And Another Thing... Part 32

The gunner was hardly going to argue. 'Why not, Prostetnic.'

Jeltz seemed almost jolly. 'Why not indeed. Flying horses would be nice.'

'Flying horses it is,' said the gunner and ran the program.

'Twinkle twinkle,' burbled Jeltz.

Nano Thor belched mightily and slapped the crumbs from his tunic. He clicked two fingers and Mjollnir beeped, jumped from its charger on the wall and sped into his hand.

'Who are these invaders?' the G.o.d asked Hillman.

'Vogons, my lord, according to the craft recognition software. Pretty tough b.u.g.g.e.rs. They specialize in planet destruction.'

Zaphod was thrilled. 'The Vogons are here already! This is going to be great. Epic. You will totally decimate those b.a.s.t.a.r.dos.'

Thor did a few practice twirls. 'Decimate? Are you sure I should, Zaph? I'm telling you now, I will not sit still for more tribunals and we're still not sure how the immortal bas.h.i.+ng will go down on the Sub-Etha.'

Hillman smiled sweetly. 'No tribunals, my lord. You were simply protecting your planet. It's in the contract.'

'Exactly,' said Zaphod. 'It's brilliant PR. Taking out a Vogon bureaucruiser is just the thing to get you all over the major networks. BBS, Orbit, Nova, even Leviathan, though they're a crowd of partisans. The great religicom love a bully-basher almost as much as they love a martyr.'

Thor did a few pre-flight exercises, working out the kinks. 'I hope I can put on a bit of a show this time, I think, give the viewers some drama. Be a bit more like Dad. You know... G.o.dly. I think I'm actually feeling G.o.dly.'

Zaphod clapped him on the thigh. 'That's great. It's us or them though, so maybe you should get a move on.'

Thor froze in mid-hamstring stretch. 'Get a move on? That sounded like an order, Zaph. G.o.ds don't take orders from mortals.'

Zaphod was wounded. 'I would never give you orders, mighty one. I wouldn't dream of it. What I'm doing is manipulatering you, for your own good.'

Guide Note: The fact that Zaphod Beeblebrox was able to manipulate anyone tells us a lot about the fragile self-esteem of the person being manipulated. Especially since President Beeblebrox had only looked up the word 'manipulate' the previous month as part of his self-improvement 'word a week' programme. He had obviously not read past the root verb.

Thor chewed the tip of his moustache. 'Is that...'

'It's a good thing, big boy. A positive and respectful thing.'

'Are you sure?'

'Abso-zarking-lutely.'

'Very well, mortal. I shall deliver this planet from evil.'

Zaphod punched the air. 'Did you hear that, Hillman? Now that's a sound byte. Someone should be videoing this guy.'

Thor selected the Mus-O-Menu on the hammer's shaft and scrolled down until he reached 'Let's Get Hammered'. Anthemic power chords reverberated through the food hall.

'Let's get You wanna get Hammered!' he sang, full-throatedly, then executed a high-speed vertical take-off, punching a star-shaped hole through the carbon-fibre energy-absorbent roof panels.

'Go!' Zaphod shouted after his client, wondering if Thor could tell the difference between fifteen and twenty per cent, then wondering if he himself could calculate the difference. Left Brain would have to do it.

Hillman Hunter was thinking about money too.

'Jaysus, Zaphod. Have a chat with your man there. Those f.e.c.kin' panels are expensive. Could he not go out the door, the perfectly good door, and do the whole hammered hammered rigmarole outside rigmarole outside without without causing any property damage?' causing any property damage?'

Zaphod tilted his single head. 'Come on, Hillman. He's a G.o.d. G.o.ds do things big. Makes for a better story in the holy book when someone gets around to writing it.'

'Now there's a volume that would s.h.i.+ft a few units,' said Hillman thoughtfully.

Zaphod draped an arm around the Irishman's shoulders. 'I can give you exclusive rights.'

Hillman hugged the contract close to his chest. 'You already did, bucko,' he said.

Thor felt the wind in his hair and the bugs in his teeth.

'Visor,' he said, and a small blue force field crackled down from the brim of his helmet.

This sort of thing was what being a G.o.d was all about: the defying gravity, the hair, the big muscly legs. All good G.o.d stuff. This was what Thor thrived on. Flying and bas.h.i.+ng, basically.

I like to be loved too, he thought, but he did not voice this notion.

Once upon a time, a G.o.d could straddle a mountain top and roar out any old rubbish, and the mortals below would interpret the distorted echoes as omniscience-based super wisdom. One of Odin's favourite stories in the long hall was the time he'd abducted a mortal's wife and piled insult on top of injury by shouting at the unfortunate man, with characteristic crudeness, that he could go screw himself.

