Fat Power

Sherry Briggs Fat Power

Ron Corcoran had been good about his diet. Sitting glumly at the Workshop for Fitness meeting, he reflected on the broad sweep of Terran history, and how events had conspired to make his own life uniquely unbearable. Life since the mid-twentieth century had never been all that easy for those who tend to roundness of figure, but it had never been worse than now. Ron huddled, brooding, within his own personal singularity of misery.

The late twentieth century had seen a progressive obsession with the ideal of a tall, willowy figure. Things had been bad enough then, Ron thought. Then the Galactics came.

The actual arrival of the aliens could hardly have been more soul satisfying. One fine day every television set, radio, Telex terminal, personal computer, telephone, automatic teller and video game machine ceased its normal order of business.

In Omaha, Nebraska, a small boy had been engaged in the ticklish procedure of persuading the school computer to change his gym grade to a bare pass. Suddenly, he yelped and rushed downstairs to his parents, shrieking “Totally Awesome!” at the top of his lungs.

In Burbank, California, a harried mom stared at the cash machine. She desperately clutched the hand of a restless two-year-old who was giving every indication of being about to explore his overripe diaper with grubby, ever curious fingers. Tight-lipped, she thought bitter thoughts about the apparently anonymous, thoughtless prankster whose trick gave every promise of causing a half-baked headache to blossom forth into a truly magnificent migraine.

As harbingers of impending total change go the small slip of paper, printed in slightly uneven dot matrix characters, was not of itself particularly impressive. The fact that it had emerged from Ron’s hand-held calculator, which ran on batteries and was designed to produce nothing but numbers, was.

The message it bore was clear, and ran as follows:

Initial panic among the journalists and intellectuals of the newly admitted planet faded into amazed relief as the Galactics’s terms were made clear. No science fiction nightmares occurred, and local customs were left undisturbed. The disapproval of various cultures continued unabated, and in fact seemed to increase, as newspaper budgets grew.

Almost unnoticed amid the apparent divisiveness was the fact that actual violence diminished drastically. Although wars continued, they consisted mostly of large-scale troop movements and propaganda. Former combat hospitals became important in the war against local disease, and a new sense of hope arose in the local populations, who benefited greatly by the new Galactic medical technology.

The aliens themselves had a vast number of shapes, sizes, environmental requirements, sexes, eating habits, family structures, ranking systems, mental organizations, and communication modes. Sound-wave utilizing, highly visual (within one octave), bilaterally symmetrical, two-sexed Terrans had a huge first lesson in form acceptance dumped on them all at once. Prejudice flared briefly, and then died, overwhelmed by an array of new sensory impressions never before equalled. People who hated bugs learned to endure the /klik. These louse-sized entities swarmed over whatever they were investigating, often making it look like a mound of crawling iridescent black. Snake-haters met the smooth, lithe Srendekians, and spider smashers learned to work with the many arachnoids in the Federation. Green slime, tumbleweeds, ball lightning, metallic spheres who snapped like a string of firecrackers when they talked, and hundreds more appeared. Terrans were startled and horrified. Ultimately, they learned to accept their new colleagues.

Ron thought bitterly of the many forms which had become accepted, and the one oppressive exception. The entities who arrived had one thing in common: top physical fitness. Ron had no way of knowing how to tell a slim spherical entity from a fat one, or a flabby collectively intelligent swarm from one that was trim, but he was assured that skinniness was the norm among all of the various new arrivals

As Galactic knowledge spread, prosperity advanced into the poorest areas. Material want became a historical curiosity that children struggled, with no great interest, to understand in school. The various Galactic species were generous with their technology and unobtrusive with any cultural requirements, but one thing became ever clearer. Aside from inexpensive travel within the Solar System, and Galactic-sponsored Terraforming projects on both Mars and Venus, space travel was not generally available. What made it hard to bear was the fact that a star drive was obviously used throughout the Galaxy, and was commonplace among the swarms of diverse visitors. All of them, from kids trying out a new space-yacht bestowed by indulgent members of the previous generation, to the proud captains of mighty starships, were equally, infuriatingly silent on the subject of the star drive itself.

