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The Goose taxied out into Lake Gatun. Soon, the roar of engines on take-off filled the air and she was airborne. Under the flight path, two socks sat on chaise longues, basking in the tropical sun. One was leafing through a knitting magazine. The other was woriedly paging through a stapled document.
"Hugo?"
"Yeah, Lefty?"
"I think we were supposed to be on that plane."
"Why do you say that?"
"Well, I've been leafing through the script -- to see if that set of suspenders got the part I recommended for her -- and right here in twelve pages, it says, 'Cut to interior of Goose. Harv looks down at the flaps lever, startled. HARV> Where the Hell did those socks come from? The socks wave back silently and shuffle off to the rear, where Biggles soon starts screaming.'"
"Let me see that!" Hugo grabbed the script, looking at the opened page.
"Oh, snap! First this author gets high on hallucinogens, and now he's hung over!"
"Well, Hugo, he may be hung under. I mean, Adrian was visiting his cubicle last night."
"Now what do we do?"
The small blue frog, who had been following them around for the past week, pulled out his cell and started dialing.
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