“Yes!”
Deep Thought pondered this for a moment.
“Tricky,” he said.
“But can you do it?” cried Loonquawl.
Deep Thought pondered this for another long moment.
Finally: “No,” he said firmly.
Both men collapsed on to their chairs in despair.
“But I’ll tell you who can,” said Deep Thought.
They both looked up sharply.
“Who?” “Tell us!”
Suddenly Arthur began to feel his apparently non-existent scalp begin to crawl as he found himself moving slowly but inexorably forward towards the console, but it was only a dramatic zoom on the part of whoever had made the recording he assumed.
“I speak of none other than the computer that is to come after me,” intoned Deep Thought, his voice regaining its accustomed declamatory tones. “A computer whose merest operational parameters I am not worthy to calculate—and yet I will design it for you. A computer which can calculate the Question to the Ultimate Answer, a computer of such infinite and subtle complexity that organic life itself shall form part of its operational matrix. And you yourselves shall take on new forms and go down into the computer to navigate its ten-million-year program! Yes! I shall design this computer for you. And I shall name it also unto you. And it shall be called . . . The Earth.”
Phouchg gaped at Deep Thought.
“What a dull name,” he said and great incisions appeared down the length of his body. Loonquawl too suddenly sustained horrific gashed from nowhere. The Computer console blotched and cracked, the walls flickered and crumbled and the room crashed upwards into its own ceiling . . .
Slartibartfast was standing in front of Arthur holding the two wires.
“End of the tape,” he explained.
Chapter 29
“Zaphod! Wake up!”
“Mmmmmwwwwwerrrrr?”
“Hey come on, wake up.”
“Just let me stick to what I’m good at, yeah?” muttered Zaphod and rolled away from the voice back to sleep.
“Do you want me to kick you?” said Ford.
“Would it give you a lot of pleasure?” said Zaphod, blearily.
“No.”
“Nor me. So what’s the point? Stop bugging me.” Zaphod curled himself up.
“He got a double dose of the gas,” said Trillian looking down at him, “two windpipes.”
“And stop talking,” said Zaphod, “it’s hard enough trying to sleep anyway. What’s the matter with the ground? It’s all cold and hard.”
“It’s gold,” said Ford.
With an amazingly balletic movement Zaphod was standing and scanning the horizon, because that was how far the gold ground stretched in every direction, perfectly smooth and solid. It gleamed like . . . it’s impossible to say what it gleamed like because nothing in the Universe gleams in quite the same way that a planet of solid gold does.
“Who put all that there?” yelped Zaphod, goggle-eyed.
“Don’t get excited,” said Ford, “it’s only a catalogue.”
“A who?”
“A catalogue,” said Trillian, “an illusion.”
“How can you say that?” cried Zaphod, falling to his hands and knees and staring at the ground. He poked it and prodded it with his fingernail. It was very heavy and very slightly soft—he could mark it with his fingernail. It was very yellow and very shiny, and when he breathed on it his breath evaporated off it in that very peculiar and special way that breath evaporates off solid gold.
“Trillian and I came round a while ago,” said Ford. “We shouted and yelled till somebody came and then carried on shouting and yelling till they got fed up and put us in their planet catalogue to keep us busy till they were ready to deal with us. This is all Sens-O-Tape.”
Zaphod stared at him bitterly.
“Ah, shit,” he said, “you wake me up from my own perfectly good dream to show me somebody else’s.” He sat down in a huff.
“What’s that series of valleys over there?” he said.
“Hallmark,” said Ford. “We had a look.”
“We didn’t wake you earlier,” said Trillian. “The last planet was knee deep in fish.”
“Fish?”
“Some people like the oddest things.”
“And before that,” said Ford, “we had platinum. Bit dull. We thought you’d like to see this one though.”
Seas of light glared at them in one solid blaze wherever they looked.
“Very pretty,” said Zaphod petulantly.
In the sky a huge green catalogue number appeared. It flickered and changed, and when they looked around again so had the land.
As with one voice they all went, “Yuch.”
The sea was purple. The beach they were on was composed of tiny yellow and green pebbles—presumably terribly precious stones. The mountains in the distance seemed soft and undulating with red peaks. Nearby stood a solid silver beach table with a frilly mauve parasol and silver tassles.
In the sky a huge sign appeared, replacing the catalogue number. It said, Whatever your tastes, Magrathea can cater for you. We are not proud.
And five hundred entirely naked women dropped out of the sky on parachutes.
In a moment the scene vanished and left them in a springtime meadow full of cows.
“Ow!” said Zaphod. “My brains!”
“You want to talk about it?” said Ford.
“Yeah, OK,” said Zaphod, and all three sat down and ignored the scenes that came and went around them.
“I figure this,” said Zaphod. “Whatever happened to my mind, I did it. And I did it in such a way that it wouldn’t be detected by the government screening tests. And I wasn’t to know anything about it myself. Pretty crazy, right?”
The other two nodded in agreement.
“So I reckon, what’s so secret that I can’t let anybody know I know it, not the Galactic Government, not even myself? And the answer is I don’t know. Obviously. But I put a few things together and I can begin to guess. When did I decide to run for President? Shortly after the death of President Yooden Vranx. You remember Yooden, Ford?”
