And Another Thing...

by Eoin Colfer

  ‘So one-handed, no face, no goolies?’

  ‘Agreed. If we win, then you will join our happy group; if you win, then we keep coming back until we win.’

  Hillman closed his eyes and listened for the voice of his Nano.

  What should I do, Nano?

  The answer was immediate: Batter this crowd of steamers, Hillers. Give them a beating they won’t forget.

  Righto, Nano, righto.

  Aloud he said: ‘Okay, Buff, do your worst.’

  Buff Orpington’s grin seemed to reveal more teeth than were usually found in a human mouth.

  ‘Aaaarghhh!’ he cried, beating his chest like a bear, images of burning monasteries flashing behind his eyes. ‘Death to the Tyromancers!’

  ‘Or at least a sound thrashing,’ said Hillman, thumbing the strimmer’s power button.

  ‘No goolies,’ squealed Aseed as the mammoth Buff Orpington bore down on him. ‘No g-o-o-o-o-o-lies.’

  Then an enormous cheese wheel appeared in the sky, revolving over the combatants’ heads, emitting an ominous hum. This sudden and most unexpected apparition shifted the crowd’s focus faster than the appearance of Eccentrica Gallumbits wearing a neon T-shirt flashing the slogan ‘Freebie Friday’ would shift the focus of the crowd at a Virgin-Nerd convention on a Friday. Even Buff Orpington’s battle spasm drained from his skull, leaving a mist of disbelief behind it.

  ‘It can’t be!’ he said. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  Aseed Preflux turned paler than a slice of double cream Cheddar.

  ‘Edamnation!’ he howled, touching his fingers to his forehead. ‘You have brought it upon us, Hillman Hunter!’

  Hillman powered down the strimmer. ‘What? No. Surely not. This can’t be right. Seriously?’

  Aseed and his band of Tyromancers, triangling furiously, backed away from the compound wall.

  ‘We won’t die for your sins, Hunter. Face the wrath of the Wheel alone.’

  The Tyromancers turned on their heels and ran, which is not easy when bowing and making the sign of the Cheese, with the result that more than half their number took tumbles into the overgrown borders before eventually scrambling into the golf carts and whining back the way they came as fast as the electric motors would permit, quite prepared to run the personal trainer gauntlet. If the Cheese had wanted to catch and smite them, it shouldn’t have been a problem. But it seemed as though the Cheese was quite content to hover imperiously above the Nanites.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Hillman, shooting the words out of the side of his mouth towards Buff.

  Buff shrugged his meaty shoulders. ‘I’m not sure. Gouda maybe, or Cheddar.’

  The Cheese decided that it had had enough of being a cheese and so, for a change, became a rolling eye, which was one of its favourites.

  Hillman sighed massively and his entire body relaxed as though his bones had jellified. ‘Of course. I should have known.’

  The enormous eye rolled madly then turned into a view screen which seemed to be playing some kind of reality show featuring a behemoth called Pinky. Pinky ran amok for a few seconds then the screen exploded in a cloud of small furry balls with teeth; teeth that ate their own fur to reveal a glowing white spaceship underneath. A spaceship so cool that it made other cool spaceships such as the Sirius All-Space Off-Worlder look about as cool as a cluster of pimples on the nose of a forty-year-old man who was riding a bicycle with stabilizers around his office during a presentation on more efficient ways to unblock sewage pipes.

  Guide Note: This analogy works pretty well just about everywhere, except in the town of Shank near the famous Infinity Spools of Allosimanius Syneca. Shank is inhabited by Pshawrians, who are taught from infancy to defy expectations. In fact, anyone who meets expectations is given three chances and then hurled from the finger-shaped peaks of the Mooncliffs. In actuality, people rarely get three chances, because that’s what they expect. In Shank, a spotty forty-year-old man on a stabilized bike would be the epitome of unexpected coolness. The fact that the presentation was about sewage pipes would be seen as a nice touch, seeing as g on Allosimanius Syneca is only 1.2 metres per second squared and waste matter simply floats off into space.