It became excruciatingly clear that unless Earth technology developed the solution independently, Terrans would never reach the stars. Ron had garnered his highly desirable position at the University of Terra by his deep knowledge of physics. Not surprisingly, a vast Space Drive project had grown up on Earth, and Physics was one of the most hotly pursued fields of study. The funding available for this project was of a magnitude not even imaginable in earlier, pre-Galactic times. U. of T. was the nexus point for this planet-wide effort.

The effort would not have been so frantic if Terrans had been able to ride on any one of the myriad star drive vehicles which swarmed so tantalizingly. Such opportunities proved strictly limited, however. The few Terrans fortunate enough to visit other civilizations were invited on occasions so obviously ceremonial, and the destinations they were permitted to see so carefully prepared, that such contacts simply added fuel to the already raging fire of Terran curiosity. While the Galactics did nothing direct to aid Terran star drive research, they did take a persistent, slightly amused interest in Terran efforts.

Ron was glad that his considerable ability in physics had been sufficient to overcome any prejudice he might have suffered by his unfortunate tendency to gain weight, often with no apparent reason, but at the moment, listening to the stringy lecturer, he took small comfort in that fact. She had lost 150 pounds through the Workshop for Slimness program, had kept it off, and was up in front of an audience representing several tons of accumulated lard to assure them that they, too, could do the same.

All week, Ron had kept strictly to the prescribed diet, eschewing anything with any taste. The week had not been without its trials. He had gone to his cousin’s wedding, and exasperated his generous hosts by spurning all of the goodies on which both families had labored for days. He sipped primly at black coffee with no sugar, and nibbled at one tiny watercress sandwich. The wine, beer, brownies, petit fours, eclairs, quiches and myriad other temptations were stoically, if not easily, ignored. To add to the fun, he had caused what promised to be a serious breach within the family by refusing champagne for the toast.

Then there was the time he had lunched with Dr. Biddle, his department chairman. On this occasion he got to watch, and smell, as Dr. Biddle tucked into his lean frame two mugs of dark draft beer, a huge liverwurst sandwich on rye, french fries with extra butter melted over them, and a dessert too obscene to mention. Ron had munched sadly on a salad with plain vinegar for dressing, black tea, and one small scoop of lo-fat cottage cheese.

So it went, throughout the week. He had gone to bed with a growling stomach, awakening after poor sleep to a vast emptiness and the prospect of dry toast choked down with black coffee. What was his reward for suffering these torments? Confidently plopping his ample rear into his seat, he was shocked to see that he had gained five pounds.

Real cute, those seats, Ron thought bitterly. Like so much in life, now, they were in large part a product of Galactic technology. The seats utilized a direct mass sensor, independent of local gravity. As the unhappy dieter sat down, an almost imperceptible jerk took place, and the victim’s weight appeared on the readout. Should he have cared to know, Ron, by touching a few more buttons, could have seen what he weighed in the units and gravities of a few hundred of the more local Galactic planets.

This had amused him the first few times he had attended these sessions, but now Ron glared at the readout panel. If weight loss was so damned important, why the hell couldn’t the aliens have developed some reasonable way of dealing with it? He failed to see why it was so important, anyway. Galactic medicine ensured that he didn’t need to fear the high blood pressure or cardiovascular problems associated in the past with obesity. The problem was social. The unreasonable prejudice against fat had become magnified when Terrans became exposed to the slim, trim Galactics. The one which annoyed Ron the most was something which looked like a huge sac filled with transparent slime. Terrans were told that its very transparency was due to the fact that internal fat globules were practically non-existent.

The skinny reformed fatso in charge didn’t say anything when she saw the readout. Her look said enough. No sympathy for evidence of what she could only view as regrettably weak character. Now Ron, wounded to the core, sadly reviewed a week of pointless virtue. Patiently, he sifted through his memory for every gram he had consumed during the past week. This wasn’t hard. Meals had been few, scant, and desperately needed. Suddenly, he remembered a smell. Chocolate—a rich, warm aroma. A brownie, exactly one inch by one inch.

It hadn’t been much of a straying from the narrow path, but it had been enough. The week before, he had eaten nothing untoward. He hadn’t gained, but he hadn’t lost, either. Before that: one can of beer. That had cost four pounds. And so on. Ron reflected on his high hopes when he had started the program, under the urging of Dr. Biddle.