“Yeah,” said Ford, “he was that guy we met when we were kids, the Arcturan captain. He was a gas. He gave us conkers when you bust your way into his megafreighter. Said you were the most amazing kid he’d ever met.”
“What’s all this?” said Trillian.
“Ancient history,” said Ford, “when we were kids together on Betelgeuse. The Arcturan megafreighters used to carry most of the bulky trade between the Galactic Centre and the outlying regions. The Betelgeuse trading scouts used to find the markets and the Arcturans would supply them. There was a lot of trouble with space pirates before they were wiped out in the Dordellis wars, and the megafreighters had to be equipped with the most fantastic defence shields known to Galactic science. They were real brutes of ships, and huge. In orbit round a planet they would eclipse the sun.
“One day, young Zaphod here decides to raid one. On a tri-jet scooter designed for stratosphere work, a mere kid. I mean forget it, it was crazier than a mad monkey. I went along for the ride because I’d got some very safe money on him not doing it, and didn’t want him coming back with fake evidence. So what happens? We got in his tri-jet which he had souped up into something totally other, crossed three parsecs in a matter of weeks, bust our way into a megafreighter I still don’t know how, marched on to the bridge waving toy pistols and demanded conkers. A wilder thing I have not known. Lost me a year’s pocket money. For what? Conkers.”
“The captain was this really amazing guy, Yooden Vranx,” said Zaphod. “He gave us food, booze—stuff from really weird parts of the Galaxy—lots of conkers of course, and we had just the most incredible time. Then he teleported us back. Into the maximum security wing of Betelgeuse state prison. He was a cool guy. Went on to become President of the Galaxy.”
Zaphod paused.
The scene around them was currently plunged into
gloom. Dark mists swirled round them and elephantine shapes lurked indistinctly in the shadows. The air was occasionally rent with the sounds of illusory beings murdering other illusory beings. Presumably enough people must have liked this sort of thing to make it a paying proposition.
“Ford,” said Zaphod quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Just before Yooden died he came to see me.”
“What? You never told me.”
“No.”
“What did he say? What did he come to see you about?”
“He told me about the Heart of Gold. It was his idea that I should steal it.”
“His idea?”
“Yeah,” said Zaphod, “and the only possible way of stealing it was to be at the launching ceremony.”
Ford gaped at him in astonishment for a moment, and then roared with laughter.
“Are you telling me,” he said, “that you set yourself up to become President of the Galaxy just to steal that ship?”
“That’s it,” said Zaphod with the sort of grin that would get most people locked away in a room with soft walls.
“But why?” said Ford. “What’s so important about having it?”
“Dunno,” said Zaphod, “I think if I’d consciously known what was so important about it and what I would need it for it would have showed up on the brain screening tests and I would never have passed. I think Yooden told me a lot of things that are still locked away.”
“So you think you went and mucked about inside your own brain as a result of Yooden talking to you?”
“He was a hell of a talker.”
“Yeah, but, Zaphod, old mate, you want to look after yourself, you know.”
Zaphod shrugged.
“I mean, don’t you have any inkling of the reasons for all this?” asked Ford.
Zaphod thought hard about this and doubts seemed to cross his minds.
“No,” he said at last, “I don’t seem to be letting myself into any of my secrets. Still,” he added on further reflection, “I can understand that. I wouldn’t trust myself further than I could spit a rat.”
A moment later, the last planet in the catalogue vanished from beneath them and the solid world resolved itself again.
They were sitting in a plush waiting room full of glass-top tables and design awards.
A tall Magrathean man was standing in front of them.
“The mice will see you now,” he said.
Chapter 30
“So there you have it,” said Slartibartfast, making a feeble and perfunctory attempt to clear away some of the appalling mess of his study. He picked up a paper from the top of a pile, but then couldn’t think of anywhere else to put it, so he put it back on top of the original pile which promptly fell over. “Deep Thought designed the Earth, we built it and you lived on it.”
“And the Vogons came and destroyed it five minutes before the program was completed,” added Arthur, not unbitterly.
“Yes,” said the old man, pausing to gaze hopelessly round the room. “Ten million years of planning and work gone just like that. Ten million years, Earthman . . . can you conceive of that kind of time span? A galactic civilization could grow from a single worm five times over in that time. Gone.” He paused.
“Well, that’s bureaucracy for you,” he added.
“You know,” said Arthur thoughtfully, “all this explains a lot of things. All through my life I’ve had this strange unaccountable feeling that something was going on in the world, something big, even sinister, and no one would tell me what it was.”
“No,” said the old man, “that’s just perfectly normal paranoia. Everyone in the Universe has that.”
“Everyone?” said Arthur. “Well, if everyone has that perhaps it means something! Perhaps somewhere outside the Universe we know . . .”
“Maybe. Who cares?” said Slartibartfast before Arthur got too excited. “Perhaps I’m old and tired,” he continued, “but I always think that the chances of finding out what really is going on are so absurdly remote that the only thing to do is to say hang the sense of it and just keep yourself occupied. Look at me: I design coastlines. I got an award for Norway.”
