The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Further Radio Scripts

by Douglas Adams

  TRICIA McMILLAN: Cue in three-two-one— This is Tricia McMillan reporting from Regent’s Park where an astonishing sight has brought London to a standstill. I’m just moving up to the barriers to see if I can have a word with the teenage girl who has arrived in a spaceship.

  RANDOM: (Off) You!

  TRICIA McMILLAN: Er – yes. Hallo! Can I just ask . . . um – Are you from Zaphod?

  RANDOM: You can change your hair colour and your accent and hide here – but you’re still my mother, you bitch!

  EXT. – LAMUELLA – PLAINS OF ANHONDO

  FX: Thundering hooves, bellows of the Perfectly Normal Beasts as they stampede in background.

  FX: Foreground: a solitary beast snorts and moos. Pikka pikka of pikka bird.

  FORD PREFECT: (Whisper) I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite so stupid in my life.

  ARTHUR: I wondered why your people took pikka birds on Beast hunts.

  OLD THRASHBARG: They fascinate the Beasts. Bob knows why. And once a Perfectly Normal Beast is fascinated, it becomes docile. But not for long. Get on the Beast! Both of you!

  FX: Arthur/Ford business of getting on the Beast . . .

  ARTHUR: (Effort) Yuk. How can something so delicious smell so rank?

  FORD PREFECT: (Effort) You’ve obviously never met Eccentrica Gallumbits . . .

  OLD THRASHBARG: Now, Sandwich Maker! Go!

  FX: He slaps the Beast’s rump. With a bellow it lunges forward into the herd.

  FORD PREFECT: Hold tight, Arthur!

  ARTHUR: Can you see anything?

  FORD PREFECT: No!

  OLD THRASHBARG: (Off, yelling) Go! Ride that Beast! Ride that Perfectly Normal Beast to the Domain of the King!

  FORD PREFECT: What King?

  ARTHUR: He just said the King.

  FORD PREFECT: I didn’t know there was a ‘the King’.

  ARTHUR: Nor did I. Hold tight, for goodness’ sake.

  FORD PREFECT: Except of course for the King. And he obviously didn’t mean him.

  ARTHUR: What King?

  FORD PREFECT: I’m only saying that if he didn’t mean the King, I don’t know what he means.

  ARTHUR: What?

  FORD PREFECT: Look out – here comes the end of the valley.

  ARTHUR: Are you sure we’re doing the right thing.

  FORD PREFECT: No. But wherever these animals vanish to, we’re about to find out—

  ARTHUR: Hold on—

  FX: Stampede into a huge void. Last despairing bellow from the Beast. Then the reverb turns back on itself, a moment of hanging in space, then crash back into stampeding turmoil:

  EXT. – THE DOMAIN OF THE KING BAR & GRILL

  FX: Desert daytime.

  Music: Muffled rockabilly from within the bar.

  FORD PREFECT: Heyyy! We did it!

  ARTHUR: Where are we?

  FORD PREFECT: Jump!

  ARTHUR: (Jumps) Whurp—!

  FX: They roll off into the dust and get up, dishevelled.

  FX: The stampede moves off.

  FORD PREFECT: Neat work! Are you in one piece?

  ARTHUR: At the risk of repeating myself, where are we?

  FORD PREFECT: The Domain of the King. Look.

  ARTHUR: (Reads) Ah. ‘The Domain of the King Bar & Grill’. Not sure if that’s irony or anti-climax.

  FORD PREFECT: Are you kidding? Look at these spaceships parked outside! The pink one. Now that’s class.

  ARTHUR: It’s all chrome and fins. Retro . . . grade, probably.

  FORD PREFECT: I’m buying that spaceship. I’ll teach them to make me a restaurant critic.

  ARTHUR: What do you mean?

  FORD PREFECT: (Pulls card from pocket, flexes it) The old Dine-O-Charge card. Let’s go run up some expenses.

  INT. – DOMAIN OF THE KING BAR & GRILL

  Music: Gentle bluesy guitar noodling.

  ARTHUR: Mmm, if it wasn’t for the band and a bartender I’d say this place was exclusively unpopular.

  FORD PREFECT: Suits me.

  BARTENDER: What can I do for you, gents?

  FORD PREFECT: Couple beers, a couple bacon rolls, that pink thing outside and whatever you’re having yourself.

  BARTENDER: (Pouring beers) Not sure the pink thing’s for sale.

  FORD PREFECT: Sure it is. How much you want?

  BARTENDER: ’Tain’t mine to sell.

  FORD PREFECT: So, whose?

  BARTENDER: Good-lookin’ dude with the band. Dark hair, gold suit.

  FORD PREFECT: Wait here, Arthur. (To bartender) Keep the tab open.