Imagine my surprise, Odin would say in that holier than thou Olympus drawl that he liked to affect, when on my next visit I find a temple on that very spot with the inscription 'Go Through Thineself'. Apparently it's the path to wisdom and contentment when on my next visit I find a temple on that very spot with the inscription 'Go Through Thineself'. Apparently it's the path to wisdom and contentment.

And of course everyone would crack up, except Frigga who was not big on her husband bragging about his infidelities.

But these days there were recording devices everywhere. Whatever a G.o.d said was reported around the Universe verbatim. There was no more benefit of the doubt, because there was no doubt. If a G.o.d said a.r.s.e a.r.s.e, then everyone heard a.r.s.e a.r.s.e and probably with the background noise taken out. And if a G.o.d said and probably with the background noise taken out. And if a G.o.d said I don't know I don't know then everyone heard that too. Loki, who liked to sneak out of Asgard for a few tankards with the mortals on a weekend, had handed the Adiaphorists a gift-wrapped basket of mill grist when he had spent an entire drunken evening loudly complaining of his erectile dysfunction problems. Or, as he delicately put it, 'My lightning rod has lost its lightning. Matter of fact, it's lost its rod too.' then everyone heard that too. Loki, who liked to sneak out of Asgard for a few tankards with the mortals on a weekend, had handed the Adiaphorists a gift-wrapped basket of mill grist when he had spent an entire drunken evening loudly complaining of his erectile dysfunction problems. Or, as he delicately put it, 'My lightning rod has lost its lightning. Matter of fact, it's lost its rod too.'

After this, the G.o.ds who were more brain than brawn were advised to keep their mouths shut and their hammers swinging when they were abroad in the Universe, because a pulverized asteroid says more than words can ever say.

And when I crush these Vogon guys, thought Thor, that's going to be a picture that no fancypants talkie person will be able to spin into a bad thing. that's going to be a picture that no fancypants talkie person will be able to spin into a bad thing.

Then Thor had another thought: Unless someone, somewhere, actually likes Vogons Unless someone, somewhere, actually likes Vogons.

Before he could consider the ramifications of this and their possible effects on his celebrity rating, the first cl.u.s.ter of missiles was upon him and they looked a lot like horses.

The Business End Business End Constant Mown was falling to pieces, but not so as you'd notice. On the outside he was huffing and drooling just as much as the rest of the crew.

'G.o.d status?' demanded Jeltz.

'What?'

'Pardon me?'

'What, sir?'

Jeltz's eyelids fluttered, as did the loose flaps of flesh between his nostrils. 'What is the status of the G.o.d?'

Mown forced his eyes to stop googling in their sockets and focus on the readouts in front of him.

'Rising, fast. Coming up to meet us, Prostetnic.'

'Excellent. Finally a legitimate chance to roll out the QUEST.'

Generally Mown loved a good acronym, but today every letter may as well be D for desperation. Also death, and more than likely d.a.m.nation.

'Go on, son. I know you're dying to know.'

'I'd like to know!' said the gunner brightly.

'QUEST stands for Quite Unwieldy Experimental Sublimation Torpedo.'

Mown did not think that having the word 'experimental' in a weapon's name was very encouraging.

Mown managed to fish an idea from the mire of his despair.

They were about to kill a G.o.d. A G.o.d.

'Prostetnic, sir. Don't we have to issue a verbal declaration of intent?'

'The Earthlings have had their declaration. Just because these stragglers weren't around to hear it doesn't mean I have to waste valuable Vog seconds issuing it again.'

'But the immortal, sir. The special directive on Extraordinary Encounters states that communication should be attempted before firing upon an immortal.'

Jeltz was pleased with the challenge. You had to trounce these young pups when they threw down the by-the-book gauntlet.

That is what they will call me, he realized and felt instantly lighter. By-the-Book Jeltz. Perfect By-the-Book Jeltz. Perfect.

'But this G.o.d is an aggressor,' he declared. 'Which negates the special directive.'

Inside, Mown quailed, but he forced himself to nod appreciatively.

'Of course. Well spotted, Prostetnic.'

'Well challenged, Constant,' acknowledged Jeltz graciously, and then, over his shoulder, 'Gunner, plot me a solution for the QUEST.'

'It might be difficult, sir,' admitted the gunner. 'I don't know what this being is made of, but the laser slides right off him.'

Jeltz s.h.i.+fted in his chair. 'No, no. Target the Earthlings. Let's see how much this G.o.d loves his people.'

