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

Trout Montague wiggled the pathetic fluffy cervine stub that his neo-species habitually attempt to pass off as a tail. “Bah”, he muttered, “look at it … it puts the B back into bloody Banarnia”. He snorted and agitatedly turned Lipizzaner-fashion through 180 degrees, raising a cloud of dust in the so doing, which was something of a surprise on account of the fact that he was (perhaps worryingly) standing on an ice-floe. In fact, worrying anything was unusually explicitly not on the mind of the erstwhile pisco-homonid whose immediate concerns centered conversely on how he could effect the removal of both himself and this menagerie of creatures complete with a RouteMaster bus from this immediate premise. It was the erstwhile pisco-homonid’s newfound unfamiliar twitchy instinct that compelled the cervid to run headlong into the icy wardrobe that to date had confounded them …

… crumpled in a heap in front of which is where he remained, still toffee-beige and dazed but still reeking of fish, and marvelling at how cervid and cervix were interwoven.

"Dope", spat the seal.

Spanner, screwdriver, wrench and saw, the bits are tossed into the void beyond. Does it really matter in what form they are reassembled as long as they serve the loyal group?
Would there ever be anything new if we just reassemble the same old thing?
The shark, and the others, make up for lack of skill with creativity.

F S

'If the meaning of life isn't 42 what do you suppose it is?'

The seal looked warily at the hound. This really was very un-dog-like behaviour. Why couldn't she just run around and throw muddy paws at them or better still chase rabbits.

'Becoth there aren’t any rabbith here Theal boy'.

And how could a whale know what he was thinking and who gave her the right to call him 'Theal boy'. He certainly hadn't.

'It's easy phocoid, It's all to do with creativity' said the shark.

Now the b****y shark was at it! Whatever happened to private thoughts?

'Think he copped it just North of Bagdad', said Montague.

'It doesn't have to be a bus you know. In fact I think a bus would be rather impractical mode of transport in the frozen mirror of Narnia,' said the flying wotsit.

'Itth not a flying wotthit itth a lamergeierth' protested the whale rendering all future spelling of the word futile and ensuring that the vulture bird would henceforth be known as a 'flying wotsit'.

'I thought we were building a sled' said the librarian. 'We could give it a number I suppose if that would make everyone feel more comfortable.'

'Let me guess' said Pin '42!'

'Why does it have to be a permanent number?' asked the dog. 'Why can't it be a different number to each of us? Surely it is what it is and as we see it from where we stand.'

With the dog behaving like this it was going to be a difficult journey. Pin threw the overgrown beige cod a cue. Well he threw him a 'please help me' look in the hope that a witty response would shut up the hound.

'Don't look at me mate. I'm still trying to figure out how I get through the wardrobe.'

'Just let go' said boots. 'Dare to be free.'

The librarian would have preferred a warmer clime, but another adventure on the ice seemed inevitable. Still it was good to have old friends gathering again.

She looked at the group's assorted fins, flippers, hoooves and paws. "I guess it's up to me to do the loading and unloading again? And the cooking and cleaning? Damn these opposable thumbs."

She raised the hood of her cloak then drew it tightly to block the wind. The Pier, isolated and dark, provided an incredible view of the night sky. As she gazed upward at the winter stars it was easy to imagine a sled with frozen sails skimming across the ice.

‘I reckon I’m going to leave this one to you guys' says Pinniped, with an air of nonchalance that surely means trouble.

He pats the book authoritively, and turns to face the hound. 'Anyhow, dogbreath, I'd say you're a natural for this Peter guy. Noble, born leader, protector of weaker siblings...'

'...Gets attacked by wolves', mutters Alberta, but already something is preventing her from voicing objections aloud. It's as though there's destiny at work here. The names from the book echo in her mind...Susan...Lucy...

The hound raises an incredulous eyebrow. Seal-boy intends to give this adventure a miss, then? Alberta can see that boots is hooked, though. The sly phocoid knows it too.

'This time, alas, I won’t be with you’, declares the smelly one. 'I'd love to help, of course, but there comes a day when the teacher must stand aside for the pupil'. His expression is a picture of angelic altruism.

