And Another Thing... Part 31

'So you said wait, but that was not what you meant?'

'Yes, Prostetnic. Exactly.'

'This is disturbing, Constant. I expect my crew to mean what I want them to say.'

'I do do mean what I say,' said Mown miserably. mean what I say,' said Mown miserably.

'So you meant wait?'

'No, Daddy! I didn't.'

The ultimate transgression! Grasping at familial bonds for clemency. Vogons had only one loyalty: the job.

Prostetnic Jeltz's torso bubbled with swallowed anger and his ear actually tooted.

'Well then, my son son. If you don't mean what you say, and you will not say what you mean, I don't have much use for you on this s.h.i.+p. Not inside it, at any rate.'

Mown fell to his knees and begged. 'One chance, Prostetnic? One chance is traditional.'

Jeltz's bottom lip jutted out like a sun-seal lying on its belly. One chance was was traditional. He himself had been given one chance to redeem himself by his mentor, Field Prostetnic Turgid Rowls. traditional. He himself had been given one chance to redeem himself by his mentor, Field Prostetnic Turgid Rowls.

Guide Note: On Jeltz's virgin voyage at the elbow, he had mistakenly obtained Turgid Rowls's thumbprint on a BD140565 instead of a BD140664, which caused more of a furore than might be expected, as a BD140565 was a confiscation of atmosphere order and a BD140664 was a late movie rental charge. In essence, a student from Blagulon Gamma had a sleep-in and forgot to return obtained Turgid Rowls's thumbprint on a BD140565 instead of a BD140664, which caused more of a furore than might be expected, as a BD140565 was a confiscation of atmosphere order and a BD140664 was a late movie rental charge. In essence, a student from Blagulon Gamma had a sleep-in and forgot to return King of the Firefly Warlords II, King of the Firefly Warlords II, and the next thing he knew he was waking up on a dying planet with thirty seconds to live. and the next thing he knew he was waking up on a dying planet with thirty seconds to live.

Old Turgid Rowls wasn't too hard on me, thought Jeltz. In fact, we had a good laugh about the whole thing In fact, we had a good laugh about the whole thing.

'Very well, Mown. One chance.'

Mown's blood pump slowed down a few sloshes per minute. 'Qualifier?'

'Yes. I need a rhyme for violent obsession violent obsession. And not just an end rhyme, I want internal too.'

Mown tapped invisible words in the air. 'Ah... soya rant... hessian...'

'Quickly, boy. Quickly.'

'Okay... violent obsession... um... cryo-plant impression.'

'Explain.'

'It's an art form on Brequinda. A type of mime where the artist impersonates frozen shrubs.'

'Not really? If you think you can... Really?'

'Really. Look it up... If you like, Prostetnic.'

Guide Note: Cryo-Plant Impression was an actual compet.i.tion category in the Brequindan Arts' Fair. The record holder for consecutive wins was a young actor, Mr E. Mowt, who claimed his secret was to sleep in the foliage during the winter. He was denied an eighth t.i.tle when wood poachers fed him into a shredder.

Jeltz digested this nugget and ran through the poem in his mind. It could work. It was probably buffa-pucky, but the poem was leaning towards the absurd anyway.

'Very well, Constant, on your feet. You have your one chance. Now use it to tell me why you ordered my gunner to hold on the torpedoes.'

Mown's blood pump cranked up again and he stumbled to the readouts. They hung over him like a crackling tidal wave. He searched for something, anything, that could justify his involuntary command.

There was nothing on the screens but heartbeats and blood pressure and tumours and calcium deficiencies. Nothing out of the ordinary. Then he noticed a strangely impenetrable blip inside one of the structures. Mown zoomed in and checked for vitals, but every ray he sent in was bounced back without so much as a smeg of information encoded in the beams.

Salvation.

Mown scuttled back to his sub-ulnar position with renewed confidence.

'Prostetnic.'

'This had better be good. Otherwise I have a dozen eager greebers who would gladly kill to stand at my side. Kill you you, I might add.'

'This is is good, Prostetnic. I can explain my actions.' good, Prostetnic. I can explain my actions.'

'That's just fabby, Mown. So you ordered my gunner to hold the Unnecessarily Painful Slow Death torpedoes because...'

'Because torpedoes won't be enough, sir.'

'You are milking this, Mown.'

'They won't be enough because we have an immortal on the surface. Cla.s.s one.'

'You're certain?'

'Absolutely. There can be no mistake. The scans are bouncing off him, sir.'

We will have to retreat, thought Mown, resisting the urge to skip with delight (delight being expressly forbidden on board the Business End Business End and skipping being generally impossible). and skipping being generally impossible). We have no defence against a G.o.d We have no defence against a G.o.d.

'A G.o.d,' said Jeltz, clapping his hands.

Clapping his hands in terror, Mown hoped.

'This is the chance we have been waiting for!'

The chance to run away as quickly as we can get the drives fired up, thought Mown, the optimist.

'Gunner, fire at will in the general direction of that immortal.'

Mown cleared his throat. 'Sir. Our torpedoes cannot harm a G.o.d.'

Jeltz attempted a crafty grin, dousing Mown with half a jug of spittle. 'Harm, no; distract, yes.'

'Distract?'

Jeltz smugly indulged this parrotry. 'Yes, son. Distract this G.o.d, whoever he is, from the secret experimental weapon we are about to carefully load into a tube.'

'Experimental weapon?' Mown squeaked.

Jeltz winked. 'Secret experimental weapon,' he said. experimental weapon,' he said.

