And Another Thing... by Eoin Colfer
‘Babel fish?’ said the alien in cultured, but slightly testy tones. ‘Please tell me Babel fish.’
Zaphod threw his hands in the air. ‘Babel fish all round.’
‘Oh, thank Zarquon,’ said the alien, stepping inside. ‘Honestly, if I had to go through one more room full of grunts and blank stares… What is it with people? Just buy a dozen fish and let them breed.’
‘People are so cheap,’ agreed Zaphod.
The alien stopped in his tracks. ‘What? No. It couldn’t be?’
Zaphod flicked back a sheaf of hair. ‘Yes it is, baby.’
‘Zaphod Beeblebrox? Galactic President Beeblebrox?’
‘Alive and procreating, sir.’
‘I do not believe it. Well, this is a turn-up for the files. You pull over in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the Western Spiral Arm of the Galaxy and who do you find bobbing around in the atmosphere but…’
‘Zaphod Beeblebrox,’ completed Arthur, eager to move things along. ‘Listen, I hate to be a worry-wart, but those death rays are getting awfully close. That big one in particular.’
The green alien ignored him. ‘Mr President. I’ve wanted to say something to you for a very long time. I’ve prepared something. Can you spare a second? You would really be doing me a favour.’
Zaphod took a step back, just in case the alien could not see every inch of him.
Guide Note: Technically, there were no aliens on the ship, just space travellers. As soon as the ‘alien’s’ identity is revealed we can abandon that classification.
‘Of course you may say a few words. My colleagues would be honoured. I am naturally too important to feel honoured, but I would be mildly amused.’
The alien bowed slightly, reached into his suit jacket for a wafer computer, located a text file and cleared his throat.
‘You, Mr President…’ he began.
‘Yes, proceed.’
‘You, Mr President…’
‘Old news, move on.’
‘You, Mr President, are the most philosophunculistic, moronic, steatopygic excuse for a politician that it has ever been my good fortune to not vote for, and if I thought for one second that this crappy Universe deserved any better, then I would pay, out of my own pocket, you understand, to have you assassinated.’
Zaphod half caught the last insulting term. ‘Steato–what?’
‘Steatopygic. Fat arsed.’
‘Fat arsed!’ gasped Zaphod, pawing at his own lips. ‘Fat arsed?’
Arthur’s memories were still coming back, so it took him a second even with such well-phrased stimuli.
‘I know you. You’re the guy with the insults.’
The alien took a photo of Arthur with his computer, then searched for a match in his files.
‘Ah, yes. Arthur Philip Dent. Jerk and complete arsehole. I’ve done you already, my records tell me.’
Zaphod rested his hands on his knees. ‘Fat arsed. I feel faint.’
Guide Note: This ‘alien’, it can now be revealed, was Wowbagger the Infinitely Prolonged, who became immortal due to an accident involving a particle accelerator and an unwillingness to sacrifice two of his elastic bands. It must be pointed out that elastic bands held a special significance to Wowbagger as, in his culture, elastic bands are religious symbols representing the circuitous and elastic nature of the god Pollyphill-Ah. After his accident, the Arch Promonate of the Church of C&E proclaimed that Wowbagger’s newfound immortality was a definite sign to the faithful. Wowbagger proclaimed that it was a definite pain in the arse and it had put him right off elastic bands. After several millennia wallowing in sulky boredom, Wowbagger set himself the challenge of visiting every occupied world in the Universe to sample their indigenous beers. This was the beginning of what historians call his amber period, during which Wowbagger put on a lot of weight and discovered a talent for insulting people. One morning, Wowbagger realized, after his morning retch, that he actually enjoyed insultingpeople more than drinking beer, and so decided to switch challenges in mid-stream. His new task, he determined, would be to insult every single sentient being in the Universe in alphabetical order. Because Wowbagger was such a good-looking guy, and his spaceship had such distinctive lines, the media soon got wind of his quest, and Wowbagger would land on a planet to discover the entire population lined up, in alphabetical order, screaming to be insulted, which kind of took the good out of it for him.
