by Neil Gaiman
“It should,” I said. “What am I holding in my left hand?”
“Er. The milk,” they said.
“And what am I holding in my right hand?”
They paused. Then one alien, so green and small and so globby and crusted that he might have been an enormous snot-bubble blown by an elephant with a terrible head-cold, said, “. . . the same milk from fifteen minutes earlier.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Now. Think about this one very carefully. What would happen if I touched these two things together?”
The globby aliens went a very pale green. The pirates, shiny-black-hair-men, and the piranhas looked at them, puzzled, seeking some kind of explanation, as did the wumpires.
“If two things that are the same thing touch,” proclaimed the volcano god, “then the whole Universe shall end. Thus sayeth the great and unutterable Splod.”
“How does a volcano know so much about transtemporal meta-science?” asked one of the pale green aliens.
“Being a geological formation gives you a lot of time to think,” said Splod. “Also, I subscribe to a number of learned journals.”
I coughed, in what I hoped was an ominous sort of way. “Well?” I asked.
“What he said,” admitted the green globby aliens. “The bit about the Universe ending.”
“So,” I told them. “Unless you wish to spend the rest of your lives in a universe that no longer exists, you had better return things to the way they were. And then go away.”
The aliens looked at each other. They grinned at each other.
One of them pressed the grundledorfer.
The wumpires, pirates, piranhas, volcano god, and the worshippers of the volcano god were gone.
“What if,” suggested one of the green globby aliens hopefully, “we only redecorated the Southern Hemisphere?”
“Not a chance,” I said. “Now, release us, or the milk touches itself! And then go away. Leave this planet forever.”
The aliens looked at me, then they looked at each other, and then they sighed, with a noise like a hundred elephantine snot balloons all deflating at once.
“Right,” they said.
It was at that moment that a voice louder than anything I have ever heard—and I had heard a volcano erupt at very close range—said,
“GALACTIC POLICE.
DO NOT MOVE.”
My hands shook, but the milk did not touch the milk, and the Universe did not end.
There were red and blue flashing lights and then, stepping off their space-bikes, were about half a dozen uniformed dinosaurs, holding unmistakably large and extremely serious weapons. They pointed their weapons at the green globby aliens.
“You are charged with breaking into people’s planets and redecorating them,” said a noble and imposing-looking Tyrannosaurus Rex. “And then with running away and doing it again somewhere else, over and over. You have committed crimes against the inhabitants of eighteen planets, and crimes against good taste.”
“What we did to Rigel Four was art!” argued a globby alien.
“Art? There are people on Rigel Four,” said an Ankylosaurus, “who have to look up, every night, at a moon with three huge plaster ducks flying across it.”
Something very long with a head on the end of it came over to us. It was attached to a very large body, on the other side of the room. “Who are you?” it asked Professor Steg. “And why is your gorilla holding a transtemporally dislocated milk container?”
“I am not a gorilla,” I said. “I am a human father.”
“The human is holding the milk in order to make these evil redecorating snot-bubbles go away and stop menacing this planet and us,” said Professor Steg.
The Diplodocus in a police cap opened its mouth and didn’t say anything.
The Tyrannosaurus, who had handcuffed all of the green globby people together with something that looked a lot more like pink string-in-a-can than it looked like handcuffs, which was a good thing because they probably didn’t have hands and they definitely didn’t have wrists, stared at us and his eyes opened wide.
“Great day in the morning!” he exclaimed. “A biped. A Stegosaurus. A Floaty-Ball-Person-Carrier. . . .” And he stopped, as if unable to go on.
A Pteranodon flapped over to us, then landed at Professor Steg’s feet. It looked up at him, and said, hesitantly, “Would you be . . . ? Could you be…? The inventor of Professor Steg’s Pointy Zooming-into-Outer-Space-Machine? Of Professor Steg’s Really Good Moves Around in Time Machine? Would you be the author of My Travels into the Extremely Far Future and What I Found There? Professor Steg, wisest of all dinosaur-kind? MADAM, IS IT TRULY YOU?”
