The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Further Radio Scripts

by Douglas Adams

  FX: Air horn approaching. A skid of tyres as a lorry pulls up. Airbrake hiss. Door opens.

  ROB McKENNA: (From within) Need a lift?

  ARTHUR: Yes, please.

  ROB McKENNA: Hop in, then. You’re soaked.

  FX: Arthur climbs aboard.

  ARTHUR: (Effort, climbing in) I wasn’t until a Porsche drenched me.

  FX: Lorry door shuts.

  INT. – LORRY MOVES OFF

  ROB McKENNA: Bloody Porsche drivers. Hate ’em. I’ve been blocking him for the last twenty miles. He was taking it out on you. Hah!

  ARTHUR: Hmph. And you do that to make your job more enjoyable?

  ROB McKENNA: No. I do it because I’m a miserable bastard. And I know it. Rob McKenna.

  ARTHUR: Arthur Dent.

  ROB McKENNA: I know it because people keep pointing it out to me. Don’t see no reason to disagree with them. Except that I like disagreeing with people. Specially people I don’t like. Which includes most people.

  (A pause)

  ARTHUR: Well. It’s certainly bucketing down.

  ROB McKENNA:‘Bucketing down.’ Yeah. That’s a good one. Hand me that notebook, I’ll write it down.

  ARTHUR: A good what?

  ROB McKENNA: (Writing while driving) ‘Rain Type 232, Bucketing Down’.

  ARTHUR: (Edgy) Er – would you rather I write it while you concentrate on your –

  FX: Sudden truck horn Dopplers by, swoosh of tyres on wet road.

  ROB McKENNA: (Yells) And you! . . . Pillock.

  ARTHUR: Um – these rain types. They’re all just as wet as each other, surely? It’s just rain.

  ROB McKENNA: Just rain! Hah! Tell that to the dolphins! Did you know that the Eskimos have over two hundred different words for snow?

  ARTHUR: (Suspecting he’s about to be very bored) Really.

  ROB McKENNA: Thin snow and thick snow, light snow and heavy snow, sludgy snow, brittle snow, snow that comes in flurries, snow that comes in drifts, snow that comes in on the bottom of your neighbour’s boots all over your nice clean igloo floor, the snows of winter, the snows of spring, the snows you remembered from your childhood that were so much better than any of your modern snow, fine snow, feathery snow, hill snow, valley snow, snow that falls in the morning, snow that falls at night, snow that falls all of a sudden just when you’re going out fishing, and even though you’ve trained them not to, snow your huskies have – (Changes gear with an effort) – pissed on.

  ARTHUR: Ah. And you’ve worked out there are two hundred different types of rain.

  ROB McKENNA: Two hundred and thirty-one. Thirty-two now. I write ’em down in this book . . .

  FX: Book passed back to Arthur, who flicks through it.

  ARTHUR: (Impressed) I’m impressed.

  ROB McKENNA: . . . and I don’t like any of ’em. Tell you the ones I hate most?

  ARTHUR: Like I could stop you?

  ROB McKENNA: April showers. Bloody April showers. Hate hate hate.

  ARTHUR: But they’re light and refreshing. Or at least, I seem to remember they are. Rather nice, in fact.

  ROB McKENNA: Nice? If it’s going to be nice, I want it to be nice without bloody raining. Since I left Denmark yesterday, I’ve been through seven different types of April shower. Type 33 – that was west of Copenhagen; look it up, go on—

  FX: Arthur looks these up as Rob goes on.

  FX: Windscreen wiper develops a flappy noise under:

  ARTHUR: Erm – ‘light pricking drizzle which makes roads slippery’ . . .

  ROB McKENNA: Type 39—

  ARTHUR: Er – ‘heavy spotting’ . . .

  ROB McKENNA: And types 47 to 51.

  ARTHUR: ‘Vertical light drizzle through to sharply slanting light to moderate drizzle freshening’ . . . Yes. Erm – can I ask—

  ROB McKENNA: (Off on one) Then types 87 and 88, finely distinguished varieties of vertical torrential downpour, 100, post-downpour squalling, cold, followed by all the sea-storm types between 192 and 213 at once – next page –

  ARTHUR: (Riffling pages) Oh – right—

  ROB McKENNA: Since I docked at Harwich: types 123, 124, 126, 127, mild and intermediate cold gusting, regular and syncopated cab-drumming, type 11, breezy droplets, and as I pulled up just now my least favourite of all, 17.

  ARTHUR: (Reads) ‘A dirty blatter striking the windscreen so hard that wipers make no difference’.

  FX: Squeaky window clean.

