Part 17 (2/2)

'No mortal can know our monikers. It is forbidden. You lie.'

Heimdall's huge, smooth face was inches away from Zaphod. His anger s.h.i.+mmered in the air around them and Gjallarhorn glowed red with G.o.dly power. Zaphod took all of this in and said: 'Lie? Me? That's a bit strong, isn't it? I'm just repeating what Thor told me. Don't kill the messenger and so forth.'

'Don't say it. I am warning you, mortal.'

Even Zaphod saw the absurdity of that warning. 'Or what? You'll do something nasty like send dragons after me or squeeze my head off?'

It occurred to Heimdall that he should get on with the head squeezing before Zaphod could get the name out, but a sudden nervousness gagged him for a vital moment. And instinctive exploitation of vital moments was one of Zaphod's few areas of expertise, the others being his much-reported Big Bang technique, three-handed preparation of Gargle Blasters and a system of inverted blow-drying that gave his quiff that extra bounce.

'Come on, Bent Stick,' he said. 'Let me up.'

And Heimdall did. He had no choice once his divine moniker had been invoked. The G.o.d took a dozen steps backwards then turned his back in a sulk.

'Someone... anyone... calls me Bent Stick on Asgard and I am bound to civility. b.l.o.o.d.y Bent Stick? What sort of a divine name is that?' he grumbled, kicking loose lumps of ice through the wall of the atmosphere tube, creating localized rainfall on the planet's surface below. 'Loki suggests it and, of course, Odin thinks it's hilarious. Loki says, he says, ”Look at Heimdall out there on his ski slope with that old bent stick of his.” And the bossman nearly swallows his beard laughing. So from that day on it's Bent Stick this and Bent Stick that. I used to have a great name. I was Asgard's Eye. But apparently that's too tricky to p.r.o.nounce after a few tankards, so now I'm Bent b.l.o.o.d.y Stick.' The giant G.o.d's shoulders. .h.i.tched repeatedly and he looked from the back very much like someone who might be having a little self-pitying sob.

'Hey, come on,' said Zaphod, picking himself up. 'Why the long face? You've got stuff going for you.'

'What do I have going for me? I'm stuck out here on this stupid bridge with a bunch of reptiles for friends.' He stamped a foot, sending tremors rippling across Bifrost. 'Do you know what they're doing in there now? Do you know?'

'Well, no I...'

'Orgies!' shouted Heimdall. 'Old-school orgies. And look at me, out here chasing mortals. I could be in there, covered in jartle resin, up to my neck in...'

'Okay, big fellow, there are a few pictures that even I don't need floating around in either of my heads.'

'Loki has got two palaces. Two! After all the stunts he's pulled. And he sits at Odin's table. And why? Why? Why? Because he can remember jokes.' Heimdall turned, his moustache wet, his eyes despairing. 'b.l.o.o.d.y jokes! I am guarding the planet here. h.e.l.lo.' Because he can remember jokes.' Heimdall turned, his moustache wet, his eyes despairing. 'b.l.o.o.d.y jokes! I am guarding the planet here. h.e.l.lo.'

Zaphod tucked his third hand into a pocket. 'You know what I see?'

'What?' said Heimdall, his jutting bottom lip casting a shadow.

'I see a hero.'

'Don't you patronize me, Feeb Beeblebrox.'

Zaphod punched the G.o.d's thigh. 'I'm not patronizing you, silly. What you are is a genuine hero. And there are only a dozen of those in the Universe. Me, you and four others.'

Heimdall's nod was barely perceptible, even for a chin as big as his. 'Maybe. Odin doesn't see it like that.'

Zaphod stood on tiptoes. 'Can Odin hear me now?'

'Probably not, inside the tube. Unless he's specifically listening.'

'Well then, forgive me for saying it, but Odin doesn't deserve you. In fact, I'll go further. Maybe Odin Odin needs to take a look at himself and ask: Who should be sitting beside me now? A gutless trickster? Or my loyal guardian? I think a lot of people would like to hear that question answered.' needs to take a look at himself and ask: Who should be sitting beside me now? A gutless trickster? Or my loyal guardian? I think a lot of people would like to hear that question answered.'

'Gutless? You think so? A lot?'

'We may be mortal, but we're not stupid. People like like you, Heimdall. They adore you.' you, Heimdall. They adore you.'

'Maybe once they did.'

'Now. Still. Did you know that they have a Heimdall cult on Algol? Those sun simians can't get enough of you.'

'Really? Algol, you say?'

'And on Earth you were, well, a G.o.d. Statues all over the place.'

Heimdall chuckled. 'Yes, Earth. They loved the whole horn thing.' His eyes misted and for a moment the Light G.o.d was doing encores in Scandinavia, until he realized that Zaphod was playing on his weaknesses.