Dr. Biddle, Ron’s department head, was a fitness nut even by the stringent standards of these times. When Ron joined T. U., he learned that he was expected at least to try for Biddle’s level of physical perfection. Ron never had a chance. Biddle was one of those wiry perpetual motion machines that ate constantly and never gained a pound. Following Biddle’s rather pointed recommendations, Ron had joined the Slimness Workshop, as well as starting several physical activities. He bought a bike, and even attempted to ride the thing. He joined the Terran University bowling league, where he held all in awe at the meagerness of his scores. He tried. Oh, how he tried! It soon became evident that physical culture in any form was not his forte.

Ron reviewed all of the weeks of virtue and suffering, counting every miserable calorie of intake, and balancing this against his impressive weight gains. Suddenly, the germ of a wildly improbable idea began to form. He was too good a scientist to miss the implications of data all too easily available to him. Anomalies he had started to experience in his own research began to shift in his mind, clicking into place like pieces of a giant jigsaw puzzle. Trembling, he turned to the ample woman sitting next to him, and clutched her arm.

“Alice!” he whispered. “I’ve just thought of something! Let’s get out of here! We’ve got work to do!”

Alice Geery was Ron’s best friend, fully as massive, mentally as well as physically, as he. Her specialty was biochemistry, but she possessed a flair for physics. She was engaged in the newly expanding field of teasing out some of the basic physics of biochemical reactions. Lately she had been concentrating on some of the apparent impossibilities which were coming to light, mostly in the area of energy conservation. It took her no time to read and understand the urgency behind Ron’s interruption, and soon two large, self-conscious individuals were sneaking conspicuously from the meeting.

“OK, Ron.” Alice said, uncomfortably aware of the disapproving stare of the Slimness instructor. “We left the meeting. Now, what did you want to talk about that’s so important it can’t wait?”

“Alice, I think I have it!” Ron said. “You are just the person I need to help me get to the bottom of this!”

Alice remained unenlightened. “Ron, what on Earth are you talking about?”

“Not Earth, Alice! The whole damn Galaxy!”

“What?!”

“All that fat. Alice, do you know how hard we’ve been trying to lose weight?”

“Of course.” She replied, sardonically. “How could I miss that slight detail?” Alice had been seen absent-mindedly nibbling her lunch bag during department softball games.

“And all those blasted aliens in form-fitting uniforms. Each wretched beastie at the absolute peak of physical perfection. Do you have any idea how we’d look in those things? But, you know, my idea has to do with that very thing.”

Alice was giving him her very worst “Oh-no-what-a flake” expression, but Ron continued undeterred.

“Listen, Alice, I’ve been thinking, and reviewing my intake and weight gain. Look, we’re both scientists. Recently, Terrans have been rabid on the subject of weight loss. That’s what has blinded us to the truth. If you think about it, this obsession with losing weight is completely illogical. It just doesn’t make sense.”

Rendered speechless by his overbearing earnestness, Alice continued to listen.

“Look at the data. One lousy one-inch-square brownie causing me to gain five pounds. Your initial loss wiped out by one stinking Oreo. We’ve even set up tripwires between our beds and the refrigerator to rule out sleepwalking. What did that get us? Zip. Zilch. Nothing at all. Alice, we haven’t been sleepwalking, or doing anything else which would cause us to eat without knowing it.”

Alice Geery was skeptical, but she was too much of a scientist to ignore evidence, no matter how improbable, when it was held up in front of her. Slowly, she shook her head.

“You know, Ron, I hate to admit it. It goes against everything we’ve ever learned about the laws of physics, but

I see your point. I thought that I was in error somewhere, and was trying so hard to disprove what I’ve been seeing that I didn’t even see what it was.”

“A few laws?” Ron said. “Try conservation of matter and energy, or the laws of thermodynamics.”

“One miserable cookie going to four pounds of fat??!”

“All that virtue—”

“Running our bodies on nothing—”

“Or next to nothing—”

“And gaining!”

“Something for nothing!”

Slowly, two overweight scientists turned to stare at each other, as the implications of what they were saying moved slowly into full mental view. In the late twentieth century people had became obsessed with diet and fitness. As the cost of medical care soared and life spans increased, people began to do what they could to cut doctors’ bills. By the twenty-first century, naturally rotund individuals found themselves under ever more unbearable social pressure. Slimness-obsessed Terrans were propelled into full mania by the arrival of the sleek, trim aliens. The prosperity which those aliens brought allowed even people subsisting in historically famine-afflicted areas the possibility of a good diet, and the money to spend on the “lite” foods needed to trim back to near famine. In the ensuing orgy of guilt several rather nasty tasting “healthy” foods became best sellers, while the manufacture of chocolate was almost stopped entirely.

