The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy tuhgttg-1

by Douglas Adams

  “What,” said Trillian quietly, “about the missiles?”

  “Missiles? Don’t make me laugh.”

  Ford tapped Zaphod on the shoulder and pointed at the rear screen. Clear in the distance behind them two silver darts were climbing through the atmosphere towards the ship. A quick change of magnification brought them into close focus—two massively real rockets thundering through the sky. The suddenness of it was shocking.

  “I think they’re going to have a very good try at applying to us,” said Ford.

  Zaphod stared at them in astonishment.

  “Hey, this is terrific!” he said. “Someone down there is trying to kill us!”

  “Terrific,” said Arthur.

  “But don’t you see what this means?”

  “Yes. We’re going to die.”

  “Yes, but apart from that.”

  “Apart from that?”

  “It means we must be on to something!”

  “How soon can we get off it?”

  Second by second the image of the missiles on the screen became larger. They had swung round now on to a direct homing course so that all that could be seen of them now was the warheads, head on.

  “As a matter of interest,” said Trillian, “what are we going to do?”

  “Just keep cool,” said Zaphod.

  “Is that all?” shouted Arthur.

  “No, we’re also going to . . . er . . . take evasive action!” said Zaphod with a sudden access of panic. “Computer, what evasive action can we take?”

  “Er, none I’m afraid, guys,” said the computer.

  “. . . or something,” said Zaphod, “. . . er . . .” he said.

  “There seems to be something jamming my guidance system,” explained the computer brightly, “impact minus forty-five seconds. Please call me Eddie if it will help you to relax.”

  Zaphod tried to run in several equally decisive directions simultaneously. “Right!” he said. “Er . . . we’ve got to get manual control of this ship.”

  “Can you fly her?” asked Ford pleasantly.

  “No, can you?”

  “No.”

  “Trillian, can you?”

  “No.”

  “Fine,” said Zaphod, relaxing. “We’ll do it together.”

  “I can’t either,” said Arthur, who felt it was time he began to assert himself.

  “I’d guessed that,” said Zaphod. “OK, computer, I want full manual control now.”

  “You got it,” said the computer.

  Several large desk panels slid open and banks of control consoles sprang up out of them, showering the crew with bits of expanded polystyrene packaging and balls of rolled-up cellophane: these controls had never been used before.

  Zaphod stared at them wildly.

  “OK, Ford,” he said, “full retro thrust and ten degrees starboard. Or something . . .”

  “Good luck, guys,” chirped the computer, “impact minus thirty seconds . . .”

  Ford leapt to the controls—only a few of them made any immediate sense to him so he pulled those. The ship shook and screamed as its guidance rocked jets tried to push it every which way simultaneously. He released half of them and the ship span round in a tight arc and headed back the way it had come, straight towards the oncoming missiles.

  Air cushions ballooned out of the walls in an instant as everyone was thrown against them. For a few seconds the inertial forces held them flattened and squirming for breath, unable to move. Zaphod struggled and pushed in manic desperation and finally managed a savage kick at a small lever that formed part of the guidance system.

  The lever snapped off. The ship twisted sharply and rocketed upwards. The crew were hurled violently back across the cabin. Ford’s copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy smashed into another section of the control console with the combined result that the Guide started to explain to anyone who cared to listen about the best ways of smuggling Antarean parakeet glands out of Antares (an Antarean parakeet gland stuck on a small stick is a revolting but much sought after cocktail delicacy and very large sums of money are often paid for them by very rich idiots who want to impress other very rich idiots), and the ship suddenly dropped out of the sky like a stone.

  It was of course more or less at this moment that one of the crew sustained a nasty bruise to the upper arm. This should be emphasized because, as had already been revealed, they escape otherwise completely unharmed and the deadly nuclear missiles do not eventually hit the ship. The safety of the crew is absolutely assured.

  “Impact minus twenty seconds, guys . . .” said the computer.

  “Then turn the bloody engines back on!” bawled Zaphod.

  “OK, sure thing, guys,” said the computer. With a subtle roar the engines cut back in, the ship smoothly flattened out of its dive and headed back towards the missiles again.

  The computer started to sing.

  “When you walk through the storm . . .” it whined nasally, “hold your head up high . . .”

  Zaphod screamed at it to shut up, but his voice was lost in the din of what they quite naturally assumed was approaching destruction.

  “And don’t . . . be afraid . . . of the dark!” Eddie wailed.

  The ship, in flattening out had in fact flattened out upside down and lying on the ceiling as they were it was now totally impossible for any of the crew to reach the guidance systems.

  “At the end of the storm . . .” crooned Eddie.

  The two missiles loomed massively on the screens as they thundered towards the ship.

  “. . . is a golden sky . . .”

  But by an extraordinarily lucky chance they had not yet fully corrected their flight paths to that of the erratically weaving ship, and they passed right under it.

  “And the sweet silver songs of the lark . . . Revised impact time fifteen seconds fellas . . . Walk on through the wind . . .”

  The missiles banked round in a screeching arc and plunged back into pursuit.

  “This is it,” said Arthur watching them. “We are now quite definitely going to die, aren’t we?”