'Turkish Delight!' hisses the albatross. Pinniped wheels around as if licked by a whip, baring his teeth in fury.

The hound doesn't notice. She's too busy imagining herself in bright armour, sword aloft and colours streaming.

Down on the frosted timbers of the floor, the limpet pores over the book and oozes a stream of objectionable, bubbly fluid.

The creatures of the menagerie don't appreciate the sophistication of Roofle's disgusting communication. As a result, nobody hears his warning about keeping the Trout-Faun away from Mrs Beaver, round about page 94.

Pinniped flashes a smile of pure evil at the hapless albatross, and jerks a dismissive flipper in the direction of the part-dismantled Routemaster and the half-built sled.

'You losers can struggle with those', he smirks. 'I've got a cool date waiting’.

With that, he waddles over to the wardrobe, and is gone.

'What is the pier?'

The hound was looking less canine with every passing comment.

'A safe haven where the seal can try and make sense of life? A bridge like the corpus collosus where unbridled imagination can cross into order? Do we all have a pier?'

The librarian knew that if she had a pier it would be in a damn sight warmer place.

Orchid was lost in fantasy over the corpus collosus, confirming collective opinion as to the size of her brain.

Trout merely peered at his peers and thought about the possible physical delights he could enjoy with a warmer plaice.

'It's a beautiful sled, Hypatia. The sails are almost ghostly, she's like a galleon in a fairy tale.'

'As opposed to a faun's tail' muttered the seal.

Boots looked at the blue white vista all around them. The winter stars like pinpricks of light.

'It's nearly Christmas. Can you really wish upon a star?'

The librarian in Hypatia is incensed that the order of the books has been changed from the way Lewis intended them to be read.

"We will do this properly or we won't do it at all!" she shouts at the departing seal, who is long gone. She worries about the seal, afraid that he has slipped into character too easily. "Page 94 indeed. Now we'll all need the same bloody edition!"

Hypatia is beginning to like the new Boots very much. And she realizes that Susan will need an ally against Edmund.

Boots, dear, how do you feel about remaining male for a while longer?

The lammergeier sidles quietly up to the albatross. 'Show me the book', she whispers.

And, just as she suspected, the book turns out to be peculiarly transparent and lightweight. Every page is numbered 94. There are badly-drawn pictures of strange animals, like the scribblings of a bored child. The blurred text is illegible. The few words that can be made out are meaningless.

'He hasn't read it in a long time', says Alberta. 'I told him he ought to read it again if he's going there, but he just sneered at me'.

The vulture could have guessed all that, of course. She knows Pinniped rather well, because she is good at observing from far off, and at thinking while she soars.

The two turn and gaze into the blackness of one of the Pier's corridors. There is a scrawled note, carelessly written. It says 'To the Hall of Mirrors'. Another project never really started.

But everything here has a meaning, and so Pinniped is a mirror. His depth is an illusion. He impulsively reflects what he sees.

Until you get the hang of him, the traits you ascribe to Pinniped are sometimes your own.

The vulture landed by the supine fish heap and spoke to the one eye that peered out from its depths.

'It's the back you go through, Trout. The front has doors. They’re for opening'

The one eye stared impassively.

The bird sighed, she was impatient to explore the other side of the wardrobe but to jump into the unknown on your own like that idiot seal wasn't sensible.

'You just let go' said the Hound again.

The bird glanced at her, 'You know this new edition you has a distinctly psychedelic aura.', and turned back to the still immobile fish.

'Look. Open the doors, go in, keep going.' she said, 's'easy.'

'Keep going... between the furs...' the words grew muffled, 'and they...' then disappeared into silence.






'...they get scratchy.'

'Ouch.' said the lammergeier, tripping over a stray bus part, then 'Oh.' looking around a dense wood of fir trees opening onto a snow filled valley, no wardrobe in sight, no half built sled.

There was very little in sight; snow, trees, a poster fixed to a concrete lamp post, a familiar slithery finny trail that ended by some tyre treads a few yards away. Not just tyre tread, that was the imprint of a stiletto heel, and there, another. There was a faint whiff of perfume detectable too, the kind that went with red silk.

