And Another Thing... (The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, #6)

by Eoin Colfer

Remembering is generally a two-stage process involving dialogue between the conscious and subconscious parts of the brain. The subconscious opens proceedings by throwing up the relevant memory, an act which releases a spurt of self-congratulatory endorphins. Well done, matey, says the conscious. That memory is really useful right now, and I couldn’t remember where I’d put it.

“Life is about moments, Arthur,” he said seriously. “That’s the secret. Moments are longer than you think. If you add up all the good moments, then, you know. It’s like ages.” It really infuriated Arthur

“I am amazed to hear myself saying that.” “As am I, Mr. Wowbagger.” “I think it’s time you called me Bowerick.” “Bowerick?” “My first name. My father had a sense of humor. Bow Wowbagger?” “Oh, yes,” said Trillian, suddenly caring a little less about her recorder. The universe cannot suffer tender moments like this to last for very long, and there were contenders for the honor of trampling roughshod over this one. First was Random Dent, who was taking a moment to compose a disgusted disparagement before she stalked from the bridge for the second time. But the winner was her father, Arthur Dent, whose comedic arrival nicely counterbalanced the saccharine nature of the moment, thus restoring order to the Universe.

Guide Note: The gods 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 gods have been alive for so long that they have assembled 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 god-lings who had no mythology to go home to.

And he returned to his screen, satisfied that his sometime role as Ford Prefect, nurturer of youth, had been fulfilled for at least this lifetime. Parenting. Nothing to it. I don’t know what all the fuss is about. If Ford had been a little more tuned in and a little less zoned out, he might have remembered from his own youth that teenagers only ladled on the sweetness for one of three reasons. One: There was some shocking news that needed breaking, possibly involving pregnancy, substance abuse, or a forbidden relationship. Two: They had developed a deeper level of sarcasm which was virtually undetectable except to another master of the form, and that definitely wasn’t the adult being sarcastigated. And three: A bit of sweet talk was a handy distraction when there was something the sweet-talking teenager needed to steal.

Zaphod stepped into as foul a den of broken dreams as he had ever been thrown out of, and felt instantly at home. This is my kind of place, he thought. Even the air in here is dangerous. And it was. The germs huddled together and drifted through the murky air in colored clouds, trying vainly to infect the ossified zombies and demigods. For once Zaphod was glad that Left Brain had jabbed him with A–Z inoculations while he slept. At least LB had sworn they were inoculations. A cloud buzzed Zaphod’s head,

“Snowshoes are important. Come on, old friend, can’t you blot the whole thing from your mind? I have.” Thor dragged eight fingers through his beard. “But that costume, Zaph? And those pom-pom squids.” Zaph, thought Zaphod. I have him. “Miscalculations, perhaps.” “And the things I said,” said Thor, shuddering. “You were acting. Playing a role.” “Odin shat a kitten. Actually crapped out a live tiger cub. My own mother can’t look at me. She told Loki that all she can see is that latex bustier.” “It was art; not everybody gets art.” “Do you know how many hits that clip has had? It’s been the number one video on the entire Sub-Etha for the past five years.” “You said it. The past five years. That video is in the past. Next year there’s going to be a new Thor video, one that puts you right back in the game, where you need to be.” “Oh really,” said Thor glumly. “What have you got planned for an encore? Should I break out the Bounce-O-Jelly?” Zaphod leaned in close. “Oh no, my friend. No setups. This is the real thing. An old school face-off. I have found the immortal who has your stolen ship and he’s challenged you to a showdown.” Over Thor’s head the thundercloud spewed forth a cluster of vibrant lightning bolts. “Go on, Zaph,” said the god. “I’m listening.”

“But you’re a god, what do you need with a career?” Thor stroked his beard plait, which he probably was not aware had a few beads braided through it. “That’s a good question, but I know the answer because we did this in circle time, after my breakdown. Gods have god-sized egos, so we need a lot of love to stay healthy. You see those gods going around blighting crops and drying up rivers? Those guys don’t get loved. It’s a cycle, you know. You have no idea how depressed gods can get. One minute we’re adored, the next despised, I’ve been in the troughs, believe me.”