  The gleaming white spaceship wobbled a bit then solidified with a noise like a huge slice of lemon colliding with a giant gold brick. A section of the fuselage fizzled like a glass of soda then disappeared altogether, revealing a tall, helmeted figure whose aura seemed to contain a choir of angels singing ‘Thor’ in divine harmony.

  ‘Hallelujah,’ whispered Hillman.

  Buff Orpington sank to his knees, weeping.

  9

  The Tanngrísnir

  Bowerick Wowbagger’s longship slipped out of dark space like an eel from a reef’s shadowy depths, its engines emitting jets of exotic blue flame that crystallized when they encountered real space. Inside the Tanngrísnir there was not a single passenger who had not been substantially altered by the journey.

  This was partly the fault of the space itself, as the sleeve of dark matter is largely an emotional construct and can serve as an accelerant for feelings that may otherwise have taken years to develop. For a being of the light, gazing even for a moment into the heart of dark space has an effect equivalent to a dozen near-death experiences. It’s the Universe’s way of telling you to get on with your life. Which is a good thing if the feeling budding in a person’s heart is a good feeling.

  As the ship backed into Nano’s atmosphere then swung around in a lazy meander towards the larger of two settlements, scanning every atom of the planet as it did so, the passengers inside its amorphous hull were reeling with conflicting emotions that seemed to push their hearts against their ribs and swell their brains to bursting.

  Trillian

  Could I love him? Could I? Is it possible that after all this time I can just bump into a man in the middle of a planetary destruction and fall for him?

  But he’s not a man, is he? Christ, girl, you don’t even know what he is. You don’t have the first clue about this Wowbagger guy or his physiology. What a hoot that would be on the wedding night. Wouldn’t mother’s ghost laugh then if your brand new husband expected you to lay a few eggs on the carpet for him to fertilize?

  Ugh. No, it’s too much, I couldn’t. I can’t.

  Why can’t you? You gave everything up for Zaphod and you didn’t love him. He was interesting, certainly, but you didn’t love him. And now you have a chance to be happy and you’re turning up your nose.

  My nose. Arthur loved my nose. Maybe there’s still a chance for Arthur and me… It would certainly be tidy.

  You don’t love Arthur. You never did and, anyway, he’s still utterly besotted with Fenchurch.

  And what about Random? She needs you now. You left her once before, remember? You promised that this life would be for your daughter.

  But will denying my own happiness make my child happy?

  That’s the way it generally works, isn’t it?

  But I love him. I love him, Mum!

  Who are you calling Mum? Get a grip on yourself, girl.

  I can love two people, can’t I? That’s allowed.

  Maybe, but Random comes first.

  Random

  Put me in a bloody tube, will they? I’ll show them. Mr Immortal thinks he’s immortal, does he? Maybe he should browse the Sub-Etha a little more. Maybe, if his computer wasn’t so busy making goo-goo eyes at my dad, it would have picked up on a very remote article on a very remote site that tells the story of Pyntolaga, the Six-fingered Immortal of Santraginus, who was cursed with immortality by an irradiated electronic muscle stimulation slimming belt, and how he was eventually killed.

  So, Bowerick Wowbagger wants to die, does he? Well, what sort of an ingrate would I be if I didn’t help him on his way?

  small voice: You were a politician. A loving wife. The President of the Galaxy… now you’re planning to help this person get himself killed?

  I lost my husband and my job and my future. It�
��s time to start thinking about me.

  small voice: Fair enough. Kill him then.

  Bowerick Wowbagger

  Could it be love? Could it?

  Come on, Bow Wow, that’s the dark matter talking.

  No. I can handle my dark matter. I’ve been living in this ship for years. I think I actually love this woman. You see it all the time, in nearly every single movie I have ever watched: people making instant connections, love at first sight, the Thunderbolt.

  This is not a movie. You should tune into a news channel once in a while, see how many love thunderbolts are featured.

  It is love. It could be. Why shouldn’t it be? After all this time, don’t I deserve something?

  You deserve to die. Isn’t that what you’ve longed for all these years?

  Yes, but only because there was nothing for me. Nothing but a computer on a stolen ship. Now there is something. Someone.