‘You came through the death-ray lattice?’ asked Arthur urgently. ‘In your ship?’
Wowbagger shrugged. ‘Of course. My ship is made of dark matter and powered by dark energy. These Grebulons operate with mere baryonic materials. They can’t understand my ship, never mind stop it.’
‘Can you shut them down? The beams?’
Wowbagger pocketed his wafer computer. ‘No. They are loose in real space. The Earth is doomed, which is a pity, as there are many people left to insult on your planet. But at least I got Beeblebrox, eh? Out of order, true, but you make exceptions for his calibre of idiot. So, not a total disaster of a day.’ Wowbagger rubbed his hands briskly. ‘Anyway. A pleasure to meet you all; probably won’t be the next time.’
Trillian switched on her reporter’s smile. ‘Mr Wowbagger. Trillian Astra. We met on New Betel. You were kind enough to give me five minutes.’
‘Ah, yes. New Betel. I’d just done the king, hadn’t I? Called him a festering pustule. That was a bit of a low period for me. Everything was festering or septic.’
‘Maybe you read my article in WooHoo?’
‘I never read press. You start believing it, you see. Look at Beeblebrox there. He actually believes that he’s some froody superstar, instead of the philosophunculistic bumpkin that he actually is.’
Zaphod was just pulling himself together from fat arsed when the bumpkin comment socked him in the gut.
‘Bumpkin? Ooooh. What… You monster.’
Trillian persisted. ‘I wonder, could you give us a lift? Just as far as the next planet.’
‘Impossible,’ snapped Wowbagger. ‘I travel through dark space. Mortals are not supposed to see dark space, it affects them.’
‘We’re prepared to take that risk. We wouldn’t be any trouble.’
Wowbagger raised an eyebrow. ‘Beeblebrox wouldn’t be any trouble? I doubt that. He’s a fugitive from someone or other, isn’t he?’
Trillian hoisted Zaphod erect. ‘The President will behave himself. Won’t you, Zaphod?’
Zaphod mumbled something.
‘See? He said will do.’
‘I thought he said kill you.’
Arthur bobbed in front of Zaphod, trying to catch his rolling eyes. ‘You didn’t say that, mate. Did you? No. Because that would be insane, right? Threatening to kill the one person who could save our lives.’
Zaphod drew himself erect, breath growling deep in his throat. ‘He called me a fat-arsed bumpkin. I cannot allow him to live.’
‘Oh, crap,’ said Ford.
Wowbagger’s mood shifted from polite boredom to impolite boredom. ‘Don’t you think people have tried to kill me before? In my line of work, I attract enemies like a flaybooz attracts lint.’
Random sobbed into her fists.
‘I keep track of my pursuers for my own amusement. Currently I am being chased by over a hundred bounty hunters, sixteen government vessels, a few unmanned Smart-O-Missiles and half a dozen wannabe immortals who would love to eat my heart and steal my powers. If only it were that easy. I long for death, I crave it the way this idiot craves publicity. I have been alive long enough to realize that there is no such thing as perfect love. That’s too long.’
‘I could kill you,’ said Zaphod. ‘I’ve got some juice in this Universe. I know people who know stuff. Did you ever go a few rounds with the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast?’
Wowbagger snorted. ‘That old bag of bolts? I hope you can do better than that.’
Arthur cupped his hands around his face and peered though the porthole. The beam was almost up
I probably can’t hear the screams of the dying, either, he thought.
‘Trillian,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I really think it would be rather a good thing if Zaphod stopped talking. Do we have any stun guns?’
Zaphod was only getting started. ‘I can do better. You ever take a shot from a spiderwitch?’
‘I have, actually. I mix them into my cocktails. No adverse effects.’
‘What about a plasma axe? Those things will split your atoms for you.’
‘Not my atoms. I was hit with four of those so-called unshatterable axes by a band of Silastic mercenaries after I called one of their mothers a hurst-toting mawg face. Guess what? They shattered.’
‘I know a guy who can get me six ounces of Consolium. You hold that in your armpit for five minutes and the job is done, baby.’