“It is,” said the Professor. (Madam? I thought, embarrassed.) “And this is my assistant.”
The Pteranodon extended a wing tip for me to shake, and without thinking, I moved the second milk from my right hand to my left . . .
Where the first milk was.
EVERYBODY GASPED.
Unfortunately, the milk that had been in my right hand, which was the same as the milk that was already in my left hand, the same milk fifteen minutes apart, touched each other.
I held my breath.
There was a fizzing noise, and a mewing as if a hundred kittens were being agitated in an enormous basket.
Professor Steg closed her eyes. “I can’t look,” she said.
Three purple dwarfs with flowerpots on their heads appeared from nowhere and began to do a little dance.
“Did the Universe end?” said the Tyrannosaurus, with his eyes tightly scrunched closed.
“LOOK!” I SAID.
We all watched the dwarfs dance. They weren’t human and they weren’t dinosaurs. They had purple skin and the flowerpots on their heads had lots of flowers growing out of them. They did a complicated sort of a dance, with lots of leg kicking and shouts of “OY!” and “OLAY!” and “PERTUNG!” And then, as strangely as they had come, they vanished.
“Ah,” said Professor Steg. “It was always a possibility that this might happen. And fortunately, the Universe has not ended.”
She pressed the button again, with her tail. A small hole in space and time opened up. I was standing on the other side with a baffled expression on my face.
“Catch!” I shouted, and threw the milk through the hole. As the portal closed, I saw me catch the milk using my stomach.
The green globby aliens having been rounded up and taken away, all the space-dinosaurs gathered around.
“I can’t believe it,” said the Diplodocus. “Professor Steg. Just like in the comics. The dinosaur who taught us that in the far future, small mammals will eat their breakfast cereal with milk on it. Inventor of the button. She’s here, in front of us, with her gorilla.”
“Not a gorilla, but a human father,” said Professor Steg, and all the other dinosaurs gasped and said things like “How wise she is!” and “What a brain!” and “How can you tell the difference between that creature and a gorilla? Is it the shoes?”
Professor Steg said, “This human father has been my companion on my strange journey into the future. Now, before I take my leave of him, and come with you, O Space Dinosaurs, we should sing to him one of the great old dinosaur songs.”
They sang me a song in six-part harmony called “How Do You Feel This Morning When You Know What You Did Last Night?” Then they sang me a song called “Don’t Go Down to the Tar Pits, Dear, Because I’m Getting Stuck on You.” The Space Police dinosaurs sang me a song about being Space Police and saving people all over the Universe, and driving very fast space-bikes. And then they all sang a song called “I’ve Got a Loverly Bunch of Hard-hairy-wet-white-crunchers,” which was an ancient dinosaur song that had apparently been written by Professor Steg’s Aunt Button.
There is nothing in the whole of creation as beautiful as dinosaurs singing in harmony.
“Now,” said Professor Steg. “I shall go off in my Floaty-Ball-Person-Carrier, with my newfound Dinosaur Space Police friends, and I shall explo
re the Universe, and then I shall return to my own time, and write a book about it.”
“You actually write several books,” said the Diplodocus. “Professor Steg’s Guide To Everything In The Whole Of The Future was my favorite. It’s very inspirational.”
I said good-bye to all the dinosaurs. I thanked Professor Steg for saving my life.
“Not at all,” she said. “We were both fortunate that you had the milk with you. It is not every container of milk that saves the world, after all.”
“That was me that saved the world,” I said. “Not the milk.”
The space dinosaurs all had their pictures taken holding the milk and smiling at the camera.
“What are you going to do with the milk?” they asked me. “Are you going to put it in a museum?”
“No, I am not,” I told them. “I am going to give it to my children for their breakfast cereal. And possibly I will pour some in my tea.”
Professor Steg nipped back up the rope ladder and climbed into the gondola of her balloon. The last I saw of her—of any of them—the whole inside of the saucer was fading into light so bright I had to close my eyes and look away.
