And Another Thing... Part 30

Guide Note: An aging constant had once flouted the regulations and had two nice cus.h.i.+ons implanted in his b.u.t.tocks. Unfortunately he picked up a microscopic windborne parasite in the jungle city of Rhiis Bhuurohs and it ate him alive, foam first. The parasite knocked out six decks of the Vogon cruiser before the mess hall rations killed it. and had two nice cus.h.i.+ons implanted in his b.u.t.tocks. Unfortunately he picked up a microscopic windborne parasite in the jungle city of Rhiis Bhuurohs and it ate him alive, foam first. The parasite knocked out six decks of the Vogon cruiser before the mess hall rations killed it.

Jeltz cranked open his jaw to holler for Mown, but saw from the corner of his eye that the little constant was already bobbing at his elbow.

Grrrmmmm, he thought (Vogons even think grunts). That boy moves pretty darned fast for one of us. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? That boy moves pretty darned fast for one of us. Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

It was, he decided, a consider it later consider it later thing. The first priority was to exterminate the Earthlings. Jeltz had filled up quite a sac of rancour over this particular species and had spent his hypers.p.a.ce trance constructing overkill scenarios. This time there would be no survivors. thing. The first priority was to exterminate the Earthlings. Jeltz had filled up quite a sac of rancour over this particular species and had spent his hypers.p.a.ce trance constructing overkill scenarios. This time there would be no survivors.

'This time there will be no survivors,' he a.s.sured Mown, in case the boy thought Daddy was leaking kroompst kroompst.

'Badabingo,' said Constant Mown.

Jeltz frowned, though with all the fleshy planes on his brow, only a close relative could read his expressions. 'What did you say?'

'Badabingo. It's an expression. Used on Blagulon Kappa, I believe.'

'Expression!' warbled Jeltz, a full octave above his usual range. 'We do not use expressions!'

Mown took two quick backward steps, but did not fall over.

'Of course not. Thank you for reprimanding me, Da-Prostetnic. I am fortunate to have such a role model.'

Jeltz huffed, mollified. 'Expressions, indeed slogans in general, are only acceptable in poetic or ironic contexts. For example, as I launched the torpedoes on the eco-planet Foliavintus, I said, "Remember to recycle electrical devices."'

'Most diabolical, Prostetnic.'

Such is the tenuous grasp of the Vogon on the tenets of humour that Jeltz proceeded to explain: 'This was funny in a mean-spirited way because "Remember to recycle electrical devices" was something of a government jingle on Foliavintus.'

'Oh, I get it.'

'And also, once these particular explosive electrical devices were used, they could not be recycled. In fact, no electrical devices would be recycled ever again.'

'Bada Nice one.'

'There's more.' Jeltz swilled bile in his cheeks then swallowed. 'In a very real way, my torpedoes were recycling the entire planet. Do you see?'

Mown's skin was emerald pale. 'Yes. I get all the levels.'

Jeltz bobbled his head experimentally and was pleased to find it completely clear of hyper-happy fugue.

'Think bitter thoughts,' he advised his crew over the intercom. 'Find something to hate and soon you will be yourself. May I suggest the Earthlings on this tiny planet below us. Surely after all the bother their extermination order has caused, they are more than deserving of your ire.'

It seemed as though they were, and soon the Business End Business End was clanking and was clanking and ka-chunking ka-chunking with the ominous sounds of torpedo tubes being loaded and plasma cannons being brought to bear. with the ominous sounds of torpedo tubes being loaded and plasma cannons being brought to bear.

'Twinkle twinkle,' recited Jeltz, 'Little planetoid.'

He glanced down at Mown.

'Rhyme?'

Mown's teeth clicked as he thought. He knew what was expected.

'Ahm... Soon we commit you, To the void.'

'Excellent, my son,' burbled Jeltz. 'Sometimes you almost make me happy.'

The Town of Cong, Innisfree, Nano In the banquet hall, Thor and Zaphod were up to their armpits in a congratulatory buffet, totally oblivious to the utter annihilation bearing down from above, relatively speaking. Relatively speaking, that is, with regard to the term above above. The annihilation would be utter no matter what it was related to.

'You were wonderful, sir,' said an Ameglian Major cow, tenderizing his own hindquarters with a mallet strapped to one hoof. 'The way you handled that big hammer.' The cow imitated Thor's doomstrike with the meat tenderizer. 'Honestly, I felt chills.'

Thor tugged on a beard plait. 'Really? You don't think I overplayed it? Maybe a modern G.o.d should hold back a bit on the melodrama.'

Zaphod emerged from a pitcher of Gargle Blasters. 'Rubbish, Thor old man. You totally hammered that green guy. Then the mercy at the last minute. Total genius. Textbook G.o.d stuff.'

Thor cupped his mouth and whispered in case there was a microphone somewhere. 'I have to admit it, Zaph. You were right. With all these people adoring me, I feel more real, more alive than I have since the music days. I honestly think I can start to put the bad old days behind me.'

