Thor picked up his own beer and slammed it on the table so the head foamed over the rim.

'Knock yourself out,' he said. 'Bubbles and beer.'

Zaphod took this suggestion, as he did most suggestions, at face value and quickly stripped down to his underwear, remembering just in time to pop out the batteries before vaulting into the tankard. He submerged himself to the larynx lump and spent several moments executing a three-armed backstroke while spouting amber spumes.

'I like this place,' bubbled Zaphod. 'It has nice... what do you call it?'

'Toilets?'

'No. The other thing.'

'Ambience?'

'Yes. That's the one.'

Thor growled and the cloud over his head churned with electricity. 'This is the Well of Urd, Zaphod. Where the demi-G.o.ds and bottom feeders hang out. I come here so no one will bother me.'

'Bottom feeders!' said a golden bishop at Zaphod's eye level. 'That's a bit strong. You want to keep your temper in check, mate.'

Zaphod's attention was diverted by the flash of dozens of tanned, toned legs and hundreds of white teeth.

'Look, I do believe that those athletic-looking ladies are waving at us.'

Thor peered surrept.i.tiously across the bar room through his fingers. A group of statuesque Valkyrie were washing blood off their ZugaNugget chest plates in slow motion with barrels of water.

'Forget it, Zaphod. They're out of your reach.'

Zaphod clambered from the tankard. 'Out of my reach? What are you talking about?'

'I'm talking about practicalities. Look at those girls. You couldn't reach past their shin plates with a trampoline. Come to think of it, they're out of my reach too.'

Zaphod shook himself like a hound. 'Come on! This is not the Thunder G.o.d that I know. I remember when my friend Thor disappeared for a weekend with a certain Miss Eccentrica Gallumbits and she ended up paying him.'

'Leave it, Zaphod.'

Zaphod quick-stepped into his trousers. 'This is just what you need, old pal. Me and you on a bender with a few beautiful ladies. I'm going over there.'

'No.'

'Oh, yes. I may be tiny, but I've got a certain je ne sais quoi je ne sais quoi.'

'A certain what?'

'I don't know what,' admitted Zaphod. 'But that's never stopped me before.'

Zaphod had a glint in his eyes that Thor knew well.

Guide Note: This glint was nothing to do with baby gloonts. Rather, it was a look of reckless romanticism which is similar to the one often found in the eyes of the Narcissifish of Flargathon, who are prepared to inflate themselves far beyond the elastic tolerance of their scales in pursuit of a mate. The male Narcissifish will cause himself to spectacularly explode if that is what it takes to impress the female. This is indeed an impressive feat and, in fairness to the female, she will appreciate the sacrifice and often be put out for several days before donning her best pearl necklace and heading back down to the reef.

Related Reading: Love Will Tear Me Apart by Scaly Finnster (RIP) by Scaly Finnster (RIP) 'Get back here, Zaphod. I'm warning you!'

Zaphod strode across the table, skirting a spittoon. 'This is what you need, Thor. You'll thank me later.' He turned his hi-beams on the Valkyrie. 'h.e.l.lo, ladies. You may not know me yet, but you're gonna miss me tomorrow.'

The Valkyrie's puzzled semi-smiles were distorted suddenly by a curved wall of gla.s.s. Zaphod thought for a moment that a sudden rush of Valkyrie l.u.s.t had superheated the air, but then realized that Thor had trapped him underneath a shot gla.s.s, which brought home quite forcefully just how tiny he was in this world. In fact, he seemed to be whatever size Thor felt like making him. Zaphod was sure he would not have fitted under the gla.s.s mere moments ago.

'Come on, Thor,' he cried, his voice bouncing back on him.

Strange, thought Zaphod. The acoustics in here make me sound whiny. The acoustics in here make me sound whiny.

'You're supposed to be my wingman,' he went on. 'We're a team. Remember those anti-grav dancers in Han Dold City?'

Thor dragged the gla.s.s towards him, skirting dangerously close to a complaining rook, and Zaphod was forced to dance along the table just to keep up.

'I've never been to Han Dold.'

'Really? I could've sworn... Must have been some other Asgardian. I'm flashing on a red beard. Are you sure it wasn't you?'

'I'm sure, Zaphod. I'm a G.o.d we don't forget stuff, which is part of the problem.'

Thor lifted the gla.s.s and, as it went up, Zaphod fancied he felt himself grow until he felt more like Thor's equal and less like his pet.

