12
There is no such thing as a happy ending. Every culture has a maxim that makes this point, while nowhere in the Universe is there a single gravestone that reads ‘He Loved Everything About His Life, Especially the Dying Bit at the End’. Rollit Klet, the Dentrassis independent film director-cum-chef says in his memoir, Fish or Film: The First Cut is Mine!, ‘What you think is the happy ending is actually a brief respite before the serial killer that you thought was dead gets back up and butchers everyone except the girl with the biggest boobs, who dies first in the sequel the following year.’ Or as Zem of Squornshellous Zeta succinctly put it: ‘The mattress never stays dry for long.’ However, the number one most over-used quote on the subject of endings, happy or otherwise, comes from an old man who lived on a pole in Hawalius who said simply that: ‘There is no such thing as an ending, or a beginning for that matter, everything is middle.’ The quote ends on a more rambling note: ‘Middles are crap. I hate middles. Middles are all regretting the past and waiting for something interesting to happen. Middles can go zark themselves, as far as I’m concerned.’ Generally, the pamphlet people only tend to print the first sentence, with perhaps a picture of a nice whale-toad in the background or maybe a couple of sunsets.
Barely a week had passed since the aborted Vogon attack and already people had forgotten how lucky they were to be alive, and were back to worrying about the big issues of the day, like wasn’t there anything that could be done about the late afternoon haze that drifted in from the ocean and why hadn’t anyone thought to bring more peanut butter from Earth and what was that sharp smell outside the crèche and maybe it would be nice to have a larger planet because this artificial gravity was making some of the old-timers ill.
Hillman Hunter sat at his desk reading through the day’s complaints, wondering why he bothered hiring a god in the first place. A lot of these bin-fillers were supposed to be settled with fire and brimstone or hammer, whatever the case may be. Hillman could see the very real benefits in having an absentee god who only communicated through his representative, but did Thor have to martyr himself so soon? Couldn’t he have spent a few weeks on civil service duty before making the ultimate sacrifice?
That’s not to say martyrdom did not have its advantages. Since Hillman had been brought back from the dead in the Heart of Gold’s medi-ward, everyone had been a whole lot more willing to accept that he was Thor’s representative on Nano. The new legs helped.
Hillman was doing his best to be pious and wise, but every minute of every feckin’ day dealing with red tape was driving him out of his mind. Plus the scar tissue around his middle was itching worse than a bull’s arse.
I am Hillman Hunter, Nano. I am a Christopher Columbus-type figure, with the colony founding and whatnot. I can’t be stamping forms and sorting out domestics.
His intercom buzzed and a hologram of his secretary inflated on his desk.
‘Yep, Marilyn. What’s the story?’
‘The story is that your first appointment is here.’
Hillman was almost relieved. Arguing with real people was marginally better than getting upset with sheets of paper.
Might as well get the steamers on the shovel, he thought.
‘Okay, Nano. Send them through.’
Marilyn frowned. ‘Sorry, Hillman. What did you call me?’
Feck, thought Hillman.
‘For Nano!’ he said hurriedly. ‘It’s the new official slogan. What do you think?’
‘Good. Yes, fine,’ said Marilyn, in a tone of such insulated boredom that Hillman was surprised she had heard him misspeak in the first instance.
That’s two lines I’ve sold people in a week. First the Thor thing, now this.
Arthur Dent and his daughter, Random, came into the office and of course the girl sat down without waiting to be asked.
That girl even sits sulky, thought Hillman. But she’s a smart one.
‘Sit, Arthur, please.’
‘Thank you.’
‘For Nano!’ barked Hillman, thinking he’d better throw one into the conversation every now and then.
That’s the thing with bullshit, his Nano used to say. You have to keep piling more on.
‘Pardon?’ said Arthur, bemused.
‘It’s our… ah… new slogan. Rally the people and all that. For Nano!’
‘When would you use it?’
‘I don’t know really,’ huffed Hillman. ‘Collecting the crops, crossing the ocean, that kind of thing. Heroic stuff. What do you think?’
‘It’s short,’ said Arthur honestly.
‘Snappy is a better word, isn’t it? You have no idea how many sub-committee meetings went into that slogan. This time next year it will be on the curriculum.’
Random leaned her elbows on the desk. ‘I’ve heard that Nano is what you used to call your grandmother.’
Hillman was rattled. ‘Is it? I don’t remember. Actually, I think you’re right. My goodness, sure I haven’t thought about that in years, bejaysus.’
‘Don’t bother.’
‘What?’
