‘Excuse me,’ she said, but meant something entirely different.
‘It’s just that I’ve been on my own for a long time now. I have things just the way I like them. One push on the wrong knob and we could all end up on the outside looking in. Which would be a slight annoyance for me, but a lot more serious for you people.’
‘So what is that button you are so sensitive about?’
‘That is my coffee maker.’
‘What?’
‘It took me decades to get the foam just right.’
‘Oh, for zark’s sake.’
‘Everything is zark with you. You might show a little more gratitude. I just saved your lives.’
‘I didn’t ask you to,’ said Random, eyes blazing beneath her long fringe.
Wowbagger was beginning to regret inviting these people aboard, but the hyperspace jump would have killed them on their own ship. No shields, no buffers, no gyro. They would have been shaken like beads in a rattle; a rattle travelling at incomprehensible speeds, with no fitted safety belts.
‘I am delighted to say, young lady, that I will not be the object of your detestation for much longer.’
‘But I like detesting you,’ said Random sweetly.
Guide Note: Given Random Dent’s instant and irrational hatred of Wowbagger the Infinitely Prolonged, it was inevitable that he would eventually become her stepfather. The well-known actor Angus deBeouf, who played a psychiatrist on the hit show Psych-O-Rama for seven series, postulated that single mothers feel an attraction to males that is proportional to the revulsion their teenagers feel towards that same person. Though not actually a qualified psychiatrist, Mr deBeouf does have four brains and silky hair, so his opinion carries considerable weight, especially among that section of the galactic population that wears slippers in the afternoon.
Related Reading:
The Happy Teen: A Fairy Tale by Jimmy Habrey K.
Trust Me, I Play A Doctor by Angus deBeouf
Wowbagger plucked a face mask from its niche in the wall and strapped it over his nose.
‘I had forgotten what people were like,’ he said, breathing deeply. ‘Use this experience. Take from it the strength to go on.’
‘Do you mind sucking your magic gas after dropping us off?’
Wowbagger replaced the mask. ‘It is not magic gas, oddly dressed child. I bottle the atmosphere from my home world. Full of carbon dioxide and toxic chemicals, but it calms me.’ He smiled broadly to demonstrate his calm. ‘Now please do not touch anything else on my bridge or I will vaporize you on the spot, you odious adolescent. When I was young, teenagers didn’t talk back to their elders or they got a dunking in a bucket of toadstool mandarins.’
‘When was this? Just after the Big Bang?’
‘One more. Just say one more thing. I have some toadstool mandarins around here somewhere.’
‘That bottled atmosphere isn’t working, is it?’
‘No,’ admitted Wowbagger. ‘Actually, it’s giving me a bit of a headache. Or maybe you’re the cause of my headache.’
Random fell back on the old reliable.
‘I hate you!’ she screamed and stormed off to her room, presumably to replicate more black clothing.
‘Don’t feel too badly,’ said Trillian, hurrying after her daughter. ‘She hates everyone.’
Another Guide Note (a little too close to the previous one, but educational): Toadstool mandarins are a form of toxic jellyfish whose tentacles are loaded with entheogenic venom. The effects of a mandarin sting are threefold. The first is a sharp, stinging sensation; the second a nasty red welt, which may fester if not treated with a salve of toadstool mandarin doo-doo. And the third is a bolt of self-awareness, thanks to the entheogens in the venom. Having been stung, a victim’s typical reaction will be something like:
Owww. Zark, that hurts.
Then:
Oh no. Look at this nasty red welt. I’m in the swimsuit competition later.
And finally:
What? I’m a latent misogynist with father issues!
If a person is allergic to mandarin venom, one sting will prompt total self-awareness, leading to either immediate catatonia or a career as a talk-show pundit.
Wowbagger managed to lure the males to the conference table with the promise of a Dragon Slammer, an alcoholic drink so fantastic that it made the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster taste like bilge water. This argument didn’t impress Zaphod much, as he had developed a bit of a bilge water habit during a particularly boring state cruise on the Tranquil Sea of No Surprises Please on the planet Innocuadamis during his inaugural year as President.
They sat around an obsidian table, which glooped and grew as more people pulled up chairs.