Nano Arthur Dent had picked himself out a nice outfit from Nu Top Man and was quite enjoying the simple pleasure of wearing grown-up clothes, though he felt certain that with Random at his elbow the enjoyment of simple pleasures was destined to be short-lived.

'This place is not exactly the political centre of the Galaxy,' he told Random. 'But at least there's no running and screaming.'

'Not yet, there isn't,' responded his daughter. 'I'm sure you'll bring doom down on us all presently. It's your destiny to be a cosmic Jonah.'

Arthur didn't argue. He didn't have an argument to present.

Random and Arthur were seated at a bench in John Wayne Square eating home-made ice-cream in the shadow of a John Wayne in his 'Sean the Boxer' pose statue.

'We can settle here. You can live with me, or with Trillian if you like, when she gets back from her honeymoon. Or both of us. Whatever you like. You have options now.'

Random could feel the glow of contentment warming her chest, but she fought it.

'I don't know if I should even be eating ice-cream,' she said. 'It's dairy, isn't it? That's a bit close to cheese. The Tyromancers might not like it and I should respect their beliefs.'

'So, all dairy products? That's going to be difficult. The cows will be devastated.'

Random did not stop eating. 'I think we need to draw up some sort of list. I mean, I can't give up milkshakes. I just found them.'

Arthur leaned back, tilting his face towards the sun. 'I saw Aseed Preflux coming out of a bakery with a four-cheese quiche this morning.'

Random spewed honeycomb vanilla. 'What? After everything he fought for? That hypocrite!'

'He said he was just holding it for someone. Wasn't his, apparently.'

'He and I are going to have a talk.'

'Random. I hate to be the one to tell you, but you're a teenager. It might be a few years before you can take over the planet.'

This was a good point, and the ex-Galactic President in Random's memory acknowledged it, even if the teenager didn't want to.

'Maybe not yet, but I'll get there, believe me.'

'I do.'

The square was filling up with the lunchtime crowd, groups of ostensibly happy humans, not one making the slightest attempt to kill another.

How long will that last? wondered Arthur. wondered Arthur. Until someone decides that mushrooms are actually divine and we should stop chopping them into pieces. Until someone decides that mushrooms are actually divine and we should stop chopping them into pieces.

Ford appeared on the opposite side of the square and barged through the thrumming crowds, making good use of his sharp elbows. As he drew closer, Arthur recognized the look on his friend's face.

'I don't believe it,' he said, hurling his ice-cream to the ground.

'Daddy!' said Random, shocked. 'There's a recycler just there.'

Arthur was unrepentant. He stood and stamped on the carton.

'It doesn't matter because I have a feeling this planet is about to be destroyed. Isn't that right, Ford?'

Ford arrived huffing. He was a writer and unaccustomed to physical exercise.

Guide Note: The general limit of Ford Prefect's exertion was hunting for the last clipper-clam in the bucket and yanking it from its sh.e.l.l with clam tweezers. The most exercise Ford had ever done was when he had attained an ultimate supremo rating in the offensive art of w.a.n.g Do during a sojourn in the Hunian Hills resort. Unfortunately Hunian Hills is a mind-surfing resort and so Ford had only done this exercise in his head, a fact that became painfully clear when he initiated a bar fight on Jaglan Beta with five journos from the gadget periodical a bar fight on Jaglan Beta with five journos from the gadget periodical Big k.n.o.bs. Big k.n.o.bs.

'Get your towel, Arthur. We have to leave.'

Arthur actually stamped a foot. 'I knew it. Let me guess: the Vogons are early?'

Ford pulled his copy of The Hitchhiker's Guide The Hitchhiker's Guide from his satchel and checked the Sub-Etha imager. 'Either it's Vogons, or a very big Toblerone.' from his satchel and checked the Sub-Etha imager. 'Either it's Vogons, or a very big Toblerone.'

'This is never going to end, is it?' Arthur wailed. 'Those green s.a.d.i.s.ts won't stop until we are all dead.'

Ford tapped his lower lip. 'You know, I don't think they're after me. Just you human types.'

Random s.h.i.+elded her eyes against the sun. 'I can't see anything.'

'They're up there, all right. The Guide Guide never lies.' never lies.'

'That b.l.o.o.d.y guide lies all the time. It's more lies than truth.'

Ford spouted the standard line: 'The Hitchhiker's Guide is a hundred per cent accurate. Reality, however, is not as reliable.' is a hundred per cent accurate. Reality, however, is not as reliable.'

It seemed to Arthur that he spent a considerable percentage of his waking life listening to his friend waffling on, while one world or another was about to end.

'Okay, Ford,' he said urgently. 'What should we do?'

The question seemed to puzzle the Betelgeusean. 'Do?'

'About the Vogons. How do we survive?'

'Oh. Yes. That's what I came here to tell you. Did you see me crossing the square? I was all charged up. Didn't care who I knocked over.'

'We saw you. Now, what do we do? Can we hitchhike?'

Ford laughed. 'Are you kidding? The Vogons won't fall for that again. Even their s.h.i.+elds have s.h.i.+elds.'

'So what then?'

'We need to run, quite quickly, to the s.p.a.ceport. There might still be time to board the Heart of Gold Heart of Gold.'

'I see something,' said Random, pointing skywards at what looked like a cl.u.s.ter of shooting stars heading their way, descending in synchronized loops through the atmosphere.

'Or not,' said Ford.

He plucked Random's ice-cream from her fist and licked it slowly, savouring every drop.

The Business End Business End 'Missile holographs? said Jeltz. 'What do you think, gunner?'