‘Every time you’re in trouble, out comes Paddy the Leprechaun and his cutesy Oirish accent.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ spluttered Hillman, moving on to another level of rattled. ‘I am Irish.’
‘Not that Irish. The truth of the matter is that you named the entire planet after your granny.’
‘The size of the planet was the primary reason for the name,’ said Hillman, then decided it was time to go on the offensive. ‘And, anyway, what if I did name the planet? I paid for most of it and did you see the list of submissions?’ He pulled a sheet from his cork board. ‘Oak Tree Rise. Aunty JoJo, the world’s greatest aunt. Frank. The planet Frank! Come on, kiddo. Nano isn’t half bad compared to that lot.’
Random’s jaw jutted. ‘Maybe, but naming planets and inventing rousing slogans sound like the seeds of dictatorship to me.’
‘Thor is lord here,’ said Hillman solemnly. ‘Not me.’
Arthur jumped in before Random could tackle that one. ‘How are the new legs?’
Hillman clip-clopped his hooves under the desk. ‘The joints are a bit different but I’m getting used to them. You should see me going up the stairs at night. Like a feckin’ bullet.’
Random snickered. ‘Apparently, Thor has always favoured goats, so people are taking it as a sign.’
Hillman snapped a pencil in his chubby fingers. ‘A sign of what? A sign that Zaphod Beeblebrox is a dullard?’
‘At least you’re alive again,’ Arthur pointed out. ‘And back on your… erm… hooves. Zaphod did promise you some humanoid legs whenever you feel up to the operation. He found a nice pair in the back of the fridge.’
‘You were only dead for twenty minutes,’ said Random sweetly. ‘So you probably only lost about half your IQ. Not that anyone will notice.’
Arthur decided that it would be prudent to change the subject again.
‘Any progress on our citizenship applications?’
‘Some,’ said Hillman, only too happy to be steered away from talk of his goat’s legs. The fact was that he did not want to commit to a second operation. There were advantages to being half goat. Certain sections of the community venerated him, actually bowed down as he passed. And a few of the younger, more forward ladies had asked some very personal questions about his new limbage. Very personal.
‘Just a couple of questions,’ he said, hiding a sudden blush behind his desktop screen. ‘Arthur Philip Dent. Blah blah blah. Fine fine fine. Ah, what should we put down for occupation?’
Arthur rubbed his chin. ‘It’s been a while. I used to work in radio once upon a time. And sandwiches. I can make a decent sandwich.’
‘So, media and catering. Good skills to have in a developing world. I don’t foresee any problems with your application.’
‘What about mine?’ asked Random, though it sounded more like a threat than a question.
Hillman leaned back in his chair. ‘That depends on you, Random. Are you simply here to rabble rouse the Tyromancers?’
‘The Tyromancers have disbanded,’ said Random, scowling. ‘The cows broke into the compound. And Aseed discovered yogurt. They’re using cakes now apparently, critomancy.’
‘So you won’t be allying yourself to this new cause?’
‘No. I have loftier goals.’
‘Really? Find a nice boy, settle down?’
‘I want to be President.’
If Hillman had been eating something, he would have choked on it. ‘President? Of Nano?’
‘Of the Galaxy. I’ve done it before.’
‘It’s a long story,’ said Arthur. ‘She needs to go to school.’
‘I have eight masters degrees and a double doctorate!’ protested his daughter.
‘Virtual degrees,’ said Arthur calmly. ‘I don’t think they count.’
‘Of course they count, Daddy. Don’t be so Cro-Magnon.’
‘I don’t make the rules.’
‘That is such a cliché. You are like a mound of cliché bricks all piled on top of each other to make a person.’
‘That’s very good imagery, honey. Maybe an Arts degree?’
Hillman had been Sub-Etha surfing during this exchange. ‘I might have a little something here to interest you, Random.’
Random selected an ‘It will be a cold day in hell before you have something to interest me’ look from her lexicon and beamed it full force at Hillman.
‘I doubt it.’
Hillman beamed back an Oh really, then pursed his lips, playing harder to get than a redhead at a céilí.
Arthur broke first. ‘What?’
‘Nothing. Random is right. She wouldn’t be interested.’
‘Come on, Hillman. Be the mature one.’
Hillman turned the screen round. ‘Look here. The University of Cruxwan rules on virtual degrees if you can pass the qualifying exam. They can extract the memories with this thing that looks like a robotic octopus.’
‘That is mildly interesting,’ admitted Random, studying the screen. ‘And they offer a satellite programme.’
‘I could put in an application for you,’ said Hillman.
Random recognized his tone from years of virtual negotiations. ‘In return for what?’