That same guilt had blinded Ron and Alice to the startling things of which their own bodies were capable, but now they saw clearly the direction their research needed to pursue. The initial work confirmed their ideas. The next two months saw the pair working late into the night on their own time. Finally, they were ready to approach Dr. Biddle.

The night before the momentous, and certainly dreaded, confrontation with the department chairman, they were holding a last minute council of war in a secluded corner of their favorite bar. Anyone who had noticed what they had in front of them might have raised startled eyebrows at what they had ordered: dark beer on draft, potato skins drenched with melted cheese, and a generous bowl of salted nuts. The two hard working researchers would not have cared. They had reason to celebrate.

“Well, Ron, this is it. Tomorrow, we beard the lion in his own den.”

“Alice, I tell you, we can’t miss. The guy might be a class A pain in the ass, but he is a good scientist. He may not like what we are doing to some of his pet theories, but he has no choice but to support our research if he wants any part of the new star drive.”

His enthusiasm was infectious. Alice’s eyes crinkled with pleasure, and beer mugs clinked. No fine champagne glasses ever sounded sweeter.

In the harsh light of morning a bit of the victorious glow had faded. Two somewhat rumpled, slightly hung-over scientists walked slowly up the long, wood paneled corridor leading to the very center of power of the most prestigious department of the greatest university on the face of the Earth. They were painfully aware of the slightly uncrisp nature of their best suits, and the unmistakably battered appearance of their economy model briefcases. The huge, polished mahogany doors, with their gleaming brass handles, swung open smoothly, with the silence indicative of assiduous maintenance. Disdaining a receptionist, Biddle himself sat at a huge desk, facing them impassively. He allowed the silence to continue until Ron grew slightly pink. Then he spoke.

“Well, you said you had some data for me. Let me see them.”

“Yes, sir. Here are our initial results, along with the raw data.”

Alice spoke with crisp authority which belied her appearance, and arranged several papers on the desk. Biddle’s eyebrows rose. He regarded the pair thoughtfully, and then leaned forward to examine the papers spread out before him. After a long silence, he spoke.

“These data are hardly expected, but you do seem to be onto something. Where do you plan to go from here?”

Unhesitatingly, Alice replied.

“The next step is to set up experiments on living organisms. The Galactic technology, combined with Terran Fuzzy Logic and Chaos Theory, are pretty powerful tools, but even so, we’ve gone as far as we can with computer simulations.”

“Virtual rats, I suppose?”

“Virtual humans, with full scan data taken from both of us.”

Biddle was impressed. That glib phrase was enough to let him know that both researchers had endured a full week of Galactic probing throughout their bodies, with extensive tissue sampling. He listened carefully as they continued.

“Perhaps we could do some preliminary studies on rats, but we really need to do most of our work with primates. The greatest disparities between intake and output, in fact, seem to occur in humans.” Biddle wasn’t too happy about the implications of their work, but, as Ron had said, he was too careful a scientist to dismiss it out of hand. Nevertheless, he brooded. He couldn’t help hoping that the figures Ron and Alice had shown would turn out to be a dead end. It would be hard to let go of his cherished idea that slimness equals virtue.

Ron and Alice worked well together, which did much to help their tempers, despite the fact that they ran chronically short on sleep. The precision of Alice’s mind in dealing with the delicate interrelationships involved at the heart of biochemical reactions, added to Ron’s driving enthusiasm and deep knowledge of physics, brought them to the core of the issues with which they were dealing.

The Galactics took such an interest in their research that the pair were finally obliged to put firm Do Not Disturb signs on the lab door. The aliens were never intentionally obstructive, but too many could crowd Ron and Alice out of the room entirely. When the lab doors were locked they were mostly undisturbed, but had to accept the fact that the /klik, too small to be kept out, were going to be with them. At critical junctures in the research the two scientists were coated with tiny, jostling insects. At first barely endured, the /klik came to be welcome evidence that their research was going in the right direction. Ron and Alice realized that by their very interest the /klik were at long last giving hints no Terran had ever received from the inscrutable Galactics. The hints were helpful, but it was not easy to work covered completely by tiny black bugs.

