Mostly Harmless - Douglas Adams [72]
“To attract the attention of a Perfectly Normal Beast,” he said, as he walked forward toward them, “you need a pikka bird. Like this.”
From under the rough, cassocky robelike thing he wore he drew a small pikka bird. It sat restlessly on Old Thrashbarg’s hand and peered intently at Bob knows what darting around about three feet six inches in front of it.
Ford instantly went into the sort of alert crouch he liked to do when he wasn’t quite sure what was going on or what he ought to do about it. He waved his arms around very slowly in what he hoped was an ominous manner.
“Who is this?” he hissed.
“It’s just Old Thrashbarg,” said Arthur, quietly. “And I wouldn’t bother with all the fancy movements. He’s just as experienced a bluffer as you are. You could end up dancing around each other all day.”
“The bird,” hissed Ford again. “What’s the bird?”
“It’s just a bird!” said Arthur, impatiently. “It’s like any other bird. It lays eggs and goes ark at things you can’t see. Or kar or rit or something.”
“Have you seen one lay eggs?” said Ford, suspiciously.
“For heaven’s sake, of course I have,” said Arthur. “And I’ve eaten hundreds of them. Make rather a good omelette. The secret is little cubes of cold butter and then whipping it lightly with …”
“I don’t want a zarking recipe,” said Ford. “I just want to be sure it’s a real bird and not some kind of multidimensional cybernightmare.”
He slowly stood up from his crouched position and started to brush himself down. He was still watching the bird, though.
“So,” said Old Thrashbarg to Arthur. “Is it written that Bob shall once more take back unto himself the benediction of his once-given Sandwich Maker?”
Ford almost went back into his crouch.
“It’s all right,” muttered Arthur, “he always talks like that.” Aloud, he said, “Ah, venerable Thrashbarg. Um, yes. I’m afraid I think I’m going to have to be popping off now. But young Drimple, my apprentice, will be a fine sandwich maker in my stead. He has the aptitude, a deep love of sandwiches and the skills he has acquired so far, though rudimentary as yet, will, in time, mature, and, er, well, I think he’ll work out okay is what I’m trying to say.”
Old Thrashbarg regarded him gravely. His old gray eyes moved sadly. He held his arms aloft, one still carrying a bobbing pikka bird, the other his staff.
“O Sandwich Maker from Bob!” he pronounced. He paused, furrowed his brow and sighed as he closed his eyes in pious contemplation. “Life,” he said, “will be a very great deal less weird without you!”
Arthur was stunned.
“Do you know,” he said, “I think that’s the nicest thing anybody’s ever said to me?”
“Can we get on, please?” said Ford.
Something was already happening. The presence of the pikka bird at the end of Thrashbarg’s outstretched arm was sending tremors of interest through the thundering herd. The odd head flicked momentarily in their direction. Arthur began to remember some of the Perfectly Normal Beast hunts he had witnessed. He recalled that as well as the hunter-matadors brandishing their capes there were always others standing behind them holding pikka birds. He had always assumed that, like him, they had just come along to watch.
Old Thrashbarg moved forward, a little closer to the rolling herd. Some of the Beasts were now tossing their heads back with interest at the sight of the pikka bird.
Old Thrashbarg’s outstretched arms were trembling.
Only the pikka bird itself seemed to show no interest in what was going on. A few anonymous molecules of air nowhere in particular engaged all of its perky attention.
“Now!” exclaimed Old Thrashbarg at last. “Now you may work them with the towel!”
Arthur advanced with Ford’s towel, moving the way the hunter-matadors did, with a kind of elegant strut that did not come at all naturally to him. But now he knew what to do and that it was right. He brandished and flicked the towel a few times, to be ready for the moment, and then he watched.
Some distance away he spotted the Beast he wanted. Head down, it was galloping toward him,