TRILLIAN: Oh!
FX: Swing of cricket bat – connects with bomb – flies across Council Chamber, smashes through the Chamber’s cheap stud walling.
Gasp from Elders and Trillian.
INT. – KRIKKIT CENTRAL WAR COMPUTER ROOM
KRIKKIT ROBOT: Oops.
TRILLIAN: (Distorted, on view-screen) OK, so you’ve got a nasty hole in your wall.
Uproar in Council Chamber (distorted), under:
ZAPHOD: If that bomb’s so brilliant, why didn’t it go off?
MARVIN: It is brilliant. But they aren’t. They’ve spent the last five years building it and they still haven’t got it right. They’re as stupid as any other organic life form. I hate them.
INT. – COUNCIL CHAMBER OF THE ELDERS OF KRIKKIT
Uproar subsiding. Frantic mutterings.
TRILLIAN: (To self) Influences from beyond, radiation, dust particles . . . (Up) Elders! Elders of Krikkit! I need transportation. I need my friends. And I need them now.
ELDER OF KRIKKIT: We need a hug.
EXT. – SPACE
FX: Heart of Gold whoosh-past. Jumbled layers of silly sound superimposed, with Trillian’s voice over:
TRILLIAN: (PA reverb) Probability factor three to one and falling . . . two to one and falling . . . thirteen to eight . . . eleven to ten . . .
INT. – THE HEART OF GOLD – BRIDGE
FX: Jumble of sounds gradually filtering away, under:
TRILLIAN: (By mic) Probability one to one. We have normality. Deal with it.
SLARTIBARTFAST: I do miss the aroma of fresh pesto in a starship.
TRILLIAN: Come on, Arthur.
(They chat as they leave the bridge to go to the airlock)
MARVIN: (Moving into background) I miss being connected to a war computer about as much as I’d miss the pain I feel in all the diodes down my left-hand side. Which is not at all.
EDDIE THE COMPUTER: We’re in position at the Dust Cloud perimeter, folks.
FX: Door whirr.
ARTHUR: Ready.
SLARTIBARTFAST: We should have drawn straws.
ZAPHOD: Hey, uncool and potentially risky. Suppose I drew the short one?
FORD PREFECT: How do we know there’s anything out there apart from a cloud of black dust?
MARVIN: I could tell you, if you asked me politely, which you wouldn’t.
FORD PREFECT: (Beat) Please, Marvin.
MARVIN: A pocket of pseudo-gravity has opened around the ship. With an oxygen–nitrogen atmosphere.
SLARTIBARTFAST: We’re being invited here. There is a very powerful intelligence at work.
MARVIN: Like you’d notice.
TRILLIAN: Eddie.
EDDIE THE COMPUTER: Airlock open, folks.
INT. – THE HEART OF GOLD – AIRLOCK
FX: Door slides open, under:
ARTHUR: The last time I walked out of an airlock in deep space, the Vogons were pushing me. I can’t believe I volunteered to do it again. Look, Trisha, if anything happens to us –
TRILLIAN: Listen.
ARTHUR:– I ju— I can’t hear anything.
TRILLIAN: So the pressure here is equal to the cabin pressure in the Heart of Gold.
ARTHUR: And that suggests you’re right about this?
TRILLIAN: I hope so . . . (She takes a couple of steps) Hactar . . . ?
The presence of a vast ancient stillness engulfs them.
TRILLIAN: (Feeling awkward) Hactar? I would like you to meet my friend, Arthur Dent . . . I – I wanted to go off with a Thunder God, but he stopped me and I really appreciate that. He made me realize where my affections really lay.
ARTHUR: Oh . . . Hm. Is that actually relevant right now?
TRILLIAN: I’m not sure. (Calls) Hello? Hactar?
Slight backwards reverb leads into:
HACTAR: (Thin and feeble, like a voice carried on the wind . . . A memory of a dream of a once powerful voice) Won’t you both come out? I promise that you’re perfectly safe.
ARTHUR: By which people usually mean we’re not.
TRILLIAN: Come on, Arthur.
ARTHUR: But it’s empty space.
TRILLIAN: Have faith.
ARTHUR: I do. I also have fear. And a propensity to bruising.
HACTAR: (He sounds gentle but there is a hint of spiteful menace about his delivery) I have nothing to offer you by way of hospitality but tricks of the light. It is possible to be comfortable with tricks of the light, though, if that is all you have.