Ron and Alice also ate only sporadically, so immersed in their work that food didn’t interest them. To add to mealtime complications, they were frequently in danger of ingesting several eager /klik. Despite official Hive assurances about individual unimportance, dining, however inadvertently, on sentient entities did not appeal. A new pattern of picky eating emerged. Over the next year, they gained a mere five pounds each.

At the end of the year, the theory was complete. A committee of Galactics was formed to review current research. Grant money suddenly flooded in from Galactic sources. At the end of the second year, the starship was complete. If Biddle had truly understood the sums of money being spent he would have had a fit. As it was, he tolerated the Galactic takeover within the department, while using the prestige conferred by the Galactic interest to raise funds for other projects. He followed Ron and Alice’s research in a general way, but was too busy to give detailed attention to the small starship they were building. After the ship was completed, Dr. Biddle, as nominal head of the project, was invited on board the vessel, named Fat Power, which would carry his highest aspirations to the stars.

Fat Power’s hull was as smooth as Galactic technology would allow. To say she was mirrorlike was an understatement. Full subspace shields were evidenced by an iridescent shimmer over the entire hull. Alice and Ron had been a bit apprehensive about Dr. Biddle’s reaction to the inside of the gleaming starship. This concern was well founded. Although by Galactic standards the craft was a modest, two person model, it did not match Terran ideas of what a spaceship should be. In addition to the spacious navigation and drive area, it boasted two comfortable staterooms, lavishly equipped galley, and a storeroom whose vastness had nearly caused open rebellion among the Terran engineers working on the ship.

Biddle looked around approvingly at the outside, with its flawlessly designed and machined airlock. A sticky silence fell when he surveyed the interior. He inspected the luxurious staterooms. He peered shudderingly into the entertainment area, paling when he saw the film library, holo equipment, and video game his department had funded. Ron proudly pointed out the computer and holo-video recording equipment.

“As you can see, Dr. Biddle, we will be able to provide first class records of our trips. Just think of what quality documentation will do for your reputation.”

At this, Dr. Biddle’s color turned a sickly hue never yet seen on his healthy face. He said nothing. He goggled at the bathroom facilities, which would have done pride to one of the more dissolute Roman emperors. He stared about in horror, his worst fears realized. These two fat buffoons had made a fool of him. When this got out, his reputation would be gone, stripped off in a firestorm of ridicule. An uncomfortable silence fell.

“So this is it.”

The words came out flat, carefully neutral.

“Yes, sir.”

The only strange thing about the ship, apart from the fact that its lush comfort and extravagant areas violated every space and weight restriction which had been respected by ship builders since the first log rafts had been lashed together by adventurous early humans, was what Alice had named proudly as the Drive Chair. They were back in the control room, Dr. Biddle white and shaking, oblivious of the /klik that swarmed over him. He stared at the Drive Chair. Its evident adaptability for naps, and the all-too-handy snack tray, did little to improve his temper. The drive chair was not even a parody of things he had seen on other Terran ships; its only apparent purpose was to annoy Biddle. It succeeded.

“Well, Dr. Geery. This so-called drive chair. This is the fruit of all your research, the thing my department has been funding for the last two years?”

“Yes, sir.” Alice said quietly, not bothering to point out that the main source of the funding had nothing to do with Dr. Biddle. “Oh, by the way, you might note the drive chair coupling. That is what links the space warping entity to the actual star drive.”

“Ron,” she continued, “let’s show Dr. Biddle how it works.”

Ron sat in the chair as Dr. Biddle, furious, glared at Alice, who continued calmly.

“Our research has uncovered the basic principle of the Galactic star drive, which appears to violate several known principles of physics. Our primary breakthrough was the recognition of the unusual metabolic characteristics of specially adapted entities. Such entities have been discovered among almost all Galactic populations, Terrans included.”

“Just what do you think this is?” Biddle sputtered. “A joke?” His temper was not improved by the pair’s visible, fat smugness.

“No sir. No joke. Ron and I just happen to be adapted entities.”

As Dr. Biddle was talking to Alice, Ron, seated in the drive chair, hitched himself into the metabolic coupling system and made some silent adjustments. Now Dr. Biddle looked around and saw him. Biddle drew himself up, looking impressively wrathful.

“Dr. Corcoran.” He said scathingly. “I trust that chair is comfortable enough.”