‘In return for a little support. I’ll be honest with you, Random, I’m an important man. I can’t be wasting my valuable time dealing with small potatoes. The steamers are piling high here, my girl. Health and safety violations, all those uBid people looking for residences, tax forms from Megabrantis. Your father told me about your background in politics and…’
‘And you want an assistant?’
‘You’ve put your finger on it. And who would be more qualified than yourself?’
Random tutted. ‘Not you, that’s for sure. What’s in this for me?’
‘Experience in the real world. A nice apartment in the village and I’ll start you on a level-three wage.’
‘Level five,’ snapped Random, on principle.
‘Five it is,’ said Hillman quickly, sticking out his hand.
‘Keep your hand,’ said Random. ‘We can shake after the contracts are signed.’
Hillman pushed back his chair. ‘I can see you’re going to be a bucket of chuckles. Okay, then, girlie. Be here at eight sharp tomorrow morning, expect me about ten thirty. You can have the tea ready.’
Arthur felt the spectre of relief hovering over on one shoulder and the spectre of foreboding slumped on the other, having a beer, scratching its behind.
Think positive, he told himself. It could work out.
‘I’ll make your lunch,’ he told Random. ‘Sandwiches okay?’
They might not kill each other.
Hillman reached under the desk and scratched the coarse hair on his thigh. ‘Oh, and I need special shampoo for my new parts. And also you could give me a hand filing my hooves.’
Arthur amended his last thought to They might not kill each other for at least a month, then caught the fire in Random’s glare and realized he was being about a fortnight too optimistic.
Zaphod Beeblebrox made a complete nuisance of himself for a few fun-packed weeks, then decided to sneak off into improbability during the night. He would have preferred to make his exit covered in the confetti from a parade given in his honour, but there was the matter of the gold he had liberated from Hillman’s safe as payment for Thor’s sacrifice. And also there were half a dozen ladies who he may have promised stuff to. Stuff like undying love, a trip to the stars, his pin number.
I’m not here a month, he thought as he skulked up the Heart of Gold’s stairwell. Imagine the damage I could do in a year.
Zaphod Beeblebrox. The best bang since the Big One. Froody.
Ford Prefect knew how much Zaphod appreciated a nice parade and so brought a pocket full of rice with him to bid farewell to his cousin.
‘Farewell, Mr President,’ he called, tossing a handful of the rice into the air over Zaphod’s head. ‘I bet there are a couple of ladies that will miss you.’
Zaphod’s facial muscles executed a very complicated manoeuvre that left his expression somewhere between regal and pained.
‘Thanks for the send-off, cousin. But I am trying to skulk here.’
‘Skulk? Word of the week?’
‘Exactly. I’m making enough ruckus as it is manipulatering this bag without you yelling at me.’
Ford shrugged. ‘Hey, you’re Zaphod Beeblebrox. The Big B. People are going to yell. If I were you, I would never build a silent exit into your escape plan.’
Zaphod squatted for a rest. ‘Zark. You’re right. I wish someone had told me that before Brontitall, I could have avoided all that egg on my face.’
Guide Note: During a previous adventure that has not yet happened, Zaphod time-travelled to the planet Brontitall where the bird people had re-emerged (will have re-emerged. Please alter any subsequent verbs as appropriate. Conjugating, especially the future perfect, tends to freeze the Guide) as the dominant species. Once Zaphod had successfully shrunk and stolen their sacred statue of Arthur Dent (don’t ask), he attempted to sneak back through the spaceport, taking a shortcut through the hatchery. Unfortunately, the hatchery was protected by laser eyes, motion detectors, several disgruntled unborn egg spirits and mini-mac self-targeting weapons. Zaphod’s hair was wounded, and he wiped out an entire generation of bird people with his chin as he fell. During his trial, a freshly permed Zaphod not only claimed diplomatic immunity but managed to counter-sue the avian government for over-zealous security measures.
‘I don’t remember anything about Brontitall,’ said Ford. ‘Don’t tell me you’re having adventures without me.’
‘No. I never do anything without you, Ford. You’re the one person I trust. The only person I can confide in.’
‘What’s in the bag?’
‘Souvenirs. Some cake mix the Critomancers didn’t want. A little microwave oven.’
‘Froody. You can make hot cake.’
‘That’s the plan.’
Zaphod pushed his clanking bag inside the doorway.
‘Are you sure you won’t hitch a ride?’ he asked his cousin.
‘No thanks, Zaph. I have a job to do. This planet doesn’t have so much as a single article in the Guide. I’m going to stick around for a couple of weeks and write it up. Do some research, take a little sun.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Zaphod wistfully.