'No,' snapped the G.o.d, wiping his nose. 'It's over. We're over. No parlay with mortals.'

'You have to. I know your secret name.'

'Oh sure, spring that one on me. That's low, even for you.'

Zaphod placed two of his hands on his hips. 'I invoke your secret name and demand my right to entry, Heimdall G.o.d of Light, also known as Asgard's Eye.'

Heimdall snorted, not unhappily, and hefted Gjallarhorn. He tapped a section of the wall and the entire edifice crumbled to dust, dust that flittered into the atmosphere squeaking: 'Free. Free at last. Heimdall, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d.'

'I have to let you in' said the G.o.d of Light. 'Thor is probably in the Well of Urd drowning his sorrows; he more or less lives there these days. You can have one beer with him, if he will permit it.'

'One beer,' said Zaphod. 'I'll just sip.'

If Left Brain could have intercepted this thought, he would have laughed bitterly and proclaimed that there was about as much chance of Zaphod Beeblebrox just sipping just sipping as there was of a mouse giving a straight answer to a simple question. as there was of a mouse giving a straight answer to a simple question.

8.

The Tanngrisnir Tanngrisnir Ford Prefect was also heading towards a beer moment. The Betelgeusean researcher was determined to enjoy the peace and quiet of dark travel for as long as it lasted. He draped blankets over the portholes in his room, replicated a tankard of Goggles Beer, then plugged himself into the s.h.i.+p's computer. His. .h.i.tchhiker's Guide Hitchhiker's Guide had a pretty good Sub-Etha connection, but the had a pretty good Sub-Etha connection, but the Tanngrisnir Tanngrisnir's system was so fast that it could run a real-time hologram from a hub a thousand light years away with no discernable delay.

Mega-lightning froody, thought Ford, who knew nothing about holograms apart from the fact that they were sparkly and you should never lick one.

Ford logged on to uBid and bet himself a second tankard of beer that he could not spend his entire projected lifetime's earnings before blinking. It was an easy bet to win. He purchased a couple of luxury s.p.a.ce yachts, three hundred gallons of Bounce-O-Jelly with garlic, a small continent on Antares for a favourite nephew and several potted Deadly When Watered mega flora for his least-favourite staffers at InfiniDim Enterprises, all charged to his limitless Dine-O-Charge credit card.

I might feel a twinge of guilt about sticking it to the Guide, thought Ford, Guide, thought Ford, if the editor, Zarniwoop Vann Harl, wasn't a gutless stooge who took bribes from Vogons. if the editor, Zarniwoop Vann Harl, wasn't a gutless stooge who took bribes from Vogons.

As a roving researcher, Ford had nothing against taking bribes on principle, but you had to draw the line somewhere and for Ford Prefect that line was drawn just above anybody trying to murder him in one of the nasty ways. Attempted murder through alcohol poisoning he was prepared to forgive and more than likely forget, but when someone tried to kill him with thermonuclear warheads Ford tended to nurse a grudge.

Retail therapy over, Ford blinked several times and leaned back in the chair.

Thank you, Doxy Ribonu-Clegg, he thought. Thank you for inventing the Sub-Etha Thank you for inventing the Sub-Etha.

Guide Note: Technically speaking, Doxy Ribonu-Clegg did not invent the Sub-Etha, rather he discovered its existence. The Sub-Etha waves had been around for at least as long as the G.o.ds, just waiting for someone to pump some data into them. The legend goes that Ribonu-Clegg had been lying on his back in a field on his home planet. As he gazed blearily up through the wedge of s.p.a.ce suspended above him it occurred to the renowned professor that all this s.p.a.ce was loaded with information and that perhaps it would be possible to transport some information of his own through the cosmic conduits if only he could make it small enough. So Ribonu-Clegg hurried back to his rudimentary lab and constructed the first ever set of Sub-Etha transmitters using pepper grinders, several live pinky rats, various cannibalized lab machines and some professional-standard hairdressing scissors. Once these components were connected, Ribonu-Clegg fed in the phot-o-pix from his wedding alb.u.m and prayed they would be rea.s.sembled on the other side of the room. They were not, but the national lottery numbers for the following evening did show up, which encouraged the professor to patent his invention. Ribonu-Clegg used his winnings to hire a team of shark lawyers who successfully sued eighty-nine companies that invented actual working Sub-Etha transmitters, making the professor the richest man on the planet until he fell into his lawyers' tank and they followed their instincts and ate him. the richest man on the planet until he fell into his lawyers' tank and they followed their instincts and ate him.

Ford was halfway through his fourth tankard when the door to his chamber slid open and a parallelogram of green light bleached his wall screen.

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