And Another Thing... Part 21

'Not so fast,' said the head, which had now appeared, magnified, on the bathroom door. 'It takes more than disconnecting to cut me off, Hillman Hunter.'

Hillman dropped his trousers in shock, back-pedalling on to the toilet.

'What in the name of all that's sacred?' he gasped. 'How did you do that?'

The head scoffed. 'This? You call this doing something? Here I am ready to hand you the ultimate power trip, and you think throwing a projection on a flat surface with a metal frame is doing something? Hillman, my friend, you are an ignorant pormwrangler. No offence.'

Hillman hadn't been taking offence, until he heard the words 'no offence'. A thought occurred to him.

'Are you from Nano? Is that it? Was I b.l.o.o.d.y right all the time?' Hillman had been selling the Nano line for so long that sometimes he half sold himself.

The head laughed so hard that he was forced to breathe into a paper bag.

'No, you weren't right, stupid monkey. There is no planet Nano.' And then his mouth twitched in a sly grin. 'Not yet, there isn't.'

'Go on,' said Hillman, his nose for a deal completely overriding his profound scepticism.

'I have been looking for an investment on your planet, which won't be around for long, by the way. The Sub-Etha spat out this little compound, and it seems to me that all your elderly rich people would fork over every gold coin they possessed if someone could actually take them to Nano before the Earth explodes. And once they arrived at the mythical Nano, then they would surely need a supreme leader.'

Supreme leader, thought Hillman, and then: This is such a crock of cow s.h.i.te This is such a crock of cow s.h.i.te.

Suddenly his Nano's voice whispered to him, as it often did when his life was at an important crossroads: Take heed, Hillers. This fool can do more for you than he knows. The apoxy-lips is coming and it's time to be off this planet Take heed, Hillers. This fool can do more for you than he knows. The apoxy-lips is coming and it's time to be off this planet.

I knew there was an x, thought Hillman. Aloud, he said: 'It would take one bejaysus of a convincing argument for this scam to work.'

The face's grin grew a couple of incisors wider. 'How about a big s.p.a.ceship just appearing out of thin air? Do you think that would persuade the other monkeys?'

Hillman let the monkey comment pa.s.s; this was business, after all. 'Got any robots?'

'I can do better than that,' said Zaphod Beeblebrox, for of course it was he. 'I can get you a floating head.'

Nano So now Hillman Hunter was the big boss on the planetoid, presiding over eighty-seven elderly rich people and their staff. He was wealthy and powerful, but never seemed to have a minute to himself to enjoy it. Retired rich folk, he was quickly finding out, were the most demanding people in the Galaxy. Nothing was ever good enough or ready fast enough. It didn't help that the Magrathean planet builders were dawdling over the snag list, making a big fuss over every detail as if no one had told them that the houses would need roofs or floors.

'You want windows too?' the foreman had said, eyebrows almost taking flight in shock. 'You should've said that six months ago. My boys would've put them in had we only known. If you want windows now we have to hold off on the plumbers, who are already on site by the way. And that won't please the painters, who are in after the plumbers. And some of the painters are married to the plumbers, which will cause tension in the household. And we're short on workplace ma.s.seuses at the moment, so there's going to be some nasty lactic acid build-up in some of my boys' shoulders. At the end of the day, it's your money and your decision. All I'm saying is that you should have said something earlier when it was convenient, instead of throwing the entire project into financial freefall with your wild demands.'

Guide Note: In all of recorded history, there is only one confirmed instance of a builder acceding to a change in the plans without lapsing into histrionics. This happened in the case of Mr Carmen Ghettim, a Betelgeusean auto dealer who sent plan revisions back in time to inform the builder of the changes before the project started. It should be pointed out that Mr Ghettim had the note delivered by a particularly vicious lantern-jawed terrier.

When he wasn't negotiating with builders, Hillman spent his time trying to find a G.o.d suitable to rule the planet, a task which was not proving as enjoyable as he had envisaged. Hillman had imagined himself engaging in philosophical conversations on the nature of happiness, or being wowed by awesome displays of G.o.dly power. Instead he had been forced to grind his way through a sludge of padded resumes in which demi-G.o.ds tried to make themselves sound a lot more significant than they actually were.

