“I kind of think they didn’t even know,” shrugged Zaphod. “I told you. They hit me with the most feeble blast, just knocked me out, right? They lugged me into their ship, dumped me in a corner and ignored me. Like they were embarrassed about me being there. If I said anything they knocked me out again. We had some great conversations. ‘Hey … ugh!’ ‘Hi there … ugh!’ ‘I wonder … ugh!’ Kept me amused for hours, you know.” He winced again.
He was toying with something in his fingers. He held it up. It was the Golden Bail—the Heart of Gold, the heart of the Infinite Improbability Drive. Only that and the Wooden Pillar had survived the destruction of the Lock intact.
“I hear your ship can move a bit,” he said, “so how would you like to zip me back to mine before you …”
“Will you not help us?” said Slartibartfast.
“Us?” said Ford sharply; “who’s us?”
“I’d love to stay and help you save the Galaxy,” insisted Zaphod, raising himself up onto his shoulders, “but I have the mother and father of a pair of headaches, and I feel a lot of little headaches coming on. But next time it needs saving, I’m your guy. Hey, Trillian, baby?”
She looked round, briefly.
“Yes?”
“You want to come? Heart of Gold? Excitement and adventure and really wild things?”
“I’m going down to Krikkit,” she said.
27
It was the same hill, and yet not the same.
This time it was not an Informational Illusion. This was Krikkit itself and they were standing on it. Near them, behind the trees, the strange Italian restaurant that had brought these, their real bodies, to this, the real, present world of Krikkit.
The strong grass under their feet was real, the rich soil real, too. The heady fragrances from the tree, too, were real. The night was real night.
Krikkit.
Possibly the most dangerous place in the Galaxy for anyone who isn’t Krikkiter to stand. The place that could not countenance the existence of any other place, whose charming, delightful, intelligent inhabitants would howl with fear, savagery and murderous hate when confronted with anyone not their own.
Arthur shuddered.
Slartibartfast shuddered.
Ford, surprisingly, shuddered.
It was not surprising that he shuddered, it was surprising that he was there at all. But when they had returned Zaphod to his ship Ford had felt unexpectedly shamed into not running away.
“Wrong,” he thought to himself, “wrong wrong wrong.” He hugged to himself one of the Zap guns with which they had armed themselves out of Zaphod’s armory.
Trillian shuddered, and frowned as she looked into the sky.
This, too, was not the same. It was no longer blank and empty.
While the countryside around them had changed little in the two thousand years of the Krikkit Wars, and the mere five years that had elapsed locally since Krikkit was sealed in its Slo-Time envelope ten billion years ago, the sky was dramatically different.
Dim lights and heavy shapes hung in it.
High in the sky, where no Krikkiter ever looked, were the War Zones, the Robot Zones—huge warships and tower blocks floating in the Nil-O-Grav fields far above the idyllic pastoral lands of the surface of Krikkit.
Trillian stared at them and thought.
“Trillian,” whispered Ford Prefect to her.
“Yes?” she said. “What are you doing?”
“Thinking.”
“Do you always breathe like that when you’re thinking?”
“I wasn’t aware that I was breathing.”
“That’s what worried me.”
“I think I know.…” said Trillian.
“Shhhh!” said Slartibartfast in alarm, and his thin trembling hand motioned them farther back beneath the shadow of the tree.
Suddenly, as before in the tape, there were lights coming along the hill path, but this time the dancing beams were not from lanterns but flashlights—not in itself a dramatic change, but every detail made their hearts thump with fear. This time there were no lilting whimsical songs about flowers and farming and dead dogs, but hushed voices in urgent debate.
A light moved in the sky with slow weight. Arthur was clenched with a claustrophobic terror and the warm wind caught at his throat.
Within seconds a second party became visible, approaching from the other side of the dark hill. They were moving swiftly and purposefully, their flashlights swinging and probing around them.
The parties were clearly converging, and not merely with each other. They were converging deliberately on the spot where Arthur and the others were standing.
Arthur heard the slight rustle as Ford Prefect raised his Zap gun to his shoulder, and the slight whimpering cough as Slartibartfast raised his. He felt the cold unfamiliar weight of his own gun, and with shaking hands he raised it.
His fingers fumbled to release the safety catch and engage the extreme danger catch as Ford had shown him. He was shaking so much that if he’d fired at anybody at that moment he probably would have burnt his signature on them.
Only Trillian didn’t raise her gun. She raised her eyebrows, lowered them again and bit her lip in thought.
“Has it occurred to you …” she began, but nobody wanted to discuss anything much at the moment.
A light stabbed through the darkness from behind them and they spun around to find a third party of Krikkiters behind them, searching them out with their flashlights.
Ford Prefect’s gun crackled viciously, but fire spat back at it and it crashed from his hands.
There was a moment of pure fear, a frozen second before anyone fired again.
And at the end of the second nobody fired.
They were surrounded by pale-faced Krikkiters and bathed in bobbing light.
The captives stared at their captors, the captors stared at their captives.
