Volume 4 - So Long, And Thanks For All The Fish

by Douglas Adams

  Entranced, Arthur turned it round yet again, and this time the light from the dusty little bedside lamp caught it at a different angle and glittered on some fine abrasions on the fishbowl’s surface. He held it up, adjusting the angle to the light, and suddenly saw clearly the finely engraved shapes of words shadowed on the glass.

  “So Long,” they said, “and Thanks …”

  And that was all. He blinked, and understood nothing.

  For fully five more minutes he turned the object around and around, held it to the light at different angles, tapped it for its mesmerizing chime, and pondered on the meaning of the shadowy letters but could find none. Finally he stood up, filled the bowl with water from the tap, and put it back on the table next to the television. He shook the little Babel fish from his ear and dropped it, wriggling, into the bowl. He wouldn’t be needing it anymore, except for watching foreign movies.

  He returned to lie on his bed, and turned out the light.

  He lay still and quiet. He absorbed the enveloping darkness, slowly relaxed his limbs from end to end, eased and regulated his breathing, gradually cleared his mind of all thought, closed his eyes, and was completely incapable of getting to sleep.

  The night was uneasy with rain. The rain clouds themselves had now moved on and were currently concentrating their attention on a small café just outside Bournemouth, but the sky through which they had passed had been disturbed by them and now wore a damply ruffled air, as if it didn’t know what else it might not do if further provoked.

  The moon was out in a watery way. It looked like a ball of paper from the back pocket of jeans that have just come out of the washing machine, which only time and ironing would tell if it was an old shopping list or a five-pound note.

  The wind flicked about a little, like the tail of a horse that’s trying to decide what sort of mood it’s in tonight, and a bell somewhere chimed midnight.

  A skylight creaked open.

  It was stiff and had to be jiggled and persuaded a little because the frame was slightly rotten and the hinge had at some time in its life been rather sensibly painted over, but eventually it was open.

  A strut was found to prop it and a figure struggled out into the narrow gully between the opposing pitches of the roof.

  The figure stood and watched the sky in silence.

  The figure was completely unrecognizable as the wild-looking creature who had burst crazily into the cottage a little over an hour ago. Gone was the ragged threadbare dressing gown, smeared with the mud of a hundred worlds, stained with junk food condiment from a hundred grimy spaceports, gone was the tangled mane of hair, gone the long and knotted beard, flourishing ecostructure and all.

  Instead, there was Arthur Dent, smooth and casual in corduroys and a bulky sweater. His hair was cropped and washed, his chin clean-shaven. Only the eyes still said that whatever it was the Universe thought it was doing to him, he would still like it please to stop.

  They were not the same eyes with which he had last looked out at this particular scene, and the brain which interpreted the images the eyes resolved was not the same brain. There had been no surgery involved, just the continual wrenching of experience.

  The night seemed like an alive thing to him at this moment, the dark Earth around him a being in which he was rooted.

  He could feel like a tingle on distant nerve ends the flood of a far river, the roll of invisible hills, the knot of heavy rain clouds parked somewhere away to the south.

  He could sense, too, the thrill of being a tree, which was something he hadn’t expected. He knew that it felt good to curl your toes in the earth, but he’d never realized it could feel quite as good as that. He could sense an almost unseemly wave of pleasure reaching at him all the way from the New Forest. He must try this summer, he thought, to see what having leaves felt like.

  From another direction he felt the sensation of being a sheep startled by a flying saucer, but it was virtually indistinguishable from the feeling of being a sheep startled by anything else it ever encountered, for they were creatures who learned very little on their journey through life, and would be startled to see the sun rising in the morning, and astonished by all the green stuff in the fields.

  He was surprised to find he could feel the sheep being startled by the sun that morning, and the morning before, and being startled by a clump of trees the day before that. He could go further and further back, but it go dull because all it consisted of was sheep being startled by things they’d been startled by the day before.

  He left the sheep and let his mind drift outward sleepily in developing ripples. It felt the presence of other minds, hundreds of them, thousands in a web, some sleepy, some sleeping, some terribly excited, one fractured.

  One fractured.

  He passed it fleetingly and tried to feel for it again, but it eluded him like the other card with an apple on it in a memory course. He felt a spasm of excitement because he knew instinctively who it was, or at least knew who it was he wanted it to be, and once you know what it is you want to be true, instinct is a very useful device for enabling you to know that it is.

  He instinctively knew that it was Fenny and that he wanted to find her; but he could not. By straining too much for it, he could feel he was losing this strange new faculty, so he relaxed the search and let his mind wander easily once more.

  And again, he felt the fracture.

  Again he couldn’t find it. This time, whatever his instincts were busy telling him it was all right to believe, he wasn’t certain that it was Fenny—or perhaps it was a different fracture this time. It had the same disjointed quality but it seemed a more general feeling of fracture, deeper, not a single mind, maybe not a mind at all. It was different.

  He let his mind sink slowly and widely into the Earth, rippling, seeping, sinking.