‘So, why don’t you stay?’
Zaphod struck a pose on the gantry, one leg bent, forearm across his knee. From somewhere an organic bulb flickered on, etching his jaw in crimson light.
‘It’s not my destiny, Ford,’ he said, a sudden breeze fanning his hair behind him. ‘The Universe has different plans for Zaphod Beeblebrox. Wherever there are lonely females, I’ll be there. Wherever cocktails are given free to celebrities, look for me. Whenever some really bad stuff happens to those people with, you know, depressing stuff in their places, Zaphod Quantus Beeblebrox will do his best to make time for it.’
‘Quantus?’
‘I’m trying it out. What do you think?’
‘Good. Very heroic. Better than the last one.’
‘I know,’ said Zaphod ruefully. ‘Pruntipends. Someone should have told me.’
They did their childhood shake. Bum bum boot elbow high five elbow…
‘Okay. Be seeing you, Ford,’ said Zaphod, stepping inside the doorway force field.
‘One more thing,’ said Ford. ‘Arthur’s on this planet so, you know, sooner or later…’
‘Someone will try to blow it up. Don’t worry, I’ll keep an ear on the Sub-Etha. First sign of Vogons and I’ll zoom over.’
‘I’m counting on you.’
The Heart of Gold lifted silently off the spaceport concrete.
‘It never hurts to have a back-up plan,’ said Zaphod, then he was gone.
Left Brain had been plugged into the plasma a bit long and was feeling a little hyper.
‘Look who it is, the great Galactic President, gracing us with his presence.’
Zaphod heaved the sack of gold into a locker. ‘Hey, LB. Nice work with the light and wind machine.’
Left Brain bonked Zaphod with his glass. ‘I don’t appreciate being used as your effects guy. You were elected President of the Galaxy, Zaphod. Don’t you have any dignity?’
Zaphod rubbed his crown. ‘I don’t understand the question.’
He strode to the bridge, passing through several auto-doors that were programmed to recognize him and deliver appropriately laudatory comments as he passed through.
‘Oooh, he looks fit,’ gushed service corridor one.
‘Nice hair, Zaphy,’ piped the central elevator, who had always been a little cheeky.
‘You make me wanna be organic,’ said the midship bridge door.
As he sauntered on to the bridge, feeling about fifteen esteemetres better about himself, Zaphod noticed a hammer icon revolving on the main screen.
‘When did that come in?’ he asked Left Brain, who was of course hovering by his shoulder, suspiciously close to the spot where he used to be attached.
‘A few hours ago. I think I have separation anxiety,’ said Left Brain. ‘I miss my neck.’
‘No problem,’ said Zaphod, settling into the captain’s chair. ‘We can get you stuck back on here whenever you like.’
‘No thanks,’ said Left Brain. ‘I can take a few pills for the anxiety, or maybe buy a Hol-O-Trunk. Anything is better than waking up beside an asinine lout like yourself.’
Zaphod thought the word ‘asinine’ to himself several times then immediately forgot it.
‘Play the message.’
‘Background music?’
‘No. Just whatever came in, and I don’t want anyone overhearing this.’
‘Very well. Shields up.’
On screen the hammer icon twirled and became a video box. Thor’s hirsute features filled the screen.
‘Hey, Zaph. Hello, hello. This is a… I bet this isn’t even… Okay, okay, now I see it. We’re on.’ The god composed himself. ‘Hello, Zaphod, this is your client, Thor the Thunder God. I am not dead, as you probably guessed.’
‘I had guessed,’ crowed Zaphod, punching the air.
Guide Note: The whole martyrdom concept has been working well for gods since the mid-morning of time when Raymon the Louche, resident god of Tarpon VII, avoided making a ruling over who owned what baby by faking his own death through orgasmic overdose. Raymon realized that people liked him much better now that he was dead and they tended to base their decisions on third-hand hearsay of stuff he might have whispered under his breath to a deaf leper in a cave. Raymon’s cheque still went directly into his account and now all he had to do was appear in shadowy form to a virgin once every few thousand years and say something cryptic like, ‘The tiny stones will save us all, be sure that you covet the pebbles.’ The Raymon method became such a successful model that soon gods all over the Galaxy were faking their deaths and cursing Raymon for copyrighting death by orgasmic overdose.
