A poor bedraggled figure, strangely attired, wetter than an otter in a washing machine, and hitching.
“Poor miserable sod,” thought Rob McKenna to himself, realizing that here was somebody with a better right to feel hard done by than himself, “must be chilled to the bone. Stupid to be out hitching on a filthy night like this. All you get is cold, wet, and lorries driving through puddles at you.”
He shook his head grimly, heaved another sigh, gave the wheel a turn, and hit a large sheet of water square on.
“See what I mean?” he thought to himself as he plowed swiftly through it; “you get some right bastards on the road.”
Splattered in his rearview mirror a couple of seconds later was the reflection of the hitchhiker, drenched by the roadside.
For a moment he felt good about this. A moment or two later he felt bad about feeling good about it. Then he felt good about feeling bad about feeling good about it and, satisfied, drove on into the night.
At least it made up for finally having been overtaken by that Porsche he had been diligently blocking for the last twenty miles.
And as he drove on, the rain clouds dragged down the sky after him for, though he did not know it, Rob McKenna was a Rain God. All he knew was that his working days were miserable and he had a succession of lousy holidays. All the clouds knew was that they loved him and wanted to be near him, to cherish him and to water him.
Chapter 3
The next two lorries were not driven by Rain Gods, but they did exactly the same thing.
The figure trudged, or rather sloshed, onward till the hill resumed and the treacherous sheet of water was left behind.
After a while the rain began to ease and the moon put in a brief appearance from behind the clouds.
A Renault drove by, and its driver made frantic and complex signals to the trudging figure to indicate that normally he would have been delighted to give the figure a lift, only he couldn’t this time because he wasn’t going in the direction that the figure wanted to go, whatever direction that might be, and he was sure the figure would understand. He concluded the signaling with a cheery thumbs-up sign as if to say that he hoped the figure felt really fine about being cold and almost terminally wet, and he would catch him next time around.
The figure trudged on. A Fiat passed and did exactly the same as the Renault.
A Maxi passed on the other side of the road and flashed its lights at the slowly plodding figure, though whether this was meant to convey a “Hello” or a “Sorry, we’re going the other way” or a “Hey look, there’s someone in the rain, what a jerk” was entirely unclear. A green strip across the top of the windshield indicated that whatever the message was, it came from Steve and Carola.
The storm had now definitely abated, and what thunder there was now grumbled over more distant hills, like a man saying “And another thing …” twenty minutes after admitting he’d lost the argument.
The air was clearer now, the night cold. Sound traveled rather well. The lost figure, shivering desperately, presently reached a junction, where a side road turned off to the left. Opposite the turning stood a signpost and this the figure suddenly hurried to and studied with feverish curiosity, only twisting away from it as another car passed suddenly.
And another.
The first whisked by with complete disregard, the second flashed meaninglessly. A Ford Cortina passed and put on its brakes.
Lurching with surprise, the figure bundled his bag to his chest and hurried forward toward it, but at the last moment the Cortina spun its wheels in the wet and careened off up the road rather amusingly.
The figure slowed to a stop and stood there, lost and dejected.
As it chanced, the following day the driver of the Cortina went into the hospital to have his appendix out, only due to a rather amusing mix-up the surgeon removed his leg in error and before the appendectomy could be rescheduled, the appendicitis complicated into an entertainingly serious case of peritonitis, and justice, in its way, was served.
The figure trudged on.
A Saab drew to a halt beside him.
Its window wound down and a friendly voice said, “Have you come far?”
The figure turned toward it. He stopped and grasped the handle of the door.
The figure, the car, and its door handle were all on a planet called the Earth, a world whose entire entry in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy was comprised of two words “Mostly harmless.”
The man who wrote this entry was called Ford Prefect, and he was at this precise moment on a far from harmless world, sitting in a far from harmless bar, recklessly causing trouble.
Chapter 4
Whether it was because he was drunk, ill, or suicidally insane would not have been apparent to a casual observer, and indeed there were no casual observers in the Old Pink Dog Bar on the lower south side of Han Dold City because it wasn’t the sort of place you could afford to do things casually in if you wanted to stay alive. Any observers in the place would have been mean, hawklike observers, heavily armed, with painful throbbings in their heads which caused them to do crazy things when they observed things they didn’t like.
One of those nasty hushes had descended on the place, a missile crisis sort of hush.
Even the evil-looking bird perched on a rod in the bar had stopped screeching out the names and addresses of local contract killers, which was a service it provided for free.
All eyes were on Ford Prefect. Some of them were on stalks.
The particular way in which he was choosing to dice recklessly with death today was by trying to pay for a drinks bill the size of a small defense budget with an American Express card, which was not acceptable anywhere in the known Universe.
“What are you worried about,” he asked in a cheery kind of voice, “the expiration date? Haven’t you guys ever heard of Neo-Relativity out here? There’re whole new areas of physics which can take care of this sort of thing. Time dilation effects, temporal relastatics—”
“We are not worried about the expiration date,” said the man to whom he addressed these remarks, who was a dangerous barman in a dangerous city. His voice was a low soft purr, like the low soft purr made by the opening of an ICBM silo. A hand like a side of meat tapped lightly on the bar top, lightly denting it.