‘So, what about this Dragon Slammer, then?’ asked Ford, finger-combing his thick azure locks. ‘Better than a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster? I’ll believe it when I wake in a week on the other side of the Galaxy, with no kidneys, three wives and a tattoo.’
Wowbagger smiled confidently. ‘Oh, I think you’re going to like this one, Mr Prefect. It’s quite special.’
‘Not replicated, I hope. Only the real thing.’
‘But of course.’
A hover tray flitted from the galley and smoothly deposited a crystal tumbler before everyone seated at the table.
Zaphod sniffed the contents of the tumbler. ‘Smells like water to me, partner.’
‘It is water,’ confirmed Wowbagger. ‘Pure mega-mountain spring water from Magramel.’
‘Big deal.’
‘Wait for it, Fat Arse.’
‘There’s no need for that. I’ve already promised to have you killed.’
Wowbagger touched the table, which rippled and produced a bowl of small, speckled eggs.
‘These are sea-dragon eggs. The sea-dragons are a new species of tiny Syngnathidae found in the shallow tropical waters of equatorial Kakrafoon.’
‘Should I be writing this down?’ asked Ford jauntily.
Wowbagger forged ahead. ‘The males hatch every ten years and live for four seconds. When they die, their essence, soul if you will, is released into the water.’
‘I am reluctantly interested,’ said Zaphod. ‘Soul drinking. Sounds wonderfully depraved.’
‘Do as I do,’ instructed Wowbagger.
The green immortal popped an egg into his drink, then waited as an infra-red lamp caressed the tumbler from below. Seconds later the egg became translucent and a small sea-dragon could clearly be seen wiggling around inside it.
‘It’s like a dragon, only from the sea,’ said Zaphod with childlike awe.
The dragon chewed its way from the egg, paddled around awkwardly for a moment or two, then clasped a claw to its heart and began to vibrate. A tiny golden cloud of lightning spread from its heart to permeate the water.
‘Down the hatch,’ said Wowbagger and swallowed the lot.
Ford and Zaphod followed suit and were immediately blown from their seats. They lay spasming on the ground and singing the Meli-Meli scene from Pantheoh’s Hrung Disaster opera in perfect harmony. From a floating diagnostic gel cube in a bank of sensors and wires, Left Brain took the third part.
‘Hmm,’ said Wowbagger. ‘All I ever get is heartburn.’
Arthur decided to give the Dragon Slammer a miss.
Twenty minutes later, Ford and Zaphod were back on their seats, giggling at each other.
‘Very well,’ said Wowbagger, clapping his hands. ‘Fat arse and his baboon have been entertained. Now can we please get down to business?’
Guide Note: The phrase ‘down to business’ is thought to have originated on Chalesm, where industrial espionage was so sophisticated that businessmen were forced to strike major deals down ion mine shafts, underneath tarpaulins, wearing disguises and talking in code through voice boxes. All of which precautions ensured that none of the businessmen had a clue as to what deal they had actually struck. One union representative made a planet-wide announcement that he had secured pensions for all membe
rs when he had actually promised to secure his member to a pensioner. The strikes continue.
This sounded a little complicated to Arthur. ‘Business. What business? Aren’t you simply going to drop us off at the nearest spaceport?’
‘Not until you kill me.’
‘Aren’t you immortal?’
‘Were you not listening? Fat Arse promised to kill me.’
‘Come on,’ objected Zaphod. ‘Now you’re just being mean.’
‘I am Wowbagger the Infinitely Prolonged. Being mean is my vocation. Haven’t you figured that out yet?’
Zaphod stood as regally as he possibly could, with the left side of his body still jittering. ‘I promised to kill you and so I shall. Does anyone else hear singing?’
‘Not me,’ said Ford, tipping the dragon eggs into his satchel. ‘Can’t hear a thing. Especially not opera that’s not there.’
‘A Beeblebrox’s word is worth something in this Galaxy. So there’s no need to keep calling me Fat Arse.’
Wowbagger winked at him in a manner so infuriating it could animate rocks. ‘I’m just keeping you motivated, Beeblebrox. I imagine you distract easily.’
‘He does,’ said Ford, chuckling.
‘Hey!’