Thor leaned in close to the camera. ‘It was the martyr comment. Like you said. I was walking along that big bomb, thinking that if I let it kill me then the humans would think I died for them. So I gave it a hundred per cent up to the Vogon ship when I heard the detonator spark and hid in their pipework for a minute. I thought I’d tap the ship with Mj?llnir, make it look like a bit of shrapnel did for her, but then they just took off into hyperspace. Don’t know why. Don’t care either. Anyway, that’s it. I’m off back to Asgard now, ready for resurrection if you need me. I think I might have pulled my groin though, so give me a while to get my fitness back. Give me a buzz, let me know if the martyr thing worked. Also, get me some gold, I am so strapped it’s not funny. Last thing, keep your eye out for my helmet. I must have lost it in the explosion and it’s my favourite one. I’m going to sign off, I have another call coming in.’ Thor beat his chest with one fist, then winked at the camera. ‘Nice work, manager.’
Zaphod closed the video window, flabbergasted. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe that martyr idea worked. Also, I am amazed that Thor picked up on it, subtle as it is. My stratagems are generally so nuanced that most people need to hear them a couple of times.’
Left Brain bobbed before Zaphod’s eyes. ‘You don’t remember saying anything about martyrs, do you?’
‘No,’ replied Zaphod. ‘But that doesn’t mean I didn’t say it.’
‘So you actually thought your one client was dead?’
‘Of course not. You can’t kill a god. Even that guy who drove into the white hole is still alive, even if his parts are spread across several dimensions.’
‘What about that special bomb?’
Zaphod snorted. ‘The QUEST? Who do you think sold that to the Vogons? I’m surprised it didn’t fall out of the sky. I put a lawnmower engine on that thing.’
Left Brain was quiet for a moment, except for the clicking of spider-bots gathering condensation on the inner curve of his orb.
‘Just the two of us again. What would you like to do?’
Zaphod crossed his boots on the console. ‘I don’t know. Thor’s martyrdom video needs a while to go viral, so we have time on our hands. What were we doing before all this?’
‘We were raising funds for your re-election campaign.’
Zaphod was surprised. ‘We were? But I’m already President.’
‘You were President,’ corrected Left Brain in the patient tone of a pre-school teacher explaining for the umpteenth time why it was not a good idea to drink the paint water, ‘until the moment you were convicted of a first-degree felony.’
‘But everyone still calls me Mr President.’
‘All ex-presidents are known as Mr President.’
‘Isn’t that confusing?’
‘Not for more than half a second, if you have half a brain.’
Zaphod frowned. ‘Do you have to multiply those halves?’
Left Brain steamed in his jar. ‘Just forget the halves. You were president, now you’re not. Is that straightforward enough for you?’
‘So who is the actual President?’
‘Currently?’
‘Yes. And right now.’
Left Brain did not take a moment to consult anything because everyone knew who the Galactic President was, with the exception of all the regular passengers on this ship, with the possible but definitely not definite exception of Ford Prefect.
‘It’s Spinalé Trunco of the Headless Horsemen tribe of Jaglan Beta.’
Zaphod bolted upright, which is not easy when your feet are propped on a console. His heel stumps sparked as he stamped in vexation.
‘What? Trunco? But he has no heads. Not a single head does he have. Zero on the shoulders.’
‘We’ve been through this, Zaphod.’
‘Not in the past twenty minutes, we haven’t. And you know what my retention is like.’
‘I’m surprised you retained retention.’
‘Exactly. Right, LB, enter the coordinates for my constituency.’
‘You don’t have a constituency and if you did it would be the entire Galaxy.’
‘Well take me to the centre of the Galaxy then. If Zaphod Beeblebrox is back, people need to know it. I need to throw up at a club, have liaisons in a toilet. Possibly go on a realty reality show.’
‘I think the first order of business is to get the first degree felony charge reduced to a second degree. That way you can run for office.’
‘Good thinking, LB. Who do we pay off?’
This time Left Brain consulted his data banks. ‘Improbably enough, Spinalé Trunco.’
‘Old Trunco. There was something about him…’
‘No heads.’
‘Not a one. Bastard.’
It took Left Brain a few seconds to hack into the presidential security detail’s schedule.
‘Trunco is currently relaxing at his stable compound on Jaglan Beta.’
‘Then we go to Jaglan Beta.’
Left Brain squinted while he beamed the coordinates to the Improbability Drive. ‘You know Trunco hates you, Zaphod? You might need something a little more tempting than that sack of gold I scanned you with.’
Zaphod gave Left Brain a thumbs-up, and it took the disembodied head a moment to realize that there was something on one of the thumbs. A tiny horned helmet.
‘I might have something to bargain with,’ said Zaphod.
