off the wet walls, “are meant to be about a universal spirit of friendship. That's what they're always showing on telly. Well, the humans haven't shown us much friendship. I reckon we're better off not being a part of such an unfriendly Games. When we look back at all this, I reckon we won't have to feel sad for one minute about not being mascots.”
The animals and insects looked at him, eyes shining.
Then they all burst into mournful cries.
“Yes, we will,” wailed a fruit bat. “We'll feel sad and worthless for the rest of our lives.”
Limpy turned away, close to wailing himself. He wished he could have been more help.
Oh well, he thought miserably, at least this lot are only feeling flat. At least they won't actually be flat. Not like poor Mum and Dad and Charm and the others at home.
Then Limpy felt a tugging at his elbow. He looked down. It was the cane beetle.
“Don't feel so bad,” said the beetle. “At least your other country hasn't let you down.”
Limpy looked at the beetle, puzzled. “What other country?” he said. “I was born in Australia.”
“Cane toads are from South America,” said the beetle. “Your ancestors were imported. They were shipped to Australia to eat us cane beetles.”
Limpy tried to digest this.
“That's dopey,” he said. “You lot live too far off the ground for us to eat you. It's a known fact.”
“Exactly,” said the beetle. “But the sugar industry blokes who brought you over didn't think of that.”
Limpy's head was spinning.
Imported?
“You're sure you're not confusing us with avocados?” he said.
“Ask that bloke,” said the beetle, pointing at the TV screen in the bar above them. Limpy looked up. On the screen a man was being interviewed.
“He's one of the major sponsors of the Games,” said the beetle. “One of his companies grows sugar. He'll tell you.”
Limpy's mind was racing.
Thoughts he'd never had before were crashing around inside him.
How dare they?
How dare humans be so cruel to us when we didn't even ask to be here in the first place?
When they brought us here.
It's an injustice.
It's a scandal.
It's not on.
Limpy looked up at the telly screen again.
The Major Sponsor was having a laugh with the interviewer. He looked like a man who was used to getting his own way.
Good, thought Limpy, his warts glowing with anger. Because I need somebody to help me stop this injustice, and I choose you.
“Hang on,” whispered Limpy. “Corner coming.”
“I don't like it,” said Goliath. “I want to get off.”
Limpy sighed.
“You didn't have to come,” he whispered. “I could have done it on my own.”
“I wouldn't have come,” said Goliath sulkily. “Not if you'd told me I'd have to get this close to a fruit salad. You know I hate fruit.”
“Hide behind the cream trifle then,” whispered Limpy. “Or the chocolate mousse.”
“I don't like cream or chocolate either,” said Goliath. “Why can't I hide behind a worm stew?”
“Because,” whispered Limpy, warts prickling with exasperation, “we're on a dessert trolley. Humans don't eat worm stew for dessert. Not once on telly have I seen a human eat a worm stew for dessert.”
Goliath looked amazed.
“What?” he squeaked. “Not even with slug topping?”
Limpy slapped his hand over Goliath's mouth. “Quiet,” he whispered.
The waiter was coming back to the trolley.
Limpy and Goliath clung to the shuddering fruit salad bowl as the trolley was wheeled over the thick restaurant carpet to the next table.
“How long till we get there?” whined Goliath for what Limpy calculated must be the hundred-billionth time.
Limpy sighed.
“Not long,” he said.
He peered out from behind the fruit salad bowl.
Three tables to go.
Three tables to the Major Sponsor's table.
“If these humans see us, we're history,” moaned Goliath. “They might be dressed posh, but they'll still try to beat us to death with their ice cream spoons.”
“They won't see us,” whispered Limpy. “Not if you keep quiet and keep your head down.”
Limpy hoped he was right.
Luckily most of the people in the restaurant were staring at a large screen on the stage, where the bloke with the clipboard was showing images of athletes doing athletic things.
Limpy couldn't understand a word the bloke was saying.
He didn't need to. He had a pretty good idea what was going on. The cane beetle had explained it all. How this was a special dinner for all the Games sponsors. So they could find out what world records the Games organizers were hoping would be broken in the various events.
“Why do they want to know that?” Limpy had asked.
“Advertising,” the cane beetle explained.
Limpy still didn't understand.
“Here's how it works,” the cane beetle had continued. “Imagine a TV ad. An athlete in bed with a heavy cold. Cut to the athlete breaking a world record, say for eating sugarcane. Cut to the athlete with a gold medal explaining how XYZ cold tablets clear blocked sinuses in record time. Get it?”
Limpy had got it. And now, as the dessert trolley clattered over to the next table, he had another thought.
Perhaps that's why most humans were so bad-tempered and angry.
Blocked sinuses.
Limpy peered out from behind the fruit salad bowl.
Two tables to go.
Two tables to the Major Sponsor's table.
Limpy felt his warts tighten with nerves. And also tingle with pride. The cane beetle had suggested sneaking into the sponsor's dinner, but the dessert trolley had been Limpy's idea.
“This dessert trolley idea,” muttered Goliath, “is dopey.”
Limpy ignored him.
He ran through in his mind what he had to do when they finally got to the Major Sponsor's table.