ARTHUR: Good grief – it’s a sofa . . . The sofa – the one that Ford and I escaped from prehistoric Earth on . . . Why does the Universe keep doing these insanely bewildering things to me?!
FX: They sit.
HACTAR: Please, make yourselves comfortable.
TRILLIAN: /ARTHUR Yes, thank you./It’s like an old friend.
HACTAR: And I really must congratulate you on the accuracy of your deductions.
ARTHUR: Well, I didn’t deduce anything myself. I’m just here because I’m sort of interested in Life, the Universe and Everything.
HACTAR: That is something in which I too have an interest.
ARTHUR: Well, we should have a chat about it sometime. Over a cup of tea.
FX: Susurration of atoms reconfiguring into vague tea-tray sounds.
ARTHUR: Impressive. I’ll be mother, then, shall I? Oh.
HACTAR: I’m afraid the tea table is just a trick of the light.
TRILLIAN: Er, Hactar, if the Universe interests you so much, why do you feel you have to destroy it?
HACTAR: Oh dear, perhaps a psychiatrist’s couch would have served us better?
FX: Susurration of atoms reconfiguring.
ARTHUR: (Shifting in his seat) Oh. I think I preferred the sofa.
FX: Susurration of atoms reconfiguring.
ARTHUR: (cont’d) Thank you.
TRILLIAN: Can you construct real things too? I – I mean solid objects?
HACTAR: Ah. You are thinking of the spaceship. Yes, I can. But it takes enormous effort and time. All I can do in my . . . particle state, you see, is encourage and suggest . . . tiny pieces of space debris – a few molecules here, a few hydrogen atoms there – I encourage them together. I can tease them into shape, but it takes many aeons.
TRILLIAN: So, did you make the wrecked spacecraft that crashed on Krikkit?
HACTAR: It seemed the best thing to do.
TRILLIAN: Best?
HACTAR: I repented, you see, for sabotaging my own design for the Silastic Armorfiends. It was not my place to make such decisions. I was created to fulfil a function and I failed in it. I negated my own existence.
ARTHUR: Go on.
HACTAR: I deliberately nurtured the planet of Krikkit till they would arrive at the same state of mind as the people who built me, 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 generate, they learned to hate like maniacs. Mind you, I had to make them live in the sky. On the ground my influences were too weak.
TRILLIAN: You’ve caused the deaths of millions.
HACTAR: When they were locked away from me in the envelope of Slo-Time, their responses became very confused and they were unable to manage.
ARTHUR: (Low) Which is why their bomb was a dud.
HACTAR: I was only trying to fulfil my function.
TRILLIAN: Nothing else?
HACTAR: Well, there was also the little matter of revenge. Of course, I was pulverized, then left in a crippled and semi-impotent state for billions of years. And there’s nothing quite like wiping out the Universe to get your point across.
TRILLIAN: (Businesslike) You know what we have to do?
HACTAR: Yes. You’re going to disperse me. This is your function; to destroy my consciousness. Well, be my guest – after all these aeons, all I crave is oblivion. If I haven’t already fulfilled my function, then it’s too late. Data ends. Thank you –
TRILLIAN: Arthur—
ARTHUR: (Breathing with difficulty) The atmosphere pocket is dissipating—
TRILLIAN: And the sofa’s disappearing – jump!
INT. – THE HEART OF GOLD – AIRLOCK
FX: They leap inside. Airlock clunks home with a hiss.
Click of intercom switch.
TRILLIAN: Eddie – the vibration field – quickly!
FX: Low-frequency ripples.
EDDIE THE COMPUTER: No problem!
TRILLIAN: That should take care of the Dust Cloud.
EXT. – SPACE
Music/FX: Hactar’s dust cloud disperses.
HACTAR: (Thinly, disappearing) What’s done is done . . . I have fulfilled my function . . . (Repeats, fading, under:)
INT. – THE HEART OF GOLD – BRIDGE
TRILLIAN: (Entering) Listen. It’s Hactar.
SLARTIBARTFAST: I think he’s glad to have the burden of existence lifted.
MARVIN: Some people have all the luck.
ARTHUR: (Moving in) Well . . . That would appear to be that. Just about.
FORD PREFECT: Just about?
ARTHUR: I think we should take the Ashes back to Lord’s. I feel that very strongly.
FORD PREFECT: Some charred bits of cricket stump? Why?
ARTHUR: It’s a matter of national pride. I’m not sure you’d understand.
SLARTIBARTFAST: Are you proposing the injudicious use of time travel?
ZAPHOD: Homesick, monkey man?
