If hadn't been for the fact that they were...oh, captives, it might have been nice. Seriously - big bed, crisp white sheets, about a dozen pillows, candlelight - hell, even erotic art.

And that was the problem. It was like the sexalympics. It was like a pillow book for crazy religious nuts. It was like Hustler with carvings. It was also a hell of a menu.

Apparently, the magic number of the Ancients was two: two so-called "sons of the Ancients;" two idiotic ceremonies (one with oil, one with paint and chanting); and any two acts out of the Holy Book of the Chicken Ranch.

They'd gone with number seven as their first choice - jerking each other off. It seemed to be "balanced" enough to make the natives oooh, and ahh over the choice, and they hoped it preserved the bulk of their modesty.

However, the natives had formed lobbying parties for the second act. There was strong support for number 82, which Rodney privately thought of as the "Catherine Wheel" and was pretty sure would result in skeletal damage. Number 46 also a vocal group of advocates, but there was no way John was going to ride him like a pony in front of the assembled crowd, and Rodney didn't know if even John was bendy enough for the diagrammed finish, anyway.

"Here," John said, handing over the book. "It's my favorite number." Rodney looked at the marked page and laughed.

"Well," he said, grinning. "My favorite number is pi, but 69's good, too."