ADAMS, Douglas - Mostly Harmless Read online

  topmost layer of bread and cut the sandwich with a fourth

  and altogether plainer knife. It was not that these were not also

  skilful operations, but they were lesser skills to be performed by

  a dedicated apprentice who would one day, when the Sandwich

  Maker finally laid down his tools, take over from him. It was

  an exalted position and that apprentice, Drimple, was the envy

  of his fellows. There were those in the village who were happy

  chopping wood, those who were content carrying water, but to

  be the Sandwich Maker was very heaven.

  And so the Sandwich Maker sang as he worked.

  He was using the last of the year's salted meat. It was a little

  past its best now, but still the rich savour of Perfectly Normal

  Beast meat was something unsurpassed in any of the Sandwich

  Maker's previous experience. Next week it was anticipated that

  the Perfectly Normal Beasts would appear again for their regu-

  lar migration, whereupon the whole village would once again be

  plunged into frenetic action: hunting the Beasts, killing perhaps

  six, maybe even seven dozen of the thousands that thundered

  past. Then the Beasts must be rapidly butchered and cleaned,

  with most of the meat salted to keep it through the winter months

  until the return migration in the spring, which would replenish

  their supplies.

  The very best of the meat would be roasted straight away

  for the feast that marked the Autumn Passage. The celebrations

  would last for three days of sheer exuberance, dancing and stories

  that Old Thrashbarg would tell of how the hunt had gone, stories

  that he would have been busy sitting making up in his hut while

  the rest of the village was out doing the actual hunting.

  And then the very, very best of the meat would be saved

  from the feast and delivered cold to the Sandwich Maker. And

  the Sandwich Maker would exercise on it the skills that he

  had brought to them from the gods, and make the exquisite

  Sandwiches of the Third Season, of which the whole village would

  partake before beginning, the next day, to prepare themselves for

  the rigours of the coming winter.

  Today he was just making ordinary sandwiches, if such deli-

  cacies, so lovingly crafted, could ever be called ordinary. Today

  his assistant was away so the Sandwich Maker was applying his

  own garnish, which he was happy to do. He was happy with just

  about everything in fact.

  He sliced, he sang. He flipped each slice of meat neatly on to

  a slice of bread, trimmed it and assembled all the trimmings into

  their jigsaw. A little salad, a little sauce, another slice of bread,

  another sandwich, another verse of Yellow Submarine.

  `Hello , Arthur.'

  The Sandwich Maker almost sliced his thumb off.

  The villagers had watched in consternation as the woman had

  marched boldly to the hut of the Sandwich Maker. The Sandwich

  Maker had been sent to them by Almighty Bob in a burning fiery

  chariot. This, at least, was what Thrashbarg said, and Thrashbarg

  was the authority on these things. So, at least, Thrashbarg

  claimed, and Thrashbarg was... and so on and so on. It

  was hardly worth arguing about.

  A few villagers wondered why Almighty Bob would send

  his onlie begotten Sandwich Maker in a burning fiery chariot

  rather than perhaps in one that might have landed quietly

  without destroying half the forest, filling it with ghosts and also

  injuring the Sandwich Maker quite badly. Old Thrashbarg said

  that it was the ineffable will of Bob, and when they asked him

  what ineffable meant he said look it up.

  This was a problem because Old Thrashbarg had the only

  dictionary and he wouldn't let them borrow it. They asked him

  why not and he said that it was not for them to know the will

  of Almighty Bob, and when they asked him why not again he

  said because he said so. Anyway, somebody sneaked into Old

  Thrashbarg's hut one day while he was out having a swim and

  looked up `ineffable'. `Ineffable' apparently meant `unknowable,

  indescribable, unutterable, not to be known or spoken about'. So

  that cleared that up.

  At least they had got the sandwiches.

  One day Old Thrashbarg said that Almighty Bob had decreed

  that he, Thrashbarg, was to have first pick of the sandwiches.

  The villagers asked him when this had happened, exactly, and

  Thrashbarg said it had happened yesterday, when they weren't

  looking. `Have faith,' Old Thrashbarg said, `or burn!'

  They let him have first pick of the sandwiches. It seemed

  easiest.

  And now this woman had just arrived out of nowhere, and gone

  straight for the Sandwich Maker's hut. His fame had obviously

  spread, though it was hard to know where to since, according to

  Old Thrashbarg, there wasn't anywhere else. Anyway, wherever

  it was she had come from, presumably somewhere ineffable, she

  was here now and was in the Sandwich Maker's hut. Who was

  she? And who was the strange girl who was hanging around

  outside the hut moodily and kicking at stones and showing every

  sign of not wanting to be there? It seemed odd that someone

  should come all the way from somewhere ineffable in a chariot

  that was obviously a vast improvement on the burning fiery one

  which had brought them the Sandwich Maker, if she didn't even

  want to be here?