  He was following the Earth through its days, drifting with the rhythms of its myriad pulses, seeping through the webs of its life, swelling with its tides, turning with its weight. Always the fracture kept returning, a dull disjointed distant ache.

  And now he was flying through a land of light; the light was time, the tides of it were days receding. The fracture he had sensed, the second fracture, lay in the distance before him across the land, the thickness of a single hair across the dreaming landscape of the days of Earth.

  And suddenly he was upon it.

  He danced dizzily over the edge as the dreamland dropped sheer away beneath him, a stupefying precipice into nothing, him wildly twisting, clawing at nothing, flailing in horrifying space, spinning, falling.

  Across the jagged chasm had been another land, another time, an older world, not fractured from, but hardly joined: two Earths. He woke.

  A cold breeze brushed the feverish sweat standing on his forehead. The nightmare was spent and so, he felt, was he. His shoulders drooped, he gently rubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers. At last he was sleepy as well as very tired. As to what it meant, if it meant anything at all, he would think about in the morning; for now he would go to bed and sleep. His own bed, his own sleep.

  He could see his house in the distance and wondered why this was. It was silhouetted against the moonlight and he recognized its rather dull blockish shape. He looked about him and noticed that he was about eighteen inches above the rosebushes of one of his neighbors, John Ainsworth. His rosebushes were carefully tended, pruned back for the winter, strapped to canes and labeled, and Arthur wondered what he was doing above them. He wondered what was holding him there, and when he discovered that nothing was holding him there he crashed awkwardly to the ground.

  He picked himself up, brushed himself down, and hobbled back to his house on a sprained ankle. He undressed and toppled into bed.

  While he was asleep the phone rang again. It rang for fully fifteen minutes and caused him to turn over twice. It never, however, stood a chance of waking him up.

  8

  Arthur awoke feeling wonderful, absolutely fabulous, refreshed, overjoyed to be home,
bouncing with energy, hardly disappointed at all to discover it was the middle of February. He almost danced to the fridge, found the three least hairy things in it, put them on a plate and watched them intently for two minutes. Since they made no attempt to move within that time he called them breakfast and ate them. Between them they killed a virulent space disease he’d picked up without knowing it in the Flargathon Gas Swamps a few days earlier, which otherwise would have killed off half the population of the Western Hemisphere, blinded the other half, and driven everyone else psychotic and sterile, so the Earth was lucky there.

  He felt strong, he felt healthy. He vigorously cleared away the junk mail with a spade and then buried the cat.

  Just as he was finishing that, the phone rang, but he let it ring while he maintained a moment’s respectful silence. Whoever it was would ring back if it was important.

  He kicked the mud off his shoes and went back inside.

  There had been a small number of significant letters in the piles of junk—some documents from the council, dated three years earlier, relating to the proposed demolition of his house, and some other letters about the setting up of a public inquiry into the whole bypass scheme in the area; there was also an old letter from Greenpeace, the ecological pressure group to which he occasionally made contributions, asking for help with their scheme to release dolphins and orcas from captivity; and some postcards from friends vaguely complaining that he never got in touch these days.

  He collected these together and put them in a cardboard file which he marked “Things To Do.” Since he was feeling so vigorous and dynamic that morning, he even added the word “Urgent!”

  He unpacked his towel and another few odd bits and pieces from the plastic bag he had acquired at the Port Brasta Mega-Market. The slogan on the side was a clever and elaborate pun in Lingua Centauri which was completely incomprehensible in any other language and therefore entirely pointless for a duty-free shop at a spaceport. The bag also had a hole in it so he threw it away.

  He realized with a sudden twinge that something else must have dropped out in the small spacecraft that had brought him to Earth, kindly going out of its way to drop him right beside the A303. He had lost his battered and space-worn copy of the thing which had helped him find his way across the unbelievable wastes of space he had traversed. He had lost The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

  Well, he told himself, this time I really won’t be needing it again.

  He had some calls to make.

  He had decided how to deal with the mass of contradictions his return journey precipitated, which was that he would simply brazen it out.

  He phoned the BBC and asked to be put through to his department head.

  “Oh, hello, Arthur Dent here. Look, sorry I haven’t been in for six months but I’ve gone mad.”

  “Oh, not to worry. Thought it was probably something like that. Happens here all the time. How soon can we expect you?”

  “When do hedgehogs start hibernating?”

  “Sometime in spring, I think.”

  “I’ll be in shortly after that.”

  “Righty-ho.”

  He flipped through the Yellow Pages and made a short list of numbers to try.

  “Oh, hello, is that the Old Elms Hospital? Yes, I was just phoning to see if I could have a word with Fenella, er … Fenella … good Lord, silly me, I’ll forget my own name next, er, Fenella—isn’t this ridiculous? Patient of yours, dark-haired girl, came in last night …”

  “I’m afraid we don’t have any patients called Fenella.”

  “Oh, don’t you? I meant Fiona, of course, we just call her Fen—”

  “I’m sorry, goodbye.”

  Click.

  Six conversations along these lines began to take their toll on his mood of vigorous, dynamic optimism, and he decided that before it deserted him entirely he would take it down to the pub and parade it a little.

