Part 12 (1/2)

Cthulhu was ready for that one; he had been practising his answer for that very question with Hastur the Unspeakable only the previous night.

'Oh, hands-on, absolutely,' he said, leaning forward to make clear eye contact as Hastur had advised. 'The days of blind faith are over. People need to know who is blighting their crops or demanding virgin sacrifice. And now I am going to look away, but only because prolonged eye contact will drive you insane.'

Hillman shook the sudden torpor from his head. 'Good. Good. Quite a stare you have there, Mr Cthulhu. Handy weapon to have in the a.r.s.enal.'

Cthulhu accepted the compliment with a flap of one prodigious tentacle.

'Let's move on, shall we? Where do you stand on the whole Babel fish argument? Proof denies faith and so forth.'

'My subjects will have proof and faith,' rasped Cthulhu agitatedly. 'I will bind them to slavery and trample the weak underfoot.'

'I seem to have hit a nerve there,' chuckled Hillman. 'Again, I think you're on the right track maybe you might want to pull back a little on the slavery and the trampling. We have quite a lot of weak people here but they are big supporters of the church, whatever church we eventually pledge to. Money builds temples, or as my Nano used to say many mickles make a muckle.'

'Mickles?' said Cthulhu, confused, and it is not easy to confuse a Great Old One.

Hillman scratched his chin. 'I never knew what a muckle was, or a mickle, for that matter. But it takes many of one to make the other, if you see what I mean.'

'Hmmm,' said Cthulhu.

'So. An old standard next. Presuming your application is successful, where do you see yourself in five years' time?'

Cthulhu brightened. Thank you, Hastur Thank you, Hastur, he beamed into s.p.a.ce.

'In five years I will have razed this planet, eaten its young and stacked your skulls high in my honour.' He sat back, satisfied. Succinct and informative, a textbook answer.

A spluttering cough blurted from Hillman's lips. 'Skull stacking! Come on, Mr Cthulhu. Really? Do you think that's what G.o.ds do today? These are interstellar times we've got here. s.p.a.ce travel, time travel. What we need on Nano is what I like to call an Old Testament G.o.d. Strict, sure. Vengeful, fantastic. But indiscriminate eating of young? Those days are gone.'

'Shows what you know,' muttered Cthulhu, crossing his legs.

Hillman tapped the resume. 'I have something highlighted here. Under current status it reads: ”dead but dreaming”. Could you elaborate on that? Are you dead, sir?'

'It could be said that I'm dead,' admitted the oozing anthropoid.

'You don't seem dead.'

'Ah, yes, but this tiny form is not me.' Cthulhu poked his body as if he were not familiar with its workings. 'This is my dream of me made substantial by dark and terrible forces. I wear this form until my true self is called back to service. My true self is quite a bit bigger.'

'Sorry to harp on about this, but you are dead?'

'For the moment. Yes. I would have to say yes.'

'But G.o.ds cannot die. That's the whole point.'

Cthulhu wished Hastur could be with him. Hastur was always quick with the comebacks.

'Well... That's true. But I suppose, technically and I stress that technically technically I am not actually a G.o.d. I am a Great Old One. A demi-G.o.d, you might say.' I am not actually a G.o.d. I am a Great Old One. A demi-G.o.d, you might say.'

Hillman closed the file. 'Oh,' he said. 'I see.'

'It's more or less the same thing,' persisted Cthulhu. 'I do all the same things: apparitions, impregnating, you name it. I have cards for the lounges in Asgard and Olympus. Gold cards.'

'These things are all well and good, but...'

'Don't bother,' said Cthulhu disgustedly, gel splattering the desk. 'You people are all the same. Never give the little guy a chance.'

'It's not that, sir. I have nothing against your kind, but the advertis.e.m.e.nt did specifically say grade-A G.o.d. I'm sure you can do lots of things, but we're looking for someone with a bit of substance. Someone who's in it for the long haul. Certainly not someone who can die.'

