The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Further Radio Scripts

by Douglas Adams

  SIR PATRICK MOORE: Not unless it’s got this way cool ringtone.

  FX: Jaunty xylophone ringtone plays ‘share and enjoy’ tune from Series Two.

  EXT. – SPACE

  FX: Robot ship thunders past.

  INT. – ROBOT SPACESHIP – CORRIDOR

  FX: Distant gunfire, sounds of battle.

  ARTHUR: (Getting out of his bunk) Urghhh . . . can’t I get a moment’s peace . . . Fenchurch?

  FENCHURCH: (Asleep – moans gently)

  ARTHUR: Oh. It’s all right for some . . .

  FX: Ratchet screwdriver screams up to him and buzzes about busily.

  ARTHUR: What the— (Yells) Mind where you’re flying! Shoo! Shoo! Buzz off!

  FX: Screwdriver flies off, disgruntled.

  ARTHUR: (Effort) Manual door override – yes – urg—

  FX: Mechanical sequence, door opens.

  INT. – XAXIS SHIP – MONITORING ROOM

  FX: Gunfire up – this time it’s the soundtrack to a movie Ford is watching.

  ARTHUR: Ford! Would you turn your video down?

  FORD PREFECT: Shhh! We’re just getting to the good bit!

  ARTHUR: Please. Fenchurch may be able to sleep through this but I can’t.

  FORD PREFECT: I finally got it all sorted out, voltage levels, line conversion, region-free, the lot, and this is the good bit!

  FX: Bzzzt fizzle . . . The video playback stops.

  FORD PREFECT: Belgium! (He kicks the gear) Zarking thing!

  ARTHUR: Ford—

  FORD PREFECT: Nooo! I didn’t even get to the big one! The one I came back for! Look – Casablanca, a two-disc set! Still shrink-wrapped! Do you realize I never saw this movie all through? Always I missed the end. I saw half of it again the night before the Vogons came. When they blew the Earth up I thought I’d never get to see it. Now I got one with Special Features and everything, and the ruddy crystal’s zapped out. Typical! (He kicks it again)

  ARTHUR: I can tell you the ending if you like. Rick and Ilsa meet at—

  FORD PREFECT: No. Leave it. Want a beer? There’s a six-pack behind you.

  ARTHUR: Thanks.

  FX: Beer can opened. Arthur drinks.

  FORD PREFECT: So?

  ARTHUR: So what?

  FORD PREFECT: How in Zarquon’s Holy Name did Earth get to suddenly exist again? I saw it blown up.

  ARTHUR: So did I. Listen, Ford, I’m certain it’s not the Earth we remember.

  FORD PREFECT: You interest me strangely, Mr Dent.

  ARTHUR: Remember Trillian’s white mice? Frankie and Benjy. What they were doing?

  FORD PREFECT: (Bored) The mice more or less ran the Earth for ten million years. It was a huge organic computer matrix they hoped would find the Ultimate Question to fit the Ultimate Answer, which is Forty-two.

  ARTHUR: Yes, and they were pretty teed off that the Vogons demolished the Earth before they’d arrived at a conclusion.

  FORD PREFECT: Look, I’m all for reminiscences, but can’t we talk about girls’ chests or something?

  ARTHUR: No, listen. Benjy said, ‘It’s easy to suspect that if there’s any real truth, it’s that the entire multidimensional infinity of the Universe is almost certainly being run by a bunch of maniacs.’

  FORD PREFECT: Are you sure he said that? I don’t recall that at all. But then I don’t recall much of anything.

  ARTHUR: No. But I do and that’s what I’m talking about. ‘Multidimensional infinity’. Doesn’t that suggest that somehow more than one Earth could exist? More than one of me? Or of you?

  FORD PREFECT: Are you about to tie me to the maniac bit?

  ARTHUR: I’m sure you are a one-off, Ford. (Brief pause) Well, let’s hope so. And I may be the only Arthur Dent, but there’s definitely another Trillian. A reporter.

  FORD PREFECT: Trillian’s a reporter for the Siderial Daily Mentioner, yes.

  ARTHUR: No, there’s another one. On that new Earth. Also a reporter. She looks identical to our Trillian. But she’s got an American accent, she’s blonde and she goes by Trillian’s real name, Tricia McMillan.

  FORD PREFECT: So? Twins separated at birth. A dropped test tube. Happenstance.

  ARTHUR: (Conspiratorial) Or a side effect of two Earths existing in the same space, but in different dimensions – until one of them was destroyed.

  FORD PREFECT: Pass me another beer, I think I can turn this headache into a full-blown migraine.