‘Well, you do. Remember that time with the groon-pole and the bucket of flitter pies? You really should have kept your mind on the job then.’
‘Point taken. Let me hear it again.’
Wowbagger was happy to oblige. ‘Fat Arse.’
‘Okay,’ said Zaphod. ‘I’m ready. Just let me plug Left Brain out of whatever he’s plugged into and I’m ready to go.’
Wowbagger raised a finger. ‘You mean we’re ready to go?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Zaphod, climbing on to the console to reach Left Brain. ‘The gods don’t like visitors. Thor will speak to me because we have history and I’m more stupider than he is. I go to Asgard alone.’
‘I have history with Thor too,’ said Arthur. ‘I stood up to him once and lived.’
‘That doesn’t tend to happen twice,’ said Zaphod. ‘And gods never forget, so you should definitely stay on this ship.’
‘Why not take Trillian?’ suggested Ford. ‘If I remember rightly, Thor took rather a shine to her.’
‘No,’ said Zaphod firmly. ‘Thor’s been a bit moody these past few years. He needs a bit of handling.’
He reached into the cube of shimmering gel and hauled Left Brain free with a slooshy pop.
‘How are you doing, buddy?’ he asked, peeling sensors from Left Brain’s gourd.
‘A little sleepy,’ said Left Brain, blinking rapidly. ‘Do I have to wake up?’
‘I’m afraid so. We need to fly.’
Wowbagger handed him a wafer computer. ‘Keep in touch with this. It’s on a dark energy network. Good anywhere in the Universe. We can rendezvous once you have Thor and please tell him that I was the one who stole his ship, it might give him a little incentive. Don’t make me track you down.’
Zaphod pocketed the computer. ‘Right. I’m all set. All I need is two million credit chips and I’m out of here.’
‘Two million credit chips?’
‘Just thought I’d ask.’
‘Focus, President Steatopygic. Focus.’
Zaphod actually snarled. ‘You are so dead.’
‘Now you’re talking,’ said the green immortal.
5
Anything can be real. Every imaginable thing is happening somewhere along the dimensional axis. These things happen a billion times over with exactly the same outcome and no one learns anything. Whatever a person can think, imagine, wish for or believe has already come to pass. Dreams come true all the time, just not for the dreamers.
Think of something crazy, or if that’s too taxing just throw random adjectives and nouns together.
Indignant seaweed? No problem: the Resentful Hijiki of Damogran. The Hijiki strands, acerbated by shoals of Triple Stripe Yellowheads casually nudging them aside to nibble on the tender coral polyps, banded together and wove themselves into an impenetrable barrier, separating the reef from the fish. The knock-on effect of this was that the reef became sterile and died. The Hijiki had tied themselves too tightly to disband and perished along with the hated Yellowheads.
How about murderous clowns? Too easy. Add in a vegetable obsession. Type that into your Hitchhiker’s Guide v-board and you will get over a million hits, the top one being the story of Bling & Blong of Circus Minimus, two tiny clowns who both fell in love with Gerda the Amazing Cucumber Lady. After months of feuding, Bling loaded a custard pie with acid and melted his little brother during the matinée. Gerda belonged to him, but so distracted was he by guilt that one evening he accidentally ate his fiancée and choked to death himself on the engagement ring.
How about this one? How about an ex-two-headed President of the Galaxy who bought a tiny tropical planet from the Magratheans at a knockdown price then sold it to rich Earthlings so they could live on in comfort after their planet had been destroyed?
How crazy would that be?
The Tanngrísnir
Arthur lay on his bunk looking up at the sky to where Fenchurch hovered on a cloud wearing the same dark jeans, high boots and sodden T-shirt that she wore when he had first seen her, passed out in the back of her arsehole brother’s car.
‘Does the T-shirt have to be wet?’ asked the computer.
‘What? Oh, God, no. Sorry, of course not. I am such an idiot.’
‘Just trying to be accurate, I expect. I can portray this Fenchurch person naked, if you’d like.’
‘No, no,’ said Arthur in what he would like to think of as an immediate fashion. ‘A dry T-shirt is fine. It was raining that night so I was wet too, if that gets me off the hook at all.’