Cthulhu rose from his chair in a furious rage. 'I will crack open your skull,' he thundered. 'I will visit pestilence on your land.' But he was not needed and was already fading. 'I will tear your head from your torso and drink your...'

And then he was gone, leaving nothing behind but the smell of a harbour at low tide.

Drink my what? wondered Hillman Hunter, scribbling the words NO CALLBACK in highlighter on the cover of Cthulhu's resume. wondered Hillman Hunter, scribbling the words NO CALLBACK in highlighter on the cover of Cthulhu's resume.

Blood probably. Unless it was my cerebrospinal fluid.

He leaned back in his chair and turned on the back ma.s.sager. Hillman was a positive kind of guy, always willing to look on the bright side, but this hunt for a G.o.d was getting depressing. Not one of the interviewees had met his standards. Excello, the robot G.o.d. Vladirski, the vampire lord. Hecate had a few useful skills, but she was female. G.o.ddess of Nano? Not b.l.o.o.d.y likely.

And as if the G.o.d-hunt wasn't trouble enough, he had to deal with all the strife from the other colony. Killing people over cheese, did you ever hear anything more ludicrous? A bit of Cheddar was lovely on some crusty bread, but hardly worth dying for. And there was the problem of the staff, who were deserting the town in droves. Some days Hillman Hunter felt like just staying in bed.

'All you need is a nice cup of tea and a few biscuits!' Hillman said in a squeaky impersonation of his grandmother, a voice he often used to motivate himself. 'Then you'll be grand.'

Even the thought of tea made him feel better. What was an Irishman without tea?

'Get up off your backside, Hillers,' he said in Nano's tones. 'Those people need you.'

It was true. The colonists did need him, especially after the kidnapping of Jean Claude. What Nano needed was a real live G.o.d to thunderbolt a bit of discipline into its residents. But how did you attract a grade-A G.o.d to the unfas.h.i.+onable fringe of the Western Spiral Arm of the Dark Nebula of Soulianis and Rahm? It would take one h.e.l.l of a benefits package, that was for certain.

Hillman took a note of Cthulhu's Sub-Etha address, just in case.

Guide Note: The G.o.ds came into existence a few millionths of a second after the Big Bang, which basically means that they did not create the Universe; rather, the Universe created them. This is a sore subject in the halls of the holy and is totally off-limits around the dinner table. If a journalist has the temerity to broach the topic he could find himself punished in a strange and imaginative way. Most of the G.o.ds have been alive for so long that they have a.s.sembled entire libraries devoted to the topic of strange and unusual punishments. As recently as ten thousand years ago there were seminars on Olympus devoted to the subject. These seminars were discontinued as an increasing number of the minor deities were treating the gathering as an excuse to drink and fornicate, which resulted in a glut of new hybrid G.o.dlings who had no mythology to go home to. While the seminar ran, it handed out a yearly award in the shape of a Spiked Puffer Fish in honour of Loki's famous stroke of turning a s.e.x addict into a puffer fish who would poison anything he tried to embrace. Among the more memorable Puffies awarded was the one given to Heimdall who, in a fit of pique, turned a gang of builders who were overcharging him into the wall that they had refused to complete. Another one went to Dionysus for his punishment of Sir Smoog Nowtall, the Blagulon Kappan actor, who performed the one-man show Playing to the G.o.ds, Playing to the G.o.ds, which was slightly critical of its subject matter. Dionysus, whose area was theatre, was a liberal fellow and would have let the play run had it not been for a scene where he himself was depicted as a flatulent, bingeing fool. So enraged was Dionysus by the scene and the positive notes it garnered which was slightly critical of its subject matter. Dionysus, whose area was theatre, was a liberal fellow and would have let the play run had it not been for a scene where he himself was depicted as a flatulent, bingeing fool. So enraged was Dionysus by the scene and the positive notes it garnered that he condemned Nowtall to an eternity of being the rear end in a pantomime donkey suit where the b.u.m cheeks before him were the heads of his two fiercest critics, forever reciting their most scathing reviews. Cla.s.sic. that he condemned Nowtall to an eternity of being the rear end in a pantomime donkey suit where the b.u.m cheeks before him were the heads of his two fiercest critics, forever reciting their most scathing reviews. Cla.s.sic.