  ROB McKENNA: Yeah, well, they do, actually. When the wiper blade’s not flapping off.

  ARTHUR: Um – sorry to interrupt, but are we on the Taunton road . . . ?

  ROB McKENNA: We were, long past the turning now.

  ARTHUR: Ah, only that’s where I wanted to go.

  ROB McKENNA: A good place to get out of, if you ask me.

  ARTHUR: Only I think I must have been on the wrong side of the road when you picked me up. I was trying to get there, you see.

  ROB McKENNA: Did you have any kind of plan when you started hitchhiking?

  ARTHUR: Er – no. Well, survival really. It was a long time ago.

  ROB McKENNA: I can see that. Did you grow the beard for a bet?

  ARTHUR: Look, can you pull off here? I really wanted to go in the other direction.

  ROB McKENNA: Mucky towel . . . dressing gown . . . What kind of hitchhiker are you?

  ARTHUR: One of the wet, cold sort who’s come a long way. Please. There’s a lay-by, look.

  ROB McKENNA: Flippin’ heck.

  EXT. – ROAD – RAINING

  FX: Lorry swerves off, comes to halt. Door open/close, under:

  ARTHUR: Thank you . . . sorry.

  ROB McKENNA: (Off, in cab) You’re sorry . . . ?

  FX: Door slam, lorry moves off.

  ROB McKENNA: (Yells) It’ll take me hours to get your pong out of here . . .

  FX: Arthur walks across to other carriageway. Just him and the night atmos. Rain has died away.

  ARTHUR: Been away too long from running water, that’s my problem. (Sighs) That’s a point, the rain’s stopped. Just like that. How strange. Oh well . . .

  INT. – THE BOOK AMBIENCE

  THE VOICE: All Arthur Dent knows at this moment is that the rain clouds which scud away in the lorry’s wake are allowing him to dry off at last. All Rob McKenna knows is that the weeks he spends on the roads are wet and miserable and that he cannot remember his last sunny holiday. All the clouds know is that they love him and want to be near him, to cherish him, to nurture and to water him. For Rob McKenna is, in fact, a rain god.

  EXT. – MOTORWAY – THUNDER AND RAIN

  ARTHUR: Oh, blast, it’s started again. Ah. Headlights – smile, thumb out— (Calls:) Hallo! Are you passing Taunton by any—

  FX: Rob’s lorry sweeps past, huge spray of water soaks Arthur.

  ARTHUR: (cont’d) Aaargh—!

  ROB McKENNA: (Yelling from cab) You’ve got me going the wrong bloody way now!

  FX: Ext. road as Arthur tries to thumb a lift. FX of cars passing and soaking him, with reactions, under:

  THE VOICE: The rain leaves so much surface water that Arthur is drenched in turn by several cars.

  FX: Saab pulls up.

  THE VOICE: At last a Saab pulls up. Its driver’s name is Russell, and his sister, in the back seat, is taking no part in the proceedings at present.

  FX: Electric window down.

  RUSSELL: (Yell) Have you come far?

  ARTHUR: (Yell) Yes. Well, no – from a field over there. I mean – Yes, actually, I . . .

  RUSSELL: Open the door and get in, for goodness’ sake.

  EXT. – STREET – SOUTH SIDE, HAN DOLD CITY

  FX: Copters whizz by. Distant sirens, screams and gunfire. Bar door opens, brief blast of music, doors close, feet on sidewalk.

  FORD PREFECT: (Calls) Excuse me, er . . . madam – I’m looking for the best route to – (the space port)

  HOOKER 1: Oh, hallo, handsome. Want to have a good time?

  FORD PREFECT: Thanks, I j
ust had one.

  HOOKER 1: (Moving off) You don’t know what you’re missing.

  FORD PREFECT: Yeah, but think of the fun I’ll have imagining it.

  HOOKER 2: (Off, calls) Hey, honey, you rich?

  FORD PREFECT: (Laughs, calls back) Do I look rich?

  HOOKER 2: (Off) Don’t know. Maybe, maybe not. Maybe you’ll get rich. I do a very special service for rich people.

  FORD PREFECT: (Voice still up) Oh yes? And what’s that?

  HOOKER 2: (Off) I tell them it’s OK to be rich.

  FORD PREFECT: (Stops) Tell me that again?

  FX: Stiletto heels towards Ford.

  HOOKER 2: (Approaching) It’s my big number. I have a master’s degree in social economics and I can be very convincing. People love it. Especially in this city— Uh-oh – look out—!

  FX: Sudden burst of gunfire from above. Window smash. Man’s scream down. Body lands at Ford’s feet.

  FORD PREFECT: (Jumps) Zark! Now they’re throwing people out of windows at me! (Yells) I settled the bar bill!

