ADAMS, Douglas - Mostly Harmless

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by Mostly Harmless (lit)


  step aside and execute a rather elegant swing through with the

  cape. Have you got anything like a brightly coloured cape about

  you?'

  `This do?' said Ford, handing him his towel.

  20

  Leaping on to the back of a one-and-a-half-ton Perfectly Normal

  Beast migrating through your world at a thundering thirty miles

  an hour is not as easy as it might at first seem. Certainly it is

  not as easy as the Lamuellan hunters made it seem, and Arthur

  Dent was prepared to discover that this might turn out to be the

  difficult bit.

  What he hadn't been prepared to discover, however, was

  how difficult it was even getting to the difficult bit. It was the

  bit that was supposed to be the easy bit which turned out to be

  practically impossible.

  They couldn't even catch the attention of a single animal.

  The Perfectly Normal Beasts were so intent on working up a

  good thunder with their hooves, heads down shoulders forward,

  back legs pounding the ground into porridge that it would have

  taken something not merely startling but actually geological to

  disturb them.

  The sheer amount of thundering and pending was, in the

  end, more than Arthur and Ford could deal with. After they had

  spent nearly two hours prancing about doing increasingly foolish

  things with a medium-sized floral patterned bath towel, they had

  not managed to get even one of the great beasts thundering and

  pounding past them to do so much as glance casually in their

  direction.

  They were within three feet of the horizontal avalanche of

  sweating bodies. To have been much nearer would have been

  to risk instant death, chrono-logic or no chrono-logic. Arthur

  had seen what remained of any Perfectly Normal Beast which,

  as the result of a clumsy mis-throw by a young and inexperienced

  Lamuellan hunter, got speared while still thundering and pound-

  ing with the herd.

  One stumble was all it took. No prior appointment with death

  on Stavromula Beta, wherever the hell Stavromula Beta was,

  would save you or anybody else from the thunderous, mangling

  pounding of those hooves.

  At last, Arthur and Ford staggered back. They sat down,

  exhausted and defeated, and started to criticise each other's

  technique with the towel.

  `You've got to flick it more,' complained Ford. `You need

  more follow-through from the elbow if you're going to get those

  blasted creatures to notice anything at all.'

  `Follow-through?' protested Arthur. `You need more supple-

  ness in the wrist.'

  `You need more after-flourish,' countered Ford.

  `You need a bigger towel.'

  `You need,' said another voice, `a pikka bird.'

  `You what?'

  The voice had come from behind them. They turned, and

  there, standing behind them in the early morning sun, was Old

  Thrashbarg.

  `To attract the attention of a Perfectly Normal Beast,' he

  said, as he walked forward towards them, `you need a pikka

  bird. Like this.'

  From under the rough, cassocky robe-like thing he wore he

  drew a small pikka bird. It sat restlessly on Old Thrashbarg's

  hand and peered intently at Bob knows what darting around

  about three feet six inches in front of it.

  Ford instantly went into the sort of alert crouch he liked to

  do when he wasn't quite sure what was going on or what he

  ought to do about it. He waved his arms around very slowly

  in what he hoped was an ominous manner.

  `Who is this?' he hissed.

  `It's just Old Thrashbarg,' said Arthur quietly. `And I wouldn't

  bother with all the fancy movements. He's just as experienced a

  bluffer as you are. You could end up dancing around each other

  all day.'

  `The bird,' hissed Ford again. `What's the bird?'

  `It's just a bird!' said Arthur impatiently. `It's like any other

  bird. It lays eggs and goes ark at things you can't see. Or kar

  or rit or something.'

  `Have you seen one lay eggs?' said Ford, suspiciously.

  `For heaven's sake of course I have,' said Arthur. `And

  I've eaten hundreds of them. Make rather a good omelette.

  The secret is little cubes of cold butter and then whipping it

  lightly with...'

  `I don't want a zarking recipe,' said Ford. `I just want to

  be sure it's a real bird and not some kind of multi-dimensional

  cybernightmare.'

  He slowly stood up from his crouched position and started

  to brush himself down. He was still watching the bird, though.

  `So,' said Old Thrashbarg to Arthur. `Is it written that Bob

  shall once more take back unto himself the benediction of his

  once-given sandwich maker?'

  Ford almost went back into his crouch.

  `It's all right,' muttered Arthur, `he always talks like that.'

  Aloud, he said, `Ah, venerable Thrashbarg. Um, yes. I'm afraid

  I think I'm going to have to be popping off now. But young

  Drimple, my apprentice, will be a fine sandwich maker in my

  stead. He has the aptitude, a deep love of sandwiches, and the

  skills he has acquired so far, though rudimentary as yet, will, in

  time mature and, er, well, I think he'll work out OK is what I'm

  trying to say.'