First, tell the Major Sponsor about the injustice cane toads were suffering, with special mention of their brains being squeezed out through their ears.
Then, explain how the sugar industry was partly responsible.
Finally, persuade the Major Sponsor to make amends by running heaps of TV ads telling humans that cane toads are really very nice once you get to know them.
Limpy knew it wasn't going to be easy, specially as he didn't speak the Major Sponsor's language.
Everything would depend on how much he could get across to the Major Sponsor by drawing diagrams on the tablecloth in chocolate mousse and strawberry sauce.
Limpy tried to look on the bright side.
Perhaps, he thought hopefully as the trolley clattered to the next table, the girl athlete with the big stick might appear with me in the ads.
At that moment the girl athlete walked onto the stage.
For half a second Limpy thought he was dreaming, that the stress was making him see things.
Then he realized other athletes were walking onto the stage as well. The bloke with the clipboard was introducing them as the athletes who'd been in the presentation. The people at the tables were applauding loudly.
Limpy would have joined in but for one thing.
A woman at a nearby table who'd been asleep had just been woken up by the applause. Limpy saw that she wasn't facing the stage. She was facing the dessert trolley.
Now she was staring.
Now her eyes were bulging and her mouth was opening wide.
Now she was screaming.
Limpy hoped desperately she'd just had a bad dream. He hoped desperately she wasn't screaming at him and Goliath. He hoped desperately she just hated rhubarb p
avlova.
Except she wasn't pointing at the rhubarb pavlova; she was pointing at him and Goliath.
Other people were looking.
And yelling.
Almost certainly not at the rhubarb.
Limpy felt the trolley jolt and move off at speed. The waiter had grabbed it and was charging out of the restaurant with it.
As they sped past the Major Sponsor's table, Limpy saw the Major Sponsor frowning at the disappearing trolley. He didn't look like a man who'd want to make amends. Not when he wasn't getting any dessert.
Limpy peered toward the stage, hoping to catch the girl athlete's eye. She was peering quizzically toward the trolley, but Limpy could tell she couldn't really see what was going on.
Then a massive jolt nearly flung Limpy into the raspberry pudding as the trolley crashed through some swing doors.
“Jump!” Limpy yelled at Goliath.
“I can't,” said Goliath. His voice sounded muffled. Limpy saw this was because his head was in the cream trifle.
Then Limpy saw something that churned his stomach even more.
A security guard was running toward them down the corridor with a big snarling black dog on a lead.
The security guard stopped, crouched down, and suddenly the dog wasn't on the lead anymore.
With a wet snarl it leapt onto the trolley.
Limpy pressed himself into the cold glass of the fruit salad bowl and tried desperately to look like a piece of rockmelon.
If only he could reach Goliath and push him down into the trifle before the dog saw him.
Too late.
The dog snatched Goliath in its jaws, jumped off the trolley, and ran down the corridor.
“Goliath,” screamed Limpy.
The corridor was full of waiters yelling and bumping into each other. The dog darted through them and disappeared.
“Goliath,” sobbed Limpy.
It was no good.
Goliath wouldn't stand a chance in those huge jaws between those massive yellow teeth.
Then Limpy heard something.
A dog barking.
Outside.
The brute must have taken Goliath outside to crunch him up.
Limpy looked wildly around and saw a window in the wall above his head. It was open just a crack. He flung himself at the wall and, helped by the sticky fruit salad syrup on his hands and feet, dragged himself up it.
He squeezed through the window and launched himself into the darkness.
When he hit the ground, he was dazed for what felt like ages.
A few thoughts stuck in his spinning brain.
Find the dog. Get Goliath out of its mouth. Let the dog chew on my leg if necessary. The crook one, preferably.
Then Limpy heard groans.
He opened his eyes, hoping desperately that Goliath was still alive.
But it wasn't Goliath he saw lying on the grass moaning and dribbling, it was the dog.
“Dopey mongrel,” said a familiar voice.
Limpy spun round.
Goliath was leaning unsteadily against the wall, panting, covered with teeth marks and trifle.
“Silly bugger bit me in the glands,” he said. “Squirted himself in the mouth.”
Limpy stared, dazed and weak with relief. Then he grabbed Goliath and dragged him toward the bushes. The security guard couldn't be far away.
“Not bad for a bloke with a bad back, eh?” said Goliath. “That dozy heap'll have a bellyache for a week.”
Limpy didn't say anything. He was putting all his energy into dragging Goliath toward the stormwater drain at the edge of the restaurant garden.
But he knew Goliath was right.
It was amazing.
That dog was bigger than a whole swamp full of cane toads put together. And Goliath had beaten it.
“It'd take something bigger than a dog to stop me,” Goliath was saying. “A croc, or maybe a sheep.”
Limpy still didn't say anything.
As they scrambled into the drain, his head was buzzing with an idea.
An idea that could solve all their problems.
An idea that was even bigger than a sheep.
“Me?” said the flea.
Limpy nodded, grinning.
“Me compete in the Games?” said the flea. “Are you mental?”
The other animals and insects stared at Limpy and shook their heads and feelers. Limpy could see they thought he was.