'Problem? What problem?'

Thor thumped the table, sending beer slopping across the planks.

'What problem? What zarking problem, Zaphod? Are you serious? Are you actually asking me that?'

Zaphod frowned. 'That was a lot of questions. What problem... What zarking zarking problem... What was the third one again?' problem... What was the third one again?'

'Oh, there's no point,' said Thor, swallowing enough beer to drown a herd of mammaloids. 'Zaphod Beeblebrox couldn't give two buffa-biscuits about anyone but himself.'

This notion genuinely shocked Zaphod, as he believed that the act of sharing his personality with certain people was an act of love in itself.

'That is a terrible thing to say. I was your closest friend for years.'

'Until you persuaded me to post that video on the Sub-Etha,' said Thor bitterly. Over his head the robust little thundercloud turned flaccid, releasing a light drizzle. It didn't take a brainologist to work out the symbolism.

Zaphod found that he was now only a head shorter than the G.o.d. He plonked himself on a neighbouring stool, and thought he might offer a little joke to lighten the mood.

'I can never pa.s.s a nice stool,' he said, drumming the table. Boom boom Boom boom.

Thor patted Mjollnir's head. 'One more, Zaphod. One more.'

'Can't we forget that video? It's in the past and let me tell you something about the past. That's where it is, in the past. Remember that sentence about the past? That's in the past already. I can barely recall it, except that it contained the phrase the past the past. The past is made up of memories, which are made up of dead stuff that can't hurt you, like, say, a pointy stick could. Atoms and such. Quarks too, I shouldn't wonder. But wasted ones, all lying there doing nothing to anyone.'

'Do you have a point, Zaphod? Or is that in the past too?'

Zaphod draped an arm around Thor's ma.s.sive shoulders. 'My point is that maybe maybe I made a bad call with the video at the time, but ticket sales were down and we needed something to get your profile back on to the A list. The candid video thing was all the rage and, in fairness, some people did like it.' I made a bad call with the video at the time, but ticket sales were down and we needed something to get your profile back on to the A list. The candid video thing was all the rage and, in fairness, some people did like it.'

'Some people?' growled Thor. 'Like that cult on the party ship? Those weirdos certainly lapped it up. Unfortunately, the rest of the Galaxy, the normal normal mortals, didn't fancy the idea of their G.o.d trussed up like a backstreet deviant.' mortals, didn't fancy the idea of their G.o.d trussed up like a backstreet deviant.'

Zaphod shrugged. 'There was some backlash, I admit it.'

Thor ma.s.saged his temples. 'Backlash... Back... I know how shallow you are, Zaphod, but surely even you must have noticed the fallout. My dad blew up that entire planet where we filmed. My beautiful temples were all torn down. I went from number four favourite deity to number sixty-eight, behind Skaoi. Skaoi! The G.o.d of zarking snowshoes.'

'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 I have him.

'Miscalculations, perhaps.'

'And the things I said,' said Thor, shuddering.

'You were acting. Playing a role.'

'Odin shat a kitten. Actually c.r.a.pped 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 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.' 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 set-ups. 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 cl.u.s.ter of vibrant lightning bolts.

'Go on, Zaph,' said the G.o.d. 'I'm listening.'

Hillman Hunter Hillman Hunter was more than just a stereotypical Irishman, he was a stereotype Paddy from a bygone era, as imagined by an ex-patriot Celt with emerald-tinted spectacles and a head full of whiskey and nostalgia. Atop Hillman's head sat a nest of curly red hair, his face was scattershot with bra.s.s penny freckles, his bow-legged walk suggested a youth spent in the saddle of a thoroughbred, and a gold crucifix nestled in the V of his open collar. With regards to diddle-ee-aye Irishness, Hillman Hunter was the whole bag of potatoes. When Hillman walked into a room, it took real effort not to greet him with a hearty begorrah, thank G.o.d for the soft day and enquire after the health of U2. Even his voice conformed to expectations, and why wouldn't it, since Hillman had based his accent on that of Barry Fitzgerald, a twentieth-century Irish actor who was old when television was young. The rest of the hackneyed package was equally studied. Hillman had been dying his hair since it turned grey at age eighteen. He'd also become quite the wielder of curling tongs and his fair complexion was freckled by long hours under the sun bed.

And the motive for all this subterfuge? Simple. Something his Nano had told him a long time ago.

