Oh yes, says Lisa, local extinction. It's called extirpation.
No more tropical fish, says Katherine. Tragic.
There will still be tropical fish, says Lisa.
But they won't be tropical, says David.
They have ordered more beer.
The ones I'm dealing with at work, says Lisa, are in training.
To do what? asks Gaius.
To get used to cold water, says Lisa. The idea is to release them and see where they go.
Towards Sydney, I imagine, says Gaius.
Arthur bites down on a garlicky prawn.
Yes, says Lisa, towards Sydney. And at some point they will meet up with the extirpations.
Should you call them that? asks Katherine.
No I shouldn't, says Lisa. It's shock tactics. To keep them going.
You don't mean to say you TALK to your tropical fish? says David.
He fiddles with the tentacles of his Oktapodi. Puts it down. Spears a lemon roasted potato.
They have little notebooks, says Lisa. And when they see a tropical fish swimming towards them they note down its position.
She drains her glass of retsina.
Did I mention she has switched to retsina?
Notebooks, says Gaius. Waterproof, I imagine. And how do they cope with the pencils?
String, says Lisa.
Everyone is laughing at this point.
Except for the lobsters who haven't been listening,
They are engrossed in their talk of death by being eaten.
The discussion has widened, since their share plate of Tasmanian mussels arrived.
The mussels have heard Dufresne explaining that he may have fallen into a swoon beforehand, which may explain why he doesn't remember what happened, until he woke up almost entirely eaten by Maoris.
The mussels have become alarmed.
One of them speaks for the whole plate of them by asking:
What is a swoon?
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