ADAMS, Douglas - Mostly Harmless

by Mostly Harmless (lit)

  Major heat waves started to coincide, with almost magical

  precision, with major failures of the Breathe-o-Smart systems.

  To begin with this merely caused simmering resentment and only

  a few deaths from asphyxiation.

  The real horror erupted on the day that three events happened

  simultaneously. The first event was that Breathe-o-Smart Inc.

  issued a statement to the effect that best results were achieved

  by using their systems in temperate climates.

  The second event was the breakdown of a Breathe-o-Smart

  system on a particularly hot and humid day with the resulting

  evacuation of many hundreds of office staff into the street where

  they met the third event, which was a rampaging mob of long-

  distance telephone operators who had got so twisted with having

  to say, all day and every day, `Thank you for using BS&S' to

  every single idiot who picked up a phone that they had finally

  taken to the streets with trash cans, megaphones and rifles.

  In the ensuing days of carnage every single window in the city,

  rocket-proof or not, was smashed, usually to accompanying cries

  of `Get off the line, asshole! I don't care what number you want,

  what extension you're calling from. Go and stick a firework up

  your bottom! Yeeehaah! Hoo Hoo Hoo! Velooooom! Squawk!'

  and a variety of other animal noises that they didn't get a chance

  to practise in the normal line of their work.

  As a result of this, all telephone operators were granted a

  constitutional right to say `Use BS&S and die!' at least once

  an hour when answering the phone and all office buildings were

  required to have windows that opened, even if only a little bit.

  Another, unexpected result was a dramatic lowering of the

  suicide rate. All sorts of stressed and rising executives who had

  been forced, during the dark days of the Breathe-o-Smart tyr-

  anny, to jump in front of trains or stab themselves, could now

  just clamber out on to their own window ledges and leap off at

  their leisure. What frequently happened, though, was that in the

  moment or two they had to look around and gather their thoughts

  they would suddenly discover that all they had really needed was

  a breath of air and a fresh perspective on things, and maybe also

  a farm on which they could keep a few sheep.

  Another completely unlooked for result was that Ford Prefect,

  stranded thirteen stories up a heavily armoured building armed

  with nothing but a towel and a credit card was nevertheless able

  to clamber through a supposedly rocket-proof window to safety.

  He closed the window neatly after him, having first allowed

  Colin to follow him through, and then started to look around

  for this bird thing.

  The thing he realised about the windows was this: because

  they had been converted into openable windows after they had

  first been designed to be impregnable, they were, in fact, much

  less secure than if they had been designed as openable windows

  in the first place.

  Hey ho, it's a funny old life, he was just thinking to himself,

  when he suddenly realised that the room he had gone to all this

  trouble to break into was not a very interesting one.

  He stopped in surprise.

  Where was the strange flapping shape? Where was anything

  that was worth all this palaver - the extraordinary veil of secrecy

  that seemed to lie over this room and the equally extraordinary

  sequence of events that had seemed to conspire to get him into

  it?

  The room, like every other room in this building now, was

  done out in some appallingly tasteful grey. There were a few

  charts and drawings on the wall. Most of them were meaningless

  to Ford, but then he came across something that was obviously

  a mock-up for a poster of some kind.

  There was a kind of bird-like logo on it, and a slogan which said

  `The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy Mk II: the single most

  astounding thing of any kind ever. Coming soon to a dimension

  near you.' No more information than that.

  Ford looked around again. Then his attention was gradually

  drawn to Colin, the absurdly over-happy security robot, who was

  cowering in a corner of the room gibbering with what seemed

  strangely like fear.

  Odd, thought Ford. He looked around to see what it was that

  Colin might have been reacting to. Then he saw something that

  he hadn't noticed before, lying quietly on top of a work bench.

  It was circular and black and about the size of a small side

  plate. Its top and its bottom were smoothly convex so that it

  resembled a small lightweight throwing discus.

  Its surfaces seemed to be completely smooth, unbroken and

  featureless.

  It was doing nothing.

  Then Ford noticed that there was something written on it.

  Strange. There hadn't been anything written on it a moment

  ago and now suddenly there was. There just didn't seem to have

  been any observable transition between the two states.

  All it said, in small, alarming letters was a single word:

  begin{center}

  PANIC

  end{center}

  A moment ago there hadn't been any marks or cracks in

  its surface. Now there were. They were growing.