G.o.ds had a great time of it for millions of years, swanning across the sky in their chariots, showing up in different places at the same time, being all-wise and stuff, but then science developed to the point where it could duplicate many of their tricks. Blighting a crop was no longer as big a deal as it used to be. There were virgin births all the time; in fact, many societies preferred virgin births, as they cut out the need for in-laws, and parents didn't have to imagine their children doing anything nasty with strangers. The last straw for G.o.dkind came when Fenrir, the giant son of Loki, tried to impress his dwindling flock by driving his s.p.a.ce cycle into a white hole. The only part of Fenrir intact after the jump was one of his molars, which is now a glowing asteroid orbiting Sagar 7, and can do nothing but influence the tides and communicate vague messages to clairvoyants. The G.o.ds were horrified (all except Odin, as it was foretold that Fenrir would devour him at the time of Ragnarok, so he had a little giggle into his fist) and they retreated to their home worlds, vowing nevermore to consort with mortals (the actual sentence was: 'Mortals, screw 'em,' which does not read as G.o.dly as a sentence containing the words 'vowing', 'nevermore' and 'consort'). So serious were the Aesir about this vow that they surrounded their world, Asgard, with a sh.e.l.l of ice, leaving only one point of access, Bifrost the Rainbow Bridge, which was guarded by the all-seeing G.o.d Heimdall.

Visitors were not encouraged.

In fact, visitors were actively discouraged from attempting to dock by ravenous flesh-eating dragons, soul-sucking siren succubae and Flyting, a scurrilous Norse technique of insulting a person which focussed on genitalia and parentage.

The G.o.ds wanted nothing to do with mortals. Especially investigative journalists, more especially holy people looking for some kind of heavenly reward. But the most unwelcome person in Asgard was Galactic President Zaphod Beeblebrox, and each of the dragons had been given one of his old s.h.i.+rts to sniff. journalists, more especially holy people looking for some kind of heavenly reward. But the most unwelcome person in Asgard was Galactic President Zaphod Beeblebrox, and each of the dragons had been given one of his old s.h.i.+rts to sniff.

The Heart of Gold Heart of Gold The Heart of Gold Heart of Gold flew through the multicoloured and vari-textured s.p.a.ce of everywhere. With the Infinite Improbability Drive engaged, the s.h.i.+p became part of the Universe itself until the coordinates slotted into their tumblers and popped the craft out at the correct destination with the interstellar travel equivalent of a 'ta-dah', scaring the h.e.l.l out of the person parked in the next bay. But until that moment, anything could happen, especially anything that was highly improbable, which of course then made it probable, which rendered it improbable again, repeating ad infinitum. flew through the multicoloured and vari-textured s.p.a.ce of everywhere. With the Infinite Improbability Drive engaged, the s.h.i.+p became part of the Universe itself until the coordinates slotted into their tumblers and popped the craft out at the correct destination with the interstellar travel equivalent of a 'ta-dah', scaring the h.e.l.l out of the person parked in the next bay. But until that moment, anything could happen, especially anything that was highly improbable, which of course then made it probable, which rendered it improbable again, repeating ad infinitum.

Most people preferred to shut their eyes during improbability flights to s.h.i.+eld their psyches from the impossibilities occurring around them, but Zaphod often taped his eyes open so that he wouldn't miss a thing.

During the trip to Asgard, Dionah Carlinton-Housney, one of Zaphod's favourite singer/prost.i.tutes, broke through from the afterlife to sing possibly prophetic lyrics in hysterical falsetto.

'Oh, Zaphod, b-a-a-a-by, the fist is gonna fall.'

Hey, thought Zaphod. My name in a song. Froody My name in a song. Froody.

'Zaphod, my b-a-a-a-by,' sang Dionah. 'You gotta climb that wall.'