  Don’t lose focus here. You have a real shot at getting yourself killed. Don’t blow it all over a mortal.

  I was mortal once. They’re not so bad.

  Oh, really? Who are you and what have you done with the real Bow Wowbagger? Because correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t we spend the last several thousand years insulting mortals? Don’t you have a complete set of The Total Tosser’s Thesaurus?

  Yes, but…

  And… and haven’t you claimed to be in love before?

  Yes, but that was different. I thought it was love but I see now it was just an absence of disgust. Trillian has qualities.

  Trillian. If that is her real name.

  Now you’re just nitpicking.

  All I know is that for the first time in I don’t know how long you have a chance to be dead. Not a big chance, granted. But if that fool Beeblebrox comes through, then there is a chance at least. Are you prepared to risk all that because you’ve taken a fancy to a mortal?

  Yes. If she will have me, I’ll risk it all. If not, back to Plan A.

  Which is?

  Insult everyone on the planet and try to get myself killed.

  Amen to that.

  Arthur

  This is ridiculous. I have spent most of this incredible journey talking to the hardware.

  Actually, you’ve been talking to yourself. The computer dips into your memories and compiles appropriate responses from previous conversations. If you listen carefully, you might hear the blip where the sentences have been spliced together.

  I know. I know. But it’s hard to tear oneself away. I lost Fenchurch once and it nearly killed me. Even now, after all this time, I still think about her constantly.

  All this time? It hasn’t been that long.

  I am counting my virtual life. I spent a lot of time on that beach drawing pictures of Fenchurch.

  I know. They were awful. We need to move on.

  You mean until the Vogons destroy this new planet?

  Or until I save it. I have saved planets before, you know.

  I think we’re on our last life there, mate. How many more destroyed worlds can we possibly survive? None, that’s how many.

  Wowbagger can shoo the Vogons. Or Thor, whoever wins. There’s an entire Universe out there and we are a part of it. I don’t want to spend the rest of our life playing mental footsie with a box of capacitors and chips.

  I know. You’re right, but it’s safe here. Absolutely no one can find us, let alone threaten us with thermonuclear weapons.

  So we stay here for ever.

  No… I suppose not.

  So what are we going to do?

  Move on.

  I’m not feeling it.

  Move on!

  Okay. Fenchurch forgotten?

  Sure. Absolutely. Who-church?

  That’s my boy.

  tiny voice: Fenchurch. Never forget.

  Ford

  I can go for eight minutes without blinking. Eight minutes, surely that’s some kind of record? Not blinking is so relaxing. I was a little relaxed before I boarded this ship, but now I am positively comatose, or is that comma toes? Which would make sense because my toes do look like little commas, which is quite a scary thought for some reason.

  Beer, beer, wonderful beer. The more you drink the more you fear.

  Goosnargh! I’ve been a fool. I know what I have to do. I need to write something for the Guide about this ship in case the publishers ever manage to oust those Vogons. My goodness, it will be a sensation. How many mortals can have travelled inside the Tanngrísnir? I don’t know. Not many, I bet, and the next one to manage it will be pretty relieved to find a comforting and informative entry in The Hitchhiker’s Guide. Right. What to submit. Something concise, don’t give those bastard editors much to play with. But stylish. Something that says ‘Ford Prefect’ all over it and yet captures the essence of such a cool, golden ship. My last submission was a little wordy. So cut it down. Get straight to the issues. Immediately to the matter at hand, directly point bound. Relevance on the horizon, captain.

  Ahah! I’ve got it. There is only one word that encapsulates both my spirit and that of this wonderful vehicle. One beloved term, equally popular among the old groans and the young grins. A collection of syllables as beautiful as it is useful:

  Froody.

  They gathered on the bridge to watch the descent towards the new blue planet.

  Ford stepped close to a curved wall and it bubbled into transparency.

  ‘I wanted the wall to do that,’ said Ford, grinning. ‘I thought it and the ship did it.’

  The view was undeniably spectacular and even Wowbagger took his eyes from Trillian’s profile for a moment to appreciate the expanse of waves, flecked with golden sunlight, flashing past below the prow.

