And Another Thing... Part 17

'Wall, d.a.m.nit,' he croaked. 'Wall.'

The dragons thought this was hilarious and one of them even pulled a cell phone from under a scale to call his weekend buddies.

'Honestly, you have to see this idiot, Burnie. You remember that guy with the wooden legs? Remember we lit him up like a torch? This guy is even funnier. Get up here now.'

More dragons. Froody.

The beasts' wings dipped inside the atmosphere tube, tugging at Zaphod's clothing with their sharp little claws.

'Come on. This is an official presidential jacket. Don't you lizards know who I am?'

Bifrost jumped with the impact of giant footsteps as Heimdall jogged leisurely along the bridge, grin wider than the crooked Mayor of Optimisia with dental implants who has just won the planetary lotto on his birthday and discovered that his chief love rival from high school was recently cuckolded and that the prosecution's case against him has collapsed.

'You didn't make it,' said the G.o.d, eyes magnified by the orange lenses of his ski goggles.

'Are those prescription?' wondered Zaphod.

'You didn't complete your task, Babblepox.'

'It's Beeblebrox,' shouted the frustrated Galactic President. 'You may not realize this, but every time you misp.r.o.nounce my name I feel bad. I'm a positive kind of person, but for some reason that really hurts. It's not funny.'

'I think it's funny, Feeblejocks,' said Heimdall, using his G.o.dly voice-projection powers to broadcast his comments to the dragons, who chuckled fireb.a.l.l.s and smacked wings. 'What do you think, my beautiful pets?'

'I think it's a buffa-bucket of hilariousness,' answered a red striped alpha male hovering above the bridge, his rear legs dangling, which is harder than it looks. 'If you ask me, boss, misp.r.o.nouncing this mortal's name is as close to...'

More sounds came out of his mouth, but they weren't words as such, just shrieks and a few initial consonants which were probably on their way to being swearwords before the pain blotted out any commands from the dragon's parietal lobe.

'What the...' said Heimdall before his jaw dropped. The red striped alpha had simply burst into plasma flame, taken from behind by some sort of missile.

'Wow,' said Zaphod. 'I've often wondered what would happen if a dragon held its breath.'

Another dragon was. .h.i.t, in the shoulder, sending it spinning towards the surface of the planet, leaking ink blots of blue-black smoke.

'Aren't you going to react?' asked Zaphod. 'Don't you have the whole super-speed reaction thing? Or is that just the major G.o.ds?'

Heimdall was goaded into action.

'Fly, my beauties,' he called. 'Hide on the surface.'

The dragons dropped out of their hovering pattern and scattered for cover as far away as they could get from whatever was attacking their comrades. Fast as the dragons were, many could not outrun the slew of spiralling missiles that were hugging the bend of the planet, breaking from the pack when they locked on to a target.

Heimdall collapsed his horn and put an emergency call in to Helheim.

'Hel? We are under attack here!'

'I know,' said the she-devil. 'Don't worry, I've sent a few dozen sh.e.l.ls your way. Can you see the enemy?'

Heimdall was known for being so alert that he needed no sleep. They used to say in the taverns of Scandinavia that he could see gra.s.s grow and hear a leaf fall on the other side of an ocean. But that was a long time ago, and these days Heimdall often snuck off for a snooze after his latte and had been known to miss the sound of Autumn altogether.

'I don't see them. Just missiles coming up from the southern hemisphere.'

Hel hmmmed. 'The southern hemisphere, you say. Not through the Bifrost arch?'

'Nope. I'm looking at the arch. Up from the south definitely.'

'And you can't see any aliens? Maybe green chaps, with lasers or some such?'

Heimdall squeezed Gjallarhorn's shaft until it squeaked. 'No. No zarking aliens, okay? Just groups of blue torpedoes with pinkish trails. A bit like ours, if I remember.'

'No, no,' said Hel in the tone of a guilty teenager blocking her mother at the door to a bedroom which is full of boys and drugs, stolen jewellery and possibly music playing backwards. 'They couldn't be like ours. Ours have red trails. A light red, some would call it puce.'

Heimdall growled as another of his dragons took a hit. 'I don't care what some would call it. Shoot them down, Hel. Can you do that?'