“Hello,” said one of the captors, “excuse me, but are you … aliens?”
28
Meanwhile, more millions of miles away than the mind can comfortably encompass, Zaphod Beeblebrox was feeling bored.
He had repaired his ship—that is, he’d watched with alert interest while a service robot had repaired it for him. It was now, once again, one of the most powerful and extraordinary ships in existence. He could go anywhere, do anything. He fiddled with a book, and then tossed it away It was the one he’d read before.
He walked over to the communications bank and opened an all-frequencies emergency channel.
“Anyone want a drink?” he asked.
“This an emergency, feller?” crackled a voice from halfway across the Galaxy.
“Got any mixers?” said Zaphod.
“Go take a ride on a comet.”
“Okay, okay,” said Zaphod, and flipped the channel shut again. He sighed and sat down. He got up again and wandered over to a computer screen. He pushed a few buttons. Little blobs started to rush around the screen eating each other.
“Pow!” said Zaphod, “freeeoooo! Pop pop pop!”
“Hi there,” said the computer brightly after a minute of this, “you have scored three points. Previous best score, seven million five hundred and ninety-seven thousand, two hundred and …”
“Okay, okay,” said Zaphod, and flipped the screen blank again.
He sat down again. He played with a pencil. This, too, began slowly to lose its fascination.
“Okay, okay,” he said, and fed his score and the previous best one into the computer.
His ship made a blur of the Universe.
29
“Tell us,” said the thin, pale-faced Krikkiter who had stepped forward from the ranks of the others and stood uncertainly in the circle of light handling his gun as if he were just holding it for someone else who’d just popped off somewhere but would be back in a minute, “do you know anything about something called the balance of nature?”
There was no reply from their captives, or at least nothing more articul
ate than a few confused mumbles and grunts. The flashlight continued to play over them. High in the sky above them dark activity continued in the Robot Zones.
“It’s just,” continued the Krikkiter uneasily, “something we heard about, probably nothing important. Well, I suppose we’d better kill you, then.”
He looked down at his gun as if he were trying to find which bit to press.
“That is,” he said, looking up again, “unless there’s anything you want to chat about?”
Slow numb astonishment crept up the bodies of Slartibartfast, Ford and Arthur. Very soon it would reach their brains, which were at the moment solely occupied with moving their jawbones up and down. Trillian was shaking her head as if trying to finish a jigsaw puzzle by shaking the box.
“We’re worried, you see,” said another man from the crowd, “about this plan of universal destruction.”
“Yes,” added another, “and the balance of nature. It just seemed to us that if the whole of the rest of the Universe is destroyed it will somehow upset the balance. We’re quite keen on ecology, you see.” His voice trailed away unhappily.
“And sport,” said another, loudly. This got a cheer of approval from the others.
“Yes,” agreed the first, “and sport …” He looked back at his fellows uneasily and scratched fitfully at his cheek. He seemed to be wrestling with some deep inner confusion, as if everything he wanted to say and everything he thought were entirely different things between which he could see no possible connection.
“You see,” he mumbled, “some of us …” and he looked around again as if for confirmation. The others made encouraging noises. “Some of us,” he continued, “are quite keen to have sporting links with the rest of the Galaxy, and though I can see the argument about keeping sport out of politics, I think that if we want to have sporting links with the rest of the Galaxy, which we do, then it’s probably a mistake to destroy it. And indeed the rest of the Universe … His voice trailed away again, “which is what seems to be the idea now …”
“Wh …” said Slartibartfast, “wh …”
“Hhhh …?” said Arthur.
“Dr.…” said Ford Prefect.
“Okay,” said Trillian, “let’s talk about it.” She walked forward and took the poor confused Krikkiter by the arm. He looked about twenty-five, which meant, because of the peculiar manglings of time that had been going on in this area, that he would have been just twenty when the Krikkit Wars were finished, ten billion years ago.
Trillian led him for a short walk through the light before she said anything more. He stumbled uncertainly after her. The encircling flashlight beams were drooping slightly now as if they were abdicating to this strange, quiet girl who alone in this Universe of dark confusion seemed to know what she was doing.
She turned and faced him, and lightly held both his arms. He was a picture of bewildered misery.
“Tell me,” she said.
He said nothing for a moment, while his gaze darted from one of her eyes to the other.
“We …” he said, “we have to be alone … I think.” He screwed up his face and then dropped his head forward, shaking it like someone trying to shake a coin out of a money box. He looked up again. “We have this bomb now, you see,” he said, “it’s just a little one.”
“I know,” she said.
He goggled at her as if she’d said something very strange about beetroots.
“Honestly,” he said, “it’s very, very little.”
“I know,” she said again.
“But they say,” his voice trailed on, “they say it can destroy everything that exists. And we have to do that, you see, I think. Will that make us alone? I don’t know. It seems to be our function, though,” he said, and dropped his head again.
“Whatever that means,” said a hollow voice from the crowd.