Wowbagger was losing what modicum of interest he had in the conversation. ‘Consolium is a myth, Beeblebrox. Spare me your fatuous tale-spinning.’
‘I know gods!’ said Zaphod desperately. ‘Other immortals. I bet they could cut you down to size.’
The death ray loomed huge now, causing the ship to vibrate, seeming to slice through space as it passed.
‘Trillian!’ called Arthur.
‘Please, Mr Wowbagger.’
‘You know gods?’ asked the green immortal, reluctantly intrigued. ‘You are actually acquainted with real gods? Class A?’
‘I have Thor’s address right here on my communicator. One word from me and you’re hammered.’
‘Gods have tried to kill me before.’
‘How did that go?’
‘Oh shut up, Beeblebrox.’
‘Never a major god, I’ll bet,’ said Zaphod. ‘Never a class A.’
Wowbagger nodded thoughtfully. ‘No, never a class A. I’ve never had much time for those major supreme beings. Tosspots, every one of them. But surely a blow from Thor’s legendary hammer, Mjöllnir, would be enough to put my lights out. You can arrange this, Beeblebrox?’
‘I’m the only one who can.’
‘It’s true,’ said Ford. ‘Old Red Beard and Zaphod go way back.’
Arthur could see nothing but green.
And so I lose my daughter again. How much heartbreak can one man bear?
Wowbagger pressed a button on his wafer computer. ‘You had better not be spiralling my sinkhole.’
Zaphod hooked a thumb into his sash/fake arm. ‘This is no spoof. You called me a fat-arsed bumpkin. This is a matter of honour.’
Wowbagger spoke tersely into his computer. ‘Extend the shield,’ he said.
A white glow crackled across the porthole and the death ray passed harmlessly over them.
4
Planetary catastrophes are no big deal. They happen all the time. Expanding stars sterilize the surfaces they once nurtured. Asteroids plough into hydrocarbon oceans. Planets wobble a little out of orbit a few light years too close to a black hole and tip over the event horizon. Ravenous quantum beings devour every last drop of energy on their home worlds before turning on each other.
Guide Note: This last was the subject of a reality show broadcast in the Sirius Tau system called Last Behemoth Standing. Twenty-five thousand cameras were dropped into the atmosphere of Levy Wash, a world ravaged by four colossal free-fl ying creatures, and billions of viewers watched them fight it out for world domination. Unfortunately, Pinky, the voters’ favourite Behemoth, jumped free of Levy Wash’s atmosphere and leapfrogged the camera network’s wireless trail back to the star system’s populated cluster. Pinky stripped three worlds down to the mantle before the federation army froze her with liquid hydrogen. Ratings broke all records for the first two planets, but by number three the audience grew jaded and switched to The Cheeky-Chuu Chronicles, a show featuring a small rainbow bird endowed with super powers by a mysterious bird bath.
Related Reading:
The Worst Idea Ever by Gawn F’zing (ex-network president and current federal penitentiary inmate)
Life Beyond the Beak by Big J Jarood (ex-child star)
Arthur Dent watched his world die for the last time. The porthole frame made the whole event look like it was happening on TV; an early episode of Doctor Who, perhaps, when the special effects were charming but not so sophisticated.
I can almost see the wires, thought Arthur.
The death rays were the fat tubular kind favoured by late-twentieth-century television animators and the Earth itself looked like a football covered in papier mâché.
But it is real. Horribly so.
The rays converged on the planet, peeling it like a blue-green apple. Arthur was sure that he saw New Zealand curl away from the Antipodes, a thousand-mile-long tail of steam and debris flowing behind it.
I miss my beach, thought Arthur. I miss not knowing anything for certain.
Soon the planet was engulfed in a roiling cloud of steam and ashes. The death rays converged into a point like the tip of a pencil and, with one mighty push, skewered the unfortunate Earth utterly, rending her from pole to pole.
Not real, thought Arthur, hiding behind his fingers. Not real.