  BARTENDER: New here, son?

  ARTHUR: Me? Just rode into town . . .

  BARTENDER: Nice weather for it.

  ARTHUR: I hadn’t no—

  FORD PREFECT: (Returning) OK. It’s cool. We got the pink thing.

  BARTENDER: (Impressed) He’s selling it to you?

  FORD PREFECT: Giving it to us for free.

  BARTENDER: Jeepers.

  ELVIS: (Off) Hey, Lamarr, switch on the stage lights, man. C’mon, Scotty, Bill . . .

  BARTENDER: (Going off) You got it, King . . .

  FORD PREFECT: (Knowing) Hey, Arthur, how many singers does it take to change a lightbulb?

  ELVIS: (Under following, tests mic) One . . . Two . . . One . . . Two . . .

  FORD PREFECT: (Pulls at the beer, sighs) You know, Arthur, it’s at times like this that I feel that what the big guy says is right. What does it matter? Let it go.

  ARTHUR: Which big guy?

  FORD PREFECT: The one at the mic. Let it all go is what he said. Take the ship. Take it with my blessing. Be good to her.

  ARTHUR: How many beers have you had?

  FORD PREFECT: But then you think of guys like InfiniDim Enterprises and you think, they are not going to get away with it. It is my sacred and holy duty to see those guys suffer. (Calls) Bartender – let me put something on the tab for the singer. I asked for a special request.

  BARTENDER: Whatever. How much?

  FORD PREFECT: (Diminishes to a whisper) Well, I was thinking . . . (Ooof!)

  FX: Body fall.

  ARTHUR: Is he all right?

  FORD PREFECT: Just needed to take the weight off his feet.

  Music: Elvis sings ‘Our Lovely World’, under:

  ARTHUR: Ford, will that ship get us to Earth?

  FORD PREFECT: Sure will.

  ARTHUR: Oh. No. Lend me your Guide.

  FORD PREFECT: Here.

  FX: Guide out of satchel. Switched on.

  THE VOICE: (Distort in bar) The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

  FX: Button pressed.

  ARTHUR: Earth.

  THE VOICE: (Distorted) Earth. Mostly harmless.

  ARTHUR: It’s there! The Earth is still there! That’s where Random will be going! The bird was showing her the Earth in the rainstorm!

  FORD PREFECT: Quiet, Arthur. I paid to hear this song.

  ARTHUR: Ford . . . are you crying?

  FORD PREFECT: Uh – dust in my eye.

  ARTHUR: We have to go.

  FORD PREFECT: Not till I’ve reviewed the restaurant.

  ARTHUR: Write a review? Of this place?

  FX: Guide on. Ford typing in, under:

  FORD PREFECT: Filing the review validates the expenses claim. OK. (Taps in:) ‘The beer is good and cold, local wildlife nicely eccentric, the bar singer is, without exaggeration, the best in the known universe, and that’s about it.’ Sub-Etha Send. Doesn’t need much. Just a validation. And this bill is going to need some validating.

  ARTHUR: (Suspicious) How much did you tip the singer?

  FORD PREFECT: More money than the Colonel made for him in an entire career of doing crap movies and casino gigs. Just for doing what he does best. Singing in a bar. And he negotiated it himself. With any luck, this is a good moment for him. And a very bad one for InfiniDim Enterprises.

  Music: Song up to end. They applaud.

  ARTHUR: (Wonderingly) A different Earth . . . different outcomes to different li
ves . . .

  FORD PREFECT: We’re outta here. Thanks, El.

  ELVIS: (Off, relaxed) Hey, take it easy, Ford. Y’all come back now.

  FORD PREFECT: (To Arthur) Let’s flash the plastic and see what that pink thing can do.

  INT. – GREBULON BASE ON RUPERT

  NB: His dialogue switches into distort as we go to observe it from the Vogon ship.

  GREBULON LIEUTENANT: (Entering) You summoned me, Captain Picard?

  GREBULON LEADER: Yes, Lieutenant Kojak. I am troubled. Our mission was a watching brief. But I’m bored with monitoring the Earth, to be honest. I am bored with Cagney & Lacey. I am bored with the ‘Tribbles’ episode of Classic Star Trek. I am bored with not knowing who I am and having to pick a new name out of an old TV Guide every morning.

  GREBULON LIEUTENANT: At least now we can work out our astrological charts. That gives us work to do. And a plan to follow.

  GREBULON LEADER: But all the other equipment with us must have some purpose. If only we hadn’t lost our minds when the meteorite wiped out our data banks. We need a purpose, and the TV and the PlayStation are not enough.

  GREBULON LIEUTENANT: Has something happened?