'People buy comfort,' she had said, slitting a pig's throat with a corn sickle. 'If you make them comfortable, then they will buy whatever whatever you are selling.' you are selling.'

The combination of wisdom and arterial blood spray was irresistible and Hillman never forgot his grandmother's lesson.

Make people comfortable then sell them whatever you like.

So the young Hillman transformed himself into the beloved actor and set about selling expensive stuff to rich folk. He hawked cars and yachts, before graduating to horses and overseas property. He was a natural. Gifted. People loved his oldy-worldy spiel and were charmed by his gifts of miniature diamond-encrusted shillelaghs. By the age of forty, Hillman was a millionaire on commission alone. By fifty, he was halfway to being a billionaire and was commuting between residences in a Jaguar and walking around his estate with the help of two bio-hybrid hips that were better than the old ones and would call the manufacturer themselves if they broke.

There was more money to be had, Hillman realized, if a sharp person could figure a way to round up all the rich folk in one place and keep them sh.e.l.ling out for stuff on a daily basis. But how to achieve this? The answer came to him in a flash of TV news headlines. Times were hard and the short-staffed Sisters of Occasional Succour were being forced to auction off one of the church's properties; specifically, the island of Innisfree.

Hillman got so excited that his left hip put in a call to j.a.pan.

Innisfree. The island inspiration for Nano's all-time favourite movie: The Quiet Man. The Quiet Man. The celluloid home of his own personality template. Fate was dropping him a wink, destiny was slipping him a brown bag, providence was beating him over the head with the hint hammer. The celluloid home of his own personality template. Fate was dropping him a wink, destiny was slipping him a brown bag, providence was beating him over the head with the hint hammer.

Hillman outbid a shadow corporation, which could have been traced back to a leisure group on Barnard's Star by anyone with Sub-Etha capabilities, and purchased the island, complete with permission for a retreat that the nuns had been planning to build for weekend sherry parties.

And on that first misty morning, as he putted across the Sligo's Lough Gill on an outboard-powered skiff, Hillman Hunter knew that he had found his crock of gold.

'Bejaysus,' he'd sworn softly and in character. ''Tis the promised land.'

Instead of a retreat, Hillman built Ireland's most luxurious spa residence and, to ensure that he attracted only the richest patrons, he'd invented a religion and thrown that into the brochure too.

Guide Note: Though Hillman Hunter had no way of knowing at the time, Who's What Where magazine had twinned him with Kar Paltonnle from Esflovian, another smooth talker who had managed to persuade several gated communities that it was simple logic that they would be chosen to survive when Armageddon arrived. His career was kick-started by extraordinary good fortune when Armageddon actually did visit Esflovian in the form of aggravated nuclear encounter therapy. Mr Paltonnle earned quite a few piles of currency as cult leader for hire, but he made his real fortune in software when he patented a program called G.o.d Guru, which allowed any would-be me-vangelist to type in a few facts about the community he intended to provide spiritual guidance for and the computer would think about it for a minute or two then spit out an appropriate catechism, complete with the desired number of commandments, justification for any prejudices and a divine hierarchy. The deluxe package gave the buyer the option of registering himself as an official G.o.d using a legal loophole to bypa.s.s the usual three-miracle requirement. magazine had twinned him with Kar Paltonnle from Esflovian, another smooth talker who had managed to persuade several gated communities that it was simple logic that they would be chosen to survive when Armageddon arrived. His career was kick-started by extraordinary good fortune when Armageddon actually did visit Esflovian in the form of aggravated nuclear encounter therapy. Mr Paltonnle earned quite a few piles of currency as cult leader for hire, but he made his real fortune in software when he patented a program called G.o.d Guru, which allowed any would-be me-vangelist to type in a few facts about the community he intended to provide spiritual guidance for and the computer would think about it for a minute or two then spit out an appropriate catechism, complete with the desired number of commandments, justification for any prejudices and a divine hierarchy. The deluxe package gave the buyer the option of registering himself as an official G.o.d using a legal loophole to bypa.s.s the usual three-miracle requirement.