  ‘It is… nice,’ he said in the tone of a Blaslessian parolee who has just had his taste buds returned to him after a twenty-year stretch. ‘Yes. Nice.’

  Trillian wrapped her arms around his bicep. ‘Nice? It’s fabulous, spectacular. I thought you were supposed to have a way with words.’

  ‘Not the good ones,’ said Wowbagger, smiling. ‘I have had no need of them for some time, thanks to all those jumentous mortals. Present company excepted.’

  Random brushed past, accidentally bashing Wowbagger with her elbow.

  ‘Most of the present company excepted.’

  Random smiled sweetly. ‘I would just like to say, Mr Wowbagger, that I really hope you die today, just like you want.’

  ‘Random!’ said Trillian, shocked. ‘What a terrible thing to say. And anyway, it’s not going to happen. Zaphod Beeblebrox never followed through on a threat or a promise in his life.’

  Wowbagger smiled down at her. ‘Don’t worry. It’s the dark space. People’s emotions get amplified; they say things they don’t mean. She’ll settle down.’

  ‘Don’t count on it,’ said Random, scowling.

  But Trillian wasn’t listening. People’s emotions get amplified, she thought. They say things they don’t mean.

  ‘Oh my god,’ said the computer excitedly, suddenly sounding like a teenage fan girl. ‘It’s Thor. On the other side of the island. I’m picking up Thor, I don’t believe it. I wonder does he remember me?’

  Wowbagger’s brow tightened. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure, silly. I’ve got over a million matches on the facial software.’

  ‘Don’t be cheeky, computer, just set us down.’

  ‘Where? Beside the Thunder God?’

  Wowbagger turned away from Trillian. ‘No. Set us down here. I need time to think.’

  Good, thought Trillian. I need time to think myself.

  Good, thought Random. I need time for my special delivery to arrive.

  Cong

  ‘Zaphod Beeblebrox,’ said Hillman, as though the name itself was a curse, which on several planets it had indeed become. ‘Zaphod feckin’ Beeblebrox.’

  Zaphod was reclining on a sun lounger in the plaza, two boots off, three sleeves rolled up.

  ‘You keep saying that, Hillma
n. As though me being here is a bad thing instead of the solution to all your problems.’

  ‘The solution to all what problems?’

  ‘What problems do you have?’ said Zaphod equably.

  Hillman drummed his fingers on the table, something he hoped the waitress would notice and for god’s sake come and take his order. He stopped in mid-drum.

  ‘Well, we have no waitresses for a start. They’re all down on the beach colony with the personal trainers. And they took all the booze.’

  Zaphod reached for his boots. ‘Well, it’s been great chatting to you, Hillman. If you could just point me in the direction of this beach colony.’

  ‘It’s all your bloody fault, Zaphod. Everything was fine until the western township showed up. Tyropolis, can you believe that name? Their staff revolted even before ours did.’ He poked a finger at Zaphod. ‘Do you realize that some of the good people here are forced to do their own colonics? What kind of civilization is that?’

  ‘Every new society has teething problems. You need to work through them with diplomacy and alcohol.’

  ‘Teething problems? That nut job Preflux is a bit more than a teething problem.’

  Zaphod tried to hold in a giggle, but it shot out his nose.

  ‘What’s so funny, Beeblebrox?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’

  ‘No, please share. I insist.’

  ‘It’s just that you called Aseed Preflux a nut job.’

  ‘So what. He is a bloody nut job.’

  ‘If he is, so are you.’

  Hillman frowned. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Well, he is you and you are him. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed?’

  ‘That’s a load of horse manure,’ said Hillman, but there was a plate of cold dread in his stomach that knew it was true.

  ‘The western township? Tyropolis? That’s you guys from another dimension. I made a bundle off you the first time, so I thought, hey, why not do this again. I was on my way for a third group when BOOM, here come the Vogons.’

  ‘So the Earth is gone?’

  ‘Utterly and for ever. Even Arkle Schmarkle and all of his horde, couldn’t put that planet together once more.’