  GREBULON LEADER: Yes. Miss McMillan helped us re-calculate the movement of the planets, and now my stars foretell that I am about to have a very bad month if I don’t take positive action. Today. Because today Earth is starting to rise into Capricorn, and as a classic Taurus, this is ominous for me indeed.

  GREBULON LIEUTENANT: So you’re going to take positive action?

  GREBULON LEADER: I have decided to investigate the astrological potential of our gun turrets.

  INT. – VOGON FLAGSHIP – BRIDGE

  GREBULON LEADER: (Now in distort) Have Huggy Bear and the Two Ronnies link the targeting circuits to the astrology computer tracking Earth.

  GREBULON LIEUTENANT: (Distorted) Aye aye, Captain.

  FX: Click off.

  VOICE OF THE BIRD: It is as you wished, Captain Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz.

  PROSTETNIC: Reverse-temporal engineering at its finest, little bird. You have served us very

  VOGON JELTZ: well and very often. Are the displaced persons all on Earth?

  VOICE OF THE BIRD: They will be reunited within minutes. And the Grebulons are arming their multidimensional disruptors.

  PROSTETNIC: You have fulfilled your function. And I can shortly put a tick on my checklist

  VOGON JELTZ: without further outlay of billable resources. Now show me the Earths. All of them. I want to see this for myself.

  VOICE OF THE BIRD: Closing Brackets. Parsing Clauses. Endifs. Halting Repeat Loops. Calling Recursive Functions. Preparing to Force Quit. Engaging Total Perspective Vortex . . .

  FX: Video screen on.

  PROSTETNIC: Ahhh. The blue and green watery tube of Earth in all its dimensions . . . The

  VOGON JELTZ: occasion almost calls for a poem . . .

  INT. – LONDON TAXI, SPEEDING THROUGH SOHO

  FX: Radio audible under Ford and

  NEWSREADER (NEIL SLEAT): . . . a second spacecraft, this time pink, was reported to have landed on Portland Place, in Central London. Its two human occupants booked rooms at, and subsequently bought, the Langham Hilton Hotel. Shortly afterwards a smaller, single-person craft bearing a lone female occupant landed without incident in the Embankment Gardens.

  ARTHUR: How did you buy London Zoo?

  FORD PREFECT: (Eating) Room service. We had a room and I wanted service. All the animals that can be safely returned to the wild are going to be released. They promised on Reception to set up some good teams of people to monitor their progress. Apparently their concierge can get you anything.

  ARTHUR: And all on a Hitchhiker’s Guide Dine-O-Charge card?

  FORD PREFECT: Yes . . . I suppose I should be worried that it works on this planet. Foie gras?

  ARTHUR: No thanks. I always feel bad about foie gras. Bit cruel to the geese.

  FORD PREFECT: Sod the geese. You can’t care about every damn thing. (Calls) Next left, driver.

  ARTHUR: You know where this club is?

  FORD PREFECT: Stavro’s? Well, I’ve been to his original club in New York, I knew he was opening one here. When your daughter stopped chucking rocks at Trillian and demanded to be taken clubbing, it was pretty easy to find out which one she’d be taken to.

  ARTHUR: But it’s not Trillian, is it? It’s Tricia McMillan.

  FX: Taxi brakes, stops, doors open, etc., under:

  TAXI DRIVER: We’re here, gents. Number 42.

  FX: Street atmos as they exit taxi. It drives off, under:

  FORD PREFECT: Come on, Arthur. Family reunion.

  INT. – STAVRO’S CLUB

  Music: Low, clubby.

  FORD PREFECT: Afternoon!

  DOORMAN: Er – you a member?

  FORD PREFECT: Friend of Miss McMillan.

  DOORMAN: She’s downstairs, sir – with a – girl.

  FORD PREFECT: Thank you.

  DOORMAN: Who are you?

  ARTHUR: Er—

  FORD PREFECT: He’s with me. (To Arthur) Down here—

  FX: Feet on spiral staircase.

  ARTHUR: Reminds me of the starship Bistromath.

  FORD PREFECT: Excuse me – thank you—

  FX: Jostling/bodies on staircase (?)

  ARTHUR: Oh – can I squeeze past, please—

  AGRAJAG: I thought I told you not to come here?

  FORD PREFECT: What?

  AGRAJAG: Not you – him.

  ARTHUR: Me? Bu— I’m sorry?

  AGRAJAG: Excuse me . . . I think I must have mistaken you for someone else.

  ARTHUR: Oh. (Low) Ford, he’s still staring at me.

  FORD PREFECT: Now what?

  AGRAJAG: What did you say?

  FORD PREFECT: I said, now what?

  AGRAJAG: Excuse me, I’m trying desperately to remember which drug I’ve just taken, but it must be one of those ones which mean you can’t remember.