  Panic, the Guide Mk II said. Ford begin to do as he was

  told. He had just remembered why the slug-like creatures looked

  familiar. Their colour scheme was a kind of corporate grey, but

  in all other respects they looked exactly like Vogons.

  13

  The ship dropped quietly to land on the edge of the wide

  clearing, a hundred yards or so from the village.

  It arrived suddenly and unexpectedly but with a minimum of

  fuss. One moment it was a perfectly ordinary late afternoon in

  the early autumn - the leaves were just beginning to turn red and

  gold, the river was beginning to swell again with the rains from the

  mountains in the north, the plumage of the pikka birds was begin-

  ning to thicken in anticipation of the coming winter frosts, any day

  now the Perfectly Normal Beasts would start their thunderous

  migration across the plains, and Old Thrashbarg was beginning

  to mutter to himself as he hobbled his way around the village,

  a muttering which meant that he was rehearsing and elaborating

  the stories that he would tell of the past year once the evenings

  had drawn in and people had no choice but to gather round the

  fire and listen to him and grumble and say that that wasn't how

  they remembered it - and the next moment there was a spaceship

  sitting there, gleaming in the warm autumn sun.

  It hummed for a bit and then stopped.

  It wasn't a big spaceship. If the villagers had been experts

  on spaceships they would have known at once that it was a

  pretty nifty one, a small sleek Hrundi four-berth runabout

  with just about every optional extra in the brochure except

  Advanced Vectoid Stabilisis, which only wimps went for. You

  can't get a good tight, sharp curve round a tri-lateral time axis

  with Advanced Vectoid Stabilisis. All right, it's a bit safer, bu
t

  it makes the handling go all soggy.

  The villagers didn't know all that, of course. Most of them here

  on the remote planet of Lamuella had never seen a spaceship,

  certainly not one that was all in one piece, and as it shone warmly

  in the evening light it was just the most extraordinary thing they

  had come across since the day Kirp caught a fish with a head at

  both ends.

  Everybody had fallen silent.

  Whereas a moment before two or three dozen people had

  been wandering about, chattering, chopping wood, carrying

  water, teasing the pikka birds, or just amiably trying to stay

  out of Old Thrashbarg's way, suddenly all activity died away

  and everybody turned to look at the strange object in amazement.

  Or, not quite everybody. The pikka birds tended to be amazed

  by completely different things. A perfectly ordinary leaf lying

  unexpectedly on a stone would cause them to skitter off in par-

  oxysms of confusion; sunrise took them completely by surprise

  every morning, but the arrival of an alien craft from another

  world simply failed to engage any part of their attention. They

  continued to kar and rit and huk as they pecked for seeds on the

  ground; the river continued with its quiet, spacious burbling.

  Also, the noise of loud and tuneless singing from the last

  hut on the left continued unabated.

  Suddenly, with a slight click and a hum, a door folded itself

  outwards and downwards from the spaceship. Then, for a minute

  or two, nothing further seemed to happen, other than the loud

  singing from the last hut on the left, and the thing just sat there.

  Some of the villagers, particularly the boys, began to edge

  forward a little bit to have a closer look. Old Thrashbarg tried

  to shoo them back. This was exactly the sort of thing that Old

  Thrashbarg didn't like to have happening. He hadn't foretold it,

  not even slightly, and even though he would be able to wrestle

  the whole thing into his continuing story somehow or other, it

  really was all getting a bit much to deal with.

  He strode forward, pushed the boys back, and raised his arms

  and his ancient knobbly staff into the air. The long warm light

  of the evening sun caught him nicely. He prepared to welcome

  whatever gods these were as if he had been expecting them all

  along.

  Still nothing happened.

  Gradually it became clear that there was some kind of argument

  going on inside the craft. Time went by and Old Thrashbarg's

  arms were beginning to ache.

  Suddenly the ramp folded itself back up again.

  That made it easy for Thrashbarg. They were demons and

  he had repulsed them. The reason he hadn't foretold it was that

  prudence and modesty forbade.

  Almost immediately a different ramp folded itself out on the

  other side of the craft from where Thrashbarg was standing, and

  two figures at last emerged on it, still arguing with each other

  and ignoring everybody, even Thrashbarg, whom they wouldn't

  even have noticed from where they were standing.

  Old Thrashbarg chewed angrily on his beard.

  To continue to stand there with his arms upraised? To kneel

  with his head bowed forward and his staff held out pointing at

  them? To fall backwards as if overcome in some titanic inner

  struggle? Perhaps just to go off to the woods and live in a tree

  for a year without speaking to anyone?