ARTHUR: If we give them back moments after they were stolen, no one will be any the wiser.
FORD PREFECT: (Sighs) Why bother? The Earth gets blown up a day later no matter what you do.
ARTHUR: It just seems important to do it. We’d only have to travel back a day or so in time.
SLARTIBARTFAST: This is precisely the sort of gratuitous and irresponsible mucking about that the Campaign for Real Time is trying to put a stop to!
ARTHUR: Ah, but you try and explain that to the MCC.
SLARTIBARTFAST: I won’t be a party to it! Kindly return me to the Starship Bistromath at once!
ZAPHOD: OK, OK, old man, keep your beard on. We’ll drop you off. You and the guy I picked up on the way over.
FORD PREFECT: What guy?
ZAPHOD: Says his name is Prak. He’s on the run from the Argabuthon Witness-Protection Programme.
TRILLIAN: (Shocked) Prak? The Prak?
ZAPHOD: He keeps talking, non-stop. Doesn’t make much sense.
ARTHUR: Trillian? Are you all right?
TRILLIAN: It was in the Siderial Daily Mentioner. Big story. He wouldn’t give evidence at some trial so they administered a new truth drug, just when the Krikkit robots broke in and stole the Argabuthon Sceptre of Justice.
SLARTIBARTFAST: The Perspex Pillar of Science.
TRILLIAN: In the chaos, the bailiff accidentally gave Prak ten times the maximum dose. Once the trial resumed they made the worst request imaginable of someone in Prak’s condition. They asked him to tell the Truth, the Whole Truth and Nothing but the Truth. And he told it. For all they know he’s still telling it. Strange, terrible things . . . things that would drive you mad.
FORD PREFECT: Yeah. If a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, omniscience must be lethal.
ARTHUR: But – if he knows all truth, then, presumably, he’d know what the Ultimate Question to the Ultimate Answer is. It’s always bothered me that we never found out.
FORD PREFECT: (Hadn’t bothered him) Yeah? Well, it’s your call.
TRILLIAN: No!
ARTHUR: (Firmly) Let’s ask him.
INT. – THE HEART OF GOLD – HOLD
FX: Footsteps on the deck plates. They stop.
FX: Sound of madman in hysterics.
ZAPHOD: Thank Zarquon the hold’s soundproof; this motormouth can really ratchet.
TRILLIAN: Poor thing.
ZAPHOD: Door, open.
FX: Door opens.
HOLD DOOR: (Distorted) My pleasure to allow you admittance to the hold.
TRILLIAN: (Cautious) Hello?
PRAK: Oh, hello. Do you, er – do you have a cigarette?
ARTHUR: Sorry, no.
(Crazy laughing)
FORD PREFECT: Hi, pal, what’s going on?
PRAK: Nothing.
ARTHUR: We thought you’d be still telling the Truth – Whole and Nothing but.
PRAK: Oh, that. I was. But then I finished. There’s not nearly as much of it as people imagine. Some of it is pretty funny, though. (He explodes in a short burst of maniacal laughter, suddenly stopping)
FORD PREFECT: Tell me about it.
PRAK: Oh, I can’t remember any of it now. I thought of writing some of it down, but then I thought, why bother? (More maniacal laughter)
ZAPHOD: Hey, buddy, you OK?
PRAK: I’m not sure I haven’t done myself an injury. (Burst of mad snorting)
ARTHUR: You remember none of it?
PRAK: Um . . . no. Oh, except most of the good bits were about frogs, I remember that. (Another sudden maniacal outburst) You wouldn’t believe some of the things about frogs! Come on, let’s go and find ourselves a frog! Boy, will I ever see them in a new light!
ARTHUR: Nothing more . . . profound . . . ?
PRAK: (Manic downswing, sad) Oh – let’s find a frog I can laugh at. Oh, a tadpole would do. Sorry, who are you?
TRILLIAN: Er, my name is Trillian.
PRAK: Uh huh.
FORD PREFECT: Ford Prefect.
PRAK: Oh, yeah?
ZAPHOD: (With great drama) And I . . . am Zaphod Beeblebrox.
PRAK: So what?
ZAPHOD: Er . . .
PRAK: And what’s this?
ARTHUR: Me? Oh, my name’s Arthur Dent.
PRAK: No kidding? You’re Arthur Dent? What – the Arthur Dent? (Another burst) Blimey, you . . . without a doubt . . . you really . . . you just leave the frogs standing! (Into paroxysms of hysterical laughter)
TRILLIAN: (Quietly) He’s not well. The constant laughing’s wrecked his body.