Dr. Biddle had a way of using one’s hard-earned title to express depths of contempt never imagined by those who have not given years of their life to earn it. Unruffled, Ron replied. “Yes, sir.”

Alice, who had moved quietly into the pilot’s chair, began punching coordinates hurriedly into the navigation console. Unaware of her, Dr. Biddle continued.

“I’m glad you are comfortable. I see you are sitting, too, Dr. Geery. Perhaps it is just as well. You two are fired!”

For the first time, Ron and Alice were not prepared with a rehearsed answer. Alice finally found her voice.

“Ah, Dr. Biddle, um, you might need to talk to President Mariachi.”

“Also, we have to finish out the term with our classes.” Ron added.

Biddle, who had no previous experience with losing control, stared amazed at the two members of his staff. As he realized that he had spoken a favorite fantasy aloud, he sank into one of the other chairs.

“Dr. Biddle.” Alice said, unconsciously ironic. “Please let us table this discussion for now. We have a job to do.”

Dr. Biddle started, and then stared. Both Alice and Ron were pointing to the coordinate readout, which impossibly, perplexingly, showed the ship’s position to be just outside the rings of Saturn. The image shifted disturbingly, clearing again to reveal a pattern of stars never seen from Earth. Dr. Biddle had expected that Ron and Alice would be the primates included in this experiment, but he hadn’t expected himself to be included as well.

“I’ll press charges just as soon as we return to Earth.” Biddle began in tones of quiet menace. “Don’t think you can run forever. You have just kidnapped a Dean of Faculty, and as soon as this crazy ship of yours hits Terran authority, you are under arrest. I hope you are satisfied. When you get out of jail,” he continued, warming to his theme, “that is, if you ever do, you will find that there is no work for you in any institution of learning. You won’t be certified to wipe the runny noses of two-year-olds!”

During this speech, Biddle’s voice had risen, and he ended with a bellow which should have terrified his subordinates. Ron and Alice, however, were too busy with navigation and communication to pay attention. When silence finally fell, they said nothing. They simply pointed to the comm, screen.

Back on Earth all normal business had ceased, as each Galactic visitor took joyful notice of the event. Finally, two minds among the new member species had been sharp enough to penetrate the wilderness of false clues and dietary guilt which had been sown in the ready soil of Terran obsession with weight. At the solid evidence that Terra had at last passed the test the Galactics celebrated. In Delhi, India, fireballs ran through the less crowded streets, and launched themselves into the air, scattering sparks. Residents who came outdoors at the sudden noise and light were promptly overrun by the ubiquitous /klik, and bounced upon, pummeled, tossed, and otherwise enthusiastically congratulated by a multitude of entities.

In Antarctica City the single Floom, solitary emissary of his/her/its privacy-loving species, rose up from a self-dug snow cavern, quite startling the other inhabitants by rolling genially among them, emitting jovial, ice-shattering booms.

In addition to the sudden flurry of excited alien activity, users of electrical equipment everywhere were treated to the second Earth-wide Galactic message, which Biddle saw displayed on the Fat Power’s comm, screen:

Most Terrans were perplexed for several days, but by the end of the week the Corcoran-Geery drive became a household word. Once Dr. Biddle recovered from his initial shock at being an unwilling passenger on an impossible journey, he was in a mood to listen. By the end of the trip, he had become a good friend. He was also the first Terran to see truly rapid weight loss in action.

Their destination was a pleasant

Earth-like planet circling a modest star roughly in the vicinity of Betelgeuse. Fat Power was escorted to the surface by a fleet commanded by the proudest, fattest pilots on the planet. The crowd of natives preened fur and waved tentacles. One, smartly rotund, turned happily to his frankly fat mate.

“Well, Azra, they did it. I knew all along that the fat Terrans were as smart as the rest of us. Too bad they had to put up with so much from Terrans not so well endowed.”

Azra nodded serenely in reply. On board Fat Power, a considerably slimmed down Ron and Alice donned shiny new Galactic uniforms made to their own end-point specifications, and strode proudly down the ramp, arm and arm with Biddle. As the massed Galactics saw them, there was a roar of appreciation for two sleek, slim Terrans, at the peak of physical condition. Now the party began in earnest, with plenty to eat. After all, Ron and Alice would need it. They had a return trip to make.