Trillian slowly put her arms around the poor bewildered young Krikkiter and patted his trembling head on her shoulder.
“It’s all right,” she said quietly, but clearly enough for all the shadowy crowd to hear, “you don’t have to do it.”
She rocked him.
“You don’t have to do it,” she said again.
She let him go and stood back.
“I want you to do something for me,” she said, and unexpectedly laughed.
“I want,” she said, and laughed again. She put her hand over her mouth and then said, with a straight face, “I want you to take me to your leader,” and she pointed into the War Zones in the sky. She seemed somehow to know that their leader would be there.
Her laughter seemed to discharge something in the atmosphere. From somewhere at the back of the crowd a single voice started to sing a tune that would have enabled Paul McCartney, had he written it, to buy the world.
30
Zaphod Beeblebrox crawled bravely along a tunnel, like the hell of a guy he was. He was very confused, but continued crawling doggedly anyway because he was that brave.
He was confused by something he had just seen, but not half as confused as he was going to be by something he was about to hear, so it would be best, at this point, to explain exactly where he was.
He was in the Robot War Zones many miles above the surface of the planet Krikkit.
The atmosphere was thin here, and relatively unprotected from any rays or anything that space might care to hurl in this direction.
He had parked the starship Heart of Gold among the huge jostling dim hulks that crowded the sky here above Krikkit, and had entered what appeared to be the biggest and most important of the sky buildings, armed with nothing but a Zap gun and something for his headaches.
He had found himself in a long, wide and badly lit corridor in which he was able to hide until he worked out what he was going to do next. He hid because every now and then one of the Krikkit robots would walk along it, and although he had so far led some kind of charmed life at their hands, it had nevertheless been an extremely painful one, and he had no desire to stretch what he was only half inclined to call his good fortune.
He had ducked, at one point, into a room leading off the corridor, and had discovered it to be a huge and, again, dimly lit chamber.
In fact, it was a museum with just one exhibit—the wreckage of a spacecraft. It was terribly burnt and mangled, and now that he had caught up with some of the Galactic history he had missed through his failed attempts to have sex with the girl in the cybercubicle next to him at school, he was able to put in an intelligent guess that this was the wrecked spaceship that had drifted through the Dust Cloud all those billions of years ago and started this whole business off.
But, and this is where he had become confused, there was something not at all right about it.
It was genuinely wrecked. It was genuinely burnt, but a fairly brief inspection by an experienced eye revealed that it was not a genuine spacecraft. It was as if it were a full-scale model of one—a solid blueprint. In other words it was a very useful thing to have around if you suddenly decided to build a spaceship yourself and didn’t know how to do it. It was not, however, anything that would ever fly anywhere itself.
He was still puzzling over this—in fact he’d only just started to puzzle over it when he became aware that a door had slid open in another part of the chamber, and another couple of Krikkit robots had entered, looking a little glum.
Zaphod did not want to tangle with them and, deciding that just as discretion was the better part of valor, so was cowardice the better part of discretion, he valiantly hid himself in a closet.
The closet in fact turned out to be the top part of a shaft that led down through an inspection hatch into a wide ventilation tunnel. He let himself down into it and started to crawl along it.
He didn’t like it. It was cold, dark and profoundly uncomfortable, and it frightened him. At the first opportunity—which was another shaft a hundred yards farther along—he climbed back up out of it.
This time he emerged into a smaller chamber, which appeared to be a
computer intelligence center. He emerged in a dark narrow space between a large computer bank and the wall.
He quickly learned that he was not alone in the chamber and started to leave again, when he began to listen with interest to what the other occupants were saying.
“It’s the robots, sir,” said one voice, “there’s something wrong with them.”
“What, exactly?”
These were the voices of two War Command Krikkiters. All the War Commanders lived up in the sky in the Robot War Zones, and were largely immune to the whimsical doubts and uncertainties that were afflicting their fellows down on the surface of the planet.
“Well, sir, I think it’s just as well that they are being phased out of the war effort, and that we are now going to detonate the supernova bomb. In the very short time since we were released from the envelope …”
“Get to the point.”
“The robots aren’t enjoying it, sir.”
“What?”
“The war, sir, it seems to be getting them down. There’s a certain world weariness about them, or perhaps I should say Universe weariness.”
“Well, that’s all right, they’re meant to be helping to destroy it.”
“Yes, well, they’re finding it difficult, sir. They are afflicted with a certain lassitude. They’re just finding it hard to get behind the job. They lack oomph.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Well, I think they’re very depressed about something, sir.”
“What on Krikkit are you talking about?”
“Well, in the few skirmishes they’ve had recently, it seems that they go into battle, raise their weapons to fire and suddenly think, why bother? What, cosmically speaking, is it all about? And they just seem to get a little tired and a little grim.”
“And then what do they do?”
“Er, quadratic equations mostly, sir, fiendishly difficult ones by all accounts. And then they sulk.”
“Sulk?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Whoever heard of a robot sulking?”
Volume 3 - Life, The Universe And Everything Page 15