This story is rated PG-13 for language.
Characters, planets, creatures, pseudo-technology, and so on, derived from The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy, belong to the estate of Douglas Adams, and probably a whole bunch of other people. I have no claim on them whatsoever.
Chapter One
Zaphod Beeblebrox made a few final adjustments to the set-up of the Portable Weapons Inhibitor Field. He was nervous. Surveying his handiwork, by the uneven luminescence of the lamps, strategically scattered around the track-buggy, he called out, "That's it guys, we should be safe now."
If only he could be sure.
Around the perimeter of the camp, the Field's relay stations winked their little red lights against the inky blackness of the firmament. Dense, impenetrable cloud cover ensured that not one star could be seen in the damp heavens. The oppressive sky deprived the planet of the tiniest fragment of light from its dying sun, even when directly overhead.
Zaphod had little idea of local time. From the moment the Heart of Gold had landed on this soggy planet, the crew had experienced no practical difference between night and day. Earlier, he had improvised a test. If he could just about see his hand in front of his face, he reasoned, it was day. If on the other hand, he couldn't see the appendage in question, it was night. But then on the other hand (he had three to choose from) it could be either. The camp lights, unfortunately, invalidated this particular test.
Zaphod changed his mind. Then he changed the other one, so that they matched up again. It was day, obvious really. He could tell, or so he thought, because for the last two hours he'd been slowly getting wet. If this were night-time he would have been drenched in a couple of minutes. It always rains more heavily during the small hours, he decided. Last night it had come down in buckets – big buckets. He sank a little into the soft ground, and shifted his feet. His new position offered no respite however, and he began to sink again.
"And what danger, is it exactly, we're now safe from? I thought you said this planet was harmless," said Arthur Dent.
"It is, but you can never be too careful. Better safe than sorry," said Zaphod with a nervous glance at the gloom beyond the perimeter.
He didn't like it one little bit. The origin of the distress call hadn't been very specific. They had the right planet, but not the right location on it. The signal kept moving. Just when the reading was at its strongest it would fade to appear elsewhere, and they would have to change direction to keep pace. Either somebody was playing games or a very large and swift animal had swallowed the beacon, and was running away from them. If the latter, then Zaphod for one wasn't too bothered if they caught it up. It might turn nasty if cornered.
The track-buggy, with Trillian at the wheel, had done its best. However, the terrain was treacherous, which meant slow progress, and they had driven with the headlights on full beam. Anybody out there in the dark would have been able to follow the track-buggy's progress. The passengers however had not been able to see a thing.
Then the signal vanished altogether. They were too far from the Heart of Gold, and too exhausted, to turn back without sleep. In any case, the ship refused to budge. It was another, possibly related, problem and they had yet to find a solution. Even if they did manage to locate any survivors there would be no guarantee that they could get them or themselves off the planet. The situation smacked of a set up, but they were going to have to see it through.
The Sirius Cybernetics Corporation's sales brochure for the Portable Weapons Inhibitor Field describes the system as, 'an excellent addition to off-ship personnel security, capable of protecting life, in all its myriad forms, from a comprehensive catalogue of deadly firepower - no matter how technologically advanced. Blasters, disintegrators, even the Corporation's very own Zappomatic Deluxe Series, are rendered harmless by the Field's ultra-sensors, which at the merest whiff of atom-frying aggression are programmed to engage a battery of sophisticated jammers, ensuring that the most fearsome of weapons display all the destructive capability of a transistor radio tuned to one of the more vapid commercial pop music stations. That is to say, the intended target may lose a few brain cells, but remain otherwise unharmed.'
Naturally, there could be little question of the Corporation's sprawling complaints' department ever being contacted by those customers it failed to protect. Any misfortune befalling any lifeform using the equipment would have to be of such a magnitude that survival would be nigh on impossible, and would in all probability, remove the planet on which they happened to be standing at the time.
The spear - a weapon that does not contain any technology identifiable to the idiots who work for the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation - penetrated the protective envelope.
Trillian and Ford saw it enter the oasis of light. However, as they were mesmerized by the intricate patterns carved along its length - with their clever use of geometric shapes, which appeared to dance playfully in the camp lights, not to mention the pretty iridescence of the tassel at its non-business end - any warning either may have given failed to materialize. It hit neither of them.
The intended victim was still admiring the ring of steel he had erected around the camp, and didn't see it at all. Zaphod moved the targeted head at the last possible moment as he bent down to pull his foot out of the mud, and was therefore oblivious to the attack.