We shall be called Nanites, Hillman had decided without the aid of software. And we shall believe in the existence of the planet Nano, which has been prepared for the faithful by G.o.d. And, someday, these faithful will be collected in a s.p.a.ceship and flown off, first cla.s.s, mind you, to the aforementioned planet, so it would be just as well if the faithful were all gathered in one place awaiting collection by the s.p.a.ceman. Because otherwise they could miss the flight and either be stuck on Earth for the apocalypse, or have to take a later s.p.a.ceship, where there might not be so much as a business-cla.s.s seat left. And we shall believe in the existence of the planet Nano, which has been prepared for the faithful by G.o.d. And, someday, these faithful will be collected in a s.p.a.ceship and flown off, first cla.s.s, mind you, to the aforementioned planet, so it would be just as well if the faithful were all gathered in one place awaiting collection by the s.p.a.ceman. Because otherwise they could miss the flight and either be stuck on Earth for the apocalypse, or have to take a later s.p.a.ceship, where there might not be so much as a business-cla.s.s seat left.

Hillman had thrown the entire gospel together with a couple of locals one drunken weekend in Casey's Bar in Skibbereen. The only significant problem they encountered was the correct spelling of apocalypse apocalypse, which Hillman had been hitherto convinced contained an X.

No one will fall for this, scoffed the tourist board, highly improbable which of course almost guaranteed that the entire venture would be a huge success.

The Irish super-rich landed first, followed by Russian and South African. Hillman cut a deal with some English royals for a bit of credibility and the floodgates opened, which really annoyed Hillman as those floodgates had been guaranteed for twenty years and he lost two-thirds of his reclaimed beachfront.

Three years later, Hillman was head shepherd of his own little mega-wealthy flock who were dying off at a rate of half a dozen per month and leaving sizeable chunks of the Earth's wealth to Hillman so long as he promised to freeze their heads until the aliens arrived.

'It works because it's easy,' Hillman often told Buff Orpington, his second-in-command. 'You don't have to do anything to be a Nanite. Nothing gets cut off, n.o.body holds you underwater, no scripture, no guilt, no commandments. All you have to do is be rich and wear a Nanite T-shirt on Tuesday to the lunch buffet. It couldn't be easier.'

Guide Note: In point of fact, there was one religion that was even easier to belong to than Nanoism. The members of the Temple of Softly Softly, which was very popular in the Brequindan Mind Zones, realized that most of the Universe's major wars had been caused by zealots aggressively spreading their own religion, so they decided that their own method of baptism would be completely painless and could be performed without the knowledge of the baptized. All it took was for one of the faithful to point his smallest digit in your direction for five seconds and softly say 'Beep', then as far as they were concerned, you were a member of the church. Within five Brequindan years, the Temple of SS was the fastest growing religion in the Mind Zones. Unfortunately, as there were no holy wars in the name of Softly Softly and not a single person was mutilated, the Temple was not recognized by the Galactic Council of Religions and did not qualify for charitable status and so disbanded in less than half a lunar cycle.

Hillman Hunter was proud of what he had created and was in negotiations with an Australian minister to build a second compound in the Antipodes. Then, one Thursday afternoon as Hillman sat on the toilet playing a game of pool on his touch-screen phone, a video call came through from an out-of-area number. This intrigued Hillman, as his phone was not a video phone. He took the call, making sure to angle the screen away from his exposed knees, half-thinking that maybe Nano was upset with him for misusing her name and was on the blower from the afterlife.

A face appeared on Hillman's screen. It was not Nano's face; not enough chins or bristles.

'Top of the morning to you,' said Hillman brightly, taking comfort in his persona. 'And who might you be?'

'I might be the answer to your prayers,' said the face. 'I might be the end of your rainbow.'

Hillman used a catch-all quote from his Nano library. 'Oh really, O'Reilly?'

The face frowned. 'What? What's that? Please speak clearly. Your accent seems to be confusing my fish, which never happened with the other monkeys.'

Insane, thought Hillman, not unreasonably. Utterly delusional Utterly delusional.

I agree, Hillers, whispered the voice of his dead grandmother.

'The shapes your mouth is making don't match the words coming out of it,' noted Hillman. 'And, anyway, this phone doesn't do video.'

'One of the marvels of me,' explained the mysterious head in a vague manner Hillman would come to know well. 'And the mouthword thing is because you are without a Babel fish and so the ship is insta-translating. Okay? Get the picture, ape man?'

Enough of this larking about, thought Hillman.

'Right-ee-o,' he said. 'Well done on the phone hacking, but I must toddle off now. I have a religion to lead.' He hung up and stood to embark on the complicated fine motor task of b.u.t.toning the flies on his tweed trousers.