“This do?” said Ford, handing him his towel.

Chapter 20

Leaping onto the back of a one-and-a-half-ton Perfectly Normal Beast migrating through your world at a thundering thirty miles an hour is not as easy as it might at first seem. Certainly it is not as easy as the Lamuellan hunters made it seem, and Arthur Dent was prepared to discover that this might turn out to be the difficult bit.

What he hadn’t been prepared to discover, however, was how difficult it was even getting to the difficult bit. It was the bit that was supposed to be the easy bit that turned out to be practically impossible.

They couldn’t even catch the attention of a single animal. The Perfectly Normal Beasts were so intent on working up a good thunder with their hooves, heads down, shoulders forward, back legs pounding the ground into porridge, that it would have taken something not merely startling but actually geological to disturb them.

The sheer amount of thundering and pounding was, in the end, more than Arthur and Ford could deal with. After they had spent nearly two hours prancing about doing increasingly foolish things with a medium-sized floral-patterned bath towel, they had not managed to get even one of the great beasts thundering and pounding past them to do so much as glance casually in their direction.

They were within three feet of the horizontal avalanche of sweating bodies. To have been much nearer would have been to risk instant death, chrono-logic or no chrono-logic Arthur had seen what remained of any Perfectly Normal Beast which, as the result of a clumsy miss-throw by a young and inexperienced Lamuellan hunter, got speared while still thundering and pounding with the herd.

One stumble was all it took. No prior appointment with death on Stavromula Beta, wherever the hell Stavromula Beta was, would save you or anybody else from the thunderous, mangling, pounding of those hooves.

At last, Arthur and Ford staggered back. They sat down, exhausted and defeated, and started to criticize each other’s technique with the towel.

“You’ve got to flick it more,” complained Ford. “You need more follow-through from the elbow if you’re going to get those blasted creatures to notice anything at all.”

“Follow-through?” protested Arthur. “You need more suppleness in the wrist.”

“You need more after-flourish,” countered Ford.

“You need a bigger towel.”

“You need,” said another voice, “a pikka bird.”

“You what?”

The voice had come from behind them. They turned, and there, standing behind them in the early morning sun, was Old Thrashbarg.

“To attract the attention of a Perfectly Normal Beast,” he said, as he walked forward toward them, “you need a pikka bird. Like this.”

From under the rough, cassocky robelike thing he wore he drew a small pikka bird. It sat restlessly on Old Thrashbarg’s hand and peered intently at Bob knows what darting around about three feet six inches in front of it.

Ford instantly went into the sort of alert crouch he liked to do when he wasn’t quite sure what was going on or what he ought to do about it. He waved his arms around very slowly in what he hoped was an ominous manner.

“Who is this?” he hissed.

“It’s just Old Thrashbarg,” said Arthur, quietly. “And I wouldn’t bother with all the fancy movements. He’s just as experienced a bluffer as you are. You could end up dancing around each other all day.”

“The bird,” hissed Ford again. “What’s the bird?”

“It’s just a bird!” said Arthur, impatiently. “It’s like any other bird. It lays eggs and goes ark at things you can’t see. Or kar or rit or something.”

“Have you seen one lay eggs?” said Ford, suspiciously.

“For heaven’s sake, of course I have,” said Arthur. “And I’ve eaten hundreds of them. Make rather a good omelette. The secret is little cubes of cold butter and then whipping it lightly with …”

“I don’t want a zarking recipe,” said Ford. “I just want to be sure it’s a real bird and not some kind of multidimensional cybernightmare.”

He slowly stood up from his crouched position and started to brush himself down. He was still watching the bird, though.

“So,” said Old Thrashbarg to Arthur. “Is it written that Bob shall once more take back unto himself the benediction of his once-given Sandwich Maker?”

Ford almost went back into his crouch.

“It’s all right,” muttered Arthur, “he always talks like that.” Aloud, he said, “Ah, venerable Thrashbarg. Um, yes. I’m afraid I think I’m going to have to be popping off now. But young Drimple, my apprentice, will be a fine sandwich maker in my stead. He has the aptitude, a deep love of sandwiches and the skills he has acquired so far, though rudimentary as yet, will, in time, mature, and, er, well, I think he’ll work out okay is what I’m trying to say.”

Old Thrashbarg regarded him gravely. His old gray eyes moved sadly. He held his arms aloft, one still carrying a bobbing pikka bird, the other his staff.

“O Sandwich Maker from Bob!” he pronounced. He paused, furrowed his brow and sighed as he closed his eyes in pious contemplation. “Life,” he said, “will be a very great deal less weird without you!”

Arthur was stunned.

“Do you know,” he said, “I think that’s the nicest thing anybody’s ever said to me?”

“Can we get on, please?” said Ford.

Something was already happening. The presence of the pikka bird at the end of Thrashbarg’s outstretched arm was sending tremors of interest through the thundering herd. The odd head flicked momentarily in their direction. Arthur began to remember some of the Perfectly Normal Beast hunts he had witnessed. He recalled that as well as the hunter-matadors brandishing their capes there were always others standing behind them holding pikka birds. He had always assumed that, like him, they had just come along to watch.

Old Thrashbarg moved forward, a little closer to the rolling herd. Some of the Beasts were now tossing their heads back with interest at the sight of the pikka bird.

Old Thrashbarg’s outstretched arms were trembling.

Only the pikka bird itself seemed to show no interest in what was going on. A few anonymous molecules of air nowhere in particular engaged all of its perky attention.

“Now!” exclaimed Old Thrashbarg at last. “Now you may work them with the towel!”

Arthur advanced with Ford’s towel, moving the way the hunter-matadors did, with a kind of elegant strut that did not come at all naturally to him. But now he knew what to do and that it was right. He brandished and flicked the towel a few times, to be ready for the moment, and then he watched.

Some distance away he spotted the Beast he wanted. Head down, it was galloping toward him, right on the very edge of the herd. Old Thrashbarg twitched the bird, the Beast looked up, tossed its head, and then, just as its head was coming down again, Arthur flourished the towel in the Beast’s line of sight. It tossed its head again in bemusement, and its eyes followed the movement of the towel.

He had got the Beast’s attention.

From that moment on, it seemed the most natural thing to coax and draw the animal toward him. Its head was up, cocked slightly to one side. It was slowing to a canter and then a trot. A few seconds later the huge thing was standing there among them, snorting, panting, sweating and sniffing excitedly at the pikka bird, which appeared not to have noticed its arrival at all. With strange sorts of sweeping movements of his arms, Old Thrashbarg kept the pikka bird in front of the Beast, but always out of its reach and always downward. With strange sorts of sweeping movements of the towel, Arthur kept drawing the Beast’s attention this way and that — always downward.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite so stupid in my life,” muttered Ford to himself.