'Just hear me out,' pleaded Zaphod.

'Nope.'

'Five seconds, what could it hurt?'

'No. Any question you could ask me, the answer would be no.'

Zaphod spat it out quickly. 'Is Thor home?'

'No, he b.l.o.o.d.y isn't!' roared Heimdall, the tips of his waxed moustache quivering.

'Really?'

The Asgardian G.o.d bared his teeth. 'Actually, yes. Yes, he is home. You're in b.l.o.o.d.y Asgard, aren't you?'

'He is! Could I...'

'No. It's back to negatives again, my friend. And when I say my friend my friend, I actually mean my hated enemy who I would like to see disembowelled and then sprinkled with salt my hated enemy who I would like to see disembowelled and then sprinkled with salt.'

'Come on, Heimdall. Forget all those misunderstandings and negotiate a little. This is important.'

Heimdall's cheeks were so red that it seemed quite possible that his head would explode.

'Misunderstandings? Misunder zark me. You have a lot of nerve, c.r.a.p-prod. You have enough sheer b.l.o.o.d.y gall for an entire bucket of Gall Stones.'

Guide Note: Gall Stones Light grey pebbles found on Damogran. Very cheeky.

'What say we put the past behind us, where it belongs, and just start again? We can do that, can't we? We're both rational adults.'

'We're both rational adults, but you should see Thor now. He's just a bag of nerves with a helmet on top after what you did to him.' both rational adults, but you should see Thor now. He's just a bag of nerves with a helmet on top after what you did to him.'

'That's why I want to talk to the boy. To explain.'

Heimdall took a moment for some breathing exercises, blowing into the gloved fingers of one hand which he wiggled before his face.

'Explain?' he said finally. 'You want to explain?'

'Yes, that's all I want from you wonderful G.o.ds,' said Zaphod in tones that would have the Sucky Crawlers of Sycophantasia reaching for their sick-bags. 'A chance to explain, and possibly make amends for, my previous mistakes.'

'Amends, eh?' Heimdall said. 'I suppose you do need to make amends.'

'Yes. Yes, of course I do. I repent and I deserve penance.'

'I know what you're doing there,' said Heimdall, scowling. 'Pushing my G.o.d G.o.d b.u.t.tons. Who do you think you're fooling?' b.u.t.tons. Who do you think you're fooling?'

'I'm serious. Look at this face.'

Heimdall leaned in until his eyes filled the screen. These were eyes that could slice through the fat of a normal person's lies and find the bone of truth within.

'Very well, Zaphod Beebleb.a.s.t.a.r.d. Come outside and let's talk about amends.'

'Come outside? Into s.p.a.ce? Won't that be cold?'

'Fear not, mortal. I will extend a bubble of atmosphere to you.'

'Just step outside, then?'

'Out you come, Zaphod. Alone. You have one minute to decide.'

Left Brain hovered at Zaphod's shoulder.

'I think you should probably go,' he said. 'Don't worry about me. I'll be fine here inside the ship. I'm sure the atmosphere bubble will hold its integrity.'

'Can you check it?'

Left Brain squinted for a moment, then spasmed as lightning flashed inside his dome.

'The Asgardian computer doesn't share information, apparently.' Little spider-bots clicked along the gla.s.s, nipping at the scorch marks. 'There isn't a line out from the entire planet. If you go out there, you are on your own.'

Zaphod sighed and straightened his coat. 'People like me, LB, the truly great ones... we are always alone.'

LB nodded. 'That was good, but I wasn't ready with the lighting. Give me a second, then try it again.'

'Okay. Something warm. And not directly overhead. Makes my hair look thin.'

Left Brain interfaced with the ship's illuminations, putting a yellow spotlight on Zaphod's face.

'Ready?'

'What would you say my motivation was?'

'Greatness. Pure, undiluted greatness.'

Zaphod nodded gravely, accepting the truth of this. He steepled his fingers and spoke slowly.

