And Another Thing... Part 8

Related Reading: Twenty Thousand Games to Play in a Vogon Queue by Magyar Ohnfhunn (written in a Vogon queue) by Magyar Ohnfhunn (written in a Vogon queue) TTGTPIAVQ II by Magyar Ohnfhunn (written towards the head of the queue) by Magyar Ohnfhunn (written towards the head of the queue) and All Vogons are b.a.s.t.a.r.ds and Must Die by Magyar Ohnfhunn (written just after the hatch came down on his fingers) by Magyar Ohnfhunn (written just after the hatch came down on his fingers) The Vogons are unusual as a race because they exhibit the generic characteristics of doggedness, lack of compa.s.sion and a very good ear for exceedingly bad poetry. All Vogons are like this and there are no doc.u.mented exceptions.

Guide Note: There are rumours of the existence of an underground group of Vogons on an outer Brantisvogon world who call themselves Tru-Heart Vogs. They like to sit in a circle and just say things without first submitting paperwork.

Physically, Vogons are not attractive creatures. If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, then the beholder won't be a Vogon, because even Vogons know how ugly they are. A Vogon head resembles nothing more than a giant prune with extra-deep wrinkles for the eyes and mouth. The body is a vast green b.u.t.tery mound of flesh with too few bones per square foot and too many folds and flaps. The limbs are weak and ineffectual, and seem almost random in their placement. If a disturbed child were given a hard-boiled egg, a raisin and some spaghetti strands to play with, whatever they came up with would look like one Vogon or other.

So if all Vogons are repulsive, bureaucratic s.a.d.i.s.ts, how does one get ahead in their society? It is a matter of being more Vogon-ish than the rest. The Vogons have a word for it. When one of their number distinguishes himself in the ruthless prosecution of his orders, when the man hours and body count are ridiculously disproportionate to the importance of the task, when a Vogon forges ahead where others would have been discouraged by Plural zones, hordes of Silastic Armorfiends or the tears of widows, that Vogon is spoken of in the halls of power as having kroompst kroompst.

As in: 'That Prostetnic Vogon Bierdz, you see what he did to that orphanage? Barely a stick remains. That boy has real kroompst kroompst.'

'Yeah. He's a kroompster kroompster. He's got kroompst kroompst coming out his coming out his krimpter krimpter.'

Whenever a senior Vogon uses the term kroompst kroompst, all others present must respond by throwing up both arms and echoing the word with much enthusiasm and spittle.

The term kroompst kroompst could have been invented for Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz. In his distinguished career as Fleet Commander, he had never once failed to complete his a.s.signed duties. When the inhabitants of Rigannon V objected to their world being nudged into a wider orbit, with their groundless claims of could have been invented for Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz. In his distinguished career as Fleet Commander, he had never once failed to complete his a.s.signed duties. When the inhabitants of Rigannon V objected to their world being nudged into a wider orbit, with their groundless claims of planet death planet death because of the instantaneous ice age that would surely follow, who had set off a colourful fireworks display in their Aurora Borealis to distract the Rigannonons from the buffer s.h.i.+ps coming in from the south? Jeltz, of course. And when the tiny Blue Belle Tweeters had neglected to tick either the because of the instantaneous ice age that would surely follow, who had set off a colourful fireworks display in their Aurora Borealis to distract the Rigannonons from the buffer s.h.i.+ps coming in from the south? Jeltz, of course. And when the tiny Blue Belle Tweeters had neglected to tick either the yes yes or or no no box on the final page in the third volume of their objection to planning permission submission, who was it who had razed their forest habitat in spite of the protestors tied to the trees? Once again, it was Jeltz. And now, in his finest hour, he had with only a single s.h.i.+p at his disposal arranged for box on the final page in the third volume of their objection to planning permission submission, who was it who had razed their forest habitat in spite of the protestors tied to the trees? Once again, it was Jeltz. And now, in his finest hour, he had with only a single s.h.i.+p at his disposal arranged for all all Earths in Earths in all all parallel Universes to be destroyed by Grebulon death rays, because the last thing interstellar travellers wanted was surprise planets popping out of Plural zones every third trip. parallel Universes to be destroyed by Grebulon death rays, because the last thing interstellar travellers wanted was surprise planets popping out of Plural zones every third trip.

If the planning office had a tough job that needed doing, then Prostetnic Jeltz had the kroompst kroompst to get it done. In fact, Jeltz's photograph hung on the Wall of to get it done. In fact, Jeltz's photograph hung on the Wall of Kroompst Kroompst alongside all the bureaucratic greats in Vogon history. Vrunt the Naysayer, Sheergawz the Rubberstamper and, Jeltz's nemesis, Hoopz the Runaround. And now Jeltz himself. All the photographs were taken from behind as was the tradition in the Hall of alongside all the bureaucratic greats in Vogon history. Vrunt the Naysayer, Sheergawz the Rubberstamper and, Jeltz's nemesis, Hoopz the Runaround. And now Jeltz himself. All the photographs were taken from behind as was the tradition in the Hall of Kroompst Kroompst, wherein stood the Wall of Kroompst Kroompst.

