“Harder? Harder? If I flap any harder my bloody wings are going to fall off!” “Then I’ll hex them back on again, all right? Just flap!” “Y’know,” Melissande said to Bibbie, leaning sideways on her stationary pushbike, “this would actually be funny if it wasn’t so ridiculous.” “Hey!” said Monk, turning on her. “If you’ve got breath to talk you’re not pedaling fast enough! Mush!” She glared at her improbable and wild-eyed young man, beads of unladylike sweat dripping off her nose and chin. “I beg your pardon? What did you say?” “You heard me!” Monk retorted, dancing around the experiment-crowded attic like a demented dervish with ants in his pants. “Come on, Mel, this is important. Pedal!” “Why don’t you pedal, you lazy plonker!” panted Bibbie, madly pumping the pedals of her own stationary bike. “Why are we the ones doing all the work?” “Good question,” said Gerald, who was busily plunging an etheretic agitator up and down in its housing, by hand.
