“You’ll know when you find it,” she said. “Really you will.” There was a slight catch in her voice. “It’s not that one.”
Feeling increasingly puzzled, Arthur let her left foot down on the floor and moved himself around so that he could take her right foot. She moved forward, put her arms round and kissed him, because the record had got to that bit which, if you knew the record, you would know made it impossible not to do this.
Then she gave him her right foot.
He stroked it, ran his fingers round her ankle, under her toes, along her instep, could find nothing wrong with it.
She watched him with great amusement, laughed and shook her head.
“No, don’t stop,” she said, “but it’s not that one now.”
Arthur stopped, and frowned at her left foot on the floor.
“Don’t stop.”
He stroked her right foot, ran his fingers around her ankle, under her toes, along her instep and said, “You mean it’s something to do with which leg I’m holding…?”
She did another of the shrugs which would have brought such joy into the life of a simple cushion from Squornshellous Beta.
He frowned.
“Pick me up,” she said quietly.
He let her right foot down to the floor and stood up. So did she. He picked her up in his arms and they kissed again. This went on for a while, then she said, “Now put me down again.”
Still puzzled, he did so.
“Well?”
She looked at him almost challengingly.
“So what’s wrong with my feet?” she said.
Arthur still did not understand. He sat on the floor, then got down on his hands and knees to look at her feet, in situ, as it were, in their normal habitat. And as he looked closely, something odd struck him. He put his head right down to the ground and peered. There was a long pause. He sat back heavily.
“Yes,” he said, “I see what’s wrong with your feet. They don’t touch the ground.”
“So… so what do you think…?”
Arthur looked up at her quickly and saw the deep apprehension making her eyes suddenly dark. She bit her lip and was trembling.
“What do…” she stammered. “Are you…?” She shook the hair forwards over her eyes that were filling with dark fearful tears.
He stood up quickly, put his arms around her and gave her a single kiss.
“Perhaps you can do what I can do,” he said, and walked straight out of her upstairs front door.
The record got to the good bit.
Chapter 23
The battle raged on about the star of Xaxis. Hundreds of the fierce and horribly beweaponed Zirzla ships had now been smashed and wrenched to atoms by the withering forces the huge silver Xaxisian ship was able to deploy.
Part of the moon had gone too, blasted away by those same blazing forceguns that ripped the very fabric of space as they passed through it.
The Zirzla ships that remained, horribly beweaponed though they were, were now hopelessly outclassed by the devastating power of the Xaxisian ship, and were fleeing for cover behind the rapidly disintegrating moon, when the Xaxisian ship, in hurtling pursuit behind them, suddenly announced that it needed a holiday and left the field of battle.
All was redoubled fear and consternation for a moment, but the ship was gone.
With the stupendous powers at its command it flitted across vast tracts of irrationally shaped space, quickly, effortlessly, and above all, quietly.
Deep in his greasy, smelly bunk, fashioned out of a maintenance hatchway, Ford Prefect slept among his towels, dreaming of old haunts. He dreamed at one point in his slumbers of New York.
In his dream he was walking late at night along the East Side, beside the river which had become so extravagantly polluted that new lifeforms were now emerging from it spontaneously, demanding welfare and voting rights.
One of those now floated past, waving. Ford waved back.
The thing thrashed to the shore and struggled up the bank.
“Hi,” it said, “I’ve just been created. I’m completely new to the Universe in all respects. Is there anything you can tell me?”
“Phew,” said Ford, a little nonplussed, “I can tell you where some bars are, I guess.”
“What about love and happiness. I sense deep needs for things like that,” it said, waving its tentacles. “Got any leads there?”
“You can get some like what you require,” said Ford, “on Seventh Avenue.”
“I instinctively feel,” said the creature, urgently, “that I need to be beautiful. Am I?”
“You’re pretty direct, aren’t you?”
“No point in mucking about. Am I?”
“To me?” said Ford. “No. But listen,” he added after a moment, “most people make out, you know. Are there and like you down there?”
“Search me, buster,” said the creature, “as I said, I’m new here. Life is entirely strange to me. What’s it like?”
Here was something that Ford felt he could speak about with authority.
“Life,” he said, “is like a grapefruit.”
“Er, how so?”
“Well, it’s sort of orangey-yellow and dimpled on the outside, wet and squidgy in the middle. It’s got pips inside, too. Oh, and some people have half a one for breakfast.”
“Is there anyone else out there I can talk to?”
“I expect so,” said Ford. “Ask a policeman.”
Deep in his bunk, Ford Prefect wriggled and turned on to his other side. It wasn’t his favourite type of dream because it didn’t have Eccentrica Gallumbits, the Triple-Breasted Whore of Eroticon VI in it, whom many of his dreams did feature. But at least it was a dream. At least he was asleep.
Chapter 24
Luckily there was a strong updraft in the alley because Arthur hadn’t done this sort of thing for a while, at least, not deliberately, and deliberately is exactly the way you are not meant to do it.