Hillman quickly realized that when a G.o.d put in a line on page two about taking a sabbatical for divine contemplation, that actually meant that he had been unemployed for the past ten thousand years. When a G.o.d claimed to have gradual meteorological influence, it simply meant that he looked up the forecast and then claimed to be responsible for whatever weather happened. And if a G.o.d was making a big deal out of his omnipresence, there was a very good chance that he had a twin brother floating around somewhere.

Dross, thought Hillman dolefully. Dross and steamers. Not one nugget of quality. Dross and steamers. Not one nugget of quality.

He was just consigning the latest batch of applications to his desk incinerator when Buff Orpington stuck his head around the door.

'Yep, Buff. Are we set?'

Buff's jowly face wobbled. 'All ready, Hillman. We're of a mind to kick some a.s.s.'

Hillman's mood was not improved by these fighting words.

Kick some a.s.s? Most of the colonists can barely move faster than a slow jog. Any a.s.ses they're going to kick would have to be stationary, soft and low-slung.

The a.s.ses in question were the drooping b.u.t.tocks of Nano's western colonists, who had kidnapped Cong's French chef for religious reasons, the reason being that they were Tyromancers who firmly believed in divination through the medium of semi-congealed cheese, and Jean Claude's signature dish was a heavenly four-cheese quiche with capers and smoked salmon. The Tyromancers were fine with the capers and salmon, but had decided that the cheesy filling was heresy.

The Magratheans warned me things like this might happen, Hillman realized dolefully. Moving planet is the most traumatic thing that can happen to a being, other than being slathered in barbecue sauce and then dropped into a pit with the Bugblatter Beast of Traal, whatever that is. People become fanatical about what they left behind. This Tyromancy started out as a bit of a hobby on Earth but has become a huge obsession on Nano. Aseed Preflux has managed to convert his entire settlement. Moving planet is the most traumatic thing that can happen to a being, other than being slathered in barbecue sauce and then dropped into a pit with the Bugblatter Beast of Traal, whatever that is. People become fanatical about what they left behind. This Tyromancy started out as a bit of a hobby on Earth but has become a huge obsession on Nano. Aseed Preflux has managed to convert his entire settlement.

Hillman followed Buff outside and it occurred to him that from the rear Buff looked like a grizzly bear squashed into plaid trousers and a windbreaker; a stout hairball of a man whose arm hair actually swished in the wind.

In the town square, the troops were lined up ready for inspection, and the line was even worse than Hillman had imagined. There were no staff left, not a single one.

He rounded on Buff Orpington. 'Where are the personal trainers?'

'Gone.'

'Not Lewis?'

'All of them.'

'And the beauty therapists?'

'We haven't seen a beauty therapist for nearly a week. My Cristelle hasn't had a manicure in ten days. She's at her wits' end.'

Hillman was shocked. 'Ten days! That's barbaric. Why didn't someone tell me?'

'You were busy with the interviews. This place is falling apart, Hillman. We have barely half a dozen chefs left for the entire town. People are being forced to ' Buff took a deep breath to steady himself 'cook for themselves.'

Hillman's Irish temper flared. 'We did not pay several enormous fortunes to cook for ourselves. What about contracts? These people all signed contracts.'

Buckeye Brown, a Texan oilman, piped up from the line: 'My guy, Kiko, told me to stick my contract where the sun don't shine. He said that this is a new world and we should all be equal. He said we were treating the servants like slaves.'

Hillman was appalled. This was what happened without a divinely ordained chain of command.

'This has got to end. First we rebuff the invaders, then we get our staff back from the wild for their own good. How can young, fit people with no business skills hope to survive on this verdant new world, bejaysus?' The 'bejaysus' was almost an afterthought. Hillman was so agitated that he nearly forgot who he was pretending to be.

Buckeye glanced gloomily at the toes of his Ferragamo alligator moccasins, which he was almost certain would scuff in the wild. 'You want us to go into the wild? My daddy told me about it, but I never done been there.'