PRAK: (Recovering, weakly) You wanted to ask me something.
ARTHUR: How do you know that?
PRAK: (Simply. The odd cough) ’Cos it’s True.
ARTHUR: Well, I did have a question. Or rather, what I actually have is an Answer. I wanted to know what the Question was.
PRAK: Uh huh.
ARTHUR: The Question I would like to know is the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe and Everything. All we know is that the Answer is Forty-Two. Which is a little aggravating.
PRAK: Um-hmm.
ARTHUR: Forty-Two. Yes, that’s right.
PRAK: Oh, you didn’t know. The Question and the Answer are mutually exclusive, I’m afraid. Knowledge of one logically precludes knowledge of the other. It is impossible that both can ever be known about in the same Universe.
ARTHUR: (Disappointed) Oh.
PRAK: Except, if it happened, it seems that the Question and the Answer would just cancel each other out. Oh, and take the Universe with them, which would then be replaced by something even more bizarrely inexplicable. It is possible, of course, that this has already happened, but there is a certain amount of Uncertainty about it.
ARTHUR: There certainly is. I was just hoping there might have been some sort of reason.
PRAK: (Getting weaker but no less fluent) Well, actually, there is one other thing I can remember. Apart from the frogs . . . later . . . What was it . . . erm . . . oh yes: God’s last message to his creation. Would you like to know what it is?
ARTHUR: Erm – Ford?
(Sotto discussion about this)
PRAK: Look, do you want to know about it or not?
ARTHUR/FORD/TRILLIAN/ZAPHOD: (Murmurs of assent, but surprisingly low-key) Mmm . . . Yes, all right.
PRAK: (Voice fading, but fluently) Oh. Well, if you’re that interested, I suggest you go and look for it. It is written in thirty-foot-high letters of fire on top of the Quentulus Quazgar Mountains in the land of Sevorbeupstry on t
he planet Preliumtarn, third out from the sun Zarss in Galactic Sector QQ7 Active J Gamma. It is guarded by the Lajestic Vantrashell of Lob, which—
ARTHUR: Sorry, it’s where?
PRAK: (Deep breath. Weary) It is written in thirty-foot-high letters of fire on top of the Quentulus Quazgar Mountains in the land of Sevorbeupstry on the planet Preliumtarn – you might want to write this down – third out from the . . .
ARTHUR: Sorry, which mountains?
PRAK: The Quentulus Quazgar Mountains in the land of Sevorbeupstry on the planet—
ARTHUR: Have you got a pencil?
PRAK: (Disbelief) Me??
ARTHUR: Which land was that? I didn’t quite catch it.
PRAK: Sevorbeupstry, on the planet—
ARTHUR: Sevorbe-what?
PRAK: Oh, for Heaven’s sake – (One last huge giggle, then:)
FX: Body thud.
TRILLIAN: (Kneeling beside Prak) Poor thing. It was too much for him.
ZAPHOD: Bummer.
FORD PREFECT: How about it, Arthur? Want to go in search of God’s last message to his creation?
ARTHUR: Not just now, thanks.
FORD PREFECT: Fair enough.
INT. – THE BOOK AMBIENCE
THE VOICE: One of the many problems encountered in time travel is not that of accidentally becoming your own father or mother. There is no problem involved in becoming your own father or mother that a broad-minded and well-adjusted family can’t cope with. There is also no problem about changing the course of history. The course of history does not change because it all fits together like a jigsaw. All the important changes have happened before the things they were supposed to change and it all sorts itself out in the end.
The major problem posed by time travel is quite simply one of grammar, and the main work to consult in this matter is Dr Dan Streetmentioner’s Time Traveller’s Handbook of 1001 Tense Formations. It tells, for instance, how to describe something that was about to happen to you in the past before you time-jumped forward a couple of days in order to avoid it. The event will be described differently according to whether you are talking about it from the standpoint of your own natural time, from a time in the further future or a time in the further past – which is further complicated by the possibility of conducting conversations whilst you are actually travelling from one time to another with the intention of becoming your own father or mother.
Streetmentioner’s handbook is as exhaustive as it is exhausting, but as no reader has yet been known to get as far as the Future Semi-Conditionally Modified Subinverted Plagal Past Subjunctive Intentional without giving up, in later editions of the book, all the pages beyond this point have been left blank to save on printing costs.
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Further Radio Scripts Page 16