  He opted just to drop his arms smartly as if he had done

  what he meant to do. They were really hurting so he didn't

  have much choice. He made a small, secret sign he had just

  invented towards the ramp which had closed and then made

  three and a half steps backwards, so he could at least get a

  good look at whoever these people were and then decide what

  to do next.

  The taller one was a very good looking woman wearing

  soft and crumply clothes. Old Thrashbarg didn't know this, but

  they were made of Rymplon TM, a new synthetic fabric which was

  terrific for space travel because it looked its absolute best when

  it was all creased and sweaty.

  The shorter one was a girl. She was awkward and sullen

  looking, and was wearing clothes which looked their absolute

  worst when they were all creased and sweaty, and what was

  more she almost certainly knew it.

  All eyes watched them, except for the pikka birds, which

  had their own things to watch.

  The woman stood and looked around her. She had a purposeful

  air about her. There was obviously something in particular she

  wanted, but she didn't know exactly where to find it. She glanced

  from face to face among the villagers assembled curiously around

  her without apparently seeing what she was looking for.

  Thrashbarg had no idea how to play this at all, and decided

  to resort to chanting. He threw back his head and began to

  wail, but was instantly interrupted by a fresh outbreak of song

  from the hut of the Sandwich Maker: the last one on the left.

  The woman looked round sharply, and gradually a smile came

  over her face. Without so much as a glance at Old Thrashbarg

  she started to walk towards the hut.

  There is an art to the business of making sandwiches which

  it is given to few ever to find the time to explore in depth.

  It is a simple task, but the opportunities for satisfaction are

  many and profound: choosing the right bread for instance. The

  Sandwich Maker had spent many months in daily consultation

  and experiment with Grarp the baker and eventually they had

  between them created a loaf of exactly the consistency that was

  dense enough to slice thinly and neatly, while still being light,

  moist and having that fine nutty flavour which best enhanced

  the savour of roast Perfectly Normal Beast flesh.

  There was also the geometry of the slice to be refined: the

  precise relationships between the width and height of the slice

  and also its thickness which would give the proper sense of bulk

  and weight to the finished sandwich: here again, lightness was

  a virtue, but so too were firmness, generosity and that promise

  of succulence and savour that is the hallmark of a truly intense

  sandwich experience.

  The proper tools, of course, were crucial, and many were

  the days that the Sandwich Maker, when not engaged with the

  Baker at his oven, would spend with Strinder the Tool Maker,

  weighing and balancing knives, taking them to the forge and

  back again. Suppleness, strength, keenness of edge, length and

  balance were all enthusiastically debated, theories put forward,

  tested, refined, and many was the evening when the Sandwich

  Maker and the Tool Maker could be seen silhouetted against

  the light of the setting sun and the Tool Maker's forge making

  slow sweeping movements through the air trying one knife after

  another, comparing the weight of this one with the balance of

  another, the suppleness of a third and the handle binding of a

  fourth.

  Three knives altogether were required. First there was the

  knife for th
e slicing of the bread: a firm, authoritative blade

  which imposed a clear and defining will on a loaf. Then there

  was the butter-spreading knife, which was a whippy little number

  but still with a firm backbone to it. Early versions had been a little

  too whippy, but now the combination of flexibility with a core of

  strength was exactly right to achieve the maximum smoothness

  and grace of spread.

  The chief amongst the knives, of course, was the carving

  knife. This was the knife that would not merely impose its will

  on the medium through which it moved, as did the bread knife;

  it must work with it, be guided by the grain of the meat, to

  achieve slices of the most exquisite consistency and translucency,

  that would slide away in filmy folds from the main hunk of meat.

  The Sandwich Maker would then flip each sheet with a smooth

  flick of the wrist on to the beautifully proportioned lower bread

  slice, trim it with four deft strokes and then at last perform the

  magic that the children of the village so longed to gather round

  and watch with rapt attention and wonder. With just four more

  dexterous flips of the knife he would assemble the trimmings

  into a perfectly fitting jigsaw of pieces on top of the primary

  slice. For every sandwich the size and shape of the trimmings

  were different, but the Sandwich Maker would always effortlessly

  and without hesitation assemble them into a pattern which fitted

  perfectly. A second layer of meat and a second layer of trimmings,

  and the main act of creation would be accomplished.

  The Sandwich Maker would pass what he had made to his

  assistant who would then add a few slices of newcumber and

  fladish and a touch of splagberry sauce, and then apply the