Dear God, don't let me screw up!

Cuthbert

Ten minutes later, we all are outside what the princess tells us is one Gur Rathka's cell. THEN without bothering with trying to sort out which key from the keyring will open it, the mages do their magic (literally).

Leaving looks of surprise on one face (our amnesia inflicted native princess) and somewhat weary consternation on other (non-Champion) faces.

"Magic?" the red skinned princess blinks. "No, that . . . doesn't seem to fit with . . .?"

She looks . . . befuddled.

"Dear god, what have you landed us into this time?" Trillian whispers softly to her two headed boyfriend, Zaphod. "Who ARE these people?"

Yes, there is that question again. Seems like everywhere we go people want to know who we are. But unlike that old Earth Army chant (or whatever) we've not had a chance yet to tell them the WHOLE truth.. Circumstances didn't really allow for before (we'd appear insane or menacing if we were really unlucky) so we'd opted . . .

Ah, by my father's face nevermind! You have, I trust, already figure that out. Dear God help us all when we do get around to explaining. Don't let us screw up, please. Be so . . . . tacky to have to take what we need by force, but we REALLY don't want to stay around this barbaric place any longer than needed!

God and his attendant gods (read angels for you non-Midworld types out there) if we have to finally stoop to theft, but if so then it'll be after we exhaust all other . . .

. . .

Hm, just saw something again what Roland must have faced from time to time back when Midworld had moved on and all that . . .

Later!

"We can talk about this after we get your friend free," Artizza says softly. "Speaking of which, is he? . . . ."

1. My wife, Joan looks up from her tricorder, having scanned the prone form before us and . . .

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