  They all looked to Thrashbarg, but he was on his knees

  mumbling and looking very firmly up into the sky and not

  catching anybody else's eye until he'd thought of something.

  `Trillian!' said the Sandwich Maker, sucking his bleeding thumb.

  `What...? Who...? When...? Where...?'

  `Exactly the questions I was going to ask you,' said Trillian,

  looking around Arthur's hut. It was neatly laid out with his

  kitchen utensils. There were some fairly basic cupboards and

  shelves, and a basic bed in the corner. A door at the back of

  the room led to something Trillian couldn't see because the door

  was closed. `Nice,' she said, but in an enquiring tone of voice. She

  couldn't quite make out what the set-up was.

  `Very nice,' said Arthur. `Wonderfully nice. I don't know

  when I've ever been anywhere nicer. I'm happy here. They

  like me, I make sandwiches for them, and... er, well that's

  it really. They like me and I make sandwiches for them.'

  `Sounds, er...'

  `Idyllic,' said Arthur, firmly. `It is. It really is. I don't expect

  you'd like it very much, but for me it's, well, it's perfect. Look, sit

  down, please, make yourself comfortable. Can I get you anything,

  er, a sandwich?'

  Trillian picked up a sandwich and looked at it. She sniffed

  it carefully.

  `Try it,' said Arthur, `it's good.'

  Trillian took a nibble, then a bite and munched on it thought-

  fully.

  `It is good,' she said, looking at it.

  `My life's work,' said Arthur, trying to sound proud and

  hoping he didn't sound like a complete idiot. He was used

  to being revered a bit, and was having to go through some

  unexp
ected mental gear changes.

  `What's the meat in it?' asked Trillian.

  `Ah yes, that's, um, that's Perfectly Normal Beast.'

  `It's what?'

  `Perfectly Normal Beast. It's a bit like a cow, or rather

  a bull. Kind of like a buffalo in fact. Large, charging sort

  of animal.'

  `So what's odd about it?'

  `Nothing, it's Perfectly Normal.'

  `I see.'

  `It's just a bit odd where it comes from.'

  Tricia frowned, and stopped chewing.

  `Where does it come from?' she asked with her mouth full.

  She wasn't going to swallow until she knew.

  `Well it's not just a matter of where it comes from, it's also

  where it goes to. It's all right, it's perfectly safe to swallow. I've

  eaten tons of it. It's great. Very succulent. Very tender. Slightly

  sweet flavour with a long dark finish.'

  Trillian still hadn't swallowed.

  `Where,' she said, `does it come from, and where does it go to?'

  `They come from a point just slightly to the east of the

  Hondo Mountains. They're the big ones behind us here, you

  must have seen them as you came in, and then they sweep in

  their thousands across the great Anhondo plains and, er, well

  that's it really. That's where they come from. That's where they

  go.'

  Trillian frowned. There was something she wasn't quite getting

  about this.

  `I probably haven't made it quite clear,' said Arthur. `When

  I say they come from a point to the east of the Hondo Moun-

  tains, I mean that that's where they suddenly appear. Then they

  sweep across the Anhondo plains and, well, vanish really. We

  have about six days to catch as many of them as we can before

  they disappear. In the spring they do it again only the other way

  round, you see.'

  Reluctantly, Trillian swallowed. It was either that or spit

  it out, and it did in fact taste pretty good.

  `I see,' she said, once she had reassured herself that she

  didn't seem to be suffering any ill effects. `And why are they

  called Perfectly Normal Beasts?'

  `Well, I think because otherwise people might think it was

  a bit odd. I think Old Thrashbarg called them that. He says

  that they come from where they come from and they go to

  where they go to and that it's Bob's will and that's all there is

  to it.'

  `Who...'

  `Just don't even ask.'

  `Well, you look well on it.'

  `I feel well. You look well.'

  `I'm well. I'm very well.'

  `Well, that's good.'

  `Yes.'

  `Good.'

  `Good.'

  `Nice of you to drop in.'

  `Thanks.'

  `Well,' said Arthur, casting around himself. Astounding how

  hard it was to think of anything to say to someone after all this

  time.

  `I expect you're wondering how I found you,' said Trillian.

  `Yes!' said Arthur. `I was wondering exactly that. How did

  you find me?'

