It was of course more of less at this moment the one of the crew sustained a nasty bruise to the upper arm. This should be emphasized because, as has already been revealed, they escape otherwise completely unharmed and the deadly nuclear missiles do not eventually hit the ship. The safety of the crew is absolutely assured.
"Impact minus twenty seconds, guys . . ." said the computer.
"Then turn the bloody engines back on!" bawled Zaphod.
"Oh, sure thing, guys," said the computer. With a subtle roar the engines cut back in, the ship smoothly flattened out of its dive and headed back toward the missiles again.
The computer started to sing.
"'. . . When you walk through the storm . . . '" it whined nasally, "'hold you head up high . . .'"
Zaphod screamed at it to shut up, but his voice was lost in the din of what they quite naturally assumed was approaching destruction.
"'And don't . . . be afraid . . . of the dark!'" Eddie wailed.
The ship, in flattening out, had in fact flattened out upside down and lying on the ceiling as they were it was now totally impossible for any of the crew to reach the guidance systems.
"'At the end of the storm . . .'" crooned Eddie.
The two missiles loomed massively on the screens as they thundered toward the ship.
"'. . . is a golden sky . . .'"
But by an extraordinarily lucky chance they had not yet fully corrected their flight paths to that of the erratically weaving ship, and they passed right under it.
"'And the sweet silver song of the lark.' Revised impact time fifteen seconds, fellas . . . 'Walk on through the wind . . ."
The missiles banked round in a screeching arc and plunged back in pursuit.
"This is it," said Arthur, watching them. "We are now quite definitely going to die, aren't we?"
"I wish you'd stop saying that," shouted Ford.
"Well, we are, aren't we?"
"Yes."
"'Walk on through the rain . . .'" sang Eddie.
A thought struck Arthur. He struggled to his feet.
"Why doesn't anyone turn on this Improbability Drive thing?" he said. "We could probably reach that."
"What are you, crazy?" said Zaphod. "Without proper programming anything could happen."
"Does that matter at this stage?" shouted Arthur.
"'Though your dreams be tossed and blown . . ." sang Eddie.
Arthur scrambled up on to one of the excitingly chunky pieces of molded contouring where the curve of the wall met the ceiling.
"'Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart . . . '"
"Does anyone know why Arthur can't turn on the Improbability Drive?" shouted Trillian.
"'And you'll never walk alone.' . . . Impact minus five seconds, it's been great knowing you guys. God bless . . .'You'll ne . . .ver . . . walk . . . alone!'"
"I said," yelled Trillian, "does anyone know . . ."
The next thing that happened was a mind-mangling explosion of noise and light.
So, that's how to avoid a nuclear warhead strike in outer space. You have to own an Improbability Drive and a computer that sings Broadway standards.
Today was graduation Sunday at my wife's church. We sang, dedicated the graduates, raised our hands in prayer over them, and--as my daughter used to say in her Head Start class for absent students--we wished them well. Of course, it was difficult and emotional. But I'm sort of getting used to that.
I've spent most of the afternoon preparing my house for the members of my Book Club, who will be showing up in about an hour-and-a-half. I cleaned off couches and chairs. Set up tables for snacks. Put some Swedish meatballs in my crock pot. Slipped the pop and wine coolers into the refrigerator to chill. Now, the house is quiet. My daughter is off to a classmate's graduation party, and my wife is asleep. (She woke up this morning, thinking she has strep throat. Went to the walk-in clinic and got some antibiotics. )
So, where are the nuclear missiles in all this busyness? Well, I have to say that I think I'm the nuclear missile today. You see, when I have a lot to do in a short period of time (clean the house, visit a sick friend in the hospital, cook, and prepare my mind for a book discussion), I get a little crazy in the overwhelming-ness of it all. I start swearing and muttering to myself about piled shoes, unmade beds, and the like. I am the Incredible Hulk of Book Club. I allow anger to overtake me, and I see green. Literally.
Now that I'm all prepared and the Swedish meatballs are bubbling away, I'm back to being Bruce Banner, mild-mannered professor of writing.
It's strange, but, when I'm not directly involved in a crisis, I have an ability to remain calm and objective. For example, this afternoon, I had to deal with a disagreement between two people whom I love. I was stuck in the middle of it. It was a matter of two passive aggressive wills clashing. It felt very . . . middle schoolish.
I have reached a point in my life where I don't deal well with passive aggression. It makes my Hulk/nuclear warhead side appear. I can't stand it when adults don't behave like adults. I expect this kind of behavior from my ten-year-old, not grown-ass people. It drives me crazy.
I guess what I'm saying is that I need to engage my Improbability Drive. Make this crazy afternoon turn out positively. That is my goal, anyway. If it doesn't work out, I always have wine coolers and meatballs to feed me after the nuclear holocaust.
Sing it with Saint Marty: "When you walk through the storm . . . hold your head up high . . ."
No comments:
Post a Comment