'Erm, yes. I should think so. The computer has... eh... isolated their frequency, so we should be able to send a self-destruct signal, which I am doing... now.'

The remaining missiles exploded in flashes of pink and electric white, gears and pistons thunking into the ice sh.e.l.l.

'Well done,' said Heimdall, tears of relief on his tanned cheeks. 'Odin shall hear of your labours this day.'

'Will he? Would you? That's marvellous. Of course, I could have destroyed those missiles much sooner had they actually been our our missiles, because I already have those frequencies. So obviously they weren't missiles, because I already have those frequencies. So obviously they weren't our our missiles and why would they be, but in case anyone asks, they weren't. Anyone like Odin, for example. Not ours. Got it?' missiles and why would they be, but in case anyone asks, they weren't. Anyone like Odin, for example. Not ours. Got it?'

Heimdall was about to answer when he noticed that Zaphod Beeblebrox had discovered new reserves of energy and was racing just as fast as he could towards the wall.

If he gets over that wall, I am bound to parlay.

In spite of this truth and the recent losses to his dragon brigade, Heimdall's face was smeared with a grin. Beeblebrox had nearly reached the wall, but nearly nearly was about as much use as a flaybooz in any activity involving thumbs bottle-opening, for example, or playing the lute or perhaps. .h.i.tching a ride. The Betelgeusean may as well have been standing still for all the good it would do him. Nothing could outrun a G.o.d in real s.p.a.ce. Even with one footfall to go, Beeblebrox may as well have been a light year away from the wall, wearing a lead jacket and neutronium boots. was about as much use as a flaybooz in any activity involving thumbs bottle-opening, for example, or playing the lute or perhaps. .h.i.tching a ride. The Betelgeusean may as well have been standing still for all the good it would do him. Nothing could outrun a G.o.d in real s.p.a.ce. Even with one footfall to go, Beeblebrox may as well have been a light year away from the wall, wearing a lead jacket and neutronium boots.

Catch Beeblebrox, Heimdall thought and, before the electrical impulses containing this notion had time to fade, he had Zaphod by the throat and pinned to the wall.

'I don't know what you did to my lovely dragons. Whatever it was, it won't help you now.'

Zaphod felt as though a mammaloid was squatting on his chest. Not a nice vegetarian mammaloid either, who had probably sat down by accident and would lumber off as soon as it heard Zaphod's voice. No, a vicious mutant carnivore mammaloid who had gone against the advice of its parents and the herd in general in making the decision to tenderize its prey with b.u.t.tock bounces before consuming it.

'Stupid mutant mammaloid,' huffed Zaphod, woozy with all the running and CO2 inhalation. inhalation.

Heimdall's grip tightened a knuckle. 'Is that it? Are those the last words of the famous President Needlefrocks?'

Zaphod remembered something. 'I'm not the only one with a nickname, am I?'

The G.o.d twitched nervously. 'What are you talking about?'

'Don't bother denying it. You guys all have, like, a secret pet name. A name of power. Thor told me all about it one night on tour, after an open-air gig in a quarry on Zentalquabula. We were so hammered, you have no idea. I kissed a Silagestrian.'

'Liar,' hissed Heimdall.

Zaphod was hurt. 'I'm not proud of it, but I kissed that Silagestrian all right and and its handler.' its handler.'

'No mortal can know our monikers. It is forbidden. You lie.'

Heimdall's huge, smooth face was inches away from Zaphod. His anger s.h.i.+mmered in the air around them and Gjallarhorn glowed red with G.o.dly power. Zaphod took all of this in and said: 'Lie? Me? That's a bit strong, isn't it? I'm just repeating what Thor told me. Don't kill the messenger and so forth.'

'Don't say it. I am warning you, mortal.'

Even Zaphod saw the absurdity of that warning. 'Or what? You'll do something nasty like send dragons after me or squeeze my head off?'

It occurred to Heimdall that he should get on with the head squeezing before Zaphod could get the name out, but a sudden nervousness gagged him for a vital moment. And instinctive exploitation of vital moments was one of Zaphod's few areas of expertise, the others being his much-reported Big Bang technique, three-handed preparation of Gargle Blasters and a system of inverted blow-drying that gave his quiff that extra bounce.