  “I wish you’d stop saying that,” shouted Ford.

  “Well we are, aren’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  “Walk on through the rain . . .” sang Eddie.

  A thought struck Arthur. He struggled to his feet.

  “Why doesn’t anyone turn on this Improbability Drive thing?” he said. “We could probably reach that.”

  “What, are you crazy?” said Zaphod. “Without proper programming anything could happen.”

  “Does that matter at this stage?” shouted Arthur.

  “Though your dreams be tossed and blown . . .” sand Eddie.

  Arthur scrambled up on to one end of the excitingly chunky pieces of moulded contouring where the curve of the wall met the ceiling.

  “Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart . . .”

  “Does anyone know why Arthur can’t turn on the Improbability Drive?” shouted Trillian.

  “And you’ll never walk alone . . . Impact minus five seconds, it’s been great knowing you guys, God bless . . . You’ll ne . . . ver . . . walk . . . alone!”

  “I said,” yelled Trillian, “does anyone know . . .”

  The next thing that happened was a mid-mangling explosion of noise and light.

  Chapter 18

  And the next thing that happened after that was that the Heart of Gold continued on its way perfectly normally with a rather fetchingly redesigned interior. It was somewhat larger, and done out in delicate pastel shades of green and blue. In the centre a spiral staircase, leading nowhere in particular, stood in a spray of ferns and yellow flowers and next to it a stone sundial pedestal housed the main computer terminal. Cunningly deployed lighting and mirrors created the illusion of standing in a conservatory overlooking a wide stretch of exquisitely manicured garden. Around the periphery of the conservatory area stood marble-topped tables on intricately beautiful wrought-iron legs. As you gazed into the p
olished surface of the marble the vague forms of instruments became visible, and as you touched them the instruments materialized instantly under your hands. Looked at from the correct angles the mirrors appeared to reflect all the required data readouts, though it was far from clear where they were reflected from. It was in fact sensationally beautiful.

  Relaxing in a wickerwork sun chair, Zaphod Beeblebrox said, “What the hell happened?”

  “Well, I was just saying,” said Arthur lounging by a small fish pool, “there’s this Improbability Drive switch over here . . .” he waved at where it had been. There was a potted plant there now.

  “But where are we?” said Ford who was sitting on the spiral staircase, a nicely chilled Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster in his hand.

  “Exactly where we were, I think . . .” said Trillian, as all about them the mirrors showed them an image of the blighted landscape of Magrathea which still scooted along beneath them.

  Zaphod leapt out of his seat.

  “Then what’s happened to the missiles?” he said.

  A new and astounding image appeared in the mirrors.

  “They would appear,” said Ford doubtfully, “to have turned into a bowl of petunias and a very surprised looking whale . . .”

  “At an Improbability Factor,” cut in Eddie, who hadn’t changed a bit, “of eight million seven hundred and sixty-seven thousand one hundred and twenty-eight to one against.”

  Zaphod stared at Arthur.

  “Did you think of that, Earthman?” he demanded.

  “Well,” said Arthur, “all I did was . . .”

  “That’s very good thinking, you know. Turn on the Improbability Drive for a second without first activating the proofing screens. Hey, kid, you just saved our lives, you know that?”

  “Oh,” said Arthur, “well, it was nothing really . . .”

  “Was it?” said Zaphod. “Oh well, forget it then. OK, computer, take us in to land.”

  “But . . .”

  “I said forget it.”

  Another thing that got forgotten was the fact that against all probability a sperm whale had suddenly been called into existence several miles above the surface of an alien planet.

  And since this is not a naturally tenable position for a whale, this poor innocent creature had very little time to come to terms with its identity as a whale before it then had to come to terms with not being a whale any more.

  This is a complete record of its thoughts from the moment it began its life till the moment it ended it.

  Ah . . . ! What’s happening? it thought.

  Er, excuse me, who am I?

  Hello?

  Why am I here? What’s my purpose in life?

  What do I mean by who am I?

  Calm down, get a grip now . . . oh! this is an interesting sensation, what is it? It’s a sort of . . . yawning, tingling sensation in my . . . my . . . well I suppose I’d better start finding names for things if I want to make any headway in what for the sake of what I shall call an argument I shall call the world, so let’s call it my stomach.

  Good. Ooooh, it’s getting quite strong. And hey, what’s about this whistling roaring sound going past what I’m suddenly going to call my head? Perhaps I can call that . . . wind! Is that a good name? It’ll do . . . perhaps I can find a better name for it later when I’ve found out what it’s for. It must be something very important because there certainly seems to be a hell of a lot of it. Hey! What’s this thing? This . . . let’s call it a tail—yeah, tail. Hey! I can really thrash it about pretty good, can’t I? Wow! Wow! That feels great! Doesn’t seem to achieve very much but I’ll probably find out what it’s for later on. Now—have I built up any coherent picture of things yet?

  No.

  Never mind, hey, this is really exciting, so much to find out about, so much to look forward to, I’m quite dizzy with anticipation . . .

  Or is it the wind?

  There really is a lot of that now, isn’t it?