  ARTHUR: I think Fenchurch saw the truth for that split second between Earths . . . Which should be revealed when we find God’s Last Message to His Creation.

  FORD PREFECT: Well, count me out.

  ARTHUR: Why?

  (A pause)

  FORD PREFECT: You know gods, they come and they go. (Beat) Can we talk about girls’ chests now?

  ARTHUR: Sure. What do you want to know?

  INT. – THE BOOK AMBIENCE

  FX: Arid desert feel, FX as suitable, under:

  THE VOICE: According to its most recent update, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy explains that beyond what used to be known as the Limitless Lightfields of Flanux – until the Grey Binding Fiefdoms of Saxaquine were discovered lying behind them – lie the Grey Binding Fiefdoms of Saxaquine. Within the Grey Binding Fiefdoms of Saxaquine lies the star named Zarss, around which orbits the planet Preliumtarn on which is the land of Sevorbeupstry, and in the land of Sevorbeupstry is the Great Red Plain of Rars, bounded on the south side by the Quentulus Quazgar Mountains, on the further side of which, according to the dying words of Prak the Truthful, travellers will find, in thirty-foot-high letters of fire, God’s Final Message to His Creation. According to Prak, the place is guarded by the Lajestic Vantrashell of Lob, and so it is. He is a little man in a strange hat and he sells pilgrims a ticket.

  THE LAJESTIC VANTRASHELL OF LOB: How many?

  ARTHUR: Two for the Message, please.

  FX: Old wind-up bus-ticket dispenser. Tickets ripped off.

  FENCHURCH: Thank you.

  THE LAJESTIC VANTRASHELL OF LOB: Keep to the left, please, keep to the left, and mind my scooter.

  FX: Scooter start up and putter off.

  THE VOICE: Pilgrims to the Great Red Plain of Rars soon realize they are not the first to pass that way, for the path that leads around the left of the Great Plain is well worn and dotted with sales booths; one of which sells fudge, baked in an oven in a cave in the mountain, heated by the fire of the letters that form God’s Final Message to His Creation. Another sells postcards of the Message with the letters blurred by an airbrush, the reason being, as the Wizened Little Old Lady selling them says—

  WIZENED LITTLE OLD LADY: So as not to spoil the Big Surprise!

  ARTHUR: We’ll pass on the postcard, thanks.

  FENCHURCH: Do you know what the message is?

  WIZENED LITTLE OLD LADY: Oh yes, oh yes! Keep going!

  THE VOICE: Every twenty miles or so there is a little stone hut with showers and sanitary facilities, but the going is tough, and the high sun bakes down on the Great Red Plain, which ripples in the heat.

  ARTHUR: (Approaching) Excuse me – where can we rent one of those little scooters? Like the one Lajestic Ventrawhatsit has got?

  WIZENED LITTLE OLD MAN: The scooters are not for the devout.

  FENCHURCH: Oh, we’re not particularly devout, just interested.

  WIZENED LITTLE OLD MAN: Then you must turn back. Now. This is the Great Red Plain of Rars, a sacred, holy place, not one to be sullied by the unbeliever.

  FENCHURCH: Oh, but we’ve come so far.

  WIZENED LITTLE OLD MAN: Hm. Well in that case I’ve got a special offer on Final Message sunhats, ‘buy one get one free’.

  EXT. – DESERT

  FX: Arthur and Fenchurch walking.

  FX: Marvin dragging himself along painfully in distance.

  MARVIN: Urhhh . . . urrhhh . . .

  FENCHURCH: (Low, worried) Arthur . . . we’re not the first to make this journey.

  ARTHUR: Well, of course not, look at
all the souvenir stalls.

  FENCHURCH: No, I mean we’re not the only ones making it now. Look, ahead. In the distance.

  ARTHUR: Good Lord . . . what is it?

  FENCHURCH: It’s half-limping. Or half-crawling. Is it made of metal?

  ARTHUR: Surely not . . .

  FENCHURCH: Surely not metal?

  ARTHUR: (Running on ahead) Come on, Fenchurch . . .

  FX: Change perspective to Marvin crawling along . . .

  MARVIN: . . . So much time. Oh, so much time. And pain as well, so much of that, and so much time to suffer it in too. One or the other on its own I could probably manage. It’s the two together that really get me down.

  FX: Arthur’s footsteps run up, Fenchurch following.

  ARTHUR: Marvin?

  MARVIN: Oh hello, you again.

  ARTHUR: Is that you?

  MARVIN: You were always one for the super-intelligent question, weren’t you?

  FENCHURCH: (Arriving, breathless) What is it? A robot?

  ARTHUR: Some call him a robot. Most call him an electronic sulking machine.

  FENCHURCH: You know him?