'Come on, Bent Stick,' he said. 'Let me up.'

And Heimdall did. He had no choice once his divine moniker had been invoked. The G.o.d took a dozen steps backwards then turned his back in a sulk.

'Someone... anyone... calls me Bent Stick on Asgard and I am bound to civility. b.l.o.o.d.y Bent Stick? What sort of a divine name is that?' he grumbled, kicking loose lumps of ice through the wall of the atmosphere tube, creating localized rainfall on the planet's surface below. 'Loki suggests it and, of course, Odin thinks it's hilarious. Loki says, he says, "Look at Heimdall out there on his ski slope with that old bent stick of his." And the bossman nearly swallows his beard laughing. So from that day on it's Bent Stick this and Bent Stick that. I used to have a great name. I was Asgard's Eye. But apparently that's too tricky to p.r.o.nounce after a few tankards, so now I'm Bent b.l.o.o.d.y Stick.' The giant G.o.d's shoulders. .h.i.tched repeatedly and he looked from the back very much like someone who might be having a little self-pitying sob.

'Hey, come on,' said Zaphod, picking himself up. 'Why the long face? You've got stuff going for you.'

'What do I have going for me? I'm stuck out here on this stupid bridge with a bunch of reptiles for friends.' He stamped a foot, sending tremors rippling across Bifrost. 'Do you know what they're doing in there now? Do you know?'

'Well, no I...'

'Orgies!' shouted Heimdall. 'Old-school orgies. And look at me, out here chasing mortals. I could be in there, covered in jartle resin, up to my neck in...'

'Okay, big fellow, there are a few pictures that even I don't need floating around in either of my heads.'

'Loki has got two palaces. Two! After all the stunts he's pulled. And he sits at Odin's table. And why? Why? Why? Because he can remember jokes.' Heimdall turned, his moustache wet, his eyes despairing. 'b.l.o.o.d.y jokes! I am guarding the planet here. h.e.l.lo.' Because he can remember jokes.' Heimdall turned, his moustache wet, his eyes despairing. 'b.l.o.o.d.y jokes! I am guarding the planet here. h.e.l.lo.'

Zaphod tucked his third hand into a pocket. 'You know what I see?'

'What?' said Heimdall, his jutting bottom lip casting a shadow.

'I see a hero.'

'Don't you patronize me, Feeb Beeblebrox.'

Zaphod punched the G.o.d's thigh. 'I'm not patronizing you, silly. What you are is a genuine hero. And there are only a dozen of those in the Universe. Me, you and four others.'

Heimdall's nod was barely perceptible, even for a chin as big as his. 'Maybe. Odin doesn't see it like that.'

Zaphod stood on tiptoes. 'Can Odin hear me now?'

'Probably not, inside the tube. Unless he's specifically listening.'

'Well then, forgive me for saying it, but Odin doesn't deserve you. In fact, I'll go further. Maybe Odin Odin needs to take a look at himself and ask: Who should be sitting beside me now? A gutless trickster? Or my loyal guardian? I think a lot of people would like to hear that question answered.' needs to take a look at himself and ask: Who should be sitting beside me now? A gutless trickster? Or my loyal guardian? I think a lot of people would like to hear that question answered.'

'Gutless? You think so? A lot?'

'We may be mortal, but we're not stupid. People like like you, Heimdall. They adore you.' you, Heimdall. They adore you.'

'Maybe once they did.'

'Now. Still. Did you know that they have a Heimdall cult on Algol? Those sun simians can't get enough of you.'

'Really? Algol, you say?'

'And on Earth you were, well, a G.o.d. Statues all over the place.'

Heimdall chuckled. 'Yes, Earth. They loved the whole horn thing.' His eyes misted and for a moment the Light G.o.d was doing encores in Scandinavia, until he realized that Zaphod was playing on his weaknesses.

'No,' snapped the G.o.d, wiping his nose. 'It's over. We're over. No parlay with mortals.'

'You have to. I know your secret name.'

'Oh sure, spring that one on me. That's low, even for you.'

Zaphod placed two of his hands on his hips. 'I invoke your secret name and demand my right to entry, Heimdall G.o.d of Light, also known as Asgard's Eye.'

