burstingly true. What a truly ecstasy-induc- ingly correct observation.'
`What's happened?' insisted Ford. `Who is this new man- agement? When did they take over? I... oh, never mind,' he added, as the little robot started to gibbet with uncontrollable joy and rub itself against his knee. `I'll go and find out for myself.'
Ford hurled himself at the door of the editor-in-chief's office, tucked himself into a tight ball as the frame splintered and gave way, rolled rapidly across the floor to where the drinks trolley laden with some of the Galaxy's most potent and expen- sive beverages habitually stood, seized hold of the trolley and, using it to give himself cover, trundled it and himself across the main exposed part of the office floor to where the valuable and extremely rude statue of Leda and the Octopus stood, and took shelter behind it. Meanwhile the little security robot, entering at chest height, was suicidally delighted to draw gunfire away from Ford.
That, at least, was the plan, and a necessary one. The curr ent editor-in-chief, Stagyar-zil-Doggo, was a dangerously unbalanced man who took a homicidal view of contributing staff turning up in his office without pages of fresh, proofed copy, and had a battery of laser guided guns linked to special scanning devices in the door frame to deter anybody who was merely bringing extremely good reasons why they hadn't written any. Thus was a high level of output maintained.
Unfortunately the drinks trolley wasn't there.
Ford hurled himself desperately sideways and somersaulted towards the statue of Leda and the Octopus, which also wasn't there. He rolled and hurtled around the room in a kind of random panic, tripped, span, hit the window, which fortunately was built to withstand rocket attacks, rebounded, and fell in a bruised and winded heap behind a smart grey crushed leather sofa, which hadn't been there before.
After a few seconds he slowly peeked up above the top of the sofa. As well as there being no drinks trolley and no Leda and the Octopus, there had also been a startling absence of gunfire. He frowned. This was all utterly wrong.
`Mr Prefect, I assume,' said a voice.
The voice came from a smooth-faced individual behind a large ceramo-teak-bonded desk. Stagyar-zil-Doggo may well have been a hell of an individual, but no one, for a whole variety of reasons, would ever have called him smooth-faced. This was not Stagyar-zil-Doggo.
`I assume from the manner of your entrance that you do not have new material for the, er, Guide, at the moment,' said the smooth-faced individual. He was sitting with his elbows resting on the table and holding his fingertips together in a manner which, inexplicably, has never been made a capital offence.
`I've been busy,' said Ford, rather weakly. He staggered to his feet, brushing himself down. Then he thought, what the hell was he saying things weakly for? He had to get on top of this situation. He had to find out who the hell this person was, and he suddenly thought of a way of doing it.
`Who the hell are you?, he demanded.
`I am your new editor-in-chief. That is, if we decide to retain your services. My name is Vann Harl.' He didn't put his hand out. He just added, `What have you done to that security robot?'
The little robot was rolling very, very slowly round the ceiling and moaning quietly to itself.
`I've made it very happy,' snapped Ford. `It's a kind of mission I have. Where's Stagyar? More to the point, where's his drinks trolley?'
`Mr zil-Doggo is no longer with this organisation. His drinks trolley is, I imagine, helping to console him for this fact.'
`Organisation?' yelled Ford. `Organisation? What a bloody stupid word for a set-up like this!'
`Precisely our sentiments. Under-structured, over-resourced, under-managed, over-inebriated. And that,' said Harl, `was just the editor.'
`I'll do the jokes,' snarled Ford.
`No,' said Harl. `You will do the restaurant column.'
He tossed a piece of plastic on to the desk in
`What's happened?' insisted Ford. `Who is this new man- agement? When did they take over? I... oh, never mind,' he added, as the little robot started to gibbet with uncontrollable joy and rub itself against his knee. `I'll go and find out for myself.'
Ford hurled himself at the door of the editor-in-chief's office, tucked himself into a tight ball as the frame splintered and gave way, rolled rapidly across the floor to where the drinks trolley laden with some of the Galaxy's most potent and expen- sive beverages habitually stood, seized hold of the trolley and, using it to give himself cover, trundled it and himself across the main exposed part of the office floor to where the valuable and extremely rude statue of Leda and the Octopus stood, and took shelter behind it. Meanwhile the little security robot, entering at chest height, was suicidally delighted to draw gunfire away from Ford.
That, at least, was the plan, and a necessary one. The curr ent editor-in-chief, Stagyar-zil-Doggo, was a dangerously unbalanced man who took a homicidal view of contributing staff turning up in his office without pages of fresh, proofed copy, and had a battery of laser guided guns linked to special scanning devices in the door frame to deter anybody who was merely bringing extremely good reasons why they hadn't written any. Thus was a high level of output maintained.
Unfortunately the drinks trolley wasn't there.
Ford hurled himself desperately sideways and somersaulted towards the statue of Leda and the Octopus, which also wasn't there. He rolled and hurtled around the room in a kind of random panic, tripped, span, hit the window, which fortunately was built to withstand rocket attacks, rebounded, and fell in a bruised and winded heap behind a smart grey crushed leather sofa, which hadn't been there before.
After a few seconds he slowly peeked up above the top of the sofa. As well as there being no drinks trolley and no Leda and the Octopus, there had also been a startling absence of gunfire. He frowned. This was all utterly wrong.
`Mr Prefect, I assume,' said a voice.
The voice came from a smooth-faced individual behind a large ceramo-teak-bonded desk. Stagyar-zil-Doggo may well have been a hell of an individual, but no one, for a whole variety of reasons, would ever have called him smooth-faced. This was not Stagyar-zil-Doggo.
`I assume from the manner of your entrance that you do not have new material for the, er, Guide, at the moment,' said the smooth-faced individual. He was sitting with his elbows resting on the table and holding his fingertips together in a manner which, inexplicably, has never been made a capital offence.
`I've been busy,' said Ford, rather weakly. He staggered to his feet, brushing himself down. Then he thought, what the hell was he saying things weakly for? He had to get on top of this situation. He had to find out who the hell this person was, and he suddenly thought of a way of doing it.
`Who the hell are you?, he demanded.
`I am your new editor-in-chief. That is, if we decide to retain your services. My name is Vann Harl.' He didn't put his hand out. He just added, `What have you done to that security robot?'
The little robot was rolling very, very slowly round the ceiling and moaning quietly to itself.
`I've made it very happy,' snapped Ford. `It's a kind of mission I have. Where's Stagyar? More to the point, where's his drinks trolley?'
`Mr zil-Doggo is no longer with this organisation. His drinks trolley is, I imagine, helping to console him for this fact.'
`Organisation?' yelled Ford. `Organisation? What a bloody stupid word for a set-up like this!'
`Precisely our sentiments. Under-structured, over-resourced, under-managed, over-inebriated. And that,' said Harl, `was just the editor.'
`I'll do the jokes,' snarled Ford.
`No,' said Harl. `You will do the restaurant column.'
He tossed a piece of plastic on to the desk in
Similar Books