He rummaged around in a pile of debris and pulled out a large perspex block with his name on it and a model of Norway moulded into it.
“Where’s the sense in that?” he said. “None that I’ve been able to make out. I’ve been doing fjords in all my life. For a fleeting moment they become fashionable and I get a major award.”
He turned it over in his hands with a shrug and tossed it aside carelessly, but not so carelessly that it didn’t land on something soft.
“In this replacement Earth we’re building they’ve given me Africa to do and of course I’m doing it with all fjords again because I happen to like them, and I’m old fashioned enough to think that they give a lovely baroque feel to a continent. And they tell me it’s not equatorial enough. Equatorial!” He gave a hollow laugh. “What does it matter? Science has achieved some wonderful things of course, but I’d far rather be happy than right any day.”
“And are you?”
“No. That’s where it all falls down of course.”
“Pity,” said Arthur with sympathy. “It sounded like quite a good lifestyle otherwise.”
Somewhere on the wall a small white light flashed.
“Come,” said Slartibartfast, “you are to meet the mice. Your arrival on the planet has caused considerable excitement. It has already been hailed, so I gather, as the third most improbable event in the history of the Universe.”
“What were the first two?”
“Oh, probably just coincidences,” said Slartibartfast carelessly. He opened the door and stood waiting for Arthur to follow.
Arthur glanced around him once more, and then down at himself, at the sweaty dishevelled clothes he had been lying in the mud in on Thursday morning.
“I seem to be having tremendous difficulty with my lifestyle,” he muttered to himself.
“I beg your pardon?” said the old man mildly.
“Oh nothing,” said Arthur, “only joking.”
Chapter 31
It is of course well known that careless talk costs lives, but the full scale of the problem is not always appreciated.
For instance, at the very moment that Arthur said “I seem to be having tremendous difficulty with my lifestyle,” a freak wormhole opened up in the fabric of the space-time continuum and carried his words far far back in time across almost infinite reaches of space to a distant Galaxy where strange and warlike beings were poised on the brink of frightful interstellar battle.
The two opposing leaders were meeting for the last time.
A dreadful silence fell across the conference table as the commander of the Vl’hurgs, resplendent in his black jewelled battle shorts, gazed levelly at the G’Gugvuntt leader squatting opposite him in a cloud of green sweet-smelling steam, and, with a million sleek and horribly beweaponed star cruisers poised to unleash electric death at his single word of command, challenged the vile creature to take back what it had said about his mother.
The creature stirred in his sickly broiling vapour, and at that very moment the words I seem to be having tremendous difficulty with my lifestyle drifted across the conference table.
Unfortunately, in the Vl’hurg tongue this was the most dreadful insult imaginable, and there was nothing for it but to wage terrible war for centuries.
Eventually of course, after their Galaxy had been decimated over a few thousand years, it was realized that the whole thing had been a ghastly mistake, and so the two opposing battle fleets settled their few remaining differences in order to launch a joint attack on our own Galaxy—now positively identified as the source of the offending remark.
For thousands more years the mighty ships tore across the empty wastes of space and finally dived screaming on to the first planet they came across—which happened to be the Earth—where due to a terrible miscalculation of scale the entire battle fl
eet was accidentally swallowed by a small dog.
Those who study the complex interplay of cause and effect in the history of the Universe say that this sort of thing is going on all the time, but that we are powerless to prevent it.
“It’s just life,” they say.
A short aircar trip brought Arthur and the old Magrathean to a doorway. They left the car and went through the door into a waiting room full of glass-topped tables and perspex awards. Almost immediately, a light flashed above the door at the other side of the room and they entered.
“Arthur! You’re safe!” a voice cried.
“Am I?” said Arthur, rather startled. “Oh good.”
The lighting was rather subdued and it took him a moment or so to see Ford, Trillian and Zaphod sitting round a large table beautifully decked out with exotic dishes, strange sweetmeats and bizarre fruits. They were stuffing their faces.
“What happened to you?” demanded Arthur.
“Well,” said Zaphod, attacking a boneful of grilled muscle, “our hosts here have been gassing us and zapping our minds and being generally weird and have now given us a rather nice meal to make it up to us. Here,” he said hoiking out a lump of evil smelling meat from a bowl, “have some Vegan Rhino’s cutlet. It’s delicious if you happen to like that sort of thing.”
“Hosts?” said Arthur. “What hosts? I don’t see any . . .”
A small voice said, “Welcome to lunch, Earth creature.”
Arthur glanced around and suddenly yelped.
“Ugh!” he said. “There are mice on the table!”
There was an awkward silence as everyone looked pointedly at Arthur.
He was busy staring at two white mice sitting in what looked like whisky glasses on the table. He heard the silence and glanced around at everyone.
“Oh!” he said, with sudden realization. “Oh, I’m sorry, I wasn’t quite prepared for . . .”
“Let me introduce you,” said Trillian. “Arthur, this is Benji mouse.”
“Hi,” said one of the mice. His whiskers stroked what must have been a touch sensitive panel on the inside of the whisky-glass like affair, and it moved forward slightly.
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