Jeltz sat in his command chair on the bridge of his s.h.i.+p, the Business End Business End, wondering what epithet would be bestowed on him back in Megabrantis.

Jeltz the Destroyer. That had a ring to it, but it seemed a little random. He rarely destroyed a world without paperwork.

Jeltz the Unswerving. Nice one, but it did make him sound like a race-pod pilot.

Whenever Jeltz played the epithet game, he always came back to his father's pet name for him: Jeltz the Utter b.a.s.t.a.r.d. That said it all, really. Jeltz remembered one of his own early poems.

'Utter b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' he said in a voice of distant rumbling thunder.

'Play thee, No more, By the crabby hole.

Lay down thine mallet And flap flippy floppy arms, At a world of sun and tight skin.

Learn hate well, My little Utter b.a.s.t.a.r.d.'

Jeltz felt something collect at the corner of his eye. A speck of dust, he supposed, flicking it away.

Constant Mown, a subordinate, appeared at his shoulder, sporting one of those chin-cup drool-catchers so fas.h.i.+onable among the youngsters.

'Prostetnic Jeltz?'

'Obviously, Constant. I wear a name tag to help people find me. It saves time when you are dealing with idiots.'

The subordinate bobbed. 'Yes, Prostetnic. Of course, sir.'

'Did you want something, Constant Mown?'

'You said to inform you when we were ready for hypers.p.a.ce.'

A contented sigh dribbled from between Jeltz's lips. Hypers.p.a.ce Hypers.p.a.ce. It was said that Vogons only experienced the emotion known as happiness when they were lost in hypers.p.a.ce. The skin was pulled back, bones pushed together. A person felt almost evolved in hypers.p.a.ce. There was a lack of control that had a dark deliciousness to it, and there was a small chance that one could end up anywhere, without the proper visa.

'Very well, Constant. Plot our course through Earth s.p.a.ce. Might as well be the first to use the route, now that there is no Earth in the way and no Earthlings left to complain.'

Constant Mown bobbed twice, then froze, head c.o.c.ked like a confused Squornsh.e.l.lous Zeta mattress.

'Problem, Mown?'

Mown was reluctant to deliver news of any any kind. In his experience, news delivered to superiors invariably ended up being bad news, even if it had seemed good when one opened one's mouth to deliver it. kind. In his experience, news delivered to superiors invariably ended up being bad news, even if it had seemed good when one opened one's mouth to deliver it.

'No, sir. No problem. As you said, there is no Earth...'

Jeltz burbled his pendulous bottom lip. 'And no Earthlings. The order clearly states that no Earthlings are to be left alive. The Hypers.p.a.ce Planning Council does not want some displaced humanoids demanding their day in court.'

'Indeed, Prostetnic. Well said, nice sentence structure.'

Jeltz rubbed his side where the kidney-drain chafed his skin. 'Are there Earthlings left alive, Constant?' there Earthlings left alive, Constant?'

'There are rumours of a new colony in the Soulianis nebula,' admitted Mown, the words leaking out of his face.

Jeltz gurgled for a long moment. 'Soulianis? Isn't the mythical Magrathea supposed to be in Soulianis?'

'Correct, Prostetnic. Well remembered.'

A vein fluttered in one of Jeltz's eyelids, a manifestation of his annoyance. Another common manifestation was flus.h.i.+ng whoever had delivered the annoying news out of an airlock.

'You said rumours, Constant Mown. What kind of... rumours?'

'They... the Earthlings... put an advertis.e.m.e.nt in the WooHoo WooHoo magazine personals.' magazine personals.'

'An advertis.e.m.e.nt!' spluttered Jeltz, offended for some reason. 'Show me.'

'Of course, Prostetnic.'

Mown scuttled across to a computer terminal, flexed his fingers, then punched the operator in the tender spot between the shoulder blades until he brought up the appropriate page on-screen.

'There it is, Prostetnic. The link is dead now they are not taking any more resumes.'

Jeltz read the advertis.e.m.e.nt carefully, gargling all the while. 'Nice of them to provide coordinates,' he noted. 'What would you do, Constant? In my place. Would you allow these Earthlings to live? After all, their planet was the main target. Would you follow your orders to the letter and make the long journey to Soulianis to obliterate this colony?'

Mown did not hesitate. 'We are Vogon, Prostetnic. I cannot even file the paperwork until the Earthlings are dead.'

'That was the correct response, Mown,' said Jeltz. 'Eleven jumps to Soulianis, I think.'

The constant bobbed an affirmative bob. 'I will program the drive immediately, Prostetnic. We can charge the Unnecessarily Painful Slow Death torpedoes on the trip. Hypers.p.a.ce static will give them a little extra sting.'