'We are back, baby. Religion is the new atheism. Once we have united all the colonists in faith, there's a whole Universe out there. Imagine how many tiny hammers we could sell.'

'I know a guy on Asgard. He's got a whole bunch of elves in his forge. One call from me and he's knocking those little Mjollnirs out.'

Zaphod plunged his arm into what was either a soya-based soup or a half-full spittoon. Either way, he slurped on his fingers with great gusto. 'Now you're talking, Thor. Time is a wheel and the good old days have come around again.'

'Nice proverbial blend, sir,' said the cow. 'Very appropriate. How about a nice steak to top yourself off? I can do mince if you don't like chewing.'

Zaphod ignored the animal. 'We have to put together a big event. Defeating Wowbagger is good for a colony or two, but for reviving your career across a few galaxies, we need something of umbilical proportions.'

'I think you mean...' began the cow, then stopped himself, intuitively realizing that correcting the diner was no way to get oneself butchered and devoured.

Zaphod was in full entrepreneurial flow. 'I don't know. Let's say there's a plague.'

Thor wasn't convinced. 'Come on, Zaph. I can't stop a plague with a hammer.'

'Okay. A drought. You could hammer through solid rock to an underground river.'

Thor picked up the cow and popped it into his mouth, barely giving the animal time to splutter its delighted thanks.

'I don't know. People have pretty good geologists these days. Underground rivers are not hard to find.'

'Something with locusts then. Or volcanoes.' Zaphod clambered on to the table so that he could look into Thor's eyes. 'This is the break we've been waiting for. You are going to be bigger than ever, I can feel it.'

'Do you think so? Really?'

'Absolutely.'

The banquet hall door opened and Hillman Hunter stuck his head in through a slice of outdoors.

'How-de-do, my ventripotent benefactors,' he lilted. 'All boozed up to the eyeb.a.l.l.s and ready for business? I have the official deity contracts here.'

Zaphod nodded rea.s.suringly at his client. 'It's okay, I had a look. Standard G.o.d duties.'

'Holy days?'

'Thirty-two. And two more for each child conceived with a mortal.'

Thor was impressed. 'That's a sweet deal.'

Zaphod laid a hand on the G.o.d's giant shoulder. 'It's a sweet deal for them and don't you forget it.'

Hillman shallied forward, weaving from side to side, touching his temple every so often.

'How does a fella approach his G.o.d?' he wondered aloud. 'I'm just trying out a few moves.'

'I like the head-touching bit,' said Thor. 'But lose the wibbly-wobbly thing.'

'You can do the wibbly-wobbly thing for me, if you like,' said Zaphod. 'Surely I deserve some adoration too?'

Hillman hoisted himself up on to the table, pa.s.sing the contracts over.

'You're a great chap altogether, Mr Beeblebrox. Whatever we need, you bring it in your wonderful s.h.i.+p. Sometimes I think that if you'd never arrived, we wouldn't need anything.'

Even Zaphod couldn't miss the barb in that statement, but he decided to ignore it.

'Hey, Hilly. What's this in pencil at the bottom of the page? Did you just write this in?'

Hillman did his number-one leprechaun act. 'Ah, sure bejaysus, don't be worrying about that. It's only a protection clause. It merely says that the presiding G.o.d, Thor in this case, is responsible for protecting the planet from alien attack. You know, big lasers or nukes or the like.'

'Not a problem,' said Zaphod magnanimously. 'We're not likely to need planet protection way out here in the nebula for a couple of hundred years, are we?'

Hillman's fingers twiddled a jig and he rolled an eye skywards.

'Oh, you never know,' he said.

The Business End Business End Prostetnic Jeltz had his seat winched up to cup his behind, then let the hydraulic column take his weight. There was a hiss as he sat back, which he always claimed came from the chair.

'My seat is a little damp,' he grumbled.

'I am so sorry, Prostetnic,' burbled Constant Mown, as fixed a fixture at Jeltz's elbow as the elbow itself. In fact, when Mown was not hovering at kidney level, Jeltz felt a vacuum of absence in the side of his head.

I am becoming too reliant on that boy, he thought. Time to s.h.i.+p him off somewhere unpleasant. Time to s.h.i.+p him off somewhere unpleasant.

'My chair is supposed to be extremely damp, if not downright sopping. You know how I hate to squeak.'

'I shall see to it, at once.'

Jeltz stopped him with a raised finger. 'Halt. Work first, damp chair later. I am prepared to chafe in order to get this job done.'

'That's the spirit, sir. You're the kroompster kroompster.'

The bridge bubbled with slow, jerky activity as the Vogons geared up for business as quickly as their ungainly bodies would allow.

Guide Note: A recent Maximegalon poll rated Vogon agility on a par with the Ardnuffs of Razorhead IV. The Vogons were delighted to be on a par with anyone until they found out that the Ardnuffs were gigantic zyG.o.dactylous monopods who live on a moon with barely enough gravity to keep them from pogo-ing off into s.p.a.ce. The Vogons were thrown a couple of consolatory bones by two other Maximegalon statistics which rated them in the top five for most travelled race and a clear number one for most recognizable silhouette.