Wowbagger, then the hammer came down so fast it blurred, crashing into his head with a noise like a meteor impacting on a field of ice. Good-bye, Trillian, thought Wowbagger, then he was driven bodily fifty feet straight down into his grave. Thor was in two minds with his performance. The up-and-over swing always made good television, but it was a pity he couldn’t have dragged it out a little longer. What choice did he have? The green guy was just about to mention the video, and then the various browsers would have tagged the comment, and before you know it everyone’s linked back to the old site. He was about to turn to Zaphod to check his manager’s reaction, when he picked up a faint thought from about fifty feet below his feet. And the thought was either Shark eye knothead. or Zark. I’m not dead. Zaphod whistled the first bar of “Blinko in the Baybox,” an old Betelgeusean epic shanty concerning a prickled mollusc and his time spent in captivity. “Whaddya think, Ford? Did he do enough?” Ford whistled the second bar back at him. “I don’t know. I never felt like there was a threat. There was no drama.” “You’re right. It was all over too quickly.” Zaphod looked around. “I wonder if there is anyone else in the market for a hammer in the head.” Thor jogged across the field. “What do you think? Nice up-and-over, wasn’t it? I lost my temper a bit though, let the green guy rile me up. Don’t worry, Zaph, it won’t happen next time.” “Next time?” “Yes, next time. The green guy isn...

Wowbagger was already feeling a little better in his cocoon of healing plasma. “Where are we going?” he asked. The answer was simple. “Somewhere together.” Wowbagger laughed, though it cost him. “That’s quite romantic. Are you like this all the time?” “We’ll find out, won’t we?” replied Trillian. “We have all the time in the world.” “No, we don’t actually, but what we do have is precious.” Trillian rolled her eyes. “God, I’m already sick of all this sweet talk.” “Me too,” said Wowbagger. “Do you want to go and insult somebody?” “I thought you’d never ask.” “Ever been to the Wavering Wormholes of Stryk Lycombdan Tsing?”

There is no such thing as a happy ending. Every culture has a maxim that makes this point, while nowhere in the Universe is there a single gravestone that reads, He Loved Everything About His Life, Especially the Dying Bit at the End. Rollit Klet, the Dentrassis independent-film-director-cum-chef says in his memoir Fish or Film: The First Cut is Mine!: “What you think is the happy ending is actually a brief respite before the serial killer that you thought was dead gets back up and butchers everyone except the girl with the biggest boobs, who dies first in the sequel the following year.” Or as Zem of Squornshellous Zeta succinctly put it: “The mattress never stays dry for long.” However, the number one most overused quote on the subject of endings, happy or otherwise, comes from an old man who lived on a pole in Hawalius, who said simply that “there is no such thing as an ending, or a beginning for that matter, everything is middle.” The quote ends on a more rambling note: “Middles are crap. I hate middles. Middles are all regretting the past and waiting for something interesting to happen. Middles can go Zark themselves as far as I’m concerned.”

“I want to be President.” If Hillman had been eating something, he would have choked on it. “President? Of Nano?” “Of the Galaxy. I’ve done it before.” “It’s a long story,” said Arthur. “She needs to go to school.” “I have eight master’s degrees and a double doctorate!” protested his daughter. “Virtual degrees,” said Arthur calmly. “I don’t think they count.” “Of course they count, Daddy. Don’t be so Cro-Magnon.” “I don’t make the rules.” “That is such a cliché. You are like a mound of cliché bricks all piled on top of each other to make a person.” “That’s very good imagery, honey. Maybe an arts degree?”

A pootle-tink bird sidled alongside him. “Bloody Vogons,” it said from the side of its beak. “They’ve been here a few days. Apparently someone forgot to file planning permission for that hut.” “Typical,” said Arthur, then closed his eyes and wished he was somewhere else with someone else. Guide Note: Arthur Dent’s almost incredible bad luck created a providence vacuum which led to unbelievably good fortune for a being on the other side of the Universe. A certain Mr. A. Grajag, a little known sportscaster from Un Hye, was successfully resuscitated after six months of near flat lines on his hospital monitor following a space collision with a uBid cargo ship. He awoke to a cocktail reception from the planetary lotto committee to celebrate his numbers coming up as opposed to his number being up. At the same moment, his childhood sweetheart, who had recognized Mr. Grajag from his stint on Celebrity Coma, burst into his hospital room declaring her long nurtured and genuine love. The pair went on to marry and have two well-adjusted children who had no wish to follow their father into show business, preferring to study law and medicine. Had Arthur Dent