The Ultimate Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy

by Douglas Adams

  Trillian was continuing.

  Zaphod tried to pull the Krikkit robot away by its leg, but it kicked and growled at him, and then quaked with a fresh outburst of sobbing. Then suddenly it slumped over and continued to express its feelings out of everybody’s way on the floor.

  Trillian was standing alone in the middle of the chamber, tired but with fiercely burning eyes.

  Ranged in front of her were the pale-faced and wrinkled Elder Masters of Krikkit, motionless behind their widely curved control desk, staring at her with helpless fear and hatred.

  In front of them, equidistant between their control desk and the middle of the chamber, where Trillian stood, as if on trial, was a slim white pillar about four feet tall. On top of it stood a small white globe, about three, maybe four inches in diameter.

  Beside it stood a Krikkit robot with its multifunctional battleclub.

  “In fact,” explained Trillian, “you are so dumb stupid …” (She was sweating. Zaphod felt that this was an unattractive thing for her to be doing at this point.) “You are all so dumb stupid that I doubt, I very much doubt, if you’ve been able to build the bomb properly without any help from Hactar for the last five years.”

  “Who’s this guy Hactar?” said Zaphod, squaring his shoulders.

  If Marvin replied, Zaphod didn’t hear him. All his attention was concentrated on the screen.

  One of the Elders of Krikkit made a small motion with his hand toward the Krikkit robot. The robot raised its club.

  “There’s nothing I can do,” said Marvin, “it’s on an independent circuit from the others.”

  “Wait,” said Trillian.

  The Elder made a small motion. The robot halted. Trillian suddenly seemed very doubtful of her own judgment.

  “How do you know all this?” said Zaphod to Marvin at this point.

  “Computer records,” said Marvin. “I have access.”

  “You’re very different, aren’t you,” said Trillian to the Elders, “from your fellow worldlings down on the ground? You’ve spent all your lives up here, unprotected by the atmosphere. You’ve been vulnerable. The rest of your race is very frightened, you know, they don’t want you to do this. You’re out of touch, why don’t you check up?”

  The Krikkit Elder grew impatient. He made a gesture to the robot that was precisely the opposite of the gesture he had last made to it.

  The robot swung its battleclub. It hit the small white globe.

  The small white globe was the supernova bomb.

  It was a very, very small bomb that was designed to bring the entire Universe to an end.

  The supernova bomb flew through the air. It hit the back wall of the council chamber and dented it very badly.

  “So how does she know all this?” said Zaphod.

  Marvin kept a sullen silence.

  “Probably just bluffing,” said Zaphod. “Poor kid, I should never have left her alone.”

  Chapter 32

  Hactar!” called Trillian. “What are you up to?”

  There was no reply from the enclosing darkness. Trillian waited, nervously. She was sure that she couldn’t be wrong. She peered into the gloom from which she had been expecting some kind of response. But there was only cold silence.

  “Hactar?” she called again. “I would like you to meet my friend Arthur Dent. I wanted to go off with a Thunder God, but he wouldn’t let me and I appreciate that. He made me realize where my affections really lay. Unfortunately Zaphod is too frightened by all this, so I brought Arthur instead. I’m not sure why I’m telling you all this.

  “Hello?” she said again. “Hactar?”

  And then it came.

  It was thin and feeble, like a voice carried on the wind from a great distance, half heard, a memory or a dream of a voice.

  “Won’t you both come out,” said this voice. “I promise that you will be perfectly safe.”

  They glanced at each other, and then stepped out, improbably, along the shaft of light that streamed out of the open hatchway of the Heart of Gold into the dim granular darkness of the Dust Cloud.

  Arthur tried to hold her hand to steady and reassure her, but she wouldn’t let him. He held on to his airline bag with its tin of Greek olive oil, its towel, its crumpled postcards of Santorini and its other odds and ends. He steadied and reassured that instead.

  They were standing on, and in, nothing.