Space
Thor had pulled in to an asteroid to try and connect with Zaphod, and was sitting in a little pocket of oxygen on the surface when he switched over to the incoming call. He didn’t actually need breathable air, but it did help stave off migraine, plus it made talking on the phone a lot easier when he didn’t have to dig into the magic well just to make his voice heard in space.
‘Thunder God here,’ he said into Mj?llnir’s handle. ‘Talk to me.’
A little golden head appeared on the hammer’s head. ‘Hey, thunder girl, what’s up?’
‘Bishop. Nice to see you. There’s quite a lot up, actually. I have a flock now. Genuine believers. There’s maybe one warrior in the bunch, but it’s a start.’
The chess piece took a pull on his cigarette. ‘That’s great, Thor, and I’m calling you with more good news.’
‘Really? What?’
‘It’s about your video,’ said Bishop. ‘It’s at number one with a couple of billion hits. A regular Sub-Etha sensation.’
Thor’s heart sank. ‘When are they going to let that go? I dress up in one bustier and the Universe never forgets.’
‘No. Not that one. The new one with you clobbering the green guy who insulted everybody. Apparently there are a lot of people thrilled to see him getting his comeuppance.’
‘Number one? Really? That’s fantastic.’
‘Yeah. Lovely hammer action, by the way, leading with your body like I told you. You’re back on top, my friend.’
Thor grinned hugely. ‘This is great. Call Dad and Mom. Call everyone. Big session in my hall tonight. I want mead and pigs and beef and virgins.’
‘What about squid?’
‘No. No squid. But whatever else you can get, and make sure the Valkyrie get an invite.’
Bishop punched the air. ‘The Thunder is back,’ he said.
‘That’s right,’ said Thor. ‘The Thunder is back.’
He hung up, took off, then turned round and smashed the asteroid from sheer exuberance.
Hey, said the spirit of Fenrir. That was my tooth.
The Business End
Constant Mown lay on his bunk, staring at his own face in the Barbie mirror.
‘You did the right thing,’ he told himself over and over, though he did switch the sentence structure around a bit to fool his subconscious into thinking it was hearing something new.
‘It was a good thing you did. The right thing.’
Then, ‘What you did back there. That was totally right. A good thing.’
The face in the mirror, inside the pink plastic frame, was friendly but worried. He had saved the Earthlings, it was true, but there were many species on the to endanger list, and that taxpaying citizens trick would only work as often as it was legal – which would not be very often, now that Prostetnic Jeltz had experienced it once.
That will be the first thing he checks from now on. Who are these people we are about to obliterate?
‘You will find a way,’ said the face in the mirror, a face that looked almost kindly without the drool cup.
Mown never left his quarters without his drool cup now. The last thing he wanted to look was kindly, which could be seen as a symptom of evolution. As a matter of fact, Mown had added a foot crimper to his wardrobe after the Twinkletoes comment on the bridge. It didn’t do to be too sprightly on a Vogon deck.
‘One day we will dance,’ he said to his reflection.
‘One day we will sing,’ said the face in the mirror, and then, ‘It was the right thing to do, what you did back there. Right and good.’
His father’s voice erupted from the speaker over Mown’s bed.
‘Constant! I have some planetary council or other on the line claiming that because of their leap year system, we haven’t given enough notice of their enforced destruction. I need you to take a look at it.’
‘Right away, Daddy,’ said Mown, stashing the mirror and strapping the foot crimper across his toes. ‘I’m on my way.’
‘That’s my good little Utter Bastard,’ said Jeltz, and hung up.
Not yet I’m not, thought Mown, hobbling to the door. Not just yet.
Nano
Arthur Dent was beginning to understand his daughter’s feelings of isolation.
‘I see now what you were talking about,’ he told her one morning before work. ‘We don’t fully belong anywhere. Earth was our planet, but it’s gone now. And even though we called it home, Earth hadn’t been our home for decades. We both lived full lives away from its surface. Me on my island, you in Megabrantis. We are cosmic nomads, which would be a great name for a band, by the way, interstellar drifters with no one to cling to in this eternity of displacement but each other.’
And Random said, ‘What will you put on my sandwiches today, Daddy? Bearing in mind that I’m trying to be a vegetarian now and beef is not vegetarian.’
‘That beef snuck on to the sandwich,’ said Arthur lamely, and he realized that Random was not as unrelentlessly unhappy as she had been. Perhaps the daily attrition in Hillman Hunter’s office was giving his daughter a focus for her ire and maybe Arthur should be grateful for the relatively pleasant teenager who presented herself at the breakfast table most mornings, instead of trying to drag her down into the ichor of his wounded psyche.
