away with it. They are going to suffer. It is my sacred and holy
duty to see those guys suffer. Here, let me put something on the
tab for the singer. I asked for a special request and we agreed.
It's to go on the tab. OK?'
`OK,' said the barman, cautiously. Then he shrugged. `OK,
however you want to do it. How much?'
Ford named a figure. The barman fell over amongst the
bottles and glasses. Ford vaulted quickly over the bar to check
that he was all right and help him back up to his feet. He'd cut
his finger and his elbow a bit and was feeling a little woozy but
was otherwise fine. The big guy started to sing. The barman
hobbled off with Ford's credit card to get authorisation.
`Is there stuff going on here that I don't know about?' said
Arthur to Ford.
`Isn't there usually?' said Ford.
`No need to be like that,' said Arthur. He began to wake up.
`Shouldn't we be going?' he said suddenly. `Will that ship get us
to Earth?'
`Sure will,' said Ford.
`That's where Random will be going!' said Arthur with a
start. `We can follow her! But... er...'
Ford let Arthur get on with thinking things out for himself
while he got out his old edition of the Hitch Hiker's Guide to
the Galaxy.
`But where are we on the probability axis thing?' said Arthur.
`Will the Earth be there or not there? I spent so much time look-
ing for it. All I found was planets that were a bit like it or not
at all like it, though it was clearly the right place because of the
continents. The worst version was called NowWhat where I got
bitten by some wretched little animal. That's how they commu-
nicated, you know, by biting each other. Bloody painful. Then
half the time, of course, the Earth isn't even there because it's
been blown up by the bloody Vogons. How much sense am I
making?'
Ford didn't comment. He was listening to something. He
passed the Guide over to Arthur and pointed at the screen.
The active entry read `Earth. Mostly harmless.'
`You mean it's there!' said Arthur excitedly. `The Earth
is there! That's where Random will be going! The bird was
showing her the Earth in the rainstorm!'
Ford motioned Arthur to shout a little less loudly. He was
listening.
Arthur was growing impatient. He'd heard bar singers sing
`Love Me Tender' before. He was a bit surprised to hear it
here, right in the middle of wherever the hell this was, certainly
not Earth, but then things tended not to surprise him these days
as much as formerly. The singer was quite good, as bar singers
went, if you liked that sort of thing, but Arthur was getting fretful.
He glanced at his watch. This only served to remind. him that
he didn't have his watch any more. Random had it, or at least
the remains of it.
`Don't you think we should be going?' he said, insistently.
`Shhh!' said Ford. `I paid to hear this song.' He seemed
to have tears in his eyes, which Arthur found a bit disturbing.
He'd never seen Ford moved by anything other than very, very
strong drink. Probably the dust. He waited, tapping his fingers
irritably, out of time with the music.
The song ended. The singer went on to do `Heartbreak Hotel'.
`Anyway,' Ford whispered, `I've got to review the restaurant.'
`What?'
`I have to write a review.'
`Write a review? Of this place?'
`Filing the review validates the expenses claim. I've fixed it so
that it happens completely automatically and untraceably. This
bill is going to need some validation,' he added quietly, staring
into his beer with a nasty smirk.
`For a couple of beers and a roll?'
`And a tip for the singer.'
`Why, how much did you tip him?'
Ford named a figure again.
`I don't know how much that is,' said Arthur. `What's it
worth in pounds sterling? What would it buy you?'
`It would probably buy you, roughly... er...' Ford screwed
his eyes up as he did some calculations in his head. `Switzerland,'
he said at last. He picked up his Hitch Hiker's Guide and started
to type.
Arthur nodded intelligently. There were times when he wished
he understood what on earth Ford was talking about, and other
times, like now, when he felt it was probably safer not even to
try. He looked over Ford's shoulder. `This isn't going to take
long, is it?' he said.
`Nah,' said Ford. `Piece of piss. Just mention that the rolls
were quite good, the beer good and cold, local wildlife nicely
eccentric, the bar singer the best in the known universe, and
that's about it. Doesn't need much. Just a validation.'
He touched an area on the screen marked ENTER and
the message vanished into the Sub-Etha.
`You thought the singer was pretty good then?'
`Yeah,' said Ford. The barman was returning with a piece
of paper, which seemed to be trembling in his hand.
He pushed it over to Ford with a kind of nervous, reverential
twitch.
