Mostly Harmless [26]
He held still to get his bearings. He controlled his breathing, closed his eyes and looked again.
So this was where accountants spent their time. There was clearly more to them than met the eye. He looked around carefully, trying not to let it all swell and swim and overwhelm him.
He didn't know his way around this universe. He didn't even know the physical laws that determined its dimensional extents or behaviours, but his instinct told him to look for the most outstanding feature he could detect and make towards it.
Way off in some indistinguishable distance — was it a mile or a million or a mote in his eye? — was a stunning peak that overarched the sky, climbed and climbed and spread out in flowering aigrettes 1, agglomerates 2, and arch imandrites 3.
He weltered towards it, hooling and thurling, and at last reached it in a meaninglessly long umthingth of time.
He clung to it, arms outspread, gripping tightly on to its roughly gnarled and pitted surface. Once he was certain that he was secure he made the hideous mistake of looking down.
While he had been weltering, hooling and thurling, the distance beneath him had not bothered him unduly, but now that he was
1 An ornamental tuft of plumes. 2 A jumbled mass. 3 A cleric ranking below a bishop.
gripping, the distance made his heart wilt and his brain bend. His fingers were white with pain and tension. His teeth were grinding and twisting against each other beyond his control. His eyes turned inwards with waves from the willowing extremities of nausea.
With an immense effort of will and faith he simply let go and pushed.
He felt himself float. Away. And then, counter-intuitively, upwards. And upwards.
He threw his shoulders back, let his arms drop, gazed upwards and let himself be drawn loosely, higher and higher.
Before long, insofar as such terms had any meaning in this virtual universe, a ledge loomed up ahead of him on which he could grip and on to which he could clamber.
He rose, he gripped, he clambered.
He panted a little. This was all a little stressful.
He held tightly on to the ledge as he sat. He wasn't certain if this was to prevent himself from falling down off it or rising up from it, but he needed something to grip on to as he surveyed the world in which he found himself.
The whirling, turning height span him and twisted his brain in upon itself till he found himself, eyes closed, whimpering and hugging the hideous wall of towering rock.
He slowly brought his breathing back under control again. He told himself repeatedly that he was just in a graphic representation of a world. A virtual universe. A simulated reality. He could snap back out of it at any moment.
He snapped back out of it.
He was sitting in a blue leatherette foam filled swivel-seated office chair in front of a computer terminal.
He relaxed.
He was clinging to the face of an impossibly high peak perched on a narrow ledge above a drop of brain-swivelling dimensions.
It wasn't just the landscape being so far beneath him — he wished it would stop undulating and waving.
He had to get a grip. Not on the rock wall — that was an illusion. He had to get a grip on the situation, be able to look at the physical world he was in while drawing himself out of it emotionally.
He clenched inwardly and then, just as he had let go of the rock face itself, he let go of the idea of the rock face and let himself just sit there clearly and freely. He looked out at the world. He was breathing well. He was cool. He was in charge again.
He was in a four-dimensional topological model of the Guide's financial systems, and somebody or something would very shortly want to know why.
And here they came.
Swooping through virtual space towards him came a small flock of mean and steely-eyed creatures with pointy little heads, pencil moustaches and querulous demands as to who he was, what he was doing there, what his authorisation was, what the authorisation of his authorising agent was, what his inside leg measurement was and