“Well, that’s good then,” said Ford, packing his satchel and preparing to leave.
The tapping finger reached out and rested lightly on the shoulder of Ford Prefect. It prevented him from leaving.
Although the finger was attached to a slablike hand, and the hand was attached to a clublike forearm, the forearm wasn’t attached to anything at all, except in the metaphorical sense that it was attached by a fierce doglike loyalty to the bar which was its home. It had previously been more conventionally attached to the original owner of the bar, who on his deathbed had unexpectedly bequeathed it to medical science. Medical science had decided they didn’t like the look of it and had bequeathed it right back to the Old Pink Dog Bar.
The new barman didn’t believe in the supernatural or poltergeists or anything kooky like that, he just knew a useful ally when he saw one. The hand sat on the bar. It took orders, it served drinks, it dealt murderously with people who behaved as if they wanted to be murdered. Ford Prefect sat still.
“We are not worried about the expiration date,” repeated the barman, satisfied that he now had Ford Prefect’s full attention; “we are worried about the entire piece of plastic.”
“What?” said Ford. He seemed a little taken aback.
“This,” said the barman, holding out the card as if it were a small fish whose soul had three weeks earlier winged its way to the Land Where Fish Are Eternally Blessed. “We don’t accept it.”
Ford wondered briefly whether to raise the fact that he didn’t have any other means of payment on him, but decided for the moment to soldier on. The disembodied hand was now grasping his shoulder lightly but firmly between its finger and thumb.
“But you don�
��t understand,” said Ford, his expression slowly ripening from a little taken abackness into rank incredulity, “this is the American Express card. It is the finest way of settling bills known to man. Haven’t you read their junk mail?”
The cheery quality of Ford’s voice was beginning to grate on the barman’s ears. It sounded like someone relentlessly playing the kazoo during one of the more somber passages of a war requiem.
One of the bones in Ford’s shoulder began to grate against another one of the bones in his shoulder in a way that suggested the hand had learned the principles of pain from a highly skilled chiropractor. He hoped he could get this business settled before the hand started to grate one of the bones in his shoulder against any of the bones in different parts of his body. Luckily, the shoulder it was holding was not the one he had his satchel slung over.
The barman slid the card back across the bar at Ford.
“We have never,” he said with muted savagery, “heard of this thing.”
This was hardly surprising.
Ford had only acquired it through a serious computer error toward the end of the fifteen-year sojourn he had spent on the planet Earth. Exactly how serious, the American Express Company had gotten to know very rapidly, and the increasingly strident and panic-stricken demands of its debt collection department were only silenced by the unexpected demolition of the entire planet by the Vogons, to make way for a new hyperspace bypass.
He had kept it ever since because he found it useful to carry a form of currency that no one would accept.
“Credit?” he said. “Aaaargggh …”
These two words were usually coupled in the Old Pink Dog Bar.
“I thought,” gasped Ford, “that this was meant to be a class establishment.…”
He glanced around at the motley collection of thugs, pimps, and record company executives that skulked on the edges of the dim pools of light with which the dark shadows of the bar’s inner recesses were pitted. They were all very deliberately looking in any direction but his, carefully picking up the threads of their former conversations about murders, drug rings, and music publishing deals. They knew what would happen now and didn’t want to watch in case it put them off their drinks.
“You gonna die, boy,” murmured the barman quietly at Ford Prefect, and the evidence was on his side. The bar used to have hanging up one of those signs that read “Please don’t ask for credit as a punch in the mouth often offends,” but in the interest of strict accuracy this was altered to “Please don’t ask for credit because having your throat torn out by a savage bird while a disembodied hand smashes your head against the bar often offends.” However, this made an unreadable mess of the notice and anyway didn’t have the same ring to it, so it was taken down again. It was felt that the story would get about of its own accord, and it had.
“Lemme look at the bill again,” said Ford. He picked it up and studied it thoughtfully under the malevolent gaze of the barman, and the equally malevolent gaze of the bird, which was currently gouging great furrows in the bar top with its talons.
It was a rather lengthy piece of paper.
At the bottom of it was a number that looked like one of those serial numbers you find on the underside of stereo sets which always take so long to copy on to the registration form. He had, after all, been in the bar all day, he had been drinking a lot of stuff with bubbles in it, and he had bought an awful lot of rounds for all the pimps, thugs, and record executives who suddenly couldn’t remember who he was.
He cleared his throat rather quietly and patted his pockets. There was, as he knew, nothing in them.
He rested his left hand lightly but firmly on the half-opened flap of his satchel. The disembodied hand renewed its pressure on his right shoulder.
“You see,” said the barman, and his face seemed to wobble evilly in front of Ford’s, “I have a reputation to think of. You see that, don’t you?”