  ARTHUR: He’s sort of an old friend, I—

  MARVIN: (Croaking as well as creaking) Friend! (He coughs – sort of) You’ll have to excuse me while I try and remember what the word means. My memory banks are not what they were, you know, and any word which falls into disuse for a few quillion years has to get shifted down into auxiliary memory back-up. Ah, here it comes . . . Hmm . . . what a curious concept . . . Was I amongst friends when the Hagumemnon admiral evolved into a lifepod and everybody aboard his flagship escaped, leaving me aboard as it steered itself into the nearest star?

  ARTHUR: Ah. I was meaning to ask . . .

  MARVIN: Was I amongst friends when I was left to walk in circles on a swamp planet? Left to park cars outside a restaurant for millennia? Left for the Krikkit robots to use for batting practice? ‘Friend.’ No, I don’t think I ever came across one of those. Sorry, can’t help you there.

  FX: He starts crawling again.

  FENCHURCH: Poor thing . . .

  FX: He stops crawling.

  MARVIN: Is there a last insultingly trivial service you would like me to perform for you, perhaps? A piece of paper possibly that you’d like me to pick up for you? A light switched off. Or maybe you would like me to open a door? . . . Hmmm . . . Not that there are any doors in the miles of desolate waste that surround us, but I’m sure that if we waited long enough, someone would build one. And then I could open it for you. I’m quite used to waiting, you know.

  FENCHURCH: Arthur . . . what have you done to this poor creature?

  ARTHUR: (Sadly) Nothing. He’s always like this.

  MARVIN: Ha! Ha! What do you know of always? You say ‘always’ to me, who, thanks to the silly little errands your organic life forms keep sending me through time on, is now thirty-seven times older than the Universe itself? Pick your words with a little more care and tact. (He coughs and pops a rivet) Leave me. Go on ahead, leave me to struggle painfully on my way. My time at last has nearly come. My race is nearly run. I fully expect to finish last. It would be fitting. Here I am, brain the size of—

  ARTHUR: (Resolve) That does it. Help me, Fenchurch . . . (Effort)

  MARVIN: . . . No, no—

  FX: They pick him up

  ARTHUR: (Having braced himself needlessly) Oh . . . he weighs hardly anything . . .

  MARVIN: Put me down, you don’t know where I’ve been . . .

  FENCHURCH: I think he’s mostly rust.

  ARTHUR: Come on, best foot forw—

  FX: Metallic foot falls off

  ARTHUR: OK, other foot forward.

  FX: Arthur and Fenchurch distantly trudge on, carrying a feebly protesting Marvin, under:

  ARTHUR: (Distant) Careful you don’t get blisters, his body’s hot.

  FENCHURCH: (Distant) Look – those must be the mountains of Quentulus Quazgar.

  FX: Another bit drops off Marvin.

  MARVIN: This must be metal fatigue.

  FX: Change perspective. Closer now.

  FX: They stop for a breather. Marvin put down, under:

  FENCHURCH: (Breathless) My arms are getting tired. If we could get him walking again it would help.

  ARTHUR: Marvin, why don’t we see if we can get you some spare parts at one of the booths?

  MARVIN: I’m all spare parts. Let me be. Every part of me has been replaced at least fifty times . . . except . . .

  ARTHUR: Except what?

  MARVIN: Huh . . . huh . . . huh huh huh huh huh.

  ARTHUR: Wow.

  FENCHURCH: What is it?

  ARTHUR: I think he’s . . . I think he’s – laughing.

  MARVIN: Oh dear, oh dear. How droll. Do you remember, the first time you ever met me?

  ARTHUR: Of course.

  MARVIN: I had been given the intellect-stretching task of taking you up to the bridge of the Heart of Gold? I mentioned to you that I had this terrible pain in all the diodes down my left side? That I had asked for them to be replaced but they never were?

  ARTHUR: Yes . . . ?

  MARVIN: (A pause, then:) See if you can guess which parts of me were never replaced? Go on, see if you can guess . . . Ouch. Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch. (He laughs again)

  FX: Distant Marvin laughter, distantly they continue their trek, under:

  Music: Hugely dignified theme.

  THE VOICE: The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy explains that only at the foot of the Quentulus Quazgar Mountains is God’s Last Message to His Creation clearly visible, written in blazing letters along their barren ridge. There is a little observation point, with a rail built along the top of a large rock facing it, from where one can get a good view. It has a little pay-telescope for looking at the letters in detail, but it’s never needed as the letters burn with the divine brilliance of the heavens and would, if seen through a telescope, severely damage the retina. Those who gaze upon God’s Final Message gaze in wonderment, and are slowly and ineffably filled with an overwhelming sense of peace, and of final and complete understanding . . .

