Part 13 (2/2)

It hardly seemed like a choice at all, since Heimdall hated mortals in general (except the n.o.ble Sigurd of legend) and Beeblebrox in particular, but letting men die in the vicinity of Asgard was definitely frowned on by Odin, as martyrs had a tendency to live for ever. Which was ironic, as they were dead. Or maybe it was paradoxical, not ironic; one of those tricky terms that Loki bandied around to fl.u.s.ter him. Heimdall was a soldier and didn't crowd his brain with extraneous vocabulary. Hunt, kill, burn, flay. Those were the kind of words he liked. Especially flay flay, but it was difficult to work into everyday conversation.

Heimdall pouted for a moment, then sent a gloopy plasma string undulating from the tip of the Gjallarhorn, the legendary harbinger of Ragnarok. Gjallarhorn might seem to the casual observer like your typical twenty-foot, old Norse yelling horn but in the hands of a G.o.d it became a tool of great power and a handy vessel for beer-drinking games.

At the tip of the plasma string there was a bubble of atmosphere which Heimdall fly-fished in s.p.a.ce until he managed to snare Zaphod. The plasma sh.e.l.l would gave the Betelgeusean quite a shock when he jittered through to the breathable air inside, but Heimdall was not in the least worried about that. The G.o.d's only concern about Zaphod Beeblebrox's pain was to ensure that there was plenty of it in his immediate future; his immediate past too, if he could get a time pa.s.s from Odin.

He reeled Zaphod in and landed him on the Rainbow Bridge.

Guide Note: The term Rainbow Bridge Rainbow Bridge is an example of how G.o.ds in general are given to rhetoric and aggrandizement. Osiris did not just have a flu which knocked him sideways for a few weeks, he died and rose again. Aphrodite did not just have a wardrobe full of low-cut blouses and an inexhaustible supply of dirty limericks, she was irresistible to all males everywhere. And the Rainbow Bridge is an example of how G.o.ds in general are given to rhetoric and aggrandizement. Osiris did not just have a flu which knocked him sideways for a few weeks, he died and rose again. Aphrodite did not just have a wardrobe full of low-cut blouses and an inexhaustible supply of dirty limericks, she was irresistible to all males everywhere. And the Rainbow Bridge was not just a spectacularly engineered suspension bridge of ice and steel, it was according to the Aesir an actual bridge of rainbows. was not just a spectacularly engineered suspension bridge of ice and steel, it was according to the Aesir an actual bridge of rainbows.

Zaphod jittered for a minute while the plasma evaporated, then moaned as he realized that his silver boot heels had melted while pa.s.sing through the charged sh.e.l.l.

'Oh, come on,' he moaned. 'Do you realize how many Silver-Tongued Devils' tongues went into those heels? This is the worst day of my life.'

Heimdall loomed over him, his grin several yards wide.

'I am delighted to hear it.'

'That rainbow rainbow bridge is made of ice and steel,' said Zaphod in petulant revenge for the boot heels. bridge is made of ice and steel,' said Zaphod in petulant revenge for the boot heels.

'Silence!' roared Heimdall. 'Or you shall be flayed!'

'I'm already afraid.'

'No, not afraid.'

'Not afraid. Afraid. Make up your mind.'

'I said flayed flayed. Flayed! The skin peeled from your body!'

Zaphod gulped comically. 'Now I am afraid. Is that allowed?'

Heimdall pinched his nose and quietly recited the first verse of the Volsunga saga, which generally calmed him down, but this time even Sigurd's exploits could not soothe his pounding heart.

While Heimdall was reciting, Zaphod processed the loss of his heels and decided he had bigger porms to wrangle. He jumped to his feet, immediately fell over, tried to cover the embarra.s.sing fall with a backwards tumble, stood upright once more, tottered around for a second until he found a gait that worked with no-heeled high heels, then treated himself to a three-sixty spin.

'Wow,' he concluded. 'I have to say, Heimdall, this is one hoopy world you guys have here. I mean, wow. Is that a waterfall? How big is that?'

Heimdall tried one last verse before replying. 'It's the fountain of youth, if you must know. Frigga fancied a water feature.'

'That's great. Landscape gardening it's the future.'

'No, it isn't,' said Heimdall gloomily. 'Ragnarok is the future. The G.o.ds will perish and the Universe will drown in blood.'

Zaphod nodded. 'Now that would be a fountain worth seeing. But for now, let's stay positive, eh, big fella? We're not drowning in blood yet.'

Heimdall was indeed a big fellow, especially seen from directly below. Gazing up at a G.o.d's crotch can do wonders for a person's lack of low self-esteem. Especially when the crotch contours are tightly bound by the leggings of a red and neon blue striped ski jumpsuit. Heimdall spent his days and nights on the ice and so apparently had decided to dress the part. He had eschewed the traditional mammaloid leggings in favour of s...o...b..arding boots and there was a pair of orange-tinted ski goggles perched on his forehead and a stripe of sun block on his nose.

'So. Hate to hurry things along, but you know, my old buddy, Thor. Any chance you could see your way clear to letting me in to see him...?'

Heimdall's vision of the apocalypse faded and he peered down at Zaphod.

'Amends, you said. You wanted to make amends.'

Zaphod pasted on his most disarming smile. 'Well, I would say that, wouldn't I? In my defence, I didn't mean a word of it. I was under duress.'

'You know the drill, Zaphod.'

'Not tasks! Come on, Heimdall. That's so oldy-worldy. I thought you guys were getting with the times.'

'Asgard does not change.'

'What about that water feature? That wasn't there on my last visit.'

'Significantly. Asgard does not change significantly significantly. Three tasks, Beeblebrox, if you really want to talk.'

'Three! I don't have time for three. Your tasks take for ever. I'll do one.'

'Three,' insisted Heimdall, eyes bulging in their sockets.

'One!' repeated Zaphod.

'I'm just going to kill you, screw it.'

Zaphod rocked back on his biological heels, then rocked forward a step. 'You're bluffing, big boy. I know the rules here. No one gets struck off the coil on Asgard without the Big O's say so.'

'Don't push me, because I'll call him.'

'Yeah? What's stopping you? Maybe Odin doesn't give out his number to gatekeepers.'

Heimdall shook his ma.s.sive head. 'Don't do it, Beebleb.o.l.l.o.c.ks. Don't make me call the guy. He's no fan of yours.'

'Call him, go ahead. You won't though, because he's number one and you're... you don't even have a number. Odin could be enjoying a nice horn of honey mead and your call might make him drop it, then holy zark, it's Ragnarok.'

Heimdall pointed a finger the size of a torpedo. 'Right. That's it. I am calling.'

'Are you? Looks like you're talking to me. Lot of flapping lips, not much number punching.'

'Be this on your own head, Zaphod,' muttered the G.o.d. 'All I wanted was three tasks. Four, tops.' He waggled his horn in a certain way and it collapsed into itself until it fit neatly into the G.o.d's palm. 'This is it. No turning back.'

'Of course there is, if you're full of buffa-biscuit.'

'Buffa!' croaked Heimdall in the choked tones of a Folfangan Phlegm Ferret having its throat tickled for the precious pharmacopeia in its mucus. 'Buffa, you say!' He punched in a number on the horn's keypad and hummed his way through a few seconds of ringing.

'Yep, h.e.l.lo. Odie, it's me,' he said into the horn.

Heimdall closed one eye and endured a few seconds of abuse from the father of the G.o.ds.

<script>