'People like me...' he began, then Left Brain opened a tube and shot him into s.p.a.ce.

Guide Note: As divine dynasties go, the Aesir, the G.o.ds of Asgard, are not exactly the biggest pseudopods on the amoeboid. Adored on less than a thousand worlds, they can fairly be cla.s.sed as middle-tier G.o.ds. Zeus, the father of the rival Olympians, has often publicly claimed that he has 'pulled fluff b.a.l.l.s from his navel that were bigger than Asgard', but this is more than likely simply an attempt to exacerbate Odin's legendary planet envy. Odin and Zeus have had a 'bit of a thing' going for several thousand years, ever since Zeus accidentally turned Odin into a wild boar during one of his 'take human form and plant some wild oats' visits to the planet Earth. But even though the G.o.ds of Asgard have not achieved the same level of penetration as the Olympians, or even some of the novelty G.o.ds such as Pasta Fasta, who began his career as a restaurant chain icon, they are significant for what they have contributed to popular culture, most notably the horn, which they use to decorate their ceremonial helmets, create music and, most importantly, fill with beer. Scientists have postulated that without the phrase 'do you fancy a horn of beer?' in their lexicon, several worlds would never have emerged from their cataclysmic planetary war phase. what they have contributed to popular culture, most notably the horn, which they use to decorate their ceremonial helmets, create music and, most importantly, fill with beer. Scientists have postulated that without the phrase 'do you fancy a horn of beer?' in their lexicon, several worlds would never have emerged from their cataclysmic planetary war phase.

Heimdall, G.o.d of Light, left Zaphod thrashing in the inky void for twenty-nine seconds before lobbing out an atmosphere yo-yo to reel him to safety. In those twenty-nine seconds Zaphod Beeblebrox was forced to think on the inside of his head rather than transmitting his thoughts directly to the Universe as he preferred. His tangent-ridden reflection resulted in the oft-quoted 'Beeblebrox's Inner Monologue', of which there are two published versions: the official one, which Zaphod produced after a weekend on the writer Oolon Colluphid's estate, and the unofficial version, which was picked up telepathically by Left Brain and included in his memoirs, Life in a Fishbowl Life in a Fishbowl. Both accounts will be presented and you can make up your own mind which is more accurate.

The Official Version And so, the moment has arrived. I grieve bitterly, not for myself, but for those who have been denied the ecstasy of knowing Zaphod Beeblebrox. People will recognize the name, I suppose. Beeblebrox has done a few small things in his short existence. How will I be remembered? As a supernova perhaps, a celestial body that blazes in the night sky, a light in the darkness, granting those that felt its heat on their faces a moment of wonder and perhaps hope. This would be enough. There are those who heap praise upon my shoulders, lauding me as a prophet, a revolutionary, or a great satisfier of women. I accept the praise with gracious modesty, but if I could choose my own epitaph, I would simply say that Zaphod Beeblebrox surprised everyone. In a good way.

And the Unofficial Version Oh, zark. Big... Big... B-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-G. s.p.a.ce everywhere, but no air! My hair will collapse. And I always bloat in zero g g. Heimdall, you total b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Look, a ball of ice. Smoothie, shiny, wish I could lick it. What underpants am I wearing? For the autopsy, you need to think about these things. New ones with drainage, I hope. Ford, dude. You were froody, we were froody together. But I was slightly more froody. I bet this gets big coverage. It's not every day a Galactic President gets dumped out of an airlock by his own head.

There was a third version, that flickered just below the surface of Zaphod's consciousness. Left Brain didn't hear it and Zaphod didn't remember it.

So, Zaphod's buried personality monologued internally, as I did not hold my breath there will be no lung damage, but that does mean I have less than half a minute before oxygen-deprived blood reaches my brain. I could have done so much more with my time... as I did not hold my breath there will be no lung damage, but that does mean I have less than half a minute before oxygen-deprived blood reaches my brain. I could have done so much more with my time...