Related Reading: The Complete Maximegalon Statistix Volumes 115,000 and The Quick Guide to the Complete Maximegalon Statistix Volumes 125,000 Jeltz fixed one eye on the main screen, allowing the other to roam the bridge, an oculogyric talent he had developed to keep tabs on his crew. A small blue world hung in s.p.a.ce before him, wreathed in wispy clouds, possibly br.i.m.m.i.n.g with healthy species, revelling in the utter happiness of being allowed to live their simple lives on this unblighted planetoid.

Unblighted. Not for long.

'Finally,' murmured Jeltz. 'Finally, at last and ultimately inevitably.'

'Finally,' echoed Constant Mown, and it was an echo; faint and wavering.

'What is the s.h.i.+p telling us, Constant?'

The Vogon bureaucruiser was a marvellous vehicle, providing you worked on the inside. If you worked on the outside as a panel sc.r.a.per or engine plunger, then it was possible to be driven blind or even mad by its sheer symmetrophobia. Most craft give a nod, however brief and unfriendly, towards beauty. Vogon s.h.i.+ps did not nod towards beauty. They pulled on ski masks and mugged beauty in a dark alley. They spat in the eye of beauty and bludgeoned their way through the notions of aesthetics and aerodynamics. Vogon cruisers did not so much travel through s.p.a.ce as defile it and toss it aside. But on the inside, a Vogon s.h.i.+p was packed with more hitech gizmology than you would find in your average hi-tech gizmology research facility. Even a well-kitted-out Silastic Armorfiends of Striterax battle bus would have pulled over to let a Vogon cruiser pa.s.s, and the Business End Business End was top of the range, the sweetest s.h.i.+p in the pound. She might not win any pageants but she could tell you how many boghogs were biting each other's thighs on the opposite side of the Universe. And also how many tics those hogs were ferrying around on their backs. And possibly the blood type of the tics. Then she could kill the tics with micro-smart bombs. was top of the range, the sweetest s.h.i.+p in the pound. She might not win any pageants but she could tell you how many boghogs were biting each other's thighs on the opposite side of the Universe. And also how many tics those hogs were ferrying around on their backs. And possibly the blood type of the tics. Then she could kill the tics with micro-smart bombs.

Constant Mown dragged himself away from his coveted position at the prostetnic's elbow, and lurched towards the main instrument display panel. There was no need for him to lurch, he could easily have swanned gracefully, but Mown was reminded every day what the Vogons do to species who have the audacity to evolve.

As he lurched, Mown kept a careful watch on the bridge's other constants in case any of them should try to usurp his position as chief groveller. Shafting one's superiors was accepted practice in the corps. All it would take was one tasty sliver of information fed to the prostetnic and Mown could find himself stepped on and demoted to the plunger squad. Mown did not think he could handle a life in the mulligrubs looking at this s.h.i.+p from the outside.

The panel covered an entire wall on the s.h.i.+p's port side and consisted of dozens of overlapping gas screens, all displaying constantly updating scan feeds. Mown searched the screens for something, anything, that could save the Earthlings. There was no point in lying as the readouts were pretty much idiot-proof, which was a prudent move on the part of the designer as many of the crew were idiots. It was easier to be a Vogon if you were an idiot.

There must be something, thought Mown. I don't want to kill these people. I want to ask them about country music. And maybe hug an Australian lady. They're so outdoorsy. I don't want to kill these people. I want to ask them about country music. And maybe hug an Australian lady. They're so outdoorsy.

He glanced at the readings. The Earthlings were on Nano, no doubt about it. The computer registered over two thousand humanoids on the surface, at least ten per cent of them Earthlings. DNA and brain-wave scans confirmed their origin.

'Well?' huffed Jeltz. 'Give me the good news, Constant.'

'Earthlings. Two hundred plus. Five in utero.'

'Twinkle twinkle,' crooned the prostetnic. 'Plot me a torpedo solution, gunner.'

'Wait!'

Mown had blurted it out before he could stop himself.

An almost comical silence descended on the bridge. It seemed to Mown that even the instruments toned down their bleeping and squelching. From the corner of his eye, it looked as though the planet had stopped moving.

'Wait? Did you say wait wait, Constant?' Jeltz's voice was smoother than a gla.s.sy ocean and more dangerous than a gla.s.sy ocean with a couple of spannerhead sharks lurking below the surface, really hungry sharks who had a thing about landlubbers coming into their environment.

Both of Jeltz's eyes were drilling into Mown now. 'Why would you say wait wait? Don't you want us to complete our mission?'

Mown felt acid churn in his stomach, and not in a good way.

One word. He had said one word and his career, his life, was over.

'I didn't mean wait, as such.'

'So you didn't say wait?'

'Yes. Yes, I said said wait.' wait.'