  Murky, dusty nothing. Each grain of dust of the pulverized computer sparkled dimly as it turned and twisted slowly, catching the sunlight in the darkness. Each particle of the computer, each speck of dust held within itself, faintly and weakly, the pattern of the whole. In reducing the computer to dust the Silastic Armorfiends of Striterax had merely crippled the computer, not killed it. A weak and insubstantial field held the particles in slight relationship with each other.

  Arthur and Trillian stood, or rather floated, in the middle of this bizarre entity. They had nothing to breathe, but for the moment this seemed not to matter. Hactar kept his promise. They were safe. For the moment.

  “I have nothing to offer you by way of hospitality,” said Hactar faintly, “but tricks of the light. It is possible to be comfortable with tricks of the light, though, if that is all you have.”

  His voice evanesced, and in the dark a long, velvet paisley-covered sofa coalesced into hazy shape.

  Arthur could hardly bear the fact that it was the same sofa that had appeared to him in the fields of prehistoric Earth. He wanted to shout and shake with rage that the Universe kept doing these insanely bewildering things to him.

  He let this feeling subside, and then sat on the sofa—carefully. Trillian sat on it, too.

  It was real.

  At least, if it wasn’t real, it did support them, and as that is what sofas are supposed to do, this, by any test that mattered, was a real sofa.

  The voice on the solar wind breathed to them again.

  “I hope you are comfortable,” it said.

  They nodded.

  “And I would like to congratulate you on the accuracy of your deductions.”

  Arthur quickly pointed out that he hadn’t deduced anything much himself, Trillian was the one. She had simply asked him along because he was interested in life, the Universe and everything.

  “That is something in which I, too, am interested,” breathed Hactar.

  “Well,” said Arthur, “we should have a chat about it sometime. Over a cup of tea.”

  There slowly materialized in front of them a small wooden table on which sat a silver teapot, a bone china milk jug, a bone china sugar bowl and two bone china cups and saucers.

  Arthur reached forward, but they were just a trick of the light. He leaned back on the sofa, which was an illusion his body was prepared to accept as comfortable.

  “Why,” said Trillian, “do you feel you have to destroy the Universe?”

  She found it a little difficult talking into nothingness, with nothing on which to focus. Hactar obviously noticed this. He chuckled a ghostly chuckle.

  “If it’s going to be that sort of session,” he said, “we may as well have the right sort of setting.”

  And now there materialized in front of them something new. It was the dim hazy image of a couch—a psychiatrist’s couch. The leather with which it was upholstered was shiny and sumptuous, but again, it was only a trick of the light.

  Around them, to complete the setting, was the hazy suggestion of wood-paneled walls. And then, on the couch, appeared the image of Hactar himself, and it was an eye-twisting image.

  The couch looked normal size for a psychiatrist’s couch—about five or six feet long.

  The computer looked normal size for a black spaceborne computer satellite—about a thousand miles across.

  The illusion that the one was sitting on top of the other was the thing that made the eyes twist.

  “All right,” said Trillian firmly. She stood up from the sofa. She felt that she was being asked to feel too comfortable and to accept too many il
lusions.

  “Very good,” she said “Can you construct real things, too? I mean solid objects?”

  Again, there was the pause before the answer, as if the pulverized mind of Hactar had to collect its thoughts from the millions and millions of miles over which it was scattered.

  “Ah,” he sighed, “you are thinking of the spaceship.”

  Thoughts seemed to drift by them and through them, like waves through the ether.

  “Yes,” he acknowledged, “I can. But it takes enormous effort and time. All I can do in my … particle state, you see, is encourage and suggest. Encourage and suggest. And suggest …”

  The image of Hactar on the couch seemed to billow and waver, as if finding it hard to maintain itself.

  It gathered new strength.

  “I can encourage and suggest,” it said, “tiny pieces of space debris—the odd minute meteor, a few molecules here, a few hydrogen atoms there—to move together. I encourage them together. I can tease them into shape, but it takes many eons.”

