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

Well, thit!

Said Orchid, thrown off her seat on a barrel of moonshine by the sudden jolt in the space time continuum. In the heat of a windless midday the rest of the well fed company slouched and lolled on the deck among the jars of moonshine. They kept half an ear each open for that elusive whirring, or grinding, or brrring sound but they were more than half asleep.

Then one by one under the relentless sun
The jars gave up their stops.
The spirits from their confines flew
In fusillades of pops.

And the company stirred, half woken by the noise.

"Well thit" said Orchid again, finding herself showered, re-rehydrated and half pickled in one go.

"S**t" said Hypatia, looking at the empty jars.

Boots leant against the ali baba basket and howled half heartedly. Waz flapped lazily to the yardarm and stuck her head firmly under her wing again. Waz and the Hound's spirits had gone pht, a sound curiously close to that of a crossbow string snapping, when the four brave hoarse men had been stamped 'undesirable aliens' and frog-marched off by Jack Tar.

And the ship neither hove nor rocked nor rolled on the flat and oily sea.
One by one, back to sleep, went the motley companee.

Well thit said Jazzme we're back to that bleedin painted ship upon a bleedin painted ocean again. I thought we'd escaped.

If that is a helicopter will it pick us up? Are they friendly? Will the downdraught move this wallowing tub a bit nearer to shore? And which shore is it anyhow?

I'm back to the rhetorical questions again, I wonder why I never get any answers? thought Jazzme. Then he walked back over to Hypatia again and they just looked over the side at the still blue waters.

Windmills. Water and windmills. What's it all about, Alfie?

Hypatia was wishing she was on dry land. She had always had a tendency to sea sickness. The combination of moonshine, rum punch and dramamine had made her a tad woozy. She wasn't sure she could handle another helicopter ride. And what would happen if she reurned to Scotland anyway? She had been unceremoniously been tossed out of there already.

She took Jazzme's arm and rested her head on his strong shoulder. "Is that a pier on the horizon or am I seeing things?"

Jazzme tried hard to focus on the blurr on the horizon.

Moonshine followed by rum punch was working wonders on his self esteem but wasn't really helping his vision. Certainly looks like a pier he replied, lovingly nursing that lovely head on his shoulder. But we don't seem to be heading that way, in fact we aren't heading anywhere until we get some wind blowing.

Perhaps another sandwich for the captain may obtain some assistance. We could always borrow a ship's boat and get orchid to tow us ashore. Or if the worst comes to the worst I'm still sober enough to row us that way.....wonder where it is?

"I think it's a pier. It certainly looks like a pier," she squinted. "Or two." <ºhicº>

Hypatia went over to the sleeping seal and shook him gently awake.

"You're nearly home, Pinniped."

The phocoid stretched and yawned and slowly got to his feet. He immediately staggered into the recumbant Trout Montague, who sat up grumbling.

"Are we there yet?"

"My head," complained the seal. "I have a carpenter shop inside my head."

He tried to focus on the horizon, but staggered again and held his head.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen," remarked the librarian. "That's one of the unfortunate characteristics of Uncle harvey's moonshine."

She handed the phillippic phocoid a pallative potion. "This should help." She made a similar soothing stinger for the suffering salmonid.

One by one the troop gathered around Pinniped. They looked toward the pier in the horizon and waited.

But there was no storm, or even any wind at all. That was the problem.
The whole group stared over the starboard bow and indeed there was a pier not very far off. Their quest was not for 'a pier' (there must be thousands of them scattered around the globe) it was for THE pier. home of fantastic creatures, strange tales and the home of the elusive Muse.

Would the group settle for some pseudo pier of convenience or continue their quest into the arctic regions for the true grail?

Gawd, are we after the Holy Grail now? mused jazzme. I'll have to sort out my Knights Templar outfit.

Meanwhile, somewhere by an ice flow:

"Thees ees ze terrible! Thees ees not ze paint I orderd. Zees ees CorporationYellow! Red I want! I said zee Routemaster Red! Where deed thees ... stuff come from?" Kon Venientzi stamped his foot and the rubber dinghy rolled dangerously.