He swung down sharply, nearly catching himself a nasty crack on the jaw with the doorstep and tumbled through the air, so suddenly stunned with what a profoundly stupid thing he had just done that he completely forgot the bit about hitting the ground and didn’t.
A nice trick, he thought to himself, if you can do it.
The ground was hanging menacingly above his head.
He tried not to think about the ground, what an extraordinarily big thing it was and how much it would hurt him if it decided to stop hanging there and suddenly fell on him. He tried to think nice thoughts about lemurs instead, which was exactly the right thing to do because he couldn’t at that moment remember precisely what a lemur was, if it was one of those things that sweep in great majestic herds across the plains of wherever it was or if that was wildebeests, so it was a tricky kind of thing to think nice thoughts about without simply resorting to an icky sort of general well-disposedness towards things, and all this kept his mind well occupied while his body tried to adjust to the fact that it wasn’t touching anything.
A Mars bar wrapper fluttered down the alleyway.
After a seeming moment of doubt and indecision it eventually allowed the wind to ease it, fluttering, between him and the ground.
“Arthur…”
The ground was still hanging menacingly above his head, and he thought it was probably time to do something about that, such as fall away from it, which is what he did. Slowly. Very, very slowly.
As he fell slowly, very, very slowly, he closed his eyes – carefully, so as not to jolt anything.
The feel of his eyes closing ran down his whole body. Once it had reached his feet, and the whole of his body was alerted to the fact that his eyes were now closed and was not panicked by it, he slowly, very, very slowly, revolved his body one way and his mind the other.
That should sort the ground out.
He could feel the air clear about him now, breezing around him quite cheerfully, untroubled by his being there, and slowly, very, very slowly, as from a deep and distant
sleep, he opened his eyes.
He had flown before, of course, flown many times on Krikkit until all the birdtalk had driven him scatty, but this was different.
Here he was on his own world, quietly, and without fuss, beyond a slight trembling which could have been attributable to a number of things, being in the air.
Ten or fifteen feet below him was the hard tarmac and a few yards off to the right the yellow street lights of Upper Street.
Luckily the alleyway was dark since the light which was supposed to see it through the night was on an ingenious timeswitch which meant it came on just before lunchtime and went off again as the evening was beginning to draw in. He was, therefore, safely shrouded in a blanket of dark obscurity.
He slowly, very, very slowly, lifted his head to Fenchurch, who was standing in silent breathless amazement, silhouetted in her upstairs doorway.
Her face was inches from his.
“I was about to ask you,” she said in a low trembly voice, “what you were doing. But then I realized that I could see what you were doing. You were flying. So it seemed,” she went on after a slight wondering pause, “like a bit of a silly question.”
Arthur said, “Can you do it?”
“No.”
“Would you like to try?”
She bit her lip and shook her head, not so much to say no, but just in sheer bewilderment. She was shaking like a leaf.
“It’s quite easy,” urged Arthur, “if you don’t know how. That’s the important bit. Be not at all sure how you’re doing it.”
Just to demonstrate how easy it was he floated away down the alley, fell upwards quite dramatically and bobbed back down to her like a banknote on a breath of wind.
“Ask me how I did that.”
“How… did you do that?”
“No idea. Not a clue.”
She shrugged in bewilderment. “So how can I…?”
Arthur bobbed down a little lower and held out his hand.
“I want you to try,” he said, “to step on my hand. Just one foot.”
“What?”
“Try it.”
Nervously, hesitantly, almost, she told herself, as if she was trying to step on the hand of someone who was floating in front of her in midair, she stepped on to his hand.
“Now the other.”
“What?”
“Take the weight off your back foot.”
“I can’t.”
“Try it.”
“Like this?”
“Like that.”
Nervously, hesitantly, almost, she told herself, as if– She stopped telling herself what she was doing was like because she had a feeling she didn’t altogether want to know.
She fixed her eyes very firmly on the guttering of the roof of the decrepit warehouse opposite which had been annoying her for weeks because it was clearly going to fall off and she wondered if anyone was going to do anything about it or whether she ought to say something to somebody, and didn’t think for a moment about the fact that she was standing on the hands of someone who wasn’t standing on anything at all.
“Now,” said Arthur, “take your weight off your left foot.”
She thought that the warehouse belonged to the carpet company who had their offices round the corner, and took the weight off her left foot, so she should probably go and see them about the gutter.
“Now,” said Arthur, “take the weight off your right foot.”
“I can’t.”
“Try.”
She hadn’t seen the guttering from quite this angle before, and it looked to her now as if as well as the mud and gunge up there might also be a bird’s nest. If she leaned forward just a little and took her weight off her right foot, she could probably see it more clearly.
Arthur was alarmed to see that someone down in the alley was trying to steal her bicycle. He particularly didn’t want to get involved in an argument at the moment and hoped that the guy would do it quietly and not look up.
He had the quiet shifty look of someone who habitually stole bicycles in alleys and habitually didn’t expect to find their owners hovering several feet above them. He was relaxed by both these habits, and went about his job with purpose and concentration, and when he found that the bike was unarguably bound by hoops of tungsten carbide to an iron bar embedded in concrete, he peacefully bent both its wheels and went on his way.