`Funny thing,' said the barman. `The system rejected it first
couple times. Can't say it surprised me.' Beads of sweat were
standing on his brow. `Then suddenly it's, oh yeah, that's OK,
and the system... er, validates it. Just like that. You wanna
...sign it?'
Ford scanned the form quickly. He sucked his teeth. `This
is going to hurt InfiniDim a lot,' he said, with an appearance
of concern. `Oh well,' he added softly, `screw 'em.'
He signed with a flourish and handed it back to the barman.
`More money,' he said, `than the Colonel made for him
in an entire career of doing crap movies and casino gigs. Just
for doing what he does best. Standing up and singing in a bar.
And he negotiated it himself. I think this is a good moment for
him. Tell him I said thanks and buy him a drink.' He tossed a
few coins on the bar. The barman pushed them away.
`I don't think that's necessary,' he said, slightly hoarsely.
`Tis to me,' said Ford. `OK, we are outa here.'
They stood out in the heat and the dust and looked at the big
pink and chrome thing with amazement and admiration. Or at
least, Ford looked at it with amazement and admiration.
Arthur just looked at it. `You don't think it's a bit overdone,
do you?'
He said it again when they climbed inside it. The seats
and quite a lot of the controls were covered in fine fur skin
or suede. There was a big gold monogram on the main control
panel which just read `EP'.
`You know,' said Ford as he fired up the ship's engines, `I
asked him if it was true that he had been abducted by aliens,
and you know what he said?'
`Who?' said Arthur.
`The King.'
`Which King? Oh, we've had this conversation, haven't we?'
`Never mind,' said Ford. `For what it's worth, he said, no.
He went of his own accord.'
`I'm still not sure who we're talking about,' said Arthur.
Ford shook his head. `Look,' he said, `the
re are some tapes
over in the compartment to your left. Why don't you choose
some music and put it on?'
`OK,' said Arthur, and flipped through the cartons. `Do
you like Elvis Presley?' he said.
`Yeah I do as a matter of fact,' said Ford. `Now. I hope this
machine can leap like it looks Like it can.' He engaged the main
drive.
`Yeeehaah!' shouted Ford as they shot upwards at face-tearing
speed.
It could.
23
The news networks don't like this kind of thing. They regard it
as a waste. An incontrovertible spaceship arrives out of nowhere
in the middle of London and it is sensational news of the highest
magnitude. Another completely different one arrives three and
a half hours later and somehow it isn't.
`ANOTHER SPACECRAFT!' said the headlines and news
stand billboards. `THIS ONE'S PINK.' A couple of months later
they could have made a lot more of it. The third spacecraft, half
an hour after that, the little four berth Hrundi runabout, only
made it on to the local news.
Ford and Arthur had come screaming down out of the strato-
sphere and parked neatly on Portland Place. It was just after
six-thirty in the evening and there were spaces free. They min-
gled briefly with the crowd that gathered round to ogle, then said
loudly that if no one else was going to call the police they would,
and made good their escape.
`Home...' said Arthur, a husky tone creeping into his
voice as he gazed, misty-eyed around him.
`Oh don't get all maudlin on me,' snapped Ford. `We have
to find your daughter and we have to find that bird thing.'
`How?' said Arthur. `This is a planet of five and a half
billion people, and...'
`Yes,' said Ford. `But only one of them has just arrived
from outer space in a large silver spaceship accompanied by a
mechanical bird. I suggest we just find a television and some-
thing to drink while we watch it. We need some serious room
service.'
They checked into a large two-bedroomed suite at the Langham.
Mysteriously, Ford's Dine-O-Charge card, issued on a planet over
five thousand light years away, seemed to present the hotel's
computer with no problems.
Ford hit the phones straight away while Arthur attempted
to locate the television.
`OK,' said Ford. `I want to order up some margaritas please.
Couple of pitchers. Couple of Chef's Salads. And as much foie
gras as you've got. And also London Zoo.'
`She's on the news!' shouted Arthur from the next room.
`That's what I said,' said Ford into the phone. `London
Zoo. Just charge it to the room.'
`She's... Good God!' shouted Arthur. `Do you know who
she's being interviewed by?'
`Are you having difficulty understanding the English lan-
guage?' continued Ford. `It's the zoo just up the road from
here. I don't care if it's closed this evening. I don't want
to buy a ticket, I just want to buy the zoo. I don't care
if you're busy. This is room service, I'm in a room and I
want some service. Got a piece of paper? OK. Here's what
I want you to do. All the animals that can be safely returned
to the wild, return them. Set up some good teams of people
to monitor their progress in the wild, see that they're doing
OK.'
