happy, come now.'
The robot let out a long heartfelt sigh of impassioned tristesse
and sank reluctantly away from the ceiling.
`Listen,' said Ford, `can you keep the rest of the security
system happy for a few minutes?'
`One of the joys of true happiness,' trilled the robot, `is
sharing. I brim, I froth, I overflow with...'
`OK,' said Ford. `Just spread a little happiness around the
security network. Don't give it any information. Just make it
feel good so it doesn't feel the need to ask for any.'
He picked up his towel and ran cheerfully for the door.
Life had been a little dull of late. It showed every sign now
of becoming extremely froody.
7
Arthur Dent had been in some hell-holes in his life, but he had
never before seen a spaceport which had a sign saying, `Even
travelling despondently is better than arriving here.' To welcome
visitors the arrivals hall featured a picture of the President of
NowWhat, smiling. It was the only picture anybody could find
of him, and it had been taken shortly after he had shot himself
so although the photo had been retouched as well as could be
managed the smile it wore was rather a ghastly one. The side
of his head had been drawn back in in crayon. No replacement
had been found for the photograph because no replacement had
been found for