  “So, did you make,” asked Trillian again, “the model of the wrecked spacecraft?”

  “Er … yes,” murmured Hactar, “I have made … a few things. I can move them about. I made the spacecraft. It seemed best to do.”

  Something at this point made Arthur pick up his tote bag from where he had left it on the sofa and grasp it tightly.

  The mist of Hactar’s ancient shattered mind swirled about them as if uneasy dreams were moving through it.

  “I repented, you see,” he murmured dolefully. “I repented of sabotaging my own design for the Silastic Armorfiends. It was not my place to make such decisions. I was created to fulfill a function and I failed in it. I negated my own existence.”

  Hactar sighed, and they waited in silence for him to continue his story.

  “You were right,” he said at length. “I deliberately nurtured the planet of Krikkit till they would arrive at the same state of mind as the Silastic Armorfiends, and require of me the design of the bomb I failed to make the first time. I wrapped myself around the planet and coddled it. Under the influence of events I was able to engineer, and influences I was able to generate, they learned to hate like maniacs. I had to make them live in the sky. On the ground my influences were too weak.

  “Without me, of course, when they were locked away from me in the envelope of Slo-Time, their responses became very confused and they were unable to manage.

  “Ah well, ah well,” he added, “I was only trying to fulfill my function.”

  And very gradually, very, very slowly, the images in the cloud began to fade, gently to melt away.

  And then suddenly, they stopped fading.

  “There was also the matter of revenge, of course,” said Hactar, with a sharpness that was new in his voice.

  “Remember,” he said, “that I was pulverized, and then left in a crippled and semi-impotent state for billions of years. I honestly would rather like to wipe out the Universe. You would feel the same way, believe me.”

  He paused again, as eddies swept through the dust.

  “But primarily,” he said in his former, wistful tone, “I was trying to fulfill my function. Ah well.”

  Trillian said, “Does it worry you that you have failed?”

  “Have I failed?” whispered Hactar. The image of the computer on the psychiatrist’s couch began slowly to fade again.

  “Ah well, ah well,” the fading voice intoned again, “no, failure doesn’t bother me now.”

  “You know what we have to do?” said Trillian, her voice cold and businesslike.

  “Yes,” said Hactar, “you’re going to disperse me. You are going to destroy my consciousness. Please be my guest—after all these eons, oblivion is all I crave. If I haven’t already fulfilled my function, then it’s too late now. Thank you and good night.”

  The sofa vanished.

  The tea table vanished.

  The couch and the computer vanished. The walls were gone. Arthur and Trillian made their cautious way back into the Heart of Gold.

  “Well, that,” said Arthur, “would appear to be that.”

  The flames danced higher in front of him and then subsided. A few last licks and they were gone, leaving him with just a pile of Ashes, where a few minutes previously there had been the Wooden Pillar of Nature and Spirituality.

  He scooped them off the hob of the Heart of Gold’s Gamma Barbecue, put them in a paper bag and walked back onto the bridge.

  “I think we should take them back,” he said. “I feel that very strongly.”

  He had already had an argument with Slartibartfast on this matter, and eventually the old man had got annoyed and left. He had returned to his own ship, the Bistromath, had a furious row with the waiter and disappeared off into an entirely subjective idea of what space was.

  The argument had arisen because Arthur’s idea of returning the Ashes to Lord’s Cricket Ground at the same moment they were originally taken would involve traveling back in time a day or so, and this was precisely the sort of gratuitous and irresponsible mucking about that the Campaign for Real Time was trying to put a stop to.

  “Yes,” Arthur had said, “but you try and explain that to the M.C.C.,” and would hear no more against the idea.

  “I think,” he said again and stopped. The reason he started to say it again was that no one had listened to him the first time, and the reason he stopped was that it looked fairly clear that no one was going to listen to him this time either.