‘Coleslaw?’
Random kissed his cheek. ‘Lovely. No crusts.’
‘Crusts? Of course not. What are we, barbarians? How could I call myself a sandwich maker?’
And so on and so forth. By the time Arthur had finished his protestations and moved on to listing his sandwich-maker credentials, Random had stuffed her lunch into the satchel lent to her by Ford and left for work.
Arthur stuck to a couple of weeks of stay-at-home Daddy and then began looking for excuses to go on a trip.
‘Just you and me,’ he told Ford. ‘It’ll be like the old days but without the exploding planets and the other people who were with us in the old days.’
‘No can do, mate,’ Ford had responded, trying his best to seem regretful, which was difficult for him with a volcanic mud mask covering his features and two delightful masseuses twanging his hamstrings. ‘There are an inordinate amount of spas on this little planet and I need to sample them all. I owe it to the hitchhikers out there.’
Arthur glanced at the price list. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be surviving on thirty Altarian dollars a day?’
‘The Altarian stock market fluctuates quite a bit,’ said Ford, perhaps blushing a little under the mud. ‘One day thirty dollars can buy you a house in the suburbs with a two-child garage and three point four wives. The next you’d be lucky to have enough for a tube of anti-hangover leeches. I’m covering high- and low-end tourism, just to be safe.’
And so Arthur was forced to explore alone.
Alone. That was the dreaded word. He, Arthur Dent, was a lone man, alone and lonely. On loan from another dimension. A low no one with no one to lean on.
All of which sounded a little pessimistic and self-absorbed, even to someone who had recently received a package addressed to: Self-Absorbed Pessimist, Nano. So Arthur decided to dress up his trip as paternal duty.
‘I am travelling to Cruxwan to vet this university for you,’ he told Random. She would argue, but he intended to knock down her points pre-emptively. ‘Now I know what you’re going to say, but what kind of father would I be if I let my only daughter loose in the Universe without checking it out first. Your mother and Wowbagger will be back from their cruise in a few days. Also, Ford will stay with you until I get back. It’s only a dozen jumps, so it shouldn’t take more than a week. Two at the most. Anyway, in virtual terms you’re a hundred years old, so a couple of weeks without me shouldn’t trouble you. I’m leaving you all my contact numbers and a supply of frozen sandwiches, so everything should be fine. Any questions?’
Random had thought for a moment then asked: ‘What kind of sandwiches?’
So now Arthur was seated in a lovely wraparound gel seat in business class of a hyperspace liner, which looked alarmingly like a set of male genitalia from the outside, but was quite pleasant inside once one banished the memory of the two hyperspace boosters and passenger tube. His seat had been purchased with space points from an account he’d opened in his pre-Lamuella days.
The Fenchurch days.
This is good, he told himself. I am doing something positive instead of moping around at home interfering with Random’s career. Now I can interfere with her education instead.
Arthur allowed himself to be stripped to his flightard, oiled and slid into the chair. The gel seat folded around him and he selected The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy from the touch menu. Arthur had the little icon rub itself along a link to Cruxwan. There were three thousand articles.
Plenty to keep me going for the entire journey, he thought.
Once all the passengers were on board, the pneumatic doors hissed closed and Arthur was relieved to find that he was the only one in his row. He would not consider himself a flight snob, but sometimes an oiled man in a flightard likes to climb out of his seat unobserved.
They took off and Arthur watched Nano recede into space through the Ship-O-Cam box in his seat. Soon the entire nebula was little more than a shawl of cosmic gauze thrown over a network of stars.
Shawl of cosmic gauze, thought Arthur. If Ford could write like that, he might actually make some money.
A little blue engine icon appeared in the corner of his cushion and Arthur sucked deep on the sedastraw.
Hyperspace. I have missed you.
The jump was smoother than he remembered.
Must be these new seats.
The sensation reminded him a little of the softness of crashing into snowdrifts on a sledge that he had enjoyed as a boy, but without the shock of cold. This sensation was warm and welcoming. Arthur felt a tinge of loss at the corner of his good mood. Hyperspace could take things away too, especially if you were from a Plural zone.
Arthur Dent relaxed and watched the Universe folding around him. Outside the cocoon of his chair swam asteroids, space creatures and the faces of a million other travellers. The Hitchhiker’s Guide identified them all with little colour-coded v-labels, but the travellers were gone and replaced by new ones before Arthur could read a single word.
After a dreamlike first jump, the ship swung out of hyperspace, jittering to one side like a stone skimming on a lake. Seatbelt lights flashed for a few seconds, then winked out.