Jeltz nodded approvingly. 'You, Mown, are an utter b.a.s.t.a.r.d.'

Mown tried to salute, flinging a tiny arm across an expansive gullet in the direction of his head.

'Thanks, Dad,' he said.

Wowbagger's Longs.h.i.+p, the Tanngrisnir Tanngrisnir Arthur Dent woke to the sound of surf on the beach.

Whoosh on the way in, rattle on the way out.

The familiar noises came from below and to the left of his bed. Exactly as they should. The pootle-tink birds were beginning their morning show-off antics, clapping broad wings and singing their slightly risque songs, hoping to attract the attention of a rainbow-plumed female.

I am home in my beach house. All that other stuff, with the Earth exploding and the green aliens, was all a nightmare. It was nice to see everybody, but why does there always have to be genocide?

Arthur felt a sense of relief and he breathed it in, inflating his lungs, relis.h.i.+ng his daily decisions.

Rich Tea or Digestives? Maybe Earl Grey today. Why not.

Arthur lay still, letting his bones warm up. No sudden moves at his age, whatever his age was.

Come to think of it, maybe the dream hadn't been all bad. He'd fairly raced up the ramp to Zaphod's s.h.i.+p. Not a single ball joint had popped out of its socket. And the nose hair, he hadn't missed that.

Maybe I should get a trimmer. Nothing fancy.

No! It starts with nose hair trimmers and the next thing you know there's a Zylatburger bar on your doorstep. No commerce. No contact.

Arthur opened his eyes and was momentarily relieved to see the interior of his wooden hut, but then he noticed something on the corner of the ceiling. A digital countdown, with words before it. He closed his bad eye, and read the words, which amazingly enough were in English.

Seconds to reality read the words. Then a countdown. Five seconds to reality apparently. read the words. Then a countdown. Five seconds to reality apparently.

Five... four...

More reality, thought Arthur. b.u.g.g.e.r b.u.g.g.e.r.

At zero the beach was switched off and Fenchurch appeared on Arthur's ceiling, smiling that off-kilter smile of hers, those arched eyebrows like slashes of oil pastels, blue eyes twinkling.

I can see you, darling. This is real.

But, of course, it was not.

'h.e.l.lo,' said Fenchurch. 'Welcome to consciousness. If you enjoyed your tailor-made easy-wake experience, please leave the program a feedback star. Would you like to leave a star at this time?'

'What?' said Arthur.

'Would you like to leave a feedback star at this time?' said the computer, upping the volume a notch.

'Um... Yes. Have a star. Have two, why not.'

Fenchurch smiled and it was painful to watch. So beautiful.

'Thank you, Arthur Dent. It has been my pleasure to monitor your dreams.'

And, just like that, she was gone.

Again.

No less painful than the first time.

Reality was a small room on Wowbagger's longs.h.i.+p with grey, interactive walls and a cubicle in the corner. Arthur decided that a hot shower would be extremely nice, but not too long, or he might relax and start thinking about Fenchurch.

Not thinking about Fenchurch was going to be difficult, Arthur realized, as her face appeared on the shower door. thinking about Fenchurch was going to be difficult, Arthur realized, as her face appeared on the shower door.

'I am your chamber's Body Optimizer,' said the computer's interpretation of his dreams. 'Tell me what you want. Please start your sentence with: I want...'

Simple enough. 'I want a nice shower,' said Arthur. 'And a shave. I want to feel good.'

'Shower, shave and feel good. Are these the things you want?'

'Affirmative,' said Arthur, getting into the spirit of it.

'Please enter the cubicle, Arthur Dent.'

Arthur unb.u.t.toned his s.h.i.+rt, then had a thought. 'Fenchurch... Ahmm, computer, could I have a little privacy?'

'I am the computer. There is no privacy.'

It was ridiculous, Arthur knew. This was not Fenchurch, this was a still shot plucked from his memory.

'Nevertheless, could you shut your eyes?'

'I don't have eyes.'

'Turn off your cameras then and take the face away.'

'While you are in the Optimizer only. After that I will resume monitoring.'

'Knock yourself out,' said Arthur, dropping his clothes into a hamper, which made a sneezing noise.

'Holy s.h.i.+t!' said the computer.

'What kind of language is that for a computer?'

'I got this phrase from your your memory. Apparently you used it all the time at the BBC.' memory. Apparently you used it all the time at the BBC.'

'I had good reason,' muttered Arthur. 'b.l.o.o.d.y producers.'

'These clothes have a stink-o-factor of twelve and are carrying several viruses, not to mention the twelve million dust mites, which I just mentioned. Your speech patterns are very strange. At any rate, these garments really have to go.'

'Wait!'

'No waiting, Arthur Dent. Those mites could get into my circuits and then where would we be? Floating dead in s.p.a.ce, that's where. Kiss your shorts goodbye.'

The hamper growled and shook slightly as Arthur's clothes were incinerated.

'Now, into the cubicle with you. Five minutes and then my cameras are back on.'