The Sandwich Maker would pass what he had made to his assistant, who would then add a few slices of newcumber and fladish and a touch of splagberry sauce, and then apply the topmost layer of bread and cut the sandwich with a fourth and altogether plainer knife. It was not that these were not also skillful operations, but they were lesser skills to be performed by a dedicated apprentice who would one day, when the Sandwich Maker finally laid down his tools, take over from him. It was an exalted position and that apprentice, Drimple, was the envy of his fellows. There were those in the village who were happy chopping wood, those who were content carrying water, but to be the Sandwich Maker was very heaven.

And so the Sandwich Maker sang as he worked.

He was using the last of the year’s salted meat. It was a little past its best now, but still the rich savor of Perfectly Normal Beast meat was something unsurpassed in any of the Sandwich Maker’s previous experience. Next week it was anticipated that the Perfectly Normal Beasts would appear again for their regular migration, whereupon the whole village would once again be plunged into frenetic action: hunting the Beasts, killing perhaps six, maybe even seven dozen of the thousands that thundered past. Then the Beasts must be rapidly butchered and cleaned, most of the meat salted to keep it through the winter months until the return migration in the spring, which would replenish their supplies.

The very best of the meat would be roasted straight away for the feast that marked the Autumn Passage. The celebrations would last for three days of sheer exuberance, dancing and stories that Old Thrashbarg would tell of how the hunt had gone, stories that he would have been busy sitting making up in his hut while the rest of the village was out doing the actual hunting.

And then the very, very best of the meat would be saved from the feast and delivered cold to the Sandwich Maker. And the Sandwich Maker would exercise on it the skills that he had brought to them from the gods, and make the exquisite Sandwiches of the Third Season, of which the whole village would partake before beginning, the next day, to prepare themselves for the rigors of the coming winter.

Today he was just making ordinary sandwiches, if such delicacies, so lovingly crafted, could ever be called ordinary. Today his assistant was away so the Sandwich Maker was applying his own garnish, which he was happy to do. He was happy with just about everything in fact.

He sliced, he sang. He flipped each slice of meat neatly onto a slice of bread, trimmed it and assembled all the trimmings into their jigsaw. A little salad, a little sauce, another slice of bread, another sandwich, another verse of “Yellow Submarine.”

“Hello, Arthur.”

The Sandwich Maker almost sliced his thumb off.

The villagers had watched in consternation as the woman had marched boldly to the hut of the Sandwich Maker. The Sandwich Maker had been sent to them by Almighty Bob in a burning fiery chariot. This, at least, was what Thrashbarg said, and Thrashbarg was the authority on these things. So, at least, Thrashbarg claimed, and Thrashbarg was … and so on and so on. It was hardly worth arguing about.

A few villagers wondered why Almighty Bob would send his only begotten Sandwich Maker in a burning fiery chariot rather than perhaps in one that might have landed quietly without destroying half the forest, filling it with ghosts and also injuring the Sandwich Maker quite badly. Old Thrashbarg said that it was the ineffable will of Bob, and when they asked him what “ineffable” meant, he said look it up.

This was a problem because Old Thrashbarg had the only dictionary and he wouldn’t let them borrow it. They asked him why not and he said that it was not for them to know the will of Almighty Bob, and when they asked him why not again, he said because he said so. Anyway, somebody sneaked into Old Thrashbarg’s hut one day while he was out having a swim and looked up “ineffable.” “Ineffable” apparently meant “unknowable, indescribable, unutterable, not to be known or spoken about.” So that cleared that up.

At least they had got the sandwiches.

One day Old Thrashbarg said that Almighty Bob had decreed that he, Thrashbarg, was to have first pick of the sandwiches. The villagers asked him when this had happened, exactly, and Thrashbarg said it had happened yesterday, when they weren’t looking. “Have faith,” Old Thrashbarg said, “or burn!”

They let him have first pick of the sandwiches. It seemed easiest.

And now this woman had just arrived out of nowhere and gone straight for the Sandwich Maker’s hut. His fame had obviously spread, though it was hard to know where to since, according to Old Thrashbarg, there wasn’t anywhere else. Anyway, wherever it was she had come from, presumably somewhere ineffable, she was here now and was in the Sandwich Maker’s hut. Who was she? And who was the strange girl who was hanging around outside the hut moodily and kicking at stones and showing every sign of not wanting to be there? It seemed odd that someone should come all the way from somewhere ineffable in a chariot that was obviously a vast improvement on the burning fiery one that had brought them the Sandwich Maker, if she didn’t even want to be here.

They all looked to Thrashbarg, but he was on his knees mumbling and looking very firmly up into the sky and not catching anybody else’s eye until he’d thought of something.

“Trillian!” said the Sandwich Maker, sucking his bleeding thumb. “What …? Who …? When …? Where …?”

“Exactly the questions I was going to ask you,” said Trillian, looking around Arthur’s hut. It was neatly laid out with his kitchen utensils. There were some fairly basic cupboards and shelves, and a basic bed in the corner. A door at the back of the room led to something that Trillian couldn’t see because the door was closed. “Nice,” she said, but in an inquiring tone of voice. She couldn’t quite make out what the setup was.

“Very nice,” said Arthur. “Wonderfully nice. I don’t know when I’ve ever been anywhere nicer. I’m happy here. They like me, I make sandwiches for them, and … er, well, that’s it really. They like me and I make sandwiches for them.”

“Sounds, er …”

“Idyllic,” said Arthur, firmly. “It is. It really is. I don’t expect you’d like it very much, but for me it’s, well, it’s perfect. Look, sit down, please, make yourself comfortable. Can I get you anything, er, a sandwich?”

Trillian picked up a sandwich and looked at it. She sniffed it carefully.

“Try it,” said Arthur, “it’s good.”

Trillian took a nibble, then a bite and munched on it thoughtfully.

“It is good,” she said, looking at it.

“My life’s work,” said Arthur, trying to sound proud and hoping he didn’t sound like a complete idiot. He was used to being revered a bit and was having to go through some unexpected mental gear changes.

“What’s the meat in it?” asked Trillian.

“Ah yes, that’s, um, that’s Perfectly Normal Beast.”

“It’s what?”

“Perfectly Normal Beast. It’s a bit like a cow, or rather a bull. Kind of like a buffalo in fact. Large, charging sort of animal.”

“So what’s odd about it?”

“Nothing, it’s Perfectly Normal.”

“I see.”

“It’s just a bit odd where it comes from.”

Trillian frowned, and stopped chewing.

“Where does it come from?” she said with her mouth full. She wasn’t going to swallow until she knew.

“Well, it’s not just a matter of where it comes from, it’s also where it goes to. It’s all right, it’s perfectly safe to swallow. I’ve eaten tons of it. It’s great. Very succulent. Very tender. Slightly sweet flavor with a long dark finish.”

Trillian still hadn’t swallowed.

“Where,” she said, “does it come from, and where does it go to?”