h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

Oh, wow. I really am the Presidential Seal. Wow.

If it's OK by you, Prez, I'm just going to lie right here and exude an aura of statesmanship for you.

Yeah, honestly, for as long as you like. You just have to get a lackey to throw me a fish every ten minutes or so. That OK?

Right. Now I'm raring to go. No, really, I'm raring to go, and you wouldn't want me to do it behind the lectern, would you?

I'll be back in a minute. Look, this sort of thing's bound to happen now and again during long stints of Symbolising the Executive. Don't worry about it. Just don't go making any speeches before I'm back, right?

Speaking of a Presidential Seal, we should get a badge - "Member of the h2g2 Government" or something.

Page looks great by the way.

a badge would be cool...

A beautiful profile of the President, perhaps.

...Ahem...

Several of Pinniped's vital signs are evident again today, more's the pity. The resumption of whining (in this case about his hangover) is one of the more annoying of these.

The whale and I have been taking turns to shout at him. From time to time, by way of a little variety, I've substituted lying on top of him instead.

He really will have to learn not to make an exhibition of himself in other people's imaginings.

I don't personally put much store by the sheep-story. No sentient creature has yet found Pinniped sexually attractive. The whale, we can only hope, has learned from her indiscretions, chief among which was consorting with Pinniped in the first place.

The vulture's jamming was something to behold. I'm not one to believe in ghosts myself, but anything can be made real by the telling of the gifted.

And what of Alberta? She has been very quiet since she flew home. Not exactly sad, and not even confused. Thoughtful, certainly, and even possibly a little shaken.

There are things of which Pinniped knows nothing. He pretends emotional range, and he pretends insight, but he never tries to understand experience beyond his own. It's left to the rest of us to weigh the feelings of the people he bumps up against.

She's not a bad friend to have, our Alberta. Totally unreliable when it comes to practical support, of course, but always sympathetic and ready to listen.

Politics seems a long way away when you're out here on the ice. Loneliness is a more familiar companion. Alberta's wings are strong. She's only a blast on the dog-whistle away, and there's even a reasonable chance that she'll fly in the right direction.

SYWM

The vulture circled the Pier a few times then landed unceremoniously on the Speak Your Weight Machine, startling him out of a fitful reverie. A lone horse and rider could be seen approaching across the ice. It was a woman, but not one he recognized.

"Good God. Now what? Why can't everyone just leave us in peace?"

The woman was indeed a stranger. She reigned in her horse and surveyed her surroundings. It had been snowing for several hours. She wondered if one of those white lumps was the seal. Her message was for him.

"Who are you? What do you want?" demanded SYWM. "You can't just invade someone's Pier without an invitation."

The woman pushed back the hood of her heavy sealskin cape, uncovering her head. She had rich auburn hair falling in waves around her face and down her back. And what a face. There was something strange about her face. The deep hazel eyes were cold and the haughty mouth was turned down with contempt. Yet in spite of this she was the most beautiful woman SYWM had ever seen. Perhaps he had spoken too hastily.

She spoke sharply. "You must be Speak. I was warned that you would be unpleasant."

"I, umh..."

"I've come for the seal. Where is he?" Speak was having a hard time placing her accent.

A rather large head protruded from the water. "The theal ith over there." She looked in the direction indicated by the pink-clad whale. One of the piles of snow was moving rhythmically up and down and faint snoring could be heard.

She coaxed the horse toward the gently heaving lump. The horse nudged the figure buried in the snow until it sat upright. The woman gazed in astonishment. It was the first time she had ever seen an elephant seal wearing an ice pack on it's head and clutching a bottle of 18 year old Jameson under it's flipper.

"Pinniped, I presume."

The albatross had joined the vulture on top of SYWM and was watching intently.

She reached inside her cloak and withdrew an envelope. "I have a message for you." The woman handed the envelope to the seal, then replaced her hood, turned her horse and rode back the way she had come.

The seal watched her for a few moments then reluctantly opened the envelope and took out a single piece of paper.

"What doeth it thay, Theal Boy?"

Pinniped looked at the letter. Then he closed his eyes tightly, reopened them and looked at it again.

"Bring it here!" SYWM demanded.

The seal dutifully hopped across the ice and handed the letter to Speak, who read it with astonishment.

"What ith it? What doeth it thay?" Orchid pleaded.

"I'm not sure what it means," Speak replied. "It appears to be a recipe for brownies and the combination to a safe."

Pinniped is wearing a look of ferocious concentration. He isn't really physiologically equipped for wood-carving. Eventually a long, straight gouge is fashioned in the king-post at the Pier entrance, alongside three much older ones.

"Four". His expression might be a smirk and might be a scowl. "That means we're averaging a visitor a year".

"Very nice", hisses Speak. "But who was she?"

Pinniped shrugs. In a moment, Speak is towering over him, simmering with anger.

"Either you are pretending not to care in order to wind me up, or you actually know and aren't telling me", snarls the elephant seal. "Whichever it is, you should be aware that you are dicing with death".

"She's not that sort of evil", says Pinniped, carelessly.

"It's me who's going to kill you, you idiot", yells the other.

Another shrug.

"Who...is...she...?" The veins at the Speak-Your-Weight-Machine's temples pulse in barely-contained apoplexy.

Pinniped returns the glare with solemn and patient eyes. In his well-rehearsed repertoire of infuriating behaviours, this is the one reminiscent of a mildly-annoyed saint.

"I'm not completely sure", says the saint, beatifically. "In a little while, I'm going to go find her, and ask her".

"When?", moans Speak, overcome with exasperation.

"When I'm sure who she is", replies the little seal, sweetly. This time, the expression is definitely a smirk. It's wearer darts behind the king-post, just as the hurled limpet ricochets off it with a string of profanities.