Heimdall snorted, not unhappily, and hefted Gjallarhorn. He tapped a section of the wall and the entire edifice crumbled to dust, dust that flittered into the atmosphere squeaking: 'Free. Free at last. Heimdall, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d.'

'I have to let you in' said the G.o.d of Light. 'Thor is probably in the Well of Urd drowning his sorrows; he more or less lives there these days. You can have one beer with him, if he will permit it.'

'One beer,' said Zaphod. 'I'll just sip.'

If Left Brain could have intercepted this thought, he would have laughed bitterly and proclaimed that there was about as much chance of Zaphod Beeblebrox just sipping just sipping as there was of a mouse giving a straight answer to a simple question. as there was of a mouse giving a straight answer to a simple question.

8.

The Tanngrisnir Tanngrisnir Ford Prefect was also heading towards a beer moment. The Betelgeusean researcher was determined to enjoy the peace and quiet of dark travel for as long as it lasted. He draped blankets over the portholes in his room, replicated a tankard of Goggles Beer, then plugged himself into the s.h.i.+p's computer. His. .h.i.tchhiker's Guide Hitchhiker's Guide had a pretty good Sub-Etha connection, but the had a pretty good Sub-Etha connection, but the Tanngrisnir Tanngrisnir's system was so fast that it could run a real-time hologram from a hub a thousand light years away with no discernable delay.

Mega-lightning froody, thought Ford, who knew nothing about holograms apart from the fact that they were sparkly and you should never lick one.

Ford logged on to uBid and bet himself a second tankard of beer that he could not spend his entire projected lifetime's earnings before blinking. It was an easy bet to win. He purchased a couple of luxury s.p.a.ce yachts, three hundred gallons of Bounce-O-Jelly with garlic, a small continent on Antares for a favourite nephew and several potted Deadly When Watered mega flora for his least-favourite staffers at InfiniDim Enterprises, all charged to his limitless Dine-O-Charge credit card.

I might feel a twinge of guilt about sticking it to the Guide, thought Ford, Guide, thought Ford, if the editor, Zarniwoop Vann Harl, wasn't a gutless stooge who took bribes from Vogons. if the editor, Zarniwoop Vann Harl, wasn't a gutless stooge who took bribes from Vogons.

As a roving researcher, Ford had nothing against taking bribes on principle, but you had to draw the line somewhere and for Ford Prefect that line was drawn just above anybody trying to murder him in one of the nasty ways. Attempted murder through alcohol poisoning he was prepared to forgive and more than likely forget, but when someone tried to kill him with thermonuclear warheads Ford tended to nurse a grudge.

Retail therapy over, Ford blinked several times and leaned back in the chair.

Thank you, Doxy Ribonu-Clegg, he thought. Thank you for inventing the Sub-Etha Thank you for inventing the Sub-Etha.

Guide Note: Technically speaking, Doxy Ribonu-Clegg did not invent the Sub-Etha, rather he discovered its existence. The Sub-Etha waves had been around for at least as long as the G.o.ds, just waiting for someone to pump some data into them. The legend goes that Ribonu-Clegg had been lying on his back in a field on his home planet. As he gazed blearily up through the wedge of s.p.a.ce suspended above him it occurred to the renowned professor that all this s.p.a.ce was loaded with information and that perhaps it would be possible to transport some information of his own through the cosmic conduits if only he could make it small enough. So Ribonu-Clegg hurried back to his rudimentary lab and constructed the first ever set of Sub-Etha transmitters using pepper grinders, several live pinky rats, various cannibalized lab machines and some professional-standard hairdressing scissors. Once these components were connected, Ribonu-Clegg fed in the phot-o-pix from his wedding alb.u.m and prayed they would be rea.s.sembled on the other side of the room. They were not, but the national lottery numbers for the following evening did show up, which encouraged the professor to patent his invention. Ribonu-Clegg used his winnings to hire a team of shark lawyers who successfully sued eighty-nine companies that invented actual working Sub-Etha transmitters, making the professor the richest man on the planet until he fell into his lawyers' tank and they followed their instincts and ate him. the richest man on the planet until he fell into his lawyers' tank and they followed their instincts and ate him.

Ford was halfway through his fourth tankard when the door to his chamber slid open and a parallelogram of green light bleached his wall screen.