The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Further Radio Scripts

by Douglas Adams

  Although stereo is ideal for a casual listen, a playback in 5.1 Surround is to experience Hitchhiker’s in a more intense and involving way than ever before. Douglas would have loved it.

  EPISODE ONE

  SIGNATURE TUNE

  ANNOUNCER: The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, by Douglas Adams, Quandary Phase.

  Sig fades.

  EXT. – SPACE – DEEP RUMBLING

  VOGON HELMSMAN: In orbit over Canis Minor, Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz.

  PROSTETNIC VOGON JELTZ: (Bored, this is mostly under the Voice) People of Canis Minor, this is Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz of the Galactic Hyperspace Planning Council. As you will no doubt be aware, the plans for development of the outlying regions of the Galaxy require the building of a hyperspatial express route through your star system, and regrettably your planet is one of those scheduled for demolition, blah blah blah, you must know the drill by now . . .

  THE VOICE: (over Jeltz) Vogons are unpleasant enough to gaze upon in their youth, and the passing years do nothing to enhance their appearance. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy has a neat little animation showing how the highly domed nose rising above their small, green-skinned foreheads tends to develop growths sprouting tufts of coarse hair in middle age. Their voices and social skills are similarly prone to decay. All Vogons, particularly those of the Prostetnic class and above, rise to power not so much by merit as by sheer thick-willed slug-brained stubbornness and quite a lot of shouting, and any appeal to their better nature is by definition flogging a dead Equinusian packbeast.

  FX: Background to Canis Minor pontiff – people screaming and panicking.

  CANIS MINOR PONTIFF: (Distorted) This is the Canis Minor Supreme Pontiff. There is some mistake. Please remove your ships from orbit.

  PROSTETNIC VOGON JELTZ: (Sighs)Same old . . . (Up) All the planning charts have been on display in your local planning department in Ganymede for twenty-seven of your stellar orbits so you might as well shut up.

  CANIS MINOR PONTIFF: But—

  FX: Vogon door opens, breathless guard enters, door closes.

  PROSTETNIC VOGON JELTZ: Hold the line, caller—

  CANIS MINOR PONTIFF: But—!

  FX: Click.

  PROSTETNIC VOGON JELTZ: (To guard) What?

  VOGON GUARD: (Urgent) Sir, a priority message from Megabrantis—

  PROSTETNIC VOGON JELTZ: Did anyone order you to come barging in here without knocking? Did they? Now go out, go back to the communications deck and start again.

  VOGON GUARD: (Flustered) Erm – yes, sir—

  FX: Door closes. Jeltz hums to himself. We hear the unfortunate guard descend several flights of metallic echoey stairs and re-ascend them, under:

  THE VOICE: Evolution gave up on the Vogons at almost the precise moment they emerged from the primeval seas of Vogsphere, panting, heaving and demanding a towel. In turn, the Vogons said to themselves, ‘Who needs evolution, anyway?’ and what nature refused to do for them they simply did without, until such time as their myriad anatomical deficiencies could be rectified with surgery.

  Their planet was developing fairly significant hygiene issues with the ensuing membrane mountains and liposuction lakes when the Vogons suddenly discovered the principles of interstellar travel and migrated to the Megabrantis cluster – the political hub of the Galaxy. Bureaucracy is a parasite that preys on free thought and suffocates free spirit, and the Vogons love bureaucracy above all things. Thus within a few short Vog years, the philosophers who once governed the Galaxy were banished to the Tax Return Office to lick stamps, and now the Galactic Civil Service, like everything else, is a strictly Vogon operation. In most respects the modern Vogon differs little from his primitive forebears. For example, every year the Vogons import twenty-seven thousand of the scintillating jewelled scuttling crabs that decorate their native planet in order to while away one happy drunken night smashing them to bits with iron mallets.

  FX: Knock on metal door.

  PROSTETNIC VOGON JELTZ: (Airily) Come.

  FX: Vogon door opens.

  VOGON GUARD: Sir, I—

  PROSTETNIC VOGON JELTZ: Have you washed your hands?

  VOGON GUARD: (Flustered – is this a capital offence?) Er – no . . .

  PROSTETNIC VOGON JELTZ: Good. Now, what’s the message?

  VOGON GUARD: Right. Ah – erm . . . oh. Tsk. What was it now – tip of my . . . sure it was important . . . (etc., under:)

  THE VOICE: Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz is fairly typical of his species in that he started his career being thoroughly vile and has now worked his way up to utterly hateful. Especially to other Vogons.

