Part 16 (2/2)

The dragon inched closer, so the blue flames at its sala-mandroid nostrils singed Zaphod's hair.

'And could we kill every last being on the planet?' it said in a growled whisper.

'And the trees,' called one of his mates. 'We want to burn down the trees, for a laugh.'

'And the trees,' said spokesdragon. 'Even dragons need to relax.'

Zaphod was amazed that he could run and talk at the same time. 'What was the bit before trees?'

'Kill everyone, oh and lay eggs in their corpses. That's very important to us. Can you arrange this, little mortal?'

'Whereabouts in their corpses?' asked Zaphod, just to make conversation.

'Oh, you know. Hollows, crevices. Eye sockets are good.'

And though he didn't think he had it in him, Zaphod ignored the pain in his lungs and picked up the pace.

Why do you always do these things, stupid? he silently berated himself. he silently berated himself. Do you even know why you are here? Do you even know why you are here?

He didn't. The reason would come back to him when he had a second to think. If he had a second.

Deep in the bowels of Asgard there mouldered a magma-powered deep-sink sewage treatment megacube. Below this and to the left a bit, in what might reasonably be called the r.e.c.t.u.m of Asgard, sat the region known as Niflheim. At the lowest extreme of Niflheim, on what might be fairly referred to as the interior sphincter of Asgard, sat Helheim.

Hel, the mistress of said sphincter, lounged on the pile of inflated serpent-intestine cus.h.i.+ons that littered her throne, stroking the baby dragon stole around her neck.

'What do you think of my new stole?' she asked Modgud, her corpse-eating familiar, who was currently wearing the form of a giant eagle.

Modgud squinted. 'I think it's still alive, sweetness.'

Hel wrung the little dragon's neck with a perfunctoriness that suggested much experience.

'What do you think now?'

'I don't know,' mewed Modgud, who had always been a bit petty for a corpse eater. 'It seems so... lifeless.'

Suddenly Hel sat bolt upright in a flurry of squeaking cus.h.i.+ons.

'I just got the... It's the th-th-thing,' she stammered, twisting a communicator earpiece deeper into her ear hole.

Modgud rose up on his claws. 'What, sweetness? You just got what?'

'The pa.s.sword, phrase, from Odin.'

'Which one? The change the sewage filter change the sewage filter one?' one?'

'No. No, you stupid bird. Compliments to the under-brazier Compliments to the under-brazier. That's the pa.s.sword for the pressure cannons. We're under fire.'

Modgud was wounded by the personal attack, but decided for the good of the planet that he would let it fester for the moment.

'Now, now, sweetness. Hold up there. No call for hysterics. Don't you need some kind of confirmation?'

Hel dabbed her brow with a hairy forearm. 'Yes. Yes, of course I do, dear friend. The failsafe bong-o-code. Sorry about the stupid bird comment.'

'Oh, forget it,' said Modgud, good-naturedly. 'You're in a high-pressure job.' Inside, he swore to up the daily doses of poison. Maybe he couldn't kill this witch, but he could have her writhing on the toilet for half the day.

Hel's relieved smile froze as the failsafe bong-o-code vibrated up through her torso from the iron throne she sat upon.

'What is it?'

'Shut up, idiot. I'm counting bongs.'

Modgud preened for a few moments while his mistress counted.

'War!' she said at last, springing to her feet. 'Asgard is at war. Finally my chance to get out of this dump and back to the surface. If my defences save the day, then it's so long, loser c.r.a.phole.'

'Loser?'

Hel rolled her eyes. 'You are so sensitive for a corpse eater. Warm up the cannons.'

'Which ones? Not all of them?'

'Yes, all of them.'

'What am I shooting at?'

'Not the bridge, Heimdall's on the bridge. But anything else that moves!' snapped the she-devil. 'We might lose a few dragons but there are aliens inside the sh.e.l.l.'

Loser c.r.a.phole, thought Modgud sulkily, opening a window on his wrist computer. At least we acknowledge the existence of technology down here. At least we're not relying on archaic phone calls and bong-o-codes At least we acknowledge the existence of technology down here. At least we're not relying on archaic phone calls and bong-o-codes.

'I can mental-brain what you're thinking!' screeched Hel. 'Something about tents and cake!'

Modgud activated the cannons with a few taps on his screen.

G.o.d help us, he thought. But not the G.o.ds we have here. Some other ones that are a bit less But not the G.o.ds we have here. Some other ones that are a bit less...

The corpse eater did not finish the thought, just in case Hel got her mindreading spot on for once.

Zaphod was running out of breath and what little he did have left sprinkled his lungs with pins and needles. The dragons swirled around the bridge now, at least a dozen of them, shunting each other with playful shoulders, nipping at tails. They loosed fireb.a.l.l.s close to their target, stripping chunks of ice from the bridge.

Still, thought Zaphod. Killed fighting dragons in Asgard. Not a bad way to go. Better than slipping on a wet spot and tumbling into a boring hole. A pity I couldn't reach that wall Killed fighting dragons in Asgard. Not a bad way to go. Better than slipping on a wet spot and tumbling into a boring hole. A pity I couldn't reach that wall.

Wall. Hadn't Dionah Carlinton-Housney said something about a wall?

I shall make reaching that wall my new short-term goal, decided Zaphod with the same full tank of foundation-free reasoning that characterized most of his life-changing decisions. If it's the last thing I do, I will reach that wall If it's the last thing I do, I will reach that wall.

Two lurches later his legs gave out and he was reduced to dragging himself along the bridge in a three-handed scrabble.

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