You never done been to school neither, thought Hillman. 'We're not going into the wild, Mr Brown. Sure, that's a game for the young people. No, we'll tempt those rascals back with Premium Plus Apartments.'

Buff was horrified. 'Not lagoon view Premium Plus?'

'If necessary.'

'With twenty-four-hour concierge service?'

'I doubt it. The concierge's team jumped ship a month ago. We'll have to give the concierges apartments. Maybe gym memberships too.'

'But the concierges can't service themselves,' wailed Buff. 'That's just insanity. Has the world gone mad entirely?'

Like all good salesmen, Hillman was in quick with the solution. 'Robots, laddie. We'll get robots. I hear the Sirius Corporation has service androids with genuine people personalities. It's perfect, what could go wrong?'

'I suppose that might work,' said Buff, mollified. 'Or maybe we could import aliens who actually enjoy labouring in the sun. They could pay us. You could look it up on your Hitchhiker Hitchhiker book.' book.'

'I will do that, as soon as we send these jokers packing.'

Hillman looked around John Wayne Square and wondered how things had gone wrong so quickly. Six months ago this plaza had been a stunning centrepiece for their new society and now there were weeds sprouting through the flagstones and strange blue bugs eating holes in the gla.s.s.

We need a G.o.d. And fast.

Buckeye Brown cleared his throat. 'How do we even know the Tyromancers will mount an offensive today today?'

Buff addressed that one, happy to have solid information to relay. He spread his legs, bouncing slightly on the b.a.l.l.s of his heels as though he were about to heft a barbell. 'It's the only day they can come. Monday through Wednesday is cheese-making. Friday is the actual reading of the cheese. Sat.u.r.day and Sunday are for contemplation of the message in the cheese. Thursday is the only day when secular activities are permitted.'

'And we know this how?'

'Oh, Aseed subbed over a mail. In case any of us want to join up. Nice presentation, I have to say. A lot of floating cheese icons. Apparently, if we don't join up, then we bring Ed.a.m.nation on the entire planet.'

Hillman's jaw flapped for a moment, then: 'Ed.a.m.nation? You're not serious.'

Buff grinned. 'Serious as a dry well, Hillman.' He pulled a crumpled missal from his pocket. 'Ah... here it is: "The day of Ed.a.m.nation shall be visited upon the non-believers in a huge and terrifying form, possibly cheese-related, but any huge and terrifying form can be understood to have emanated from the Cheese."'

Hillman was getting pretty cheesed-off with the word 'cheese'. 'Huge and terrifying, bejaysus. Who writes this junk?'

'Aseed does. The First Gospel of Tyromancy, he's calling it.'

'That jumped-up little ginger fartbollix,' swore Hillman. 'Who does he think he is?'

This question brought forth a determined round of not answering from the a.s.sembled troops, as Aseed was pretty much identical to Hillman, apart from some styling and sartorial issues. And it appeared that Hillman was the only one who didn't recognize this.

Luckily they were spared any embarra.s.sment as Buff's phone jingled in his pocket.

'Oh, my phone. What a pity I was just going to answer that question about who Aseed thinks he is, but now my phone is ringing so I better answer that and not actually answer the question. A real shame.'

He fumbled the cell phone from his pocket and slid it open. 'Yeah? You sure? Okay. We're on the way.' Buff closed his phone then held it aloft with great melodrama. 'The Tyromancers approach.'

'What? Really? Who was that?'

'It was Silkie. She's on lookout from the coffee shop in Book Barn.'

Book Barn was the mall's highest building, with a gla.s.s-walled coffee shop on the third floor. From there, a lookout could keep an eye on the main road while browsing the latest releases. Silkie Bantam usually volunteered for the lookout's job because she was an avid horror book fan and could get through a few ghoulish chapters while she watched.

'How did she sound?'

'p.i.s.sed off. She had to make her own coffee.'

Hillman felt everything slipping away from him. The Book Barn people too The Book Barn people too. This Tyromancer squabble had to end today.

'Righto, me laddies,' he said, stamping a foot to pump himself up. 'How are we for weapons?'

This was Buff's domain. He'd been quite the Kirk Douglas fan back on Earth and so had been put in charge of the weaponry.