  PROSTETNIC VOGON JELTZ: Hurry up, or I shall read you one of my poems. A long one which doesn’t scan.

  VOGON GUARD: (This galvanizes him) Whup! Yes! Sir – a priority message from Megabrantis. It appears there is a problem. Highway Crew were just surveying the ZZ9 Plural Z Alpha route and there’s a planet in the way. Called Earth.

  PROSTETNIC VOGON JELTZ: No, there isn’t. I blew that planet up myself. Took it out neat as you like.

  VOGON GUARD: Well, it’s still there.

  PROSTETNIC VOGON JELTZ: Are you arguing with me?

  VOGON GUARD: Only in the sense of ever so slightly.

  PROSTETNIC VOGON JELTZ: (Threat) Ever so slightly happens to qualify.

  VOGON GUARD: We are to proceed back to Megabrantis at once and report.

  PROSTETNIC VOGON JELTZ: I give the orders round here!

  FX: Zap gun – he shoots the guard.

  VOGON GUARD: Argh!

  PROSTETNIC VOGON JELTZ: Well . . . ? Thank me.

  VOGON GUARD: (Agony) What for?

  PROSTETNIC VOGON JELTZ: For not losing my temper with you.

  VOGON GUARD: (Gasp) Thank you so much . . .

  FX: Body thud.

  PROSTETNIC VOGON JELTZ: I didn’t order you to die!

  FX: Communicator beep, then:

  CANIS MINOR PONTIFF: (Distorted, screaming people in background) You! Aboard the Vogon Constructor Fleet! Are you still listening? We’ve checked our records and our planet is not to be—

  PROSTETNIC VOGON JELTZ: Sorry, this window is now closed. (Barks) Particle cannon!

  VOGON HELMSMAN: Vaporize or rubble, sir?

  PROSTETNIC VOGON JELTZ: Ladies’ choice.

  VOGON HELMSMAN: You’re too good to me.

  FX: Demolition beam – planet explodes.

  INT. – THE BOOK AMBIENCE

  FX/Music: Underwatery. Whales and dolphins audible under:

  THE VOICE: Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the western spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun. Orbiting this at a distance of roughly ninety-two million miles was once an utterly insignificant little blue-green planet whose ape-descended life forms were so amazingly primitive that they thought novelty ringtones were a pretty neat idea.

  The planet had a problem, which was this: most of the people on it were unhappy for pretty much all of the time. A lot of them were mean, and the majority were miserable, even the ones whose cellphones were set to vibrate.

  Many were increasingly of the opinion that they’d all made a big mistake in coming down from the trees in the first place. And some said that even the trees had been a bad move, and that no one should ever have left the oceans.

  And then, one Thursday, a girl sitting on her own in a small cafe in Rickmansworth suddenly realized what it was that had been going wrong all this time, and saw how the world could be made a good and happy place.

  However, before she could switch on her cellphone to tell anyone, the Earth was unexpectedly demolished to make way for a new hyperspace bypass and the idea was lost forever. Or so it seemed. For that is not the end of her story. It picks up again in a field by the A303 in Somerset, England. The local weather forecast predicts a balmy evening with clear skies and light breezes. The hitchhiker aboard the spacecraft which has just made an unscheduled stop here is thus reassured to find that, this being England, clouds ar
e gathering and a thunderstorm is fast approaching.

  EXT. – NIGHT – FIELD NEAR MOTORWAY

  FX: Distant ripples of thunder. Low heavy throb of spacecraft idling. Ramp lowers. Shoes descend.

  ARTHUR: (For it is he, calling back to occupants)Very kind of you, thank you very—

  ALIEN TEASER: Vdfbvlkjsblvj Fjhbsllssvvlslsv.

  ARTHUR: (Keen to get away) An excellent ship for a teaser, deceptively roomy in the back. Cheerio, then.

  ALIEN TEASER: Khdvkds.

  ARTHUR: Ye-es, sorry about that. I had to hang my pyjamas on something. I didn’t realize it was your girlfriend . . .

  FX: Ramp up/hatch closes. Ship revs up, under:

  THE VOICE: If you were to take the findings of the latest Mid-Galactic Census report, you might guess that this spacecraft would hold about six people at a stretch, and you would be right. The Census report, like most such surveys, has cost an awful lot of money and doesn’t tell anybody anything they don’t already know – except that every single person in the Galaxy has 2.4 legs and owns a hyena. Since this is clearly not true, the whole thing will eventually be scrapped.