  Old Thrashbarg regarded him gravely. His old grey eyes

  moved sadly. He held his arms aloft, one still carrying a bobbing

  pikka bird, the other his staff.

  `O Sandwich Maker from Bob!' he pronounced. He paused,

  furrowed his brow, and sighed as he closed his eyes in pious

  contemplation. `Life,' he said, `will be a very great deal less

  weird without you!'

  Arthur was stunned.

  `Do you know,' he said, `I think that's the nicest thing any-

  body's ever said to me?'

  `Can we get on, please?' said Ford.

  Something was already happening. The presence of the pikka

  bird at the end of Thrashbarg's outstretched arm was sending

  tremors of interest through the thundering herd. The odd head

  flicked momentarily in their direction. Arthur began to remem-

  ber some of the Perfectly Normal Beast hunts he had witnessed.

  He recalled that as well as the hunter-matadors brandishing their

  capes there were always others standing behind them holding

  pikka birds. He had always assumed that, like him, they had

  just come along to watch.

  Old Thrashbarg moved forward, a little closer to the rolling

  herd. Some of the Beasts were now tossing their heads back

  with interest at the sight of the pikka bird.

  Old Thrashbarg's outstretched arms were trembling.

  Only the pikka bird itself seemed to show no interest in

  what was going on. A few anonymous molecules of air nowhere

  in particular engaged all of its perky attention.

  `Now!' exclaimed Old Thrashbarg at last. `Now you may

  work them with the towel!'

  Arthur advanced with Ford's towel, moving the way the

  hunter-matadors did, with a kind of elegant strut that did not

  come at all naturally to him. But now he knew what to do and

  that it was right. He brandished and flick
ed the towel a few

  times, to be ready for the moment, and then he watched.

  Some distance away he spotted the Beast he wanted. Head

  down, it was galloping towards him, right on the very edge of

  the herd. Old Thrashbarg switched the bird, the Beast looked

  up, tossed its head, and then, just as its head was coming down

  again, Arthur flourished the towel in the Beast's line of sight. It

  tossed its head again in bemusement, and its eyes followed the

  movement of the towel.

  He had got the Beast's attention.

  From that moment on, it seemed the most natural thing

  to coax and draw the animal towards him. Its head was up,

  cocked slightly to one side. It was slowing to a canter and

  then a trot. A few seconds later the huge thing was standing

  there amongst them, snorting, panting, sweating, and sniffing

  excitedly at the pikka bird, which appeared not to have noticed

  its arrival at all. With strange sort of sweeping movements of his

  arms Old Thrashbarg kept the pikka bird in front of the Beast,

  but always out of its reach and always downwards. With strange

  sort of sweeping movements of the towel, Arthur kept drawing

  the Beast's attention this way and that - always downwards.

  `I don't think I've ever seen anything quite so stupid in

  my life,' muttered Ford to himself.

  At last, the Beast dropped, bemused but docile, to its knees.

  `Go!' whispered Old Thrashbarg urgently, to Ford. `Go! Go

  now!'

  Ford leapt up on to the great creature's back, scrabbling

  amongst its thick knotty fur for purchase, grasping great handfuls

  of the stuff to hold him steady once he was in position.

  `Now, Sandwich Maker! Go!' He performed some elaborate

  sign and ritual handshake which Arthur couldn't quite get the

  hang of because Old Thrashbarg had obviously made it up

  on the spur of the moment, then he pushed Arthur forward.

  Taking a deep breath, he clambered up behind Ford on to

  the great, hot, heaving back of the beast and held on tight.

  Huge muscles the size of sea lions rippled and flexed beneath

  him.

  Old Thrashbarg held the bird suddenly aloft. The Beast's

  head swivelled up to follow it. Thrashbarg pushed upwards

  and upwards repeatedly with his arms and with the pikka bird;

  and slowly, heavily the Perfectly Normal Beast lurched up off

  its knees and stood, at last, swaying slightly. Its two riders held

  on fiercely and nervously.

  Arthur gazed out over the sea of hurtling animals, straining

  in an attempt to see where it was they were going, but there

  was nothing but heat haze.

  `Can you see anything?' he said to Ford.

  `No.' Ford twisted round to glance back, trying to see if

  there was any clue as to where they had come from. Still,

  nothing.

  Arthur shouted down at Thrashbarg.

  `Do you know where they come from?' he called. `Or where

  they're going?'

  `The domain of the King!' shouted Old Thrashbarg back.