“It's tragic,” muttered the crocodile sadly. “The stress of being the ugliest species on the planet has gotten to him and his brain's exploded.”
“Hey,” said Goliath to the crocodile, “don't insult my cousin, okay? He might be a bit weird-looking but he's not mental.”
“Everybody calm down,” said Limpy, “and let me explain my idea. No, even better, I'll demonstrate it.” He pointed to the flea. “Goliath, eat Gavin.”
Goliath looked at the flea, confused.
The flea, alarmed, jumped up onto the ceiling of the drain.
Goliath turned to Limpy. “You told me I wasn't allowed to eat any of our friends in the drain,” he said.
“That's right,” said Limpy, “and I'm glad you remembered.” He looked up at the flea. “Gavin, sorry to startle you, but I just wanted us all to see you do your biggest jump.”
“Yeah, well, there'd better be a good reason,” said the flea, glaring down at Limpy. “This stress is not helping my ulcer.”
Goliath was glaring at Limpy too. “You've got me all hungry now,” he complained.
Limpy took a deep breath.
It wasn't easy getting simple-but-brilliant ideas across. No wonder cane toads didn't go in much for philosophy, quantum physics, or interior decoration.
“Okay,” said Limpy. “Does anyone here know measurements?”
Most of the animals and insects looked at each other and scratched their heads and thoraxes.
“I do,” said a woodworm. “I once spent a couple of weeks eating a carpenter's ruler.”
“Great,” said Limpy. “How high would you say Gavin jumped just now?”
The woodworm squinted up at the ceiling. “About one and a half meters,” she said.
“Thank you,” said Limpy. “And how tall would you say Gavin is?”
“I know that,” said Gavin. “I'm good with numbers too. I once spent three days in a math teacher's armpit. My height is a shade under half a millimeter. My brother Lofty, though, you should see him. He's a good tenth of a millimeter taller than me easy.”
“Right,” said Limpy. He took another deep breath. This was the crucial bit. He wished now he'd paid more attention in Ancient Eric's class “How Many Insects Have I Just Eaten?”
“If Gavin's half a millimeter tall,” said Limpy, “and the ceiling's a meter and a half up, that means Gavin just jumped … um … many, many times higher than his own height.”
“Three thousand times higher,” said Gavin proudly.
“Exactly,” said Limpy. “Now, that bloke who's the world-champion high jumper at the Games. Anyone know how many times his body height he can jump?”
The animals and insects looked at each other again, frowning.
“Three thousand and one?” said Goliath.
Limpy shook his head.
“About one,” said the woodworm. “The average human athlete is about two meters tall, and the world record for the human high jump isn't much more than that.”
“Exactly,” said Limpy.
He paused to let this sink in.
The animals and insects gazed up admiringly at Gavin the flea.
“Wow,” said the crocodile to Gavin. “You're three thousand times better than the human world-champion high jumper. You should compete in the Games.”
“We all should,” said Limpy quietly.
The animals and insects stared at Limpy, stunned.
“If the world-champion weight lifter at the Games,” said Limpy, “tried to lift as many times his own body weight as the average ant can lift, he'd b
e crushed.”
“Jeepers,” said an ant. “No wonder the humans wouldn't let me be a mascot. They were embarrassed.”
“Crocodiles are better swimmers than humans,” continued Limpy. “Lizards are better at marathons. Spiders are better sprinters. Kingfishers are better divers. Snakes are better climbers. Kangaroos are better at the hop, step, and jump. I've seen head lice do better gymnastics than the best human gymnasts. There's hardly an event at the Games that an animal or insect isn't better at than the human world-record holder.”
The drain echoed with cheers and yells of delight.
“Hang on,” shouted the kangaroo, suddenly frowning. “It's not that simple. The humans'll never let us compete in their Games.”
Slowly the drain fell silent.
Limpy took another deep breath. His heart was going faster than the pistons in an accelerating truck. This was the best idea he'd ever had.
“That's why,” said Limpy, “we're going to have our own Games. The Non-Human Games. When the telly networks get a squiz at our world records, they'll be broadcasting our Games quicker than you can say 'major sponsor.'“
The animals and insects stared at him, stunned again.
“That's brilliant,” squeaked Gavin the flea. “When human sports fans see what great athletes we are, we'll be heroes.”
“Or at least,” said Limpy quietly, “they might stop killing us.”
The drain erupted with cheers again, even louder than before.
Limpy looked around at the delighted animals and insects. He thought of Mum and Dad and Charm and how they'd soon be safe.
His warts tingled with happiness.
Then Limpy realized Goliath was staring at him, eyes shining.
“My own cousin,” said Goliath breathlessly. “A genius. Wait till they find out at home.”
Limpy couldn't stop himself from giving a happy smile.
“So,” continued Goliath, “what event will us cane toads be setting world records in?”
Limpy felt his smile fading.
It was a good question.
A worrying question.
Kangaroos were better hoppers.
Fleas were better jumpers.
Goliath was strong, but not as strong as an ant.
Eating mud worms and letting them crawl out your bottom wasn't an official event.
Limpy felt the happy tingle slowly disappearing from his warts.