`It's Trillian!' shouted Arthur. `Or is it... er... God, I can't
stand all this parallel universe stuff. It's so bloody confusing. It
seems to be a different Trillian. It's Tricia McMillan which is
what Trillian used to be called before... er... Why don't
you come and watch, see if you can figure it out?'
`Just a second,' Ford shouted, and returned to his negotia-
tions with room service. `Then we'll need some natural reserves
for the animals that can't hack it in the wild,' he said. `Set up a
team to work out the best places to do that. We might need to
buy somewhere like Zaire and maybe some islands. Madagascar.
Baffin. Sumatra. Those kind of places. We'll need a wide variety
of habitats. Look, l don't see why you're seeing this as a problem.
Learn to delegate. Hire whoever you want. Get on to it. I think
you'll find my credit is good. And blue cheese dressing on the
salad. Thank you.'
He put the phone down and went through to Arthur, who
was sitting on the edge of his bed watching television.
`I ordered us some foie gras,' said Ford.
`What?' said Arthur, whose attention was entirely focused
on the television.
`I said I ordered us some foie gras.'
`Oh,' said Arthur, vaguely. `Um, I always feel a hit bad
about foie gras. Bit cruel to the geese, isn't it?'
`Fuck 'em,' said Ford, slumping on the bed. `You can't care
about every damn thing.'
`Well, that's all very well for you to say, but...'
`Drop it!' said Ford. `If you don't like it I'll have yours.
What's happening?'
`Chaos!' said Arthur. `Complete chaos! Random keeps on
screaming at Trillian, or Tricia or whoever it is, that she aban-
doned her and then demanding to go to a good night club. Tricia's
broken down in tears and says she's never even met Random
let alone given birth to her. Then she suddenly started howling
about someone called Rupert and said that he had lost his mind
or something. I didn't quite follow that bit, to be honest. Then
Random started throwing stuff and they've cut to a commercial
break while they try and sort it all out. Oh! They've just cut back
to the studio! Shut up and watch.'
A rather shaken anchorman appeared on the screen and
apologised to viewers for the disruption of the previous item.
He said he didn't have any very clear news to report, only that
the mysterious girl, who called herself Random Frequent Flyer
Dent had left the studio to, er, rest. Tricia McMillan would be,
he hoped, back tomorrow. Meanwhile, fresh reports of UFO
activity were coming in...
Ford leaped up off the bed, grabbed the nearest phone and
jabbed at a number.
`Concierge? You want to own the hotel? It's yours if you
can find out for me in five minutes which clubs Tricia McMillan
belongs to. Just charge the whole thing to this room.'
24
Away in the inky depths of space invisible movements were
being made.
Invisible to any of the inhabitants of the strange and tem-
peramental Plural zone at the focus of which lay the infinitely
multitudinous possibilities of the planet called Earth, but not
inconsequential to them.
At the very edge of the solar system, hunkered down on a
green leatherette sofa, staring fretfully at a range of TV and
computer screens sat a very worried Grebulon leader. He was
fiddling with stuff. Fiddling with his book on astrology. Fiddling
with the console of his computer. Fiddling with the displays
being fed through to him constantly from all of the Grebulons'
monitoring devices, all of them focused on the planet Earth.
He was distressed. Th
eir mission was to monitor. But to
monitor secretly. He was a bit fed up with his mission, to be
honest. He was fairly certain that his mission must have been
to do more than sit around watching TV for years on end. They
certainly had a lot of other equipment with them that must have
had some purpose if only they hadn't accidentally lost all trace
of their purpose. He needed a sense of purpose in life, which
was why he had turned to astrology to fill the yawning gulf that
existed in the middle of his mind and soul. That would tell him
something, surely.
Well, it was telling him something.
It was telling him, as far as he could make out, that he
was about to have a very bad month, that things were going to
go from bad to worse if he didn't get a grip on things and start
making some positive moves and thinking things out for himself.
It was true. It was very clear from his star chart which
he had worked out using his astrology book and the computer
program which that nice Tricia McMillan had designed for him to
re-triangulate all the appropriate astronomical data. Earth-based
astrology had to be entirely recalculated to yield results that were
meaningful to the Grebulons here on the tenth planet out on the
ADAMS, Douglas - Mostly Harmless Page 24