'Oh.' said the lammergeier again. And went to read the poster by the neon orange light. The kind that would blot out the starlight, she noted with disapproval.

"Notification of Bye-law 23,321.

In the interests of community harmony, economy, progressivism and public health the Christmas/Winter Festival is hereby cancelled. Hereto with and from here on in there will be no Festival holiday. Anyone wasting resources on festive lights, decoration, gifts or cards, or observing any Christmas/Mid Winter ritual will be detained for Her Majesty's Pleasure.

The Narnian Unitary Authority"

'Oh.' said the lammergeier again. And turned to try and track her footprints back to the wardrobe.

The librarian was a bit worried about the adventure. Not having the advantage of flight like Waz or Alberta, she felt uncomfortable leaving without a bus or a sled or some form of transport other than her own sore feet. She also lacked the natural weather resistence of the seal, trout and shark, so although she was an excellent swimmer, she wasn't able to do so in the arctic. She supposed there was nothing for it except to walk.

She had found an old pair of thermal long johns and some wool socks, but they weren't keeping her very warm. And she was missing Jazzme. She hoped he had gotten her message and would arrive soon. People are social creatures and it is always good to have someone of your own species along on a journey. Of course if he ever saw the long johns, he would probably be somewhat disenchanted.

She cautiously approached the wardrobe and peered inside. There was a strange light coming from the back which enabled her to see a bow and quiver of arrows propped up in one corner. There was also a horn, a box of Little Debbie caramel cookie bars, a thermos of cocoa, a folding camp stool, a wool blanket and a key ring containing four keys.

She took possession of the objects and made herself as comfortable as she could outside the wardrobe. She would wait a while longer for Jazzme, but if he didn't come soon she would have to start off without him.

The telephone at the Pier hasn't rung in a long time. It does so now. Speak answers it with practised disinterest.

'This place isn't magical at all', complains the seal at the other end. 'It's modern and run-down and tacky. It's also bl**dy dangerous, and I've got nothing to eat, not even...'

His voice tails off, with what might have been a sob.

'Well come home, then', replies Speak, wearily.

'Can't', snaps Pinniped. 'Someone's moved the s*dding wardrobe. There's a skip where it used to be. And the trees have moved too. The floor used to be covered with pine needles. Now they're hyperdermic needles'.

'At least your mobile phone works', says Speak. 'Don't go using all your credit, now. It sounds like you could be needing it'. He disconnects the call with a peremptory jab of a flipper.

That's the trouble with this kind of story, thinks Speak. No permanence. No ink on paper to endure, just emphemeral scintillations on a screen. The places that Lewis knew and drew upon have evidently changed a bit since the old boy's time.

Alberta is watching from the rafters, looking as crestfallen as ever.

'Twenty-four hours', growls Speak. 'If he's not out by then, we'll go and rescue the silly b*gger'.

There's no place like home...
there's no place like home...
there's no place like home;

The silly ruby slippers didn't fit on his tail fins anyway - he knew it wouldn't work. Besides there is a famous quote 'You can't go home again.'

Why do they jump through the wardrobe into a frozen, enchanted land beyond, and expect comfort?

At least if there are no others of your particular species available you can not resort to cannibalism!

Of course we did try to cannibalize the Roadmaster, but that's not the same thing at all.

If we can't go back we must go on.

F S

The librarian heard the phone ring and tried to follow Speak's end of the conversation. She noticed that Alberta seemed agitated again. She had managed to understand "come home" followed by "rescue". This wasn't going to do at all. As soon as this adventure was over with, she would have to swallow her pride and have her hearing checked.

She replaced the lid on the thermos of cocoa and approached SYWM. "Was that Pinniped? What's wrong? Who needs to be rescued?"

Speak frowned at her then sighed deeply, but made no response.

Hypatia drew herself to her full 59 inches and tried to give off threatening vibes. Months of rage, frustration and suppressed emotions were making their way to the surface. "Listen, you pompous ass," she exclaimed coldly. "They're my friends, too. Now, I'm going to go through that wardrobe to see what's going on - since you won't tell me. And you had better pray that I don't ever come back. Because if I do, I'm going to personally eviscerate you and feed you to the sharks."