And then I was standing at the back door of our house, none the worse for wear. Fortunately, the dinosaurs had given me back the milk after they had their photos taken with it.
So I came in.
And here I am.
That was what my dad said.
I looked at my sister and my sister looked at me.
Then we both looked around the kitchen. At the calendar on the wall with the hot air balloons on it. At my dinosaur models and my sister’s ponies, at my sister’s vampire books, at the picture of a volcano I had painted when I was little, last year, and which is still up on the wall by the fridge.
We looked at those things, and we looked at my dad.
“You know, we don’t believe any of this,” said my sister.
“We don’t,” I told him. “Not any of it.”
“Especially not how you saved the world from being remodeled. Or the pirates.”
“Not. Any. Of. It,” I said.
My father shrugged. “Suit yourselves,” he said. “But it was all true. And I can prove it.”
“How?”
“Yes. How?” asked my little sister.
“Well,” said my father, putting it down on the kitchen table, “here’s the MILK.”
AND HE WENT BACK
TO READING
HIS PAPER.
Back Ad
About the Author and Illustrator
NEIL GAIMAN has written highly acclaimed books for both children and adults. He has won many major awards, including the Hugo and the Nebula, and his novel The Graveyard Book is the only work to ever win both the Newbery (US) and Carnegie (UK) Medals. His books for readers of all ages include the bestselling Coraline, also an Academy Award-nominated film; Odd and the Frost Giants; and The Wolves in the Walls. Originally from England, Gaiman now lives in the United States. Find out more about him and his books at www.mousecircus.com.
SKOTTIE YOUNG is an award-winning cartoonist and writer who illustrates New York Times bestselling adaptations of L. Frank Baum’s Oz novels for Marvel Entertainment. His unique art style and sensibilities have drawn acclaim worldwide, earning him multiple Eisner Awards. He has worked in comics, toys, and animation for Marvel, Warner Bros., Image Comics, Mattel, Cartoon Network, and many more. Skottie lives in Illinois, and you can visit him online at www.skottieyoung.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
BOOKS BY NEIL GAIMAN
Blueberry Girl
Chu’s Day
Coraline
Crazy Hair
The Dangerous Alphabet
The Day I Swapped My Dad for Two Goldfish
The Graveyard Book
Instructions
InterWorld
MirrorMask
M Is for Magic
Odd and the Frost Giants
Stardust
The Wolves in the Walls
Credits
Cover art © 2013 by Skottie Young
Cover design by Sarah Nichole Kaufman
Copyright
FORTUNATELY, THE MILK
Text copyright © 2013 by Neil Gaiman
Illustrations copyright © 2013 by Skottie Young
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks.
www.harpercollinschildrens.com
* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gaiman, Neil.
Fortunately, the milk / by Neil Gaiman; illustrated by Skottie Young. — First edition.
pages cm
Summary: While picking up milk for his children’s cereal, a father is abducted by aliens and finds himself on a wild adventure through time and space.
ISBN 978-0-06-222407-1 (hardcover bdgs)
ISBN 978-0-06-229515-6 (int’l ed.)
[1. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. 2. Space and time—Fiction. 3. Fathers—Fiction. 4. Humorous stories.] I. Young, Skottie, illustrator. II. Title.
PZ7.G1273Fo 2013
2012050670
[Fic]—dc23
CIP
AC
* * *
EPub Edition © AUGUST 2013 ISBN: 9780062224095
13 14 15 16 17 LP/RRDH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
FIRST EDITION
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
http://www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
2 Bloor Street East – 20th Floor
Toronto, ON, M4W, 1A8, Canada
http://www.harpercollins.ca
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited
P.O. Box 1
Auckland, New Zealand
http://www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
77-85 Fulham Palace Road
London, W6 8JB, UK
http://www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
10 East 53rd Street
New York, NY 10022
http://www.harpercollins.com
* She did not actually like eating them. And I had not actually told her that there were mushrooms inside the chocolate. It was an experiment.