I think I’ll just go to the loo, thought Arthur. Before the next jump.
Obviously the seat could have recycled his recyclings, but Arthur felt that there were some things that should not be done in public into a glorified plastic bag.
He deflated the chair a little and sat up woozily, and was mildly surprised to find the chair beside him occupied. The newcomer was chatting to him with some familiarity as though they had met before. Arthur’s eyes had not yet cleared but the voice was one he knew, and so was the tilt of the head and the sheaf of hair tucked behind one ear.
Fenchurch?
Arthur rubbed his eyes free of hyperdoze and looked again. It was Fenchurch, chatting animatedly as though they had never been apart.
This cannot be true. I am dreaming.
But he was not. It was Fenchurch, returned to him. She was exactly the same except for the blue mottling on her upper brow and the sloping ridge of bone in the centre of her forehead.
Almost the same. Maybe two dimensions down. Her Arthur is gone and so is my Fenchurch.
Fenchurch finished her story and laughed her tinkling laugh with the distinctive inhale at the end that always reminded Arthur of his mum’s hoover.
If I know Fenchurch, she’s not finished talking yet, thought Arthur, still fighting his way out of a bemused fugue. There are more stories to come.
He was right. Fenchurch tapped him on the forearm, tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and opened her mouth.
‘And another thing…’ she said.
What other thing? Arthur wanted to ask. And what thing came before the other thing? Tell me about all the things in order.
He wanted to say these words to this exotic yet familiar Fenchurch, but when he raised his hands to cradle her face, he saw that his fingers were transparent.
What? Oh, no. No.
Nausea swelled inside him, a barbed boil of static that flowed through his limbs and wrapped his brain in fog.
The Plural zone, he realized. People from a Plural zone should never travel in hyperspace. They could end up anywhere.
Arthur saw Fenchurch reach for him. Her beautiful mouth formed his name and then she was zooming away from him in a multicoloured elastic tunnel.
She’s not zooming away, Arthur realized. It’s me. I’m the one zooming.
The Galaxy swirled around him and he was naked in it without protection from the cold and radiation, and yet he did not die or suffer, simply fumed as the hyperspace anomaly drew him further away from his life. Eventually the sheer volume of stuff and perspective grew too terrifying and so Arthur closed his eyelids, which made absolutely no difference as they were transparent, and so he tried to focus on the one place where he had ever known true peace. He bore down mentally, conjuring every bamboo stalk in his hut and every white rock breaching the ocean on his stretch of sand. He did not think of the nebulae swirling past or the red stars spewing their flares into space. He did not think about these things so much that soon they were all he could not think about.
After a time, which could not be measured even with a top-class digital watch, Arthur decided that he felt solid again. He strained his ears and heard waves crash, stuck out his tongue and tasted salt.
Could it be? he wondered.
Arthur Dent opened his eyes to find himself sitting on a beach very much like the one from his virtual life. There were differences in the curve of the coastline, but it was as near as made no difference; there was even a small hut just past the scrub line.
Is this possible? he wondered. Or even probable, whatever that really means, if it means anything.
He squinted against the glare of late evening sunrays and could not help but notice a squat yellow shape on the distant horizon.
What? Surely not.
Arthur would have added: It can’t be! but that particular phrase had given up its right to bear an exclamation mark since he’d met Zaphod Beeblebrox. Nothing couldn’t be and if it shouldn’t be then it generally was.
A pootle-tink bird sidled alongside him.
‘Bloody Vogons,’ it said from the side of its beak. ‘They’ve been here a few days. Apparently someone forgot to file planning permission for that hut.’
‘Typical,’ said Arthur, then closed his eyes and wished he was somewhere else with someone else.
Guide Note: Arthur Dent’s almost incredible bad luck created a providence vacuum which led to unbelievably good fortune for a being on the other side of the Universe. A certain Mr A. Grajag, a little-known sportscaster from Un Hye, was successfully resuscitated after six months of near flat lines on his hospital monitor following a space collision with a uBid cargo ship. He awoke to a cocktail reception from the planetary lotto committee to celebrate his numbers coming up as opposed to his number being up. At the same moment, his childhood sweetheart, who had recognized Mr Grajag from his stint on Celebrity Coma, burst into his hospital room declaring her long-nurtured and genuine love. The pair went on to marry and had two well-adjusted children who had no wish to follow their father into showbusiness, preferring to study law and medicine.
Had Arthur Dent known about the Grajags it may have cheered him up a little.
But not much.
The End of One of the Middles