Let Speak remain on his Pier, isolated and alone. If he chose to be an observer of life, rather than a participant, then that was his loss. She wondered if he fancied himself a god with Pinniped and Orchid and the others as his faithful devotees. Or perhaps he was Nero Wolfe and Pin was Archie Goodwin, doing all of the leg work, or in this case all the living, for him. That's it. She would henceforth think of them as Nero and Archie.

She limped back over to the wardrobe, collected her travelling gear and opened the door. She had dealt with the Smellfungus and with Pingu. She could take on whatever was on the other side of the wardrobe. So what if Speak underestimated her. She was used to people underestimating her. She always enjoyed the looks on their faces when they found out they were mistaken.

"Deep breath, Hypatia. Here we go!" She walked toward the light at the rear of the wardrobe and disappeared.

Alberta looked uncomfortably at SYWM. "That was a bit dramatic," she said.

The Speak Your Weight Machine was deep in thought. He was almost sure the short librarian couldn't disembowel him, even if she was still mad when she came back. But he did need to formulate a rescue plan. He would think about it after a little nap.

The discarded seal muttered something moderateable and blinked rather fast as he flicked the phone shut.




'Pinniped? Where are you, my poppet?' The Enchantress' sultry voice scattered his thoughts.

He grabbed at and tried to hang on to the tail end of his disgruntled unease. It was at least familiar, a defense of a sort.

'There you are.' She threw her sealskin cape over the back of an ebony and velvet armchair, poised herself on the corner of the desk and fixed her eyes on him.

'I have speeches for you to write, my Master of Words', her hand caressed his neck and ran along one flipper. Master of Words, she’d said. He couldn’t help himself; the blubber quivered, his chest inflated. Unease and the memories of Speak and Alberta slipped from his grasp.

'Poetry, my seal, we must win the vote to banish poetry.'

'Banish poetry?' Unease rekindled and Pinniped's whiskers trembled slightly.

'Poetry. We agreed, remember? The pastime of wastrels, dreamers?’

His unresponsiveness drew a quick gesture of anger. She pushed herself off the desk, 'Self-absorbed, unreliable, impractical sentimentalists.', her stilettos pock marked the Axminster. 'It fuels reactionaries, feeds my enem...' she halted, then turned and slid back onto the desk.

'Poetry will never solve poverty, now will it, my Seal? It seduces the impressionable, produces nothing but evaporating words. We talked about this yesterday, you do remember, don't you?'

Pinniped gazed at her, nodding dumbly. They had. He’d been sounding off to impress.

It was odd, the Enchantress thought, how the animal could look so unattractively blank and be so persuasive in words. As a campaign manager he’d be useless.



'Now, this librarian friend of yours, an expert campaigner you said. Tell me more about her.'

Hypatia stepped out of the wardrobe expecting to find a magical, frozen landscape with her friends nearby engaged in conversation with a talking beaver or two. This place looked nothing like the Narnia of her imagination. She wasn't sure if she was disappointed or intrigued.

She suspected it was the fault of the wardrobe. How could Speak have gotten the authentic one? There's no telling where this one came from. China no doubt. Everything else seemed to be made there. And that would explain the discrepencies - problems with translation.

Actually, the landscape looked more like Sinclair Lewis than C.F.Lewis. She wondered if the silly manufacturers had gotten the wrong author altogether. At least she wasn't stuck with Shari Lewis. That would have been intolerable for all of them except the sheep.

The landscape appeared deserted. She was somewhat cross that the others had gone off rather than waiting nearby for the rest of the party. Well, there was only one path leading away from the wardrobe, so she at least had a good chance of starting off in the same direction. She hoped they had found a place to rest. Otherwise, she would have a hard time catching up to them.

"A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, Hypatia." she said to herself. She picked up her gear and started down the dusty path. At least it's level ground, she thought as she limped along. It's a bit dreary and midwestern looking, but it isn't freezing.

Her eye was caught by something red in a small copse of trees about 300 yards ahead. The color stood out from the drabness surrounding it. Could it be.........yes! She quickened her step and a large smile erased several years from her face. She had wanted one of these babies for ages. It was a cherry red Harley-Davidson FLH Road King Renegade Trike Conversion.