Asgard The Light G.o.d watched Zaphod spasm, with no little satisfaction in his all-seeing eyes. He stood on the lip of Bifrost, the portal between Asgard and the rest of the Universe, counting down the seconds until he would have to choose between rescuing Thor's old manager or letting him die.

It hardly seemed like a choice at all, since Heimdall hated mortals in general (except the n.o.ble Sigurd of legend) and Beeblebrox in particular, but letting men die in the vicinity of Asgard was definitely frowned on by Odin, as martyrs had a tendency to live for ever. Which was ironic, as they were dead. Or maybe it was paradoxical, not ironic; one of those tricky terms that Loki bandied around to fl.u.s.ter him. Heimdall was a soldier and didn't crowd his brain with extraneous vocabulary. Hunt, kill, burn, flay. Those were the kind of words he liked. Especially flay flay, but it was difficult to work into everyday conversation.

Heimdall pouted for a moment, then sent a gloopy plasma string undulating from the tip of the Gjallarhorn, the legendary harbinger of Ragnarok. Gjallarhorn might seem to the casual observer like your typical twenty-foot, old Norse yelling horn but in the hands of a G.o.d it became a tool of great power and a handy vessel for beer-drinking games.

At the tip of the plasma string there was a bubble of atmosphere which Heimdall fly-fished in s.p.a.ce until he managed to snare Zaphod. The plasma sh.e.l.l would gave the Betelgeusean quite a shock when he jittered through to the breathable air inside, but Heimdall was not in the least worried about that. The G.o.d's only concern about Zaphod Beeblebrox's pain was to ensure that there was plenty of it in his immediate future; his immediate past too, if he could get a time pa.s.s from Odin.

He reeled Zaphod in and landed him on the Rainbow Bridge.

Guide Note: The term Rainbow Bridge Rainbow Bridge is an example of how G.o.ds in general are given to rhetoric and aggrandizement. Osiris did not just have a flu which knocked him sideways for a few weeks, he died and rose again. Aphrodite did not just have a wardrobe full of low-cut blouses and an inexhaustible supply of dirty limericks, she was irresistible to all males everywhere. And the Rainbow Bridge is an example of how G.o.ds in general are given to rhetoric and aggrandizement. Osiris did not just have a flu which knocked him sideways for a few weeks, he died and rose again. Aphrodite did not just have a wardrobe full of low-cut blouses and an inexhaustible supply of dirty limericks, she was irresistible to all males everywhere. And the Rainbow Bridge was not just a spectacularly engineered suspension bridge of ice and steel, it was according to the Aesir an actual bridge of rainbows. was not just a spectacularly engineered suspension bridge of ice and steel, it was according to the Aesir an actual bridge of rainbows.

Zaphod jittered for a minute while the plasma evaporated, then moaned as he realized that his silver boot heels had melted while pa.s.sing through the charged sh.e.l.l.

'Oh, come on,' he moaned. 'Do you realize how many Silver-Tongued Devils' tongues went into those heels? This is the worst day of my life.'

Heimdall loomed over him, his grin several yards wide.

'I am delighted to hear it.'

'That rainbow rainbow bridge is made of ice and steel,' said Zaphod in petulant revenge for the boot heels. bridge is made of ice and steel,' said Zaphod in petulant revenge for the boot heels.

'Silence!' roared Heimdall. 'Or you shall be flayed!'

'I'm already afraid.'

'No, not afraid.'

'Not afraid. Afraid. Make up your mind.'

'I said flayed flayed. Flayed! The skin peeled from your body!'

Zaphod gulped comically. 'Now I am afraid. Is that allowed?'

Heimdall pinched his nose and quietly recited the first verse of the Volsunga saga, which generally calmed him down, but this time even Sigurd's exploits could not soothe his pounding heart.