‘No need to explain,’ said Fenchurch’s rendered head. ‘Guests often take advantage of my realistic representations. I have a celebrity catalogue if you would like to browse through it.’
‘Perhaps some other time,’ said Arthur. ‘Can you show me these Grebulons?’
‘Of course. Do you seek closure, Arthur Dent? If you step into the cubicle, I could laser the memories.’
‘No. I need to see them because of how I feel now.’
‘And how is that, would you say?’
Arthur’s smile was guilty as an orchard thief’s. ‘I don’t feel too bad, to be honest. Pretty happy, in fact, all things considered. I miss my beach, but you know, I thought losing Earth would hit me harder, but it hasn’t. Maybe if I can actually look into the faces of those responsible, I might feel a little worse.’
‘I’ve got hi-definition, honeycomb speaker systems, 3-D and super-deep perception wrapped up in a little remote camera no bigger than a human head,’ said the computer confidently. ‘Not to mention point’n’pitch and Wow-O-Wang warbler. Let’s see if I can’t make you feel like shit.’
‘What?’
‘Your words, not mine.’
Fenchurch disappeared and the blackness of space appeared on the ceiling. Arthur recognized the Solar System and the ten planets in elliptical orbit around Sol. The deep blue of Saturn, Jupiter like a giant malachite pebble. Continent-sized boulders spun and shuddered in the asteroid belt beyond Mars, huge thunderclaps shaking Arthur’s bunk as the rocks collided.
‘Was that the ship or the show?’ asked Arthur nervously.
‘I put the sound in,’ admitted Fenchurch. ‘Give me a little poetic license. All these speakers and space is a vacuum.’
Further out they flew, whizzing through the blue-black vastness of empty space, wisps of charged interstellar gas crackling across their vista. Past the dwarf planet Pluto they journeyed, to a slightly larger planet, a completely ice-bound body, shining smooth but for the pock-marks of palimpsests and the grey industrial pods of an alien spaceship anchored on its surface.
‘The Grebulons,’ whispered Fenchurch. ‘Looking for something else to monitor.’
The detail was incredible. Arthur could see every plate of armour, eve
ry twist of cable.
He reached out to touch the hull and the entire scene lurched and zoomed.
‘That’s the point’n’pitch,’ said Fenchurch. ‘Careful with that. People have been known to throw up.’
Arthur peered through a porthole, feeling like a Peeping Tom. He saw soft sofas and magazine racks. Amiable-looking humanoids ambled along the carpeted hallway, stopping to chat politely or exchange what appeared to be astronomy trading cards.
This was not the kind of behaviour a person expects from destroyers of worlds. Arthur looked, but not one of the Grebulons was laughing maniacally, nor did they appear to have misshapen minions.
‘They look so nice,’ said Arthur, a little disconcerted by how easy it would be to like these people.
Fenchurch’s snort was so spot-on that Arthur wanted to weep. ‘It’s always the nice ones. You look up the Sub-Etha the day after a planet gets blown to smithereens and it’s zigabytes of the neighbouring worlds saying how the rampaging mass murderers were always so polite on trade missions. How they always sent kittens at Cattybagmas, how they kept to themselves mostly.’
Arthur used the p’n’p to zoom in on a Grebulon woman with a clutch of admirers gathered around.
‘Would you like me to put a wet T-shirt on her?’ asked Fenchurch wickedly.
‘Look in their eyes, Fenchurch.’
The computer sent a dark energy beam through the porthole. ‘Not the brightest, are they? I can’t scan back further than five orbit cycles with these people.’
‘Why would they do it, then?’
‘M-a-a-a-a-a-ybe someone put them up to it.’
Arthur’s stomach lurched as his perspective was shifted at hyperspeed. They withdrew from the surface and past the inferior planet of Pluto, just in time to catch the rear end of a huge ship, blue rings of light spinning up to enter hyperspace. The ship was yellow and ungainly and would never feature on a froody Sub-Etha spaceship show where middle-aged ex-racing drivers threw it around a test track while making jolly, xenophobic remarks and claiming not to understand all the knobs and dials. This ship was clumsy in the way that comets are not.
‘Vogons,’ said Arthur, surprised not a jot. ‘Jerks every one of them. Complete arseholes.’