Part 32 (1/2)

The gunner was hardly going to argue. 'Why not, Prostetnic.'

Jeltz seemed almost jolly. 'Why not indeed. Flying horses would be nice.'

'Flying horses it is,' said the gunner and ran the program.

'Twinkle twinkle,' burbled Jeltz.

Nano Thor belched mightily and slapped the crumbs from his tunic. He clicked two fingers and Mjollnir beeped, jumped from its charger on the wall and sped into his hand.

'Who are these invaders?' the G.o.d asked Hillman.

'Vogons, my lord, according to the craft recognition software. Pretty tough b.u.g.g.e.rs. They specialize in planet destruction.'

Zaphod was thrilled. 'The Vogons are here already! This is going to be great. Epic. You will totally decimate those b.a.s.t.a.r.dos.'

Thor did a few practice twirls. 'Decimate? Are you sure I should, Zaph? I'm telling you now, I will not sit still for more tribunals and we're still not sure how the immortal bas.h.i.+ng will go down on the Sub-Etha.'

Hillman smiled sweetly. 'No tribunals, my lord. You were simply protecting your planet. It's in the contract.'

'Exactly,' said Zaphod. 'It's brilliant PR. Taking out a Vogon bureaucruiser is just the thing to get you all over the major networks. BBS, Orbit, Nova, even Leviathan, though they're a crowd of partisans. The great religicom love a bully-basher almost as much as they love a martyr.'

Thor did a few pre-flight exercises, working out the kinks. 'I hope I can put on a bit of a show this time, I think, give the viewers some drama. Be a bit more like Dad. You know... G.o.dly. I think I'm actually feeling G.o.dly.'

Zaphod clapped him on the thigh. 'That's great. It's us or them though, so maybe you should get a move on.'

Thor froze in mid-hamstring stretch. 'Get a move on? That sounded like an order, Zaph. G.o.ds don't take orders from mortals.'

Zaphod was wounded. 'I would never give you orders, mighty one. I wouldn't dream of it. What I'm doing is manipulatering you, for your own good.'

Guide Note: The fact that Zaphod Beeblebrox was able to manipulate anyone tells us a lot about the fragile self-esteem of the person being manipulated. Especially since President Beeblebrox had only looked up the word 'manipulate' the previous month as part of his self-improvement 'word a week' programme. He had obviously not read past the root verb.

Thor chewed the tip of his moustache. 'Is that...'

'It's a good thing, big boy. A positive and respectful thing.'

'Are you sure?'

'Abso-zarking-lutely.'

'Very well, mortal. I shall deliver this planet from evil.'

Zaphod punched the air. 'Did you hear that, Hillman? Now that's a sound byte. Someone should be videoing this guy.'

Thor selected the Mus-O-Menu on the hammer's shaft and scrolled down until he reached 'Let's Get Hammered'. Anthemic power chords reverberated through the food hall.

'Let's get You wanna get Hammered!' he sang, full-throatedly, then executed a high-speed vertical take-off, punching a star-shaped hole through the carbon-fibre energy-absorbent roof panels.

'Go!' Zaphod shouted after his client, wondering if Thor could tell the difference between fifteen and twenty per cent, then wondering if he himself could calculate the difference. Left Brain would have to do it.

Hillman Hunter was thinking about money too.

'Jaysus, Zaphod. Have a chat with your man there. Those f.e.c.kin' panels are expensive. Could he not go out the door, the perfectly good door, and do the whole hammered hammered rigmarole outside rigmarole outside without without causing any property damage?' causing any property damage?'

Zaphod tilted his single head. 'Come on, Hillman. He's a G.o.d. G.o.ds do things big. Makes for a better story in the holy book when someone gets around to writing it.'

'Now there's a volume that would s.h.i.+ft a few units,' said Hillman thoughtfully.

Zaphod draped an arm around the Irishman's shoulders. 'I can give you exclusive rights.'

Hillman hugged the contract close to his chest. 'You already did, bucko,' he said.

Thor felt the wind in his hair and the bugs in his teeth.

'Visor,' he said, and a small blue force field crackled down from the brim of his helmet.

This sort of thing was what being a G.o.d was all about: the defying gravity, the hair, the big muscly legs. All good G.o.d stuff. This was what Thor thrived on. Flying and bas.h.i.+ng, basically.

I like to be loved too, he thought, but he did not voice this notion.

Once upon a time, a G.o.d could straddle a mountain top and roar out any old rubbish, and the mortals below would interpret the distorted echoes as omniscience-based super wisdom. One of Odin's favourite stories in the long hall was the time he'd abducted a mortal's wife and piled insult on top of injury by shouting at the unfortunate man, with characteristic crudeness, that he could go screw himself.

Imagine my surprise, Odin would say in that holier than thou Olympus drawl that he liked to affect, when on my next visit I find a temple on that very spot with the inscription 'Go Through Thineself'. Apparently it's the path to wisdom and contentment when on my next visit I find a temple on that very spot with the inscription 'Go Through Thineself'. Apparently it's the path to wisdom and contentment.

And of course everyone would crack up, except Frigga who was not big on her husband bragging about his infidelities.

But these days there were recording devices everywhere. Whatever a G.o.d said was reported around the Universe verbatim. There was no more benefit of the doubt, because there was no doubt. If a G.o.d said a.r.s.e a.r.s.e, then everyone heard a.r.s.e a.r.s.e and probably with the background noise taken out. And if a G.o.d said and probably with the background noise taken out. And if a G.o.d said I don't know I don't know then everyone heard that too. Loki, who liked to sneak out of Asgard for a few tankards with the mortals on a weekend, had handed the Adiaphorists a gift-wrapped basket of mill grist when he had spent an entire drunken evening loudly complaining of his erectile dysfunction problems. Or, as he delicately put it, 'My lightning rod has lost its lightning. Matter of fact, it's lost its rod too.' then everyone heard that too. Loki, who liked to sneak out of Asgard for a few tankards with the mortals on a weekend, had handed the Adiaphorists a gift-wrapped basket of mill grist when he had spent an entire drunken evening loudly complaining of his erectile dysfunction problems. Or, as he delicately put it, 'My lightning rod has lost its lightning. Matter of fact, it's lost its rod too.'

After this, the G.o.ds who were more brain than brawn were advised to keep their mouths shut and their hammers swinging when they were abroad in the Universe, because a pulverized asteroid says more than words can ever say.

And when I crush these Vogon guys, thought Thor, that's going to be a picture that no fancypants talkie person will be able to spin into a bad thing. that's going to be a picture that no fancypants talkie person will be able to spin into a bad thing.

Then Thor had another thought: Unless someone, somewhere, actually likes Vogons Unless someone, somewhere, actually likes Vogons.

Before he could consider the ramifications of this and their possible effects on his celebrity rating, the first cl.u.s.ter of missiles was upon him and they looked a lot like horses.

The Business End Business End Constant Mown was falling to pieces, but not so as you'd notice. On the outside he was huffing and drooling just as much as the rest of the crew.

'G.o.d status?' demanded Jeltz.

'What?'

'Pardon me?'

'What, sir?'

Jeltz's eyelids fluttered, as did the loose flaps of flesh between his nostrils. 'What is the status of the G.o.d?'

Mown forced his eyes to stop googling in their sockets and focus on the readouts in front of him.

'Rising, fast. Coming up to meet us, Prostetnic.'