  And wow! Hey! What’s this thing suddenly coming towards me very fast? Very very fast. So big and flat and round, it needs a big wide sounding name like . . . ow . . . ound . . . round . . . ground! That’s it! That’s a good name—ground!

  I wonder if it will be friends with me?

  And the rest, after a sudden wet thud, was silence.

  Curiously enough, the only thing that went through the mind of the bowl of petunias as it fell was Oh no, not again. Many people have speculated that if we knew exactly why the bowl of petunias had thought that we would know a lot more about the nature of the universe than we do now.

  Chapter 19

  “Are we taking this robot with us?” said Ford, looking with distaste at Marvin who was standing in an awkward hunched posture in the corner under a small palm tree.

  Zaphod glanced away from the mirror screens which presented a panoramic view of the blighted landscape on which the Heart of Gold had now landed.

  “Oh, the Paranoid Android,” he said. “Yeah, we’ll take him.”

  “But what are supposed to do with a manically depressed robot?”

  “You think you’ve got problems,” said Marvin as if he was addressing a newly occupied coffin, “what are you supposed to do if you are a manically depressed robot? No, don’t bother to answer that, I’m fifty thousand times more intelligent than you and even I don’t know the answer. It gives me a headache just trying to think down to your level.”

  Trillian burst in through the door from her cabin.

  “My white mice have escaped!” she said.

  An expression of deep worry and concern failed to cross either of Zaphod’s faces.

  “Nuts to your white mice,” he said.

  Trillian glared an upset glare at him, and disappeared again.

  It is possible that her remark would have commanded greater attention had it been generally realized that human beings were only the third most intelligent life form present on the planet Earth, instead of (as was generally thought by most independent observers) the second.

  “Good afternoon, boys.”

  The voice was oddly familiar, but oddly different. It had a matriarchal twang. It announced itself to the crew as they arrived at the airlock hatchway that would let them out on the planet surface.

  They looked at each other in puzzlement.

  “It’s the computer,” explained Zaphod. “I discovered it had an emergency back-up personality that I thought might work out better.”

  “Now this is going to be your first day out on a strange new planet,” continued Eddie’s new voice, “so I want you all wrapped up snug and warm, and no playing with any naughty bug-eyed monsters.”

  Zaphod tapped impatiently on the hatch.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “I think we might be better off with a slide rule.”

  “Right!” snapped the computer. “Who said that?”

  “Will you open the exit hatch please, computer?” said Zaphod trying not to get angry.

  “Not until whoever said that owns up,” urged the computer, stamping a few synapses closed.

  “Oh God,” muttered Ford, slumped against a bulkhead and started to count to ten. He was desperately worried that one day sentinent life forms would forget how to do this. Only by counting could humans demonstrate their independence of computers.

  “Come on,” said Eddie sternly.

  “Computer . . .” began Zaphod . . .

  “I’m waiting,” interrupted Eddie. “I can wait all day if necessary . . .”

  “Computer . . .” said Zaphod again, who had been trying to think of some subtle piece of reasoning to put the computer down with, and had decided not to bother competing with it on its own ground, “if you don’t open that exit hatch this moment I shall zap straight off to your major data banks and reprogram you with a very large axe, got that?”

  Eddie, shocked, paused and considered this.

  Ford carried on counting quietly. This is about the most aggressive thing you can do to a computer, the equivalent of go
ing up to a human being and saying Blood . . . blood . . . blood . . . blood . . .

  Finally Eddie said quietly, “I can see this relationship is something we’re all going to have to work at,” and the hatchway opened.

  An icy wind ripped into them, they hugged themselves warmly and stepped down the ramp on to the barren dust of Magrathea.

  “It’ll all end in tears, I know it,” shouted Eddie after them and closed the hatchway again.

  A few minutes later he opened and closed the hatchway again in response to a command that caught him entirely by surprise.

  Chapter 20

  Five figures wandered slowly over the blighted land. Bits of it were dullish grey, bits of it dullish brown, the rest of it rather less interesting to look at. It was like a dried-out marsh, now barren of all vegetation and covered with a layer of dust about an inch thick. It was very cold.

  Zaphod was clearly rather depressed about it. He stalked off by himself and was soon lost to sight behind a slight rise in the ground.

  The wind stung Arthur’s eyes and ears, and the stale thin air clasped his throat. However, the thing stung most was his mind.

  “It’s fantastic . . .” he said, and his own voice rattled his ears. Sound carried badly in this thin atmosphere.

  “Desolate hole if you ask me,” said Ford. “I could have more fun in a cat litter.” He felt a mounting irritation. Of all the planets in all the star systems of all the Galaxy—didn’t he just have to turn up at a dump like this after fifteen years of being a castaway? Not even a hot dog stand in evidence. He stooped down and picked up a cold clot of earth, but there was nothing underneath it worth crossing thousands of light years to look at.

  “No,” insisted Arthur, “don’t you understand, this is the first time I’ve actually stood on the surface of another planet . . . a whole alien world . . . ! Pity it’s such a dump though.”

  Trillian hugged herself, shivered and frowned. She could have sworn she saw a slight and unexpected movement out of the corner of her eye, but when she glanced in that direction all she could see was the ship, still and silent, a hundred yards or so behind them.