While Heimdall was reciting, Zaphod processed the loss of his heels and decided he had bigger porms to wrangle. He jumped to his feet, immediately fell over, tried to cover the embarra.s.sing fall with a backwards tumble, stood upright once more, tottered around for a second until he found a gait that worked with no-heeled high heels, then treated himself to a three-sixty spin.

'Wow,' he concluded. 'I have to say, Heimdall, this is one hoopy world you guys have here. I mean, wow. Is that a waterfall? How big is that?'

Heimdall tried one last verse before replying. 'It's the fountain of youth, if you must know. Frigga fancied a water feature.'

'That's great. Landscape gardening it's the future.'

'No, it isn't,' said Heimdall gloomily. 'Ragnarok is the future. The G.o.ds will perish and the Universe will drown in blood.'

Zaphod nodded. 'Now that would be a fountain worth seeing. But for now, let's stay positive, eh, big fella? We're not drowning in blood yet.'

Heimdall was indeed a big fellow, especially seen from directly below. Gazing up at a G.o.d's crotch can do wonders for a person's lack of low self-esteem. Especially when the crotch contours are tightly bound by the leggings of a red and neon blue striped ski jumpsuit. Heimdall spent his days and nights on the ice and so apparently had decided to dress the part. He had eschewed the traditional mammaloid leggings in favour of s...o...b..arding boots and there was a pair of orange-tinted ski goggles perched on his forehead and a stripe of sun block on his nose.

'So. Hate to hurry things along, but you know, my old buddy, Thor. Any chance you could see your way clear to letting me in to see him...?'

Heimdall's vision of the apocalypse faded and he peered down at Zaphod.

'Amends, you said. You wanted to make amends.'

Zaphod pasted on his most disarming smile. 'Well, I would say that, wouldn't I? In my defence, I didn't mean a word of it. I was under duress.'

'You know the drill, Zaphod.'

'Not tasks! Come on, Heimdall. That's so oldy-worldy. I thought you guys were getting with the times.'

'Asgard does not change.'

'What about that water feature? That wasn't there on my last visit.'

'Significantly. Asgard does not change significantly significantly. Three tasks, Beeblebrox, if you really want to talk.'

'Three! I don't have time for three. Your tasks take for ever. I'll do one.'

'Three,' insisted Heimdall, eyes bulging in their sockets.

'One!' repeated Zaphod.

'I'm just going to kill you, screw it.'

Zaphod rocked back on his biological heels, then rocked forward a step. 'You're bluffing, big boy. I know the rules here. No one gets struck off the coil on Asgard without the Big O's say so.'

'Don't push me, because I'll call him.'

'Yeah? What's stopping you? Maybe Odin doesn't give out his number to gatekeepers.'

Heimdall shook his ma.s.sive head. 'Don't do it, Beebleb.o.l.l.o.c.ks. Don't make me call the guy. He's no fan of yours.'

'Call him, go ahead. You won't though, because he's number one and you're... you don't even have a number. Odin could be enjoying a nice horn of honey mead and your call might make him drop it, then holy zark, it's Ragnarok.'

Heimdall pointed a finger the size of a torpedo. 'Right. That's it. I am calling.'

'Are you? Looks like you're talking to me. Lot of flapping lips, not much number punching.'

'Be this on your own head, Zaphod,' muttered the G.o.d. 'All I wanted was three tasks. Four, tops.' He waggled his horn in a certain way and it collapsed into itself until it fit neatly into the G.o.d's palm. 'This is it. No turning back.'

'Of course there is, if you're full of buffa-biscuit.'

'Buffa!' croaked Heimdall in the choked tones of a Folfangan Phlegm Ferret having its throat tickled for the precious pharmacopeia in its mucus. 'Buffa, you say!' He punched in a number on the horn's keypad and hummed his way through a few seconds of ringing.

'Yep, h.e.l.lo. Odie, it's me,' he said into the horn.

Heimdall closed one eye and endured a few seconds of abuse from the father of the G.o.ds.