Smart, thought Mown miserably. Very smart Very smart.

Thor was having the time of his life. The horse missiles thundered towards the planet's surface in tight bunches, with horsy sound effects and everything.

Thor whinnied aloud, then thought Zark, satellite cameras Zark, satellite cameras and clamped his mouth shut. and clamped his mouth shut.

Harrrummphhh, he thought, feeling a little subversive.

He switched tracks from 'Let's Get Hammered' to the cla.s.sic instrumental piece 'Gathering of the Vindleswoshen', broadcasting to every network within Mjollnir's range. Thor had always liked the 'Vindleswoshen' for battle scenarios, though lately its effect had been diluted somewhat when a carbonated drinks company had used it as backing music for their 'guy sun-surfing while drinking a pouch of Bipzo Blaster while seducing a gaggle of groupies' advert.

A lot of the younger G.o.ds liked to use targeting software when they were facing down a bunch of missiles, just let the computer do all the work for them. But Thor liked to conduct his business the old-fas.h.i.+oned way.

Nothing makes an impression on mortals like a bit of muscle and sinew, Odin liked to say. Break all you can break Break all you can break.

Listening to Odin speechifying could be about as much fun as a sword in the shank, but occasionally he came up with a worthy desideratum.

Break all you can break, thought Thor and swung Mjollnir in a wide arc, peeling off to starboard and hitting the first bunch of missiles from below.

Wow. Those are some good holograms.

The horses thundered towards the surface of Nano, tossing their heads and even kicking up dust. Inside their transparent hides the red eye and steel glint of imminent death by nuclear fission was vaguely visible.

Thor went among them with incalescent eagerness, smas.h.i.+ng their guidance systems with his bare fingers, delivering one ma.s.sive rec.u.mbentibus after another, making shards of the casings. The torpedoes were s.h.i.+fting at ma.s.sive speeds, but for the Asgardian they may as well have been sugar pears hanging from the sky on straw twine. He zipped among them, trademark thunderclap booming in his wake, excising detonators with sharp chops of his free hand. The horses froze, flickered, then dissipated, their pixels falling apart like electronic snowflakes.

Thor heard the fizzle of a detonation inside one warhead and he stuffed it into his belly, absorbing the nuclear blast, feeding his mitochondria, growing larger. From the ground it seemed as though Thor had swallowed the sun. The entire planet juddered and crepuscular rays flashed from between the G.o.d's square teeth.

Nano Hillman was impressed. 'Now that's a f.e.c.kin' G.o.d. None of your "dead but dreaming" s.h.i.+te with this fella.'

Zaphod was beginning to think he'd sold Thor a little cheap. 'I think we should talk about some sort of bonus system. I mean, come on, Hillers, those are big torpedoes.'

Hillman didn't even look at him. 'One: don't call me Hillers. My Na grandmother used to call me Hillers and you and a thousand like you wouldn't be fit to dip a soldier in her boiled egg. And two: bonus me a.r.s.e.'

The Business End Business End Jeltz held one finger aloft, holding the crew enthralled, mesmerizing them.

I could break Daddy's finger, thought Mown with suicidal desperation. Then stuff something in his mouth, one of my legs maybe. How then could he give the order? Then stuff something in his mouth, one of my legs maybe. How then could he give the order?

Daddy would chew off my leg, he realized. Then write the order on the screen in blood Then write the order on the screen in blood.

The finger wavered to a collective rattled intake of breath.

Down went the digit. The order was given.

'Kill that G.o.d,' said Jeltz phlegmatically.

Now Mown's finger went up, pointing at the for'ard camera display.

'I think that's Thor, sir. The The Thor. Are you sure you want to...' Thor. Are you sure you want to...'

'Kill that G.o.d,' repeated Prostetnic Jeltz, grinding out the words.

The gunner span a ratchet three times, then honked down a voice tube. 'QUEST away. G.o.d will soon be dead, sir,' he said.

Nano Ford Prefect had managed to hack on to several Galact-O-Map Sub-Etha sites and was watching the big blow-up from a dozen angles on his. .h.i.tchhiker's Guide Hitchhiker's Guide screen. screen.

'My bookie is giving me ten to one on the Vogons,' he told Arthur. 'I'm putting a few thousand on old Red Beard.' He shrugged. 'I might as well. If I win, I win big. If I lose, then none of you will be around to listen to me moaning.'

'You don't have a bomb-proof towel, I suppose?' said Arthur.

'Sure, I have a bomb-proof towel and a matter-converting pillow case.'