  FORD PREFECT: Try the men’s room.

  AGRAJAG: (Going off) Yes, where was it again?

  FORD PREFECT: Come on, Arthur.

  ARTHUR: I don’t like places like this, Ford. For all of my dreams of Earth and home, I miss my hut on Lamuella and my knives and my sandwiches. I even miss Old Thrashbarg.

  TRILLIAN/TRICIA: (Together) Arthur!/Arthur?

  ARTHUR: Trillian? Tricia?

  FORD PREFECT: Both, it seems.

  TRICIA McMILLAN: Somebody please tell me what is going on. And who this woman is.

  RANDOM: All of you – stop!

  FORD PREFECT: (Low) Arthur. The gun your daughter is holding was in the ship she stole from me. It’s a Wabanatta 3, very dangerous. (Up) Let’s just everybody stay calm and find out what’s the matter.

  RANDOM: I thought I would fit here on the world that made me. But it turns out that even my mother doesn’t know who I am!

  TRILLIAN: Random. I’m here.

  TRICIA McMILLAN: All right, joke over. Where’s the hidden camera?

  RANDOM: Shut up! You abandoned me!

  TRILLIAN: Random, it is very important that you listen to me. We must leave. We must all leave now.

  RANDOM: What are you talking about? We’re always leaving!

  TRILLIAN: This is not your home. You don’t have one. We none of us have. The war I left you to report on – the missing ship that didn’t turn up to fight is here, in this solar system, and its crew are lost and frightened and about to do something very misguided because they also have no home. We’ve got to go.

  ARTHUR: It’s all right, Trillian. If I’m here, we’re safe. Nothing can happen to me till I go to Stavromula Beta. OK?

  FORD PREFECT: (Whisper) Arthur, keep talking – that man we passed on the stairs – he’s sneaked behind your daughter – I think he’s going for the gun—

  TRILLIAN: What are you saying?

  ARTHUR: Let’s all just relax.

  AGRAJAG: Excuse me—

  ARTHUR: No!

  TRICIA McMI
LLAN: Random – no!

  FORD PREFECT: Arthur – duck!

  FX: Zap gun blast. Body fall.

  ARTHUR: (Rushes to man’s side) Are you all right?

  AGRAJAG: You . . .

  RANDOM: I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to.

  TRICIA McMILLAN: It was an accident.

  TRILLIAN: (Low, urgent) Arthur we need to leave, now.

  ARTHUR: We’re safe, Trillian. There’s time to sort out this mess.

  TRILLIAN: Really? Have you looked at the name of this club?

  ARTHUR: It’s Stavro’s Club, isn’t it?

  TRILLIAN: Here – look at the menu cover.

  ARTHUR: Trillian! How can you think of food at a— Oh my God.

  TRILLIAN: The landlord’s name is Stavro Mueller. His first club in New York was named Alpha. This is his second club.

  ARTHUR: Stavro Mueller Beta.

  FORD PREFECT: Oh, that’s good. Very good. (Laughs)

  ARTHUR: (Sighs) Well. Thank Bob that’s over.

  TRILLIAN: . . . Who’s Bob?

  EXT. – SPACE

  FX: Earth explodes. In Dolby Digital.

  Fade out.

  FOOTNOTES

  ‘The reaction of life forms to emerging technologies’ Another quote from The Salmon of Doubt which provides an apposite introduction to Ford’s attempt to explain the Guide Mark II to Arthur, who, it must be said, has not so much succumbed to the Stockholm syndrome after months if not years on Lamuella, as is now a passport-carrying Swedish citizen with shares in Saab and a complete set of Abba CDs in his Ikea bedroom. Arthur has finally found somewhere that he is content, happily providing a simple service to a pre-industrial society, and it’s rather sad that Ford has to arrive and drag him out of it, back to the rat race, and, quite possibly, a violent demise.

  Tricia in the cutting room Tricia reviewing the raw takes of her trip to Rupert was a convenient way of covering aspects of her backstory. Given Tricia’s relative ‘normality’ as a Hitchhiker’s character, her motivation for turning from astrophysics to anchorwoman jars somewhat in the novel, and her reactions on viewing this material acknowledge that.

  The Voice of the Bird and the history of the Vogons ‘Many, many light years from anywhere lies the abandoned planet of Vogsphere . . .’ This would, of course, be a speech given in any other episode to the Voice of the Book, but by now the Guide Mark II is the voice of the book, having taken over as completely as Bill Franklyn took over from Peter Jones at the start of the Tertiary Phase. Thus at this point the Vogon plan is nearing fruition – the Guide is now theirs, as is the means to destroy the pestilentially profligate Earths and its collective progeny.