She rummaged in her pocket until she found the keyring that had been dropped in the wardrobe. Please, please, let one of them fit.

It's morning now, a grey one with a flurry of snow. The seal wakes up in the courtyard. His bed is a supermarket trolley, and the mesh has left a grid-pattern on his backside. He's sure that he went to sleep in the sled last night, but he consoles himself with the realisation of cold. The interior of this great house, with a log fire blazing in every room, is no place for creatures of polar climes.

There is a odd, round, white bird a few yards away. It watches him with a bright eye and its head on one side. It seems sad, and disconcertingly familiar.

'You're a ptarmigan, aren't you?' snaps Pinniped accusingly. The bird answers with a kind of gulp, and a nervous shiver.

'You're stupid, aren't you?' continues the seal. In fact he’s beginning to feel very uncomfortable. It’s not just the strangeness of this place. Recollection of the evening before, and of what he told Her, is creeping up on him. Petty malice towards the bird is a typical Pinniped way of dealing with such discomfiture, and it never works. It only stores up more bad conscience along with the measure of the stuff that’s been deferred.

'Why did you tell Her about the librarian?' demands the ptarmigan, resentfully. Before the seal has time to ignore this question, the bird's expression changes to one of horrified astonishment. A split second after that, there is a sharp pop, and the ptarmigan vanishes right before his eyes.

Jazzme had picked up this thread and followed it, wondering where it would lead him to. After travelling along the whole length of the thread (which took a lot of time) he eventually came down a back street, past a rubbish skip, and found - found what? A wardrobe!!

He looked inside and saw a light at the back so he stepped in, tripped and fell headfirst through the back of the thing. Fortunately his judo training of 40 years ago held him in good stead. As he fell he rolled over on his right shoulder to his left hip and his momentum brought him back on to his feet.

He almost fell over backwards for there, before him, stood the lovely Hypatia trying a key into a Harley Davidson.

Well I never, he said , what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?

'Can you really ban poetry?' asked the hound of nobody in particular. It was good running through the snow, she didn't need the sled or the Harley or food.
'Why would anyone want food?' She mused. 'I'm not a real hound. None of us are what we appear to be.'

'Hi Jazzme, glad you could catch up. We don't know where we're going but I do hope it's going to be a journey of inner exploration rather than a travel show. Hypatia is taking her first steps.'

Jazzme wasn't thrilled at seeing the4 hound again but who knows he/she could have had a personality change.

'Unlikely Jazz, just moving on and maybe growing up a little. I promise I won't pee on you.'

"Jazz! Boots!" Hypatia was extremely glad to see the two friendly faces. "Isn't this the coolest vehicle you've ever seen? How did they (she didn't stop to wonder who they were) know I wanted one? It's even the right color. This adventure might be fun after all."

The third key she tried had slipped smoothly into the ignition. She quickly stored her gear in the cargo compartments. "There's plenty of room for both of you to ride along."

The hound declined, remembering the way Hypatia drove her old Jeep. "I think I'll just trot along at my own pace, if you don't mind."

Jazzme, on the other hand, was happy to climb aboard behind the librarian. It was a bit awkward, but fortunately he had long legs and a thin backside. He was able to look over the top of her head and so had a good view of the road. He noticed the multiple keys on the keyring. "What are the other keys for?" he asked.

"I don't have a clue. Maybe Pinniped will know. Provided we can locate him."

"Let me see them for a moment." Hypatia removed the keys from the ignition and handed them to the engineer. "This one is definitely a door key," he remarked. And this one fits a padlock. The third one is rather strange. Familiar, but I can't quite place it." He returned them to Hypatia.

"Boots, there is still time to change your mind. Sure you don't want to ride along? Have you seen the others? Or had time to explore?"

Boots was a bit distressed that the appearance of the trike had so distracted the librarian. She was a bit too happy with the vehicle. Of course it could just be because she was footsore and it provided relief from walking. Surely she wouldn't go zooming around recklessly wherever the spirit took her. There were serious issues here to address.

"I saw the seal," Boots replied. "He appears to have found a different sort of winter than he expected."