The ape-descended Arthur Dent also missed the spectacle, which was a shame, as he would have got the best view. The spear's business end passed into Arthur's head through the right temple. The bladder came next and expanded, making an audible slurp as it did so. The shaft followed the heavy end, before exiting through the left temple, leaving two surprisingly small holes on either side of Arthur's head. What remained of the Earthman swayed a little, and then toppled over to lay face down in the mud.
The word spear is used here in a rather loose sense. It was, in fact, a schloop as used by many of the belligerent tribes of a dozen or so planets, clustered around a binary star system in a sector of the galaxy rarely visited, for obvious reasons, by anyone that has no very serious business being there in the first place. The schloop's purpose is to extract the brain of the enemy of the warrior propelling it - usually with great force, and depending on the skill employed, with great accuracy. Nevertheless, the level of sentience of the wood used to make the schloop is an equally important factor. Brains and other schlooped innards are retrieved at the conclusion of hostilities - that is, when all enemy warriors have been killed, schlooped or otherwise, or are, at best, on their last legs, at which point they are sat down, given a stiff drink, and decapitated.
Suddenly remembering that you have left the gas on is not an acceptable reason for leaving your comrades to get on with it. There are no excuses. No matter how infinitesimal a combatant's chances of surviving the conflict, and no matter how overwhelming the opposing numbers, legging it - the concept of tactical withdrawal having no meaning amongst said tribes - is not an option under the tightly drawn Code of the Venerable Guild of Berserkers.
Organs so acquired are typically preserved in glass jars and displayed as trophies. The record number of such trophies - his mantelpiece positively groaning under their combined weight - is held by one particularly infamous bruiser, who to this day, goes by the name of Offalgrab the Petulant.
With an appalling sense of timing Trillian, and Ford Prefect, finally got round to sounding the alarm.
Trillian screamed.
Ford Prefect screamed.
Zaphod Beeblebrox, erstwhile President of the Galaxy, whose two heads had been looking in different directions, but neither in the one that mattered, span around to see the prostrate figure of the Earthman, Arthur Dent. Zaphod's well-honed instinct for self-preservation kicked in immediately.
Zaphod Beeblebrox screamed.
Four screaming heads ran off in three separate directions, and one remained face down in the mud.
A second plainer assegai penetrated the defences and hit the panel controlling the lights. The lanterns winked out, plunging the camp into darkness. In the pitch black Ford ran into the searchlight, fell over, got up again, and fumbled for the on switch. He swung the powerful beam back and forth, cutting a swathe of brilliance through the starless night. After several sweeps, he found them - a group of indistinct, roughly humanoid figures of varying shapes and sizes a short distance away. They were advancing on the camp...
"Move it!" shouted Ford.
Zaphod didn't need to be told twice. With astonishing speed, he squelched to the track-buggy at the centre of the camp, pulled himself up into the driver's compartment, and started the engine. The track-buggy sprang to life and illuminated the immediate area.
Ford ran to where Arthur lay, and with Trillian's help, dragged the dead weight of his friend through the quagmire and into the track-buggy through its back doors. Zaphod revved the engine to a roar. On the viscous ground the vehicle's tracks span ineffectually, splattering the closing spear-throwers with soft mud. A small shower of rocks bounced off the roof just as the vehicle's tracks got a grip. The track-buggy sped off.
From a nearby hill Zaphod, Ford and Trillian, could see the attackers as they moved about the camp. Flashlights played over the ground, searching...
"What do they want?" asked Trillian.
"I hope I'm wrong, but I think they're looking for his brain," said Ford.
"Who's brain? We've got Arthur with us," said Trillian. "Anyway, what would they want with his brain...?"
And then the penny dropped. A whole bag of pennies dropped. A bank of penny cascade machines disgorged their entire contents in a way they never do at the arcade. Trillian joined Arthur on the floor of the track-buggy.
The sombre mood, which pervaded the interior of the track-buggy, on the return journey to the Heart of Gold, matched the exterior atmospherics. Trillian remained unconscious, and Ford decided it was best to leave her that way. Zaphod had insisted on returning to the ship. The defences, he argued, would have been dismantled by now, and had proved ineffective, in any case, given the low-tech approach of their attackers. In addition to which, the attackers were heavily armed, clearly had superior numbers, and were undoubtedly trained for this sort of thing. Ford suspected, however, that Zaphod would have suggested a similar approach if the opposition had been a family of hamsters armed with tickling sticks.