  Arthur Dent is strictly two-legged and does not own a hyena that he knows of; however he has managed to hitchhike across the Galaxy from a pleasant if dull exile on the planet Krikkit to his home planet, Earth. The fact that he has not had to resort to time travel to arrive at a planet which should no longer exist is one he has decided to ignore for the time being. Suffice to say that Arthur is a little older, his dressing gown a little grubbier – and he is carrying a large plastic shopping bag which, he will shortly discover, has a big hole in the bottom.

  FX: Rummaging in plastic bag, under:

  ARTHUR: (Discovering hole) Suffering Zarquon . . . (etc., under:)

  THE VOICE: Arthur managed to replace his increasingly smelly home-made rabbit-skin pouch with this odourless but significantly less intact receptacle, several days and some fifteen hundred light years distant, at a stopover in the Port Brasta Mega-Market. At the same time he took the opportunity to raise some cash by selling all the blood, sperm and hair cuttings he could survive without to the less fussy medical, reproductive and dandruff-research establishments. He also routinely updated his copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

  FX: Guide switch on and bleep alert (reverby).

  THE VOICE: The update triggered an alert which stopped him in his tracks. Distracted by the consequently urgent need to find a ride, Arthur grabbed this bag without looking. It is a plastic carrier with a clever and elaborate pun in Lingua Centauri on its side, a marketing slogan completely incomprehensible in any other language, which reads – to anyone who can decipher it – ‘Be Like the Twenty-Second Elephant with Heated Value in Space – Bark!’

  FX: Rustling of bag (this business under the above:)

  ARTHUR: Ohhh. Typical . . .

  FX: Banging on the hatch.

  ARTHUR: (cont’d) Hallo . . . ?

  FX: Hatch opens/ramp down.

  ALIEN TEASER: Ktgr?

  ARTHUR: I’m sorry, my towel must still be somewhere aboard. It’s fallen out of the hole in this bag.

  ALIEN TEASER: (Annoyed) Ncob!

  FX: Towel flung in Arthur’s face, under:

  ARTHUR: Ah, you’ve found – fnf—!

  FX: Ramp up/hatch closes. Ship lifts off and shoots away.

  ARTHUR: (Pulling towel off his head) Miserable six-armed— (Calls) Your girlfriend is a hatstand, and my mattress smelled of swamp!

  FX: Ship roars away, leaving Arthur standing in the rain.

  ARTHUR: (Wonderingly) Hm. Home.

  FX: Thunder crash.

  ARTHUR: Don’t question the rain, Arthur. Enjoy it. Own it.

  FX: He starts walking through grass towards the motorway.

  FX: Car approaches, under:

  ARTHUR: Ah . . . headlights. Right. Confident smile, stick out thumb –

  FX: Thunderclap.

  ARTHUR: –and beg: please stop, please stop . . .

  FX: Car whooshes by, huge splosh as Arthur is soaked.

  ARTHUR: Bwshfff!

  FX: Car toots merrily, receding.

  ARTHUR: (Yells after it) ‘My other car is also a Porsche’? How about getting a sticker that says ‘I’m an unbelievable prat in any car’!

  EXT. – STREET AMBIENCE – HAN DOLD CITY

  FX: Copters, sirens and gunfire, under:

  THE VOICE: The Earth is a world whose entire entry in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy comprises the two words ‘Mostly harmless’. The author of this entry is named Ford Prefect and he is, at this precise moment, far away, on a far from harmless world, sitting in a far from harmless bar, recklessly courting trouble. Whether it is because he is drunk, ill or suicidally insane would not be apparent to the casual observer; not that there are any casual observers in the Old Pink Dog Bar on the lower South Side of Han Dold City. One of those nasty hushes has descended on the place, a sort of missile-crisis sort of hush, broken only by the evil-looking bird perched on the bar continually screeching the names of local contract killers. All eyes are on Ford Prefect. Some of them are on stalks. Literally.

  FX: Copters, sirens and gunfire become muffled, heard from within:

  FX: Sinister alien bar atmosphere. Mutterings from horrible clientele, reacting to following scene:

  Music: Thudding low-end dirgey metal anthem.

  BARMAN: (Evil purr) Like I said. We don’t take it.

  EVIL-LOOKING BIRD: (Nearby, screeching) KickAss McFist, 555–87652!

  FORD PREFECT: (Cheerful) Everybody takes it!

  EVIL-LOOKING BIRD: Necro Mortdonor, 555–29643!

  BARMAN: (Leaning in close) You pay your drinks bill, in cash, or you surrender your breathing privileges.

  EVIL-LOOKING BIRD: Skril Splenetizor, 0–800-WHACK!