'Not too bad,' he said, leading the ragtag brigade to the foot of the plaza's Sean the Boxer statue. Their tools of battle were laid out on the plinth.

'It's mostly gardening stuff,' admitted Buff. 'This strimmer has nice weight to it and could give a person a nasty cut. We have a couple of rakes for poking and tripping, that kind of thing. I myself provided this nine iron not my premium club, obviously, but it's got a good swing. Pretty dangerous, in the right hands.'

Even though he himself had signed the agreement forbidding the transport of actual mechanical weapons from Earth, Hillman had hoped for a slightly more robust a.r.s.enal.

'This is great!' he said with hollow enthusiasm. 'Let's show these f.e.c.kers how the men of Cong can fight.' He selected the strimmer and was about to press the starter b.u.t.ton when Buff tapped his elbow.

'Better hold off on that until we need it. The charge is pretty low.'

'I see.'

'Usually Jose does all that, but he ran off with one of your maids.'

'Right. Fine. Well, we can work with what we have.'

They strolled in a loose group towards the main gate. The compound had been designed along the lines of the original Innisfree, with a mall added in on the far side of the lagoon. There were pootle-tink birds standing in the shallow waters, some reading but most working on their tans and bemoaning the fact that a bird's drive disappeared so quickly when someone handed it a lovely crocogator-free lagoon.

Guide Note: The pootle-tink birds have long been victims of their own attractiveness, that and relentless inbreeding. The pootle-tinks were, for centuries, respected throughout the Galaxy as weavers of fine feather tapestries, until a certain Galactic Council trade amba.s.sador proclaimed their plumage to be exquisitely beautiful and a must for all fashionable lagoons. This effectively spelled the end for the pootle-tink way of life as the culture vultures moved in and began to aggressively breed and cull the pootle-tinks in the quest for the perfect plumage, which could then be shipped across the Galaxy to brighten some diplomat's water feature. The pootle-tinks did not put up much of a fight as they are vain creatures who enjoy being stared at. Culture vultures, on the other hand, do not have a narcissistic feather in their wings and like to pa.s.s the time s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g over other species then spending their profits on booze and sugary desserts. 'We are like opposite ends of the same spectrum,' a culture vulture once remarked to a pootle-tink, to which the pootle-tink replied: 'Yes, so long as one end of the spectrum is made of c.r.a.p and that's the end you're at.'

'I have a thesis due in two months,' one pootle-tink lisped to a friend. 'And I haven't even started my research.'

Another spotted Buff on the bridge. 'Hey, hey, Buffy. How's the swing coming?'

'Not bad, Perko. Not too bad at all. You finished writing that book yet?'

Perko rolled his eyes. 'It's all in my head, Buff. I just need to park my backside on a chair and start typing, you know what I mean?'

'I know exactly what you mean,' said Buff, who had no idea what the bird was talking about, but was in a mood for positive statements.

The fighting men of Cong followed Hillman across the asphalt to the main gate, which their leader was forced to crank open with a winch.

'One of us should have learned the gate code,' huffed Hillman as he laboured. 'This is ridiculous. The Magratheans have subbed over the back-up codes, but there are hundreds of them. Electronic gates, cash registers, Sub-Etha vision. Nothing works without the codes.'

Once the gate was open enough to slip through, the men stood at the checkpoint and gazed across the fuzzy humps of purple gra.s.s to the tropical forest that divided the two compounds. The tree branches criss-crossed densely and hung heavy with fruit and wildlife, apart from a half-elliptic cylinder-shaped tunnel that had been laser bored through to the other side.

Hillman took out his phone and zoomed in on the tunnel mouth.

'I see the misguided f.e.c.kers,' he snorted. 'Coming over on golf carts. Jaysus, it's hardly the Light Brigade now, is it?'

The a.s.sembled band laughed heartily as they had seen warriors doing in war movies, then used their phones to zoom in on the approaching convoy.

'I count ten,' said Buckeye, who had the most expensive phone with the best lens. 'There are only eight of us.'

'Yes, but we're on top of a hill,' countered Hillman.

'So?'