There was a knock on the door. Flight
opened it. A young fellow in green overalls with a luminous orange
high-visibility vest and a scooter helmet stood there, presenting a
large insulated bag.
"Pizza." The man said.
Flight was confused. "Sorry, I didn't order pizza."
"No,
but you will. Paradox Pizza Company." He shifted the box slightly to
rest on his arm and reached into a pocket, producing a receipt. "You
order two twelve-inch chicken allons-y with a side of dalek bread in
about..." he squinted, "an hour from now."
"Oh." Flight took the three boxes from the bag. "So, how much do I...?"
"You paid by credit card. All sorted mate."
"Ah,
thanks very much." He fumbled for some small change and deposited a few
coins in the man's hand. "So, Paradox Pizza eh? Is the paradox if I
don't place the order?"
"Nope, you will certainly place the order in approximately..." he checked his watch. "...fifty eight minutes' time."
"How do you know?"
"You're British. You'll place the order."
"So what's the paradox?"
The
man smiled. "The paradox is how you get hold of our number. It's on the
menu there." He pointed out a folded sheet of paper taped to the top of
the box.
"I see. Well, thanks very much, I'll place the
order later." Flight closed the door and turned round, barely making out
the sound of the delivery driver counting the coins and muttering the
words "tight git."