  He had the perfect idea for explaining away every inexplicable weirdness about himself at a stroke, and he whistled as he pushed open the door which had so daunted him last night.

  “Arthur!!!!”

  He grinned cheerfully at the boggling eyes that stared at him from all corners of the pub, and told them all what a wonderful time he’d had in Southern California.

  9

  He accepted another pint and took a pull at it.

  “Of course, I had my own personal alchemist, too,”

  “You what?”

  He was getting silly and he knew it. Exuberance and Hall and Woodhouse best bitter was a mixture to be wary of, but one of the first effects it has is to stop you being wary of things, and the point at which Arthur should have stopped and explained no more was the point at which he started instead to get inventive.

  “Oh yes,” he insisted with a happy glazed smile, “it’s why I’ve lost so much weight.”

  “What?” said his audience.

  “Oh yes,” he said again, “the Californians have rediscovered alchemy, oh yes.”

  He smiled again.

  “Only,” he said, “it’s in a much more useful form than that which in”—he paused thoughtfully to let a little grammar assemble in his head—“in which the ancients used to practice it. Or at least,” he added, “failed to practice it. They couldn’t get it to work, you know. Nostradamus and that lot. Couldn’t cut it.”

  “Nostradamus?” said one of his audience.

  “I didn’t think he was an alchemist,” said another.

  “I thought,” said a third, “he was a seer.”

  “He became a seer,” said Arthur to his audience, the component parts of which were beginning to bob and blur a little, “because he was such a lousy alchemist. You should know that.”

  He took another pull at his beer. It was something he had not tasted for eight years. He tasted it and tasted it.

  “What has alchemy got to do,” asked a bit of the audience, “with losing weight?”

  “I’m glad you asked that,” said Arthur, “very glad. And I will now tell you what the connection is between”—he paused—“between those two things. The things you mentioned. I’ll tell you.”

  He paused and maneuvered his thoughts. It was like watching oil tankers doing three-point turns in the English Channel.

  “They’ve discovered how to turn excess body fat into gold,” he said, in a sudden blurt of coherence.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Oh yes,” he said, “no,” he corrected himself, “they have.”

  He rounded on the doubting part of his audience, which was all of it, and so it took a little while to round on it completely.

  “Have you been to California?” he demanded. “Do you know the sort of stuff they do there?”

  Three members of his audience said they had and that he was talking nonsense.

  “You haven’t seen anything,” insisted Arthur. “Oh yes,” he added, because someone was offering to buy another round.

  “The evidence,” he said, pointing at himself, and not missing by more than a couple of inches, “is before your eyes. Fourteen hours in a trance,” he said, “in a tank. In a trance. I was in a tank. I think,” he added after a thoughtful pause, “I already said that.”

  He waited patiently while the next round was duly distributed. He composed the next bit of his story in his mind, which was going to be something about the tank needing to be oriented along a line dropped perpendicularly from the Pole Star to a base line drawn between Mars and Venus, and was about to start trying to say it when he decided to give it a miss.

  “Long time,” he said instead, “in a tank. In a trance.” He looked round severely at his audience, to make sure it was all following attentively.

  He resumed.

  “Where was I?” he said.

  “In a trance,” said one.

  “In a tank,” said another.

  “Oh yes,” said Arthur, “thank you. And slowly,” he said, pressing onward, “slowly, slowly slowly, all your excess body fat �
� turns … to”—he paused for effect—“subcoo … subyoo … subtoocay”—he paused for breath—“subcutaneous gold, which you can have surgically removed. Getting out of the tank is hell. What did you say?”

  “I was just clearing my throat.”

  “I think you doubt me.”

  “I was clearing my throat.”

  “She was clearing her throat,” confirmed a significant part of the audience in a low rumble.

  “Oh yes,” said Arthur, “all right. And you then split the proceeds”—he paused again for a math break—“fifty-fifty with the alchemist. Make a lot of money!”

  He looked swayingly around at his audience, and could not help but be aware of an air of skepticism about their jumbled faces.

  He felt very affronted by this.

  “How else,” he demanded, “could I afford to have my face dropped?”

  Friendly arms began to help him home. “Listen,” he protested, as the cold February breeze brushed his face, “looking lived-in is all the rage in California at the moment. You’ve got to look as if you’ve seen the Galaxy. Life, I mean. You’ve got to look as if you’ve seen life. That’s what I got. A face drop. Give me eight years, I said. I hope being thirty doesn’t come back into fashion or I’ve wasted a lot of money.”

  He lapsed into silence for a while as the friendly arms continued to help him along the lane to his house.

  “Got in yesterday,” he mumbled. “I’m very very very happy to be home. Or somewhere very like it … “

  “Jet lag,” muttered one of his friends, “long trip from California. Really mucks you up for a couple of days.”

  “I don’t think he’s been there at all,” muttered another. “I wonder where he has been. And what’s happened to him.”

  After a little sleep Arthur got up and pottered round the house a bit. He felt woozy and a little low, still disoriented by the journey. He wondered how he was going to find Fenny.