There was long silence while Konstanze, head thrown back, gazed up into the sky looking for help that didn't come. An albatross flew through his view, bringing his thoughts back to the now and the pragmatical. Even artistes had to be practical weeks away from the nearest Do-Eet-All, he thought. The press releases were all set to go, the photographers and the interviews booked. And the next project, his aubergine body in matching aubergine coffin with aubergine furnishings destined for a happily unsuspecting Canary Island wouldn't keep.

He gestured impatiently and grudgingly to the frogsuits to get out onto the ice and do what they'd come to do.

******

The Speak-Your-Weight-Machine watched the yellow patch in the distance spread, and redialed.

******

Gliding with flick of a tail and a shimmy a manatee approached the suspended jam jar with curiosity. It batted the jar gently with a flipper and it spun slowly up through the seaweed forest. The sun light caught the silver edges of the phone as it slipped from one side of the jar to the other. It rang out dimly.

"Are you thtill athleep?"

Pinniped opens one eye, and looks impassive, which is the only thing he's really good at.

"Only they thay they can thee the Pier".

The eye closes again.

"No, pleathe thtay. It'th jutht that I thought you made all that up. It ith'nt really real, ith it?"

It's as real as people make it, you silly girl. It's as real as you are.

"And wath there really a Shy-ip from Hell? I thought it wath a nithe poem".

Well it wouldn't have been, not for much longer. But people and animals choose, and they are a tide. Things get shaped that way. Or painted, perhaps.

You're rambling, seal-boy.

No I'm not. I'm asleep.

Yep sure thing Pinniped

One ship sails East, another sails West
By the self-same wind that blows
It isn't the gale but the set of the sail
That determines the way she goes.

But we still ain't got any wind, and the sailors who climb the rigging and set sails all seem to be asleep. But we do seem to be drifting in shore, towards that pier.

Any sign of life?

As they drifted closer to the pier Jazzme realised with a sudden blinding flash of brilliance (unusual amongst engineers?) that this pier was on the starboard side of the vessel.

Had we been drifting towards Scotland it would, of course, have been on the port side of the ship, so had we been drifting back to the US of A?

And look - there were signs of life - some characters were throwing cases into the harbour.

Boston! announced Trout Montague! Boston! It's the local lodge of freemasons celebrating their historical act of defiance against the tax on tea. They're dressed as native Americans (makes a change from 4 ageing cowboys?) as their original bretheren were at the tea party.

Cripes!!said Jazzme. Boston? How are you disposed towards the Yankees my love?he asked Hypatia. Do we land, or make polite noises and sail out as soon as the wind blows?

Hypatia, leery of offering any opinion that might alter the destination of the travellers yet again, prefers to address the question of Yankees.

"When you say Yankees, Jazz Dear, do you mean those residents of the Northern states who supported the Union in the Civil War, or do you mean Americans in general? Or are you perhaps referring to the baseball team that spends such ungodly amounts of money on players that none of the other teams can possibly compete? In which case we need to check the MLB schedules to see when they'll be in Boston for a game."

At the mention of baseball the sheep's eyes began to gleam and the mercenary wheels inside his head began to turn. He started counting. Then he began to smile. He had enough players for a team. And what a team it would be! It would be the best pregame show in the history of baseball! Fans all across the nation would flock into their ballparks to watch the most unusual team ever to take the field.

Buck had never really believed in fate, but the fortuitous wind that had blown the ship toward Boston Harbor must surely be part of a master plan. He was so overcome that a small tear welled in the corner of his eye.

The hound went over and peed on the somnolent salmonid in an attempt to capture his interest. "You'd better do something, Trout, and do it fast or we'll all be spending the summer in pinstripes."

"Pin Stripes!" exclaimed Buck. "That's it! We'll call ourselves the Pin Stripes." He hugged the hound and went trotting off to devise plays, make schedules, and compile a list of necessary equipment.

Trout Montague ignored boots. He was in the middle of writing a sonnet to a sexy sturgeon and couldn't be bothered with anything as mundane as a panicky hound.

Hypatia approached the grouchy seal. "Pinniped, unless you know how to play short stop, you might want to give us a little direction here."

The sound of giggling could be heard coming from the Ali Baba basket. Pinniped in Pinstrips - what an image!

Jazzme scratched his head wondering how his question (relating back to the civil war - stupid engineer!) had landed us into a prospective season of baseball pregames.

Still it was all in the manner of the tale so he was telling Hypatia that he really did look rather smart in a pinstripe suit. Silver grey tie and black shoes of course?