I brought that planet to the stars, thought Random Dent, her eyes blurred with tears. I built the bridges that cured cancer, made poverty history, gave Goldflake their first galactic number-one single. Now it’s all gone. All those people. All that future. My little Fertle.
Trillian closed her eyes. She had seen enough devastation throughout her career to last at least one lifetime. Even Wowbagger’s. A lot of the destruction hadn’t been real, but that didn’t mean she could forget having seen it.
And what did I achieve? With all that Galaxy-trotting reportage? Who was saved or helped?
Nobody.
And who was hurt and lost?
I was. And my daughter.
But even as she thought this, Trillian Astra felt a little itch in her hand where a microphone used to be.
Someone should be covering this, said a tiny, persistent voice inside her. The people need to know.
Vogon Bureaucruiser Class Hyperspace Ship, the Business End
The Vogons were not bad people as such. It was true to say that nobody liked them, and that their inter-personal skills didn’t extend much beyond trying not to spit on the person they were talking to, but they weren’t bad. That is, they would not blast your planet into atoms without the proper paperwork. With the proper paperwork, however, they would travel to the end of the Universe, and to as many parallel ones as necessary, to see the job done. And, to be fair, most of them couldn’t care less if they did spit all over the person they were talking to.
Guide Note: There is actually a documented case of a tiny Jatravartid being drowned during a conversation with a Vogon clerk. The Jatravartid had the temerity to present a petition and claim it was a legal document. During the ensuing coughing fit, the Jatravartid was first stunned by a semi-solid phlegmbule and then quickly submerged.
Related Reading:
Twenty Thousand Games to Play in a Vogon Queue by Magyar Ohnfhunn (written in a Vogon queue)
TTGTPIAVQ II by Magyar Ohnfhunn (written towards the head of the queue)
and
All Vogons are Bastards and Must Die by Magyar Ohnfhunn (written just after the hatch came down on his fingers)
The Vogons are unusual as a race because they exhibit the generic characteristics of doggedness, lack of compassion and a very good ear for exceedingly bad poetry. All Vogons are like this and there are no documented exceptions.
Guide Note: There are rumours of the existence of an underground group of Vogons on an outer Brantisvogon world who call themselves Tru-Heart Vogs. They like to sit in a circle and just say things without first submitting paperwork.
Physically, Vogons are not attractive creatures. If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, then the beholder won’t be a Vogon, because even Vogons know how ugly they are. A Vogon head resembles
So if all Vogons are repulsive, bureaucratic sadists, how does one get ahead in their society? It is a matter of being more Vogon-ish than the rest. The Vogons have a word for it. When one of their number distinguishes himself in the ruthless prosecution of his orders, when the man hours and body count are ridiculously disproportionate to the importance of the task, when a Vogon forges ahead where others would have been discouraged by Plural zones, hordes of Silastic Armorfiends or the tears of widows, that Vogon is spoken of in the halls of power as having kroompst.
As in: ‘That Prostetnic Vogon Bierdz, you see what he did to that orphanage? Barely a stick remains. That boy has real kroompst.’
‘Yeah. He’s a kroompster. He’s got kroompst coming out his krimpter.’
Whenever a senior Vogon uses the term kroompst, all others present must respond by throwing up both arms and echoing the word with much enthusiasm and spittle.
The term kroompst could have been invented for Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz. In his distinguished career as Fleet Commander, he had never once failed to complete his assigned duties. When the inhabitants of Rigannon V objected to their world being nudged into a wider orbit, with their groundless claims of planet death because of the instantaneous ice age that would surely follow, who had set off a colourful fireworks display in their Aurora Borealis to distract the Rigannonons from the buffer ships coming in from the south? Jeltz, of course. And when the tiny Blue Belle Tweeters had neglected to tick either the yes or no box on the final page in the third volume of their objection to planning permission submission, who was it who had razed their forest habitat in spite of the protestors tied to the trees? Once again, it was Jeltz. And now, in his finest hour, he had with only a single ship at his disposal arranged for all Earths in all parallel Universes to be destroyed by Grebulon death rays, because the last thing interstellar travellers wanted was surprise planets popping out of Plural zones every third trip.