Arthur let out a long-held breath.
“See what a piece of eggshell I have found you,” said Fenchurch in his ear.
Chapter 25
Those who are regular followers of the doings of Arthur Dent may have received an impression of his character and habits which, while it includes the truth and, of course, nothing but the truth, falls somewhat short, in its composition, of the whole truth in all its glorious aspects.
And the reasons for this are obvious. Editing, selection, the need to balance that which is interesting with that which is relevant and cut out all the tedious happenstance.
Like this for instance. “Arthur Dent went to bed. He went up the stairs, all fifteen of them, opened the door, went into his room, took off his shoes and socks and then all the rest of his clothes one by one and left them in a neatly crumpled heap on the floor. He put on his pyjamas, the blue ones with the stripe. He washed his face and hands, cleaned his teeth, went to the lavatory, realized that he had once again got this all in the wrong order, had to wash his hands again and went to bed. He read for fifteen minutes, spending the first ten minutes of that trying to work out where in the book he had got to the previous night, then he turned out the light and within a minute or so more was asleep.
“It was dark. He lay on his left side for a good hour.
“After that he moved restlessly in his sleep for a moment and then turned over to sleep on his right side. Another hour after this his eyes flickered briefly and he slightly scratched his nose, though there was still a good twenty minutes to go before he turned back on to his left side. And so he whiled the night away, sleeping.
“At four he got up and went to the lavatory again. He opened the door to the lavatory…” and so on.
It’s guff. It doesn’t advance the action. It makes for nice fat books such as the American market thrives on, but it doesn’t actually get you anywhere. You don’t, in short, want to know.
But there are other omissions as well, beside the teethcleaning and trying to find fresh socks variety, and in some of these people have often seemed inordinately interested.
What, they want to know, about all that stuff off in the wings with Arthur and Trillian, did that ever get anywhere?
To which the answer is, of course, mind your own business.
And what, they say, was he up to all those nights on the planet Krikkit? Just because the planet didn’t have Fuolornis Fire Dragons or Dire Straits doesn’t mean that everyone just sat up every night reading.
Or to take a more specific example, what about the night after the committee meeting party on Prehistoric Earth, when Arthur found himself sitting on a hillside watching the moon rise over the softly burning trees in company with a beautiful young girl called Mella, recently escaped from a lifetime of staring every morning at a hundred nearly identical photographs of moodily lit tubes of toothpaste in the art department of an advertising agency on the planet Golgafrincham. What then? What happened next? And the answer is, of course, that the book ended.
The next one didn’t resume the story till five years later, and you can, claim some, take discretion too far. “This Arthur Dent,” comes the cry from the furthest reaches of the galaxy, and has even now been found inscribed on a mysterious deep space probe thought to originate from an alien galaxy at a distance too hideous to contemplate, “What is he, man or mouse? Is he interested in nothing more than tea and the wider issues of life? Has he no spirit? Has he no passion? Does he not, to put it in a nutshell, fuck?”
Those who wish to know should read on. Others may wish to skip on to the last chapter which is a good bit and has Marvin
in it.
Chapter 26
Arthur Dent allowed himself for an unworthy moment to think, as they drifted up, that he very much hoped that his friends who had always found him pleasant but dull, or more latterly, odd but dull, were having a good time in the pub, but that was the last time, for a while, that he thought of them.
They drifted up, spiralling slowly around each other, like sycamore seeds falling from sycamore trees in the autumn, except going the other way.
And as they drifted up their minds sang with the ecstatic knowledge that either what they were doing was completely and utterly and totally impossible or that physics had a lot of catching up to do.
Physics shook its head and, looking the other way, concentrated on keeping the cars going along the Euston Road and out towards the Westway flyover, on keeping the streetlights lit and on making sure that when somebody on Baker Street dropped a cheeseburger it went splat upon the ground.
Dwindling headily beneath them, the beaded strings of light of London – London, Arthur had to keep reminding himself, not the strangely coloured fields of Krikkit on the remote fringes of the galaxy, lighted freckles of which faintly spanned the opening sky above them, but London – swayed, swaying and turning, turned.
“Try a swoop,” he called to Fenchurch.
“What?”
Her voice seemed strangely clear but distant in all the vast empty air. It was breathy and faint with disbelief – all those things, clear, faint, distant, breathy, all at the same time.
“We’re flying…” she said.
“A trifle,” called Arthur, “think nothing of it. Try a swoop.”
“A sw—”
Her hand caught his, and in a second her weight caught it too, and stunningly, she was gone, tumbling beneath him, clawing wildly at nothing.
Physics glanced at Arthur, and clotted with horror he was gone too, sick with giddy dropping, every part of him screaming but his voice.
They plummeted because this was London and you really couldn’t do this sort of thing here.
So Long, And Thanks For All The Fish tuhgttg-4 Page 10