And he had played 'rounders' many times in his youth - which was the same basic game but without the cash incentives. But his idea of pinstrip was more related to the London based Civil Servant than the correct gear for sliding on your backside into base.

But there then - if it was a pregame with this mottley team it had to be a comedy turn so perhaps he may look the part after all.

And the hound could chase the cheer leader girls to his heart's content.

Which reminds me - it's while since I chased Hypatia around the deck!

Would researcher 200042 look like the librarian? Was researcher 200042 really the librarian? Was she the 42nd researcher to register in the year 2000? And how do you manage to alter the headings to postings anyhow? Life's full of rhetorical questions isn't it? And more important - can she run faster than me? Or will she slow down and give me a chance to catch her?....again!!

Cor Hypatia! we haven't ever been left on our own all this length of time. Think they are taking pity on us and allowing us time for all the s and es to keep this tale , at least in part, as a love story? Or is it just a painted ship inside a painted harbour?

Ahem.

The phones have indeed been quiet of late.

But just in case anyone thinks this is over, it isn't over until the fat lady sings.

(The elephant seal is fixed by the gaze of a limpet. For a creature so small and so incoherent, Roofle's gaze can be remarkably eloquent. Yes, Speak, that comment might indeed get you into trouble, but it would be worth it. And until it's worth it, the sun has risen on a new day, and it's a whole six months until nightfall)

Awake for morning in the bowl of night
has flung the stone that puts the stars to flight
and lo! the hunter of the East has caught
the Sultan's turret in a noose of light.

But Pinniped, if it's a whole six months until nightfall we aren't looking for a Sultan's turret are we? We are very close to one or the other of the poles, no wonder it's so darned cold, put the brass monkeys in the boiler room. But this is a sailing ship (silly me) so they'll have to suffer like the rest of us.

And if it's not Greenland where the blue blazes is it?

And what are we doing up here? (down here?) I'm not going for a walk without the proper clothing! so there!!

The ship, finally and very nearly fatally, arrives at the pier and the assembled company gets out. They lurch around like drunks, the way you do when you get off ships, and indeed the way you do when you are drunk.

The doors of the lift at the end of the pier open, and out steps a rather flustered Ben and a large Cambridge graduate dressed as a black guy with plenty of bling.

"Hey, dudes" he says. "Show dis wo-man some respeck".

The assembled company look suitably reproached until Ben bursts out laughing.

"Oh, my dears I have missed you all. I think I am turning into a wicked stepmother and it isn't actually that much fun".

"Wikked!" says the white-black guy.

Pin looks unaccountably smug, and the Trout smirks a lot.

Boots jumps around the Ali-Baba basket, knocks it over, and hides inside it. He is there for a worrying amount of time before coming back and asking "Where have you been?".

"Stuck in a lift in a Singapore hotel," said Ben, "just by the airport". It was - er - entertining. She is desperately hoping that they will all think she has been having unbridled sex, or bridled sex, or any kind of sex, but alas it is not so.

"Oh, and I may be Junoesque" she adds, "but I can't sing."

It ain't over yet, my dears. It most certainly ain't over yet.

and the dog rolled over waiting for his tummy to be tickled, remembering bygone commas,,,,,,,,, her name wasn't Otis...(his pet grammatical non etiquette... the dots that'll be) and he was almost certain the minstrel show was non pc (unless of course galaxy knew something he didn't) but it was good to be back and he was so thankful to be tone deaf and voiceless...one cannot really count a 'woof'.

"It'th the wrong Pier, ith'nt it?" whispers Orchid conspiratorially. "Thith one'th got a lift".

"Might be. Might not", says Pinniped, with a swagger in his voice that hasn't been heard for some time. Only the whale notices the outrageouds wink. "We're charging entry anyway".

The sudden appearance of lifts is hardly out of the ordinary in places as fluid as this. Among the shorter flights of the imagination, but a wondrous and welcome one all the same.

"Come here, you", laughs the seal, giving the hound a tummy, and rubbing muzzles with glee.

Orchid decides she might get more sense out of the two-tone guy with the ski-goggles.

"What'th Juno-ethque mean?", she asks.

"Ma beach", he grins, flashing a Gold tooth.

Trout predictably offers to provide the Sword.