  Ford, Zaphod and Trillian were watching the visiscreen intently. Hactar was dispersing under pressure from a vibration field which the Heart of Gold was pumping into it.

  “What did it say?” asked Ford.

  “I thought I heard it say,” said Trillian in a puzzled voice, “ ‘What’s done is done … I have fulfilled my function.…’ ”

  “I think we should take these back,” said Arthur, holding up the bag containing the Ashes. “I feel that very strongly.”

  Chapter 33

  The sun was shining calmly on a scene of complete havoc.

  Smoke was still billowing across the burnt grass in the wake of the theft of the Ashes by the Krikkit robots. Through the smoke people were running panic-stricken, colliding with each other, tripping over stretchers, being arrested.

  One policeman was attempting to arrest Wowbagger the Infinitely Prolonged for insulting behavior, but was unable to prevent the tall gray green alien from returning to his ship and arrogantly flying away, thus causing even more panic and pandemonium.

  In the middle of this suddenly materialized for the second time that afternoon the figures of Arthur Dent and Ford Prefect, who had teleported down out of the Heart of Gold which was now in parking orbit round the planet.

  “I can explain,” shouted Arthur. “I have the Ashes! They’re in this bag.”

  “I don’t think you have their attention,” said Ford.

  “I have also helped save the Universe,” called Arthur to anyone who was prepared to listen, in other words no one.

  “That should have been a crowd stopper,” said Arthur to Ford.

  “It wasn’t,” said Ford.

  Arthur accosted a policeman who was running past.

  “Excuse me,” he said, “the Ashes. I’ve got them. They were stolen by those white robots a moment ago. I’ve got them in this bag. They were part of the Key to the Slo-Time envelope, you see, and well, anyway, you can guess the rest, the point is I’ve got them and what should I do with them?”

  The policeman told him, but Arthur could only assume that he was speaking metaphorically.

  He wandered about disconsolately.

  “Is no one interested?” he shouted out. A man rushed past him and jogged his elbow; he dropped the paper bag and it spilled its contents all over the ground. Arthur stared down at it with a tight set mouth.

  Ford looked at him.

  “Wanna go now?” he said.

  Arthur heaved a heavy sigh. He looked around at the planet Ear
th, for what he was now certain would be the last time.

  “Okay,” he said.

  At that moment, he caught sight, through the clearing smoke, of one of the wickets, still standing in spite of everything.

  “Hold on a moment,” he said to Ford, “when I was a boy …”

  “Can you tell me later?”

  “I had a passion for cricket, you know, but I wasn’t very good at it.”

  “Or not at all if you prefer.”

  “And I always dreamed, rather stupidly, that one day I would bowl at Lord’s.”

  He looked around him at the panic-stricken throng. No one was going to mind very much.

  “Okay,” said Ford wearily, “get it over with. I shall be over there,” he added, “being bored.” He went and sat down on a patch of smoking grass.

  Arthur remembered that on their first visit there that afternoon, the cricket ball had actually landed in his bag, and he looked through the bag.

  He had already found the ball in it before he remembered that it wasn’t the same bag that he’d had at the time. Still, there it was among the souvenirs of Greece.

  He took it out and polished it against his hip, spat on it and polished it again. He put the bag down. He was going to do this properly.

  He tossed the small hard red ball from hand to hand, feeling its weight.

  With a wonderful feeling of lightness and unconcern, he trotted off away from the wicket. A medium-fast pace, he decided, and measured a good long run up.

  He looked up into the sky. The birds were wheeling about it, a few white clouds scudded across it. The air was disturbed with the sound of police and ambulance sirens, and people screaming and yelling, but he felt curiously happy and untouched by it all. He was going to bowl a ball at Lord’s.

  He turned, and pawed a couple of times at the ground with his bedroom slippers. He squared his shoulders, tossed the ball in the air and caught it again.

  He started to run.

  As he ran, he suddenly saw that standing at the wicket was a batsman.