  FENCHURCH: (A deep sigh, then) Yes. That was it.

  ARTHUR: Well. Mm.

  MARVIN: (Weakly straining) Uh . . . mmmhh . . . Typical . . . Everyone can read it but me.

  FENCHURCH: (Distressed) Oh, Marvin— (To Arthur) Help lift his head. He can’t read the Message.

  ARTHUR: Come on, old chap . . .

  FX: Creak of Marvin’s head being lifted.

  Music: Sad poignant Kleenex moment.

  MARVIN: There’s no point. My focusing circuits are almost burnt out.

  ARTHUR: The telescope. Who’s got a coin?

  FENCHURCH: I spent my last cash on the sunhats.

  MARVIN: Here. Use the washer holding my left arm on. I won’t need it any more.

  ARTHUR: All right.

  FX: Washer removed. Arm clanks into the dust.

  FX: Coin into telescope, timer tick starts, under:

  ARTHUR: Put the eyepiece up close . . . Can you see the message?

  MARVIN: I can. One letter at a time . . . ‘w’, ‘e’ . . . ‘a’, ‘p’, ‘o’, ‘l’, ‘o’, ‘g’, ‘i’, ‘s’, ‘e’. The next two words are ‘For’ and ‘The’. Then, it’s a long one: ‘i’, ‘n’, ‘c’, ‘o’, ‘n’ . . .

  FX: Ping! Ticker runs out.

  ARTHUR: Other arm?

  MARVIN: Is the last word ‘Incontinence’?

  FENCHURCH: ‘We apologise for the incontinence’?? I don’t think so.

  MARVIN: Other arm, then.

  FX: Washer removed. Other arm hits ground.

  FX: Coin into telescope. Ticking, under:

  MARVIN: So far, for what it’s worth, which, so far, isn’t much, God’s Last Message reads, (Fading) ‘We apologise for the . . . (Reads) ‘i’, ‘n’, ‘c’, ‘o’ . . .

  ARTHUR: We apologise for the inconvenience.

  MARVIN: I think . . . I think I feel good about that.

  AR
THUR: Let’s not go that f—

  MARVIN: (For the last time) Goodbye, Arthuuu

  FX: Marvin collapses. Dead. Pause, then:

  ARTHUR: Miserable git. (A pause, then – sniffs) I’ll miss him.

  FENCHURCH: (Gently) Come on, Arthur. Show me the Galaxy.

  INT. – SLUMPJET SPACELINER

  STEWARDESS: (Distorted, over intercom) Ladies and gentlemen, the SlumpJet is counting down to our first warp transition, please fasten your acceleration straps, switch off your cellphones and arrange your antennae, tentacles or pseudopodia in the upright position.

  FENCHURCH: (Giggles) Can you believe there was a stall where guys with green wings were renting scooters?

  ARTHUR: Wonko was Saner than we thought.

  STEWARDESS: (Distorted) If you look out of your viewports you’ll be able to see one set of stars wink out and another wink in as we cross the warp boundary, which will be in 10 – 9 – 8 – 7 – 6 – (etc., under:)

  FENCHURCH: How long till we reach Allosimanus Syneca?

  ARTHUR: About three hours after this transition . . .

  STEWARDESS: (Distorted, under this dialogue) 3 – 2 – 1 –

  FENCHURCH: And we just cross from one bit of space to another, without—

  FX: Deep throbbing ‘POP!’

  STEWARDESS: (Distorted) – and we’re through!

  FX: Dong (seat belts off)/general relief/the sudden movement and hubbub you used to get when the no smoking sign went off.

  ARTHUR: Without what? (Twisting in his seat) Fenchurch . . . ? Fenchurch?!

  STEWARDESS: (Approaching) Is everything all right, sir?

  ARTHUR: The young lady next to me – she’s gone – disappeared, just as we made the hyperspace jump!

  STEWARDESS: I’m sorry sir – what young lady?

  ARTHUR: The young lady you just served a drink to!

  STEWARDESS: Sir . . . you must be mistaken. You boarded on your own. That seat’s been unoccupied since Preliumtarn. You put your towel on it when you sat down and it’s still there. With your feet on it.

  ARTHUR: Fenchurch . . .

  INT. – THE BOOK AMBIENCE

  THE VOICE: Can a Galaxy with one plus Trillians but zero Fenchurches hold any comfort for Arthur Dent? Will he ever find the Ultimate Question to the Ultimate Answer? Or will he arrive at his final destination of Stavromula Beta first? What – besides resolutions of the interrogative – are the answers? Find out in the Quintessential Phase of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.