  `King?' shouted Arthur in surprise. `What King?' The Per-

  fectly Normal Beast was swaying and rocking restlessly under

  him.

  `What do you mean, what King?' shouted Old Thrashbarg.

  `The King.'

  `It's just that you never mentioned a King,' shouted Arthur

  back, in some consternation.

  `What?' shouted Old Thrashbarg. The thrumming of a thou-

  sand hooves was very hard to hear over, and the old man was

  concentrating on what he was doing.

  Still holding the bird aloft, he led the Beast slowly round till

  it was once more parallel with the motion of its great herd. He

  moved forward. The Beast followed. He moved forward again.

  The Beast followed again. At last, the Beast was lumbering for-

  ward with a little momentum.

  `I said you never mentioned a King!' shouted Arthur again.

  `I didn't say a King,' shouted Old Thrashbarg, `I said the King.'

  He drew back his arm and then hurled it forward with all his

  strength, casting the pikka bird up into the air above the herd.

  This seemed to catch the pikka bird completely by surprise as it

  had obviously not been paying any attention at all to what was

  going on. It took it a moment or two to work out what was

  happening, then it unfurled its little wings, spread them out,

  and flew.

  `Go!' shouted Thrashbarg. `Go and meet your destiny, Sand-

  wich Maker!'

  Arthur wasn't so sure about wanting to meet his destiny

  as such. He just wanted to get to wherever it was they were

  going so he could get back off this creature again. He didn't

  feel at all safe up there. The Beast was gathering speed as it

  followed in the wake of the pikka bird. And then it was in at

  the fringes of the great tide of animals, and in a moment or two,

  with its head down, the pikka bird forgotten, it was running with

  the herd again and rapidly approaching the point at which the

  herd was vanishing into thin air. Arthur and Ford held on to the

  great monster for dear life, surrounded on all sides by hurtling

  mountains of bodies.

  `Go! Ride that Beast!' shouted Thrashbarg. His distant voice

  reverberated faintly in their ears. `Ride that Perfectly Normal

  Beast! Ride it, ride it!'

  Ford shouted in Arthur's ear, `Where did he say we were

  going?'

  `He said something about a King,' shouted Arthur in return,

  holding on desperately.

  `What King?'

  `That's what I said. He just said the King.'

  `I didn't know there was a the King,' shouted Ford.

  `Nor did I,' shouted Arthur back.

  `Except of course for the King,' shouted Ford. `And I don't

  suppose he meant him.'

  `What King?' shouted Arthur.

  The point of exit was almost upon them. Just ahead of

  them, Perfectly Normal Beasts were galloping into nothingness

  and vanishing.

  `What do you mean, what King?' shouted Ford. `I don't

  know what King. I'm only saying that he couldn't possibly

  mean the King, so I don't know what he means.'

  `Ford, I don't know what you're talking about.'

  `So?' said Ford. Then with a sudden rush, the stars came

  on, turned and twisted around their heads, and then, just as

  suddenly, turned off again.

  21

  Misty grey buildings loomed and flickered. They bounced up

  and down in a highly embarrassing way.

  What sort of buildings were they?

  What were they for? What did they remind her of?

  It's so difficult to know what things are supposed to be when

  you suddenly turn up unexpectedly on a different world which has

  a different culture, a different set of the most basic assumptions

  about life, and also incredibly dull and meaningless architecture.

  The sky above the buildings was a cold and hostile black.

  The stars, which should have been blindingly brilliant points

  of light this far from the sun were blurred and dulled by the

  thickness of the huge shielding bubble. Perspex or something

  like it. Something dull and heavy anyway.

  Tricia wound the tape back a
gain to the beginning.

  She knew there was something slightly odd about it.

  Well, in fact, there were about a million things that were

  slightly odd about it, but there was one that was nagging at

  her and she hadn't quite got it.

  She sighed and yawned.

  As she waited for the tape to rewind she cleared away some

  of the dirty polystyrene coffee cups that had accumulated on the

  editing desk and tipped them into the bin.

  She was sitting in a small editing suite at a video production

  company in Soho. She had `Do not disturb' notices plastered all

  over the door, and a block on all incoming calls at the switch-

  board. This was originally to protect her astonishing scoop, but

  now it was to protect her from embarrassment.

  She would watch the tape all the way through again from

  the beginning. If she could bear to. She might do some fast

  forwarding here and there.

  It was about four o'clock on Monday afternoon, and she

  had a kind of sick feeling. She was trying to work out what the

  cause of this slightly sick feeling was, and there was no shortage

  of candidates.

  First of all, it had all come on top of the overnight flight

 

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