This is it, thought Ford. There was nothing else for it. He had obeyed the rules, he had made a bona fide attempt to pay his bill, it had been rejected. He was now in danger of his life.
“Well,” he said quietly, “if it’s your reputation …”
With a sudden flash of speed he opened his satchel and slapped down on the bar top his copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and the official card which said that he was a field researcher for the Guide and absolutely not allowed to do what he was now doing.
“Want a write-up?”
The barman’s face stopped in midwobble. The bird’s talons stopped in midfurrow. The hand slowly released its grip.
“That,” said the barman in a barely audible whisper, from between dry lips, “will do nicely, sir.”
Chapter 5
The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy is a powerful organ. Indeed, its influence is so prodigious that strict rules had to be drawn up by its editorial staff to prevent its misuse. So none of its field researchers is allowed to accept any kind of services, discounts, or preferential treatment of any kind in return for editorial favors unless:
a. they have made a bona fide attempt to pay for a service in the normal way;
b. their lives would be otherwise in danger; or
c. they really want to.
Since invoking the third rule involved giving the editor a cut, Ford always preferred to muck about with the first two.
He stepped out along the street, walking briskly.
The air was stifling, but he liked it because it was stifling city air, full of excitingly unpleasant smells, dangerous music, and the distant sound of warring police tribes.
He carried his satchel with an easy swaying motion so that he could get a good swing at anybody who tried to take it from him without asking. It contained everything he owned, which at the moment wasn’t much.
A limousine careened down the street, dodging between the piles of burning garbage, and frightening an old pack animal which lurched, screeching, out of its way, stumbled against the window of a herbal remedies shop, set off a wailing alarm, blundered off down the street, and then pretended to fall down the steps of a small Italian restaurant where it knew it would get photographed and fed.
Ford was walking north. He thought he was probably on his way to the spaceport, but he had thought that before. He knew he was going through that part of the city where people’s plans often changed quite abruptly.
“Do you want to have a good time?” said a voice from a doorway.
“As far as I can tell,” said Ford, “I’m having one. Thanks.”
“Are you rich?” said another.
This made Ford laugh.
He turned and opened his arms in a wide gesture.
“Do I look rich?” he said.
“Don’t know,” said the giri. “Maybe, maybe not. Maybe you’ll get rich. I have a very special service for rich people.…”
“Oh yes,” said Ford, intrigued but careful, “and what’s that?”
“I tell them it’s okay to be rich.”
Gunfire erupted from a window high above them, but it was only a bass player getting shot for playing the wrong riff three times in a row, and bass players are two a penny in Han Dold City.
Ford stopped and peered into the dark doorway.
“You what?” he said.
The girl laughed and stepped forward a little out of the shadow. She was tall, and had that kind of self-possessed shyness which is a great trick if you can do it.
“It’s my big number,” she said. “I have a master’s degree in social economics and can be very convincing. People love it. Especially in this city.”
“Goosnargh,” said Ford Prefect, which was a special Betelgeusian word he used when he knew he should say something but didn’t know what it should be.
He sat on a step, took from his satchel a bottle of that Ol’ Janx Spirit and a towel. He opened the bottle and wiped the top of it with the towel, which had the opposite effect to the one intended, in that the Ol’ Janx Spirit instantly killed off millions of
the germs which had been slowly building up quite a complex and enlightened civilization on the smellier patches of his towel.
“Want some?” he said, after he’d had a swig himself.
She shrugged and took the proffered bottle.
They sat for a while, peacefully listening to the clamor of burglar alarms in the next block.
“As it happens, I’m owed a lot of money,” said Ford, “so if I ever get hold of it, can I come and see you then maybe?”
“Sure, I’ll be here,” said the girl. “So how much is a lot?”
“Fifteen years’ back pay.”
“For?”
“Writing two words.”
“Zarquon,” said the girl, “which one took the time?”
“The first one. Once I’d got that the second one just came one afternoon after lunch.”
A huge electronic drum kit hurtled through the window high above them and smashed itself to bits in the street in front of them.
It soon became apparent that some of the burglar alarms on the next block had been deliberately set off by one police tribe in order to lay an ambush for the other. Cars with screaming sirens converged on the area, only to find themselves being picked off by helicopters which came thudding through the air between the city’s mountainous tower blocks.
“In fact,” said Ford, having to shout now above the din, “it wasn’t quite like that. I wrote an awful lot, but they just cut it down.”
He took his copy of the Guide back out of his satchel.
“Then the planet got demolished,” he shouted, “really worthwhile job, eh? They’ve still got to pay me, though.”
“You work for that thing?” the girl yelled back.
“Yeah.”
“Good number.”
“You want to see the stuff I wrote,” he shouted, “before it gets erased? The new revisions are due to be released tonight over the net. Someone must have found out that the planet I spent fifteen years on has been demolished by now. They missed it on the last few revisions, but it can’t escape their notice forever.”
The Ultimate Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Page 54
