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
ADAMS, Douglas - Mostly Harmless Page 21