  HOOKER 2: It’s only a bass player. Probably got shot by his drummer for forgetting the riff. Bass players are two a penny on the streets of Han Dold City. You know the difference here between a bass player and a dead dog?

  FORD PREFECT: There are skid marks in front of the dog.

  HOOKER 2: (Slightly disappointed) You know it.

  FX: New alarms going off nearby, copters.

  FORD PREFECT: Like an old friend. It’s a bit lively round here, isn’t it?

  HOOKER 2: Oh, one police tribe sets off the block alarms so they can lay an ambush for the other police tribe. The copters come in and pick off the rookies. Or the musicians.

  FX: Copter swoop in, gunfire. Crash. Scream. Drumkit hits sidewalk.

  FORD PREFECT: Like drummers?

  HOOKER 2: No, targeting drummers is part of their public-service remit.

  FORD PREFECT: (Shivers) Goosnargh. Time for a drop of that Ol’ Janx Spirit.

  FX: Satchel opened, bottle pulled out, cork pop.

  HOOKER 2: Can you spare some? I’m freezing in this skirt.

  FX: Bottle handling.

  FORD PREFECT: Ah. I was going to compliment you on the . . . belt. Here. Wipe the top with this towel first.

  HOOKER 2: Good idea. Kill the germs on the bottle.

  FX: Squeaky wipe.

  FORD PREFECT: No, to kill the germs on the towel. They’ve been building up quite a complex and enlightened civilization on the smellier patches.

  HOOKER 2: Er – right. (Swigs, smacks lips) You sure you won’t.

  FORD PREFECT: (Uh-huh) As it happens, I’m owed a lot of money. If I ever get hold of it, I could come and see you then.

  HOOKER 2: Sure, I’ll be here. So how much is a lot?

  FORD PREFECT: Fifteen years’ back pay.

  HOOKER 2: You work on your back too?

  FORD PREFECT: (Laughs it off) I was reviewing a planet. It was only two words.

  HOOKER 2: Zarquon. An entire planet in two words . . . which one took the time?

  FORD PREFECT: The first one. Once I’d got that, the second word just popped up one afternoon after lunch. I wrote a lot more but they cut it down. Then the planet got demolished. They’ve still got to pay me, though.

  HOOKER 2: Who have?

  FORD PREFECT: The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

  HOOKER 2: You work for that thing? Soft number.

  FORD PREFECT: You want to see my entry? Before it gets erased? The new revisions must be out by now. It can’t escape their notice for ever that the Earth has been demolished.

  HOOKER 2: Strut your stuff, honey.

  FX: Hitchhiker’s Guide switched on.

  FORD PREFECT: Here—

  THE VOICE: (Distorted) Planet Earth: Mostly harmless. End of – BZT!

  FX: Static on Guide.

  FORD PREFECT: Ah. Here we go, it’s started—

  VOICE OF THE BIRD: (Distorted) Please wait. This entry is being updated over the Sub-Etha Net. The system will be down for a measurable period.

  FX: Electric spooling scribble as Guide updates.

  FORD PREFECT: Goodbye, Earth, I’ll miss your residuals – oh. (Ford reacting to it with growing astonishment) No, wait . . . this is interesting.

  FX: Air car lands nearby. Electric window winds down.

  PUNTER: (Off, in car) Hey, babe, you got the time? I got the money.

  FORD PREFECT: I don’t believe it . . .

  HOOKER 2: (Getting up, moving off) Look – I’m a working girl, and there’s a client. Gotta go. If you get that money, look me up, you’ll need me.

  FX: Stilettoes away to car. Door open and close.

  FX: Electric spooling scribble as Guide updates.

  FORD PREFECT: (Reading, astonished) . . . people to avoid on French campsites, restaurants to avoid in Los Angeles, currency deals to avoid in Istanbul, weather to avoid in London, bars to go everywhere. Pages and pages of it. It’s all here, everything I wrote . . .

  FX: Button push. Spooling scribble stops, for:

  THE VOICE: (Distorted) Tips for aliens in New York: land anywhere, Central Park, Tribeca, anywhere. No one will care, or indeed even notice—

  FX: Button push. Spooling scribble starts under:

  FORD PREFECT: Yeah! I wrote this!

  FX: Button push. Spooling scribble stops, for:

  THE VOICE: (Distorted) Surviving: get a job as a cab driver immediately. Don’t worry if you don’t know how the machine works and you can’t speak the language, don’t understand the geography or indeed the basic physics of the area, and have large green antennae growing out of your head. In fact, this is the best way of staying inconspicuous.