  FORD PREFECT: What are you worried about? The expiration date? Have you guys never heard of Neo-Relativity out here? There’s whole new areas of physics which can take care of this sort of thing. Time-dilation effects, temporal relastatics . . .

  BARMAN: We are not worried about the expiration date.

  FORD PREFECT: Well, that’s good, then.

  EVIL-LOOKING BIRD: Viscera Eviscerator, 555–93864!

  BARMAN: We are worried about the entire piece of plastic.

  FORD PREFECT: This is an American Express card. It is the finest way of settling bills known to man. You’re supposed to say, ‘That’ll do nicely, sir,’ and swipe it!

  BARMAN: (Leaning in close) It may Do Nicely where you come from, sonny, but here, it don’t.

  EVIL-LOOKING BIRD: Kye Aparoon, 555–83645!

  FORD PREFECT: What kind of clip joint is this? You present me with a drinks bill that would bankrupt a Triganic Pu collector then demand cash?

  FX: Scuttling sound on bar like fingernails scrabbling.

  BARMAN: Asking for credit in the Old Pink Dog? Hah.

  FX: Heavy thud of hand on Ford’s shoulder.

  FORD PREFECT: Credit— (Grabbed by throat) Aarrgh . . .

  BARMAN: Credit and Aarrgh. Two words that go together here. Coupled with ‘You’re gonna die, boy.’

  EVIL-LOOKING BIRD: Charlie Head Punter, 555–9368!

  FORD PREFECT: (Slightly throttled) Could-you-take-your-hand-off-my-throat?

  BARMAN: It’s not my hand. It belonged to the original landlord. He left it to medical science. They didn’t like the look of it so they gave it back to the bar.

  FORD PREFECT: (Strangled) I can’t pay with a severed hand strangling me.

  BARMAN: It’s only doing its job. It takes orders, it serves drinks, it deals with people who need dealing with. People who try to pay with plastic. Plastic we have Never Heard Of. (To hand) Release!

  FX: Hand flops back on bar, scuttles off.

  FORD PREFECT: (Intake of breath) Whurgh . . .

  BARMAN: (Suspicion) I know your face . . .

  FORD PREFECT: (Surprised) So – er – let’s not rearrange it, right! I want you to always remember me t
his way.

  BARMAN: (Squinting at him) You’ve pulled this before . . .

  EVIL-LOOKING BIRD: Snide Arrogator, 555–87445!

  FORD PREFECT: Can you get that bloody bird to shut up?

  BARMAN: Certainly—

  FX: Zap gun unholstered, loud shot. Bird screech and thump.

  FORD PREFECT: Thank you.

  BARMAN: (Back to low purr) Don’t thank me. You’re next.

  FX: Zap gun re-cocked.

  FORD PREFECT: Um – tell you what – let me have a look at that bill again, would you?

  FX: Bill handed over. A pause while Ford reads it.

  FORD PREFECT: (cont’d) Hm. And I really drank all this, did I?

  BARMAN: An hour ago you said the drinks were on you. And the pimps get very thirsty round here. The only people who get thirstier are the record-company executives. And this is their annual convention week. So that’s the bill you ran up. Either it gets settled or you get terminated. Nothing personal, only I have a reputation to think of. You do see that, don’t you?

  FORD PREFECT: OK. Now the way I see it, I’ve made a bona fide attempt to pay my bill, and it’s been rejected. You’re just going to have to come up with a better idea.

  BARMAN: We used to have a sign in here. ‘Please don’t ask for credit because having your throat torn out by a savage bird while a disembodied hand smashes your head against the bar often offends.’

  FORD PREFECT: Why did you take it down?

  BARMAN: Our reputation was enough. A reputation I have to maintain.

  FORD PREFECT: Oh, well. If it’s your reputation you’re worried about . . . How about this.

  FX: Satchel opened. Hitchhiker’s Guide switched on.

  BARMAN: (Flatly) . . . You’re from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

  FORD PREFECT: Want a write-up?

  BARMAN: (Dry whisper) That will do nicely, sir.

  EXT. – RAIN, WET TRAFFIC SPEEDING PAST

  FX: Lorry comes to halt under last part of following:

  THE VOICE: Standing forlornly by an English A-road which until recently he thought extinct, Arthur Dent has attempted with limited success to simultaneously wring out his soaked dressing gown, keep dry under a souvenir Wikkit Gate jogging towel and keep a hopeful thumb stuck out. The rain begins to fall more heavily. But salvation is about to pull up, stencilled on several sides: ‘McKenna’s All-Weather Haulage’.