ADAMS, Douglas - Mostly Harmless
Page 14
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
`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