  FX: Button push. Spooling scribble starts under:

  FORD PREFECT: But what’s it doing in the Guide?

  FX: Button push. Spooling scribble stops, for:

  THE VOICE: (Distorted) Amphibious life forms from any of the worlds in the Swulling, Noxios or Nausalia systems will particularly enjoy the East River, which is said to be richer in those lovely life-giving nutrients than the most virulent laboratory slime yet achieved . . .

  FX: Button push. Guide switch off.

  FORD PREFECT: This is a planet I saw completely destroyed. With my own two eyes. Boiled away into space. Only Arthur Dent and I escaped – and only just.

  FX: Guide switched on again.

  THE VOICE: (Distorted) . . . How to have a good time in Bournemouth, Dorset, England. One of the most exciting places on any world in the known Galaxy—

  FX: Guide switched off.

  FORD PREFECT: And one of the most baroque pieces of invention I ever delivered. (Getting up) Something very weird is happening. And if something very weird is happening, I want it to be happening to me.

  FX: Guide stuffed into satchel.

  EXT. – STREET – SOUTH SIDE, HAN DOLD CITY

  FX: Copters whizz by. Distant sirens, screams and gunfire.

  FX: Ford walks to car. He knocks on window, it opens.

  HOOKER 2: (As window opens) . . . it’s OK to insist on a golden handshake, honey, look at the way the whole economy is structured— (To Ford) Yes, honey.

  FORD PREFECT: Sorry to disturb – I have a major piece of unfinished business to attend to. Which way to the spaceport?

  HOOKER 2: Follow the aeroway south. But it’s seventeen klicks away. You’ll never make the shuttle.

  FORD PREFECT: No problem, I’ll steal something fast.

  FX: Window winds up, fading the interior.

  PUNTER: (Fading out with window) But my long-term investment portfolio isn’t yielding . . .

  FORD PREFECT: Ah. Now this will do nicely . . .

  FX: Air-car lock picked.

  COMPUTER: (Distorted) Caution. You are picking the lock of a Han Dold Law Enforcement Copter –

  FORD PREFECT: (Busy) I know . . . unf.

  FX: Big clicky beepy thunk.

  COMPUTER: (cont’d) – but as you have overridden my alarm circuits, I am powerless to
stop you.

  FORD PREFECT: (Effort as he climbs in) Too right.

  FX: Door slam. Copter motor up, flies off.

  INT. – RUSSELL’S CAR

  ARTHUR: (Fading in) . . . I was on my way to meet a friend in some far-flung bar when I discovered I still had a home to come back to, so it could’ve been a lot further. But even so, I’d say about one thousand, four hundred and thirtyseven light years.

  RUSSELL: I’m sorry?

  ARTHUR: You were asking how far I’d come.

  RUSSELL: Sorry, I missed what you said.

  FENCHURCH: Nnnhhh . . .

  ARTHUR: Are you sure your sister is all right?

  RUSSELL: You all right, Fenny?

  ARTHUR: Fenny . . . hmmmm . . .

  FENCHURCH: (From back seat) Mmmmmm.

  RUSSELL: Yeah. That’ll be the drugs.

  ARTHUR: And that’s all right, is it?

  RUSSELL: Fine by me. Why do you keep staring at her like that? She’s not a junkie or anything. She’s under sedation.

  ARTHUR: Is she ill?

  RUSSELL: No, just barking mad. Don’t worry, it doesn’t run in the family.

  ARTHUR: What?

  RUSSELL: She’s loopy, completely tonto. I’m taking her back to the hospital and telling them to have another go.

  FX: Car slows down.

  RUSSELL: (cont’d) This is your town, isn’t it? Taunton.

  ARTHUR: Yes. No!

  RUSSELL: Make your mind up.

  ARTHUR: My house is another five miles. If that’s all right.

  RUSSELL: (It isn’t) OK.

  FX: Car speeds up again.

  ARTHUR: Tell me more about, um, Fenny . . .

  RUSSELL: Delusions. Says she suffers from strange delusions that she’s living in the real world. It’s no good telling her that she is living in the real world because she just says that’s why the delusions are so real. And the doctors keep going on about strange jumps in her brainwave patterns.

  ARTHUR: Jumps . . . ?

  FENCHURCH: (Suddenly, very clearly) This.

  ARTHUR: (Turning round in his seat) What did she say?

  RUSSELL: She said ‘this’.

  ARTHUR: This what?

  RUSSELL: How the heck should I know? Mad as a marine biologist, she is.

  ARTHUR: I’m sorry?

  RUSSELL: You know what I mean.

  ARTHUR: Not exactly . . . Um– you don’t seem to care very much.