  `Well, as you may or may not know, I now work for one

  of the big Sub-Etha broadcasting networks that -'

  `I did know that,' said Arthur, suddenly remembering. `Yes,

  you've done very well. That's terrific. Very exciting. Well done.

  Must be a lot of fun.'

  `Exhausting.'

  `All that rushing around. I expect it must be, yes.'

  `We have access to virtually every kind of information. I

  found your name on the passenger list of the ship that crashed.'

  Arthur was astonished.

  `You mean they knew about the crash?'

  `Well, of course they knew. You don't have a whole spaceliner

  disappear without someone knowing about it.'

  `But you mean, they knew where it had happened? They

  knew I'd survived?'

  `Yes.'

  `But nobody's ever been to look or search or rescue. There's

  been absolutely nothing.'

  `Well there wouldn't be. It's a whole complicated insurance

  thing. They just bury the whole thing. Pretend it never happened.

  The insurance business is completely screwy now. You know

  they've reintroduced the death penalty for insurance company

  directors?'

  `Really?' said Arthur. `No I didn't. For what offence?'

  Trillian frowned.

  `What do you mean, offence?'

  `I see.'

  Trillian gave Arthur a long look, and then, in a new tone

  of voice, said, `It's time for you to take responsibility, Arthur.'

  Arthur tried to understand this remark. He found it often

  took a moment or so before he saw exactly what it was that

  people were driving at, so he let a moment or two pass at a

  leisurely rate. Life was so pleasant and relaxed these days, there

  was time to let things sink in. He let it sink in.

  He still didn't quite understand what she meant, though,

  so in the end he had to say so.

  Trillian gave him a cool smile and then turned back to

  the door of the hut.

  `Random?' she called. `Come in. Come and meet your father.'

  14

  As the Guide folded itself back into a smooth, dark disk, Ford

  realised some pretty hectic stuff. Or at least he tried to realise

  it, but it was too hectic to take in all in one go. His head was

  hammering, his ankle was hurting, and though he didn't like to

  be a wimp about his ankle, he always found that intense multi-

  dimensional logic was something he understood best in the bath.

  He needed time to think about this. Time, a tall drink, and some

  kind of rich, foamy oil.

  He had to get out of here. He had to get the Guide out

  of here. He didn't think they'd make it together.

  He glanced wildly round the room.

  Think, think, think. It had to be something simple and obvious.

  If he was right in his nasty lurking suspicion that he was dealing

  with nasty, lurking Vogons, then the more simple and obvious

  the better.

  Suddenly he saw what he needed.

  He wouldn't try to beat the system, he would just use it. The

  frightening thing about the Vogons was their absolute mindless

  determination to do whatever mindless thing it was they were

  determined to do. There was never any point in trying to appeal

  to their reason because they didn't have any. However, if you

  kept your nerve you could sometimes exploit their blinkered,

  bludgeoning insistence on being bludgeoning and blinkered. It

  wasn't merely that their left hand didn't always know what their

  right hand was doing, so to speak; quite often their right hand

  had a pretty hazy notion as well.

  Did he dare just post the thing to himself?

  Did he dare just put it in the system and let the Vogons

  work out how to get the thing to him while at the same time

  they were busy, as they probably would be, tearing the building

  apart to find out where he'd hidden it?

  Yes.

  Feverishly, he packed it. He wrapped it. He labelled it.

  With a moment's pause to wonder if he was really doing the

  right thing, he committed the package to the building's internal

  mail chute.

  `Colin,' he said, turning to the little, hovering ball. `I am
/>   going to abandon you to your fate.'

  `I'm so happy,' said Colin.

  `Make the most of it,' said Ford. `Because what I want you

  to do is to nursemaid that package out of the building. They'll

  probably incinerate you when they find you, and I won't be here

  to help. It will be very, very nasty for you, and that's just too

  bad. Got it?'

  `I gurgle with pleasure,' said Colin.

  `Go!' said Ford.

  Colin obediently dived down the mail chute in pursuit of his

  charge. Now Ford had only himself to worry about, but that was

  still quite a substantial worry. There were noises of heavy running

  footsteps outside the door, which he had taken the precaution of

  locking and shifting a large filing cabinet in front of.

  He was worried that everything had gone so smoothly. Every-

  thing had fitted terribly well. He had hurtled through the day

  with reckless abandon and yet everything had worked out with

  uncanny neatness. Except for his shoe. He was bitter about his

  shoe. That was an account that was going to have to be settled.

  With a deafening roar the door exploded inwards. In the

  turmoil of smoke and dust he could see large, slug-like creatures