“What th’ fuck…” Maybe if he broke the bottle on the rock, stabbed the bastard between the eyes—

“It’s hungry, it’ll go for the crab. Don’t kill it, Slothrop. Here, for God’s sake—” and here it comes spinning through the air, legs cocked centrifugally outward: dithering Slothrop drops the bottle just before the crab smacks against his other palm. Neat catch. Immediately, through her fingers and his shirt, he can feel the reflex to food.

“O.K.” Shaking Slothrop waves the crab at the octopus. “Chow time, fella.” Another tentacle moves in. Its corrugated ooze touches his wrist. Slothrop tosses the crab a few feet along the beach, and what do you know, that octopus goes for it all right: dragging along the girl and Slothrop staggering for a bit, then letting her go. Slothrop quickly snatches up the crab again, dangling it so the octopus can see, and begins to dance the creature away, down the beach, drool streaming from its beak, eyes held by the crab.

In their brief time together Slothrop forms the impression that this octopus is not in good mental health, though where’s his basis for comparing? But there is a mad exuberance, as with inanimate objects which fall off of tables when we are sensitive to noise and our own clumsiness and don’t want them to fall, a sort of wham! ha-ha you hear that? here it is again, WHAM! in the cephalopod’s every movement, which Slothrop is glad to get away from as he finally scales the crab like a discus, with all his strength, out to sea, and the octopus, with an eager splash and gurgle, strikes out in pursuit, and is presently gone.

The frail girl lies on the beach, taking in great breaths of air, surrounded now by the others. One of the dancers is holding her in her arms and speaking, r’s and nasals still French, in a language Slothrop, moseying back into earshot, can’t quite place.

Tantivy smiles and flips a small salute. “Good show!” cheers Teddy Bloat. “I wouldn’t have wanted to try that myself!”

“Why not? You had that crab. Saaay—where’d you get that crab?”

“Found it,” replies Bloat with a straight face. Slothrop stares at this bird but can’t get eye contact. What th’ fuck’s going on?

“I better have some of that wine,” Slothrop reckons. He drinks out of the bottle. Air goes splashing upward in lopsided spheres inside the green glass. The girl watches him. He stops for breath and smiles.

“Thank you, lieutenant.” Not a tremor in the voice, and the accent is Teutonic. He can see her face now, soft nose of a doe, eyes behind blonde lashes full of acid green. One of those thin-lipped European mouths. “I had almost stopped breathing.”

“Uh—you’re not German.”

Shaking her head no emphatically, “Dutch.”

“And have you been here—”

Her eyes go elsewhere, she reaches, takes the bottle from his hand. She is looking out to sea, after the octopus. “They are very optical, aren’t they. I hadn’t known. It saw me. Me. I don’t look like a crab.”