Old Thrashbarg stood on the edge of the blackened crater that marked the place where Arthur Dent’s spaceship had completed its last, unscheduled, landing.
Very few of the Lamuellans ever came near here. They were a superstitious lot and had easily been warned off by the stories of ghosts and other strange creatures roaming the scorched forest.
So it was tonight. Thrashbarg had seen several of the “ghosts” and met some strange creatures. The first time he had seen them, all those years ago, he had taken them for horrible, terrible phantoms but as he had grown familiar with them he realised they were just recorded images from some culture with technology far and away in advance of Lamuella. He had concocted the stories of ghosts to protect the primitive people from what they did not need to know and could not possibly understand.
He could still not, however, concoct an adequate explanation for the sudden departure of the Sandwichmaker.
Why did he leave? Where had he gone?
Somewhere ineffable, to be sure, but he’d used that story too many times already.
He crouched down onto his knees and raised his staff to the sky. “Oh mighty Bob, pray give your loyal servant Thrashbarg the guidance to explain your ineffable will to the poor souls of Lamuella.”
Deep down in the pit, something stirred. Thrashbarg could not believe his eyes for, out of the charred mass was rising a new, beautiful, immense spaceship. It slowly climbed until it was clear of the edge then moved horizontally for a short distance. Once clear of the pit it settled back down gracefully and a hatch opened. Out of the hatch streamed a blinding light. Thrashbarg shielded his eyes with his hand.
A ramp unfolded and down the ramp walked, slowly and majestically, the figure of an old man, hair and beard streaming in the light breeze.
“Oh Mighty Bob! You have come to your people!” Thrashbarg threw himself at his feet. “Praise be to Bob, saviour of Lamuella!”
“Oh, get up, you silly old fool!” said Slartibartfast crossly.
¨
Fenchurch sat beside Thrashbarg on a rock trying to console him after the realisation that, despite appearances, his saviour had not come to him. She explained who they were and why they had come.
He then began to tell her of the Sandwichmaker and his time on Lamuella, how he had had suddenly left with the strange man who had arrived from nowhere and the great sorrow his people would feel.
Slartibartfast, Roosta and Zaphod stood and looked into the pit. “Sure was weird landing right in that pit,” said Zaphod, idly tossing aside the FractoMend plasters and flexing his arms to check they had healed correctly. “Guess the ship just thought we wanted to go to where the monkeyman had crashed and took it a bit too literally.”
Presently they walked over to the hill at the edge of the valley overlooking the Anhondo plain, where the perfectly normal beasts were still running.
“..and you say they do this twice every year?” said Roosta.
“Yes, Indeed,” replied Thrashbarg, now keen to show off the wonders of his world to the visitors. “And, with each coming, the hunters of Lamuella will kill enough beasts to sustain us until the next. Such is the ineffable gift of almighty Bob.”
“Adds a whole new meaning to the concept of fast food.” Zaphod quipped.
“Who’s this Bob person anyway?” said Roosta.
“Yet another example of the instability that is affecting space/time.” Muttered Slartibartfast, not answering the question. “Eddies in the wash. I would not be at all surprised to find this is, in some way linked back to the first voyage of your ship.”
“Your friend has a very strange manner of speech,” whispered Thrashbarg to Zaphod.
“Oh, Slarti? It’s just the way he is – you know how it is with scientists? Or maybe you don’t.” Zaphod replied, wryly. “He won’t be happy until he knows what causes it.”
“It is ineffable!” Thrashbarg pronounced.
“Ah, well, that may be,” chuckled Zaphod, “but you wait ‘till Slarti gets in there, he’ll soon eff it!”
“Will you stay and come and meet my people? They will be thrilled to meet some more of the Sandwichmaker’s friends.” Tharshbarg addressed them all. “He may have even left a few sandwiches. Or Drimple could make some more. They won’t be quite as good as he is only an apprentice, but the meat will still be fine.”
“No,” said Slartibartfast, “we must go. Great things are afoot.”
So they left him, standing on the top of the hill as the dawn started to break. He had a feeling that nothing here would ever be quite the same but he was glad to have been part of whatever great events were to transpire.
He was so glad that, despite his previous words, life had not been so very less weird without the Sandwichmaker.
After a while he saw the great white ship glide majestically up into the sky and out across the valley. It then went into a crazy dive straight into the point where the Perfectly Normal Beasts were vanishing.
There was a shimmer and it was gone.
Many of the beasts were so confused by the rush of air and the noise as the ship flew past that they broke away from the herd. Out on their own they were easy prey for the Lamuellan hunters waiting.
Old Thrashbarg gave a silent prayer of thanks to Bob.
Today’s would be a good hunt and he could weave this, by way of compensation for the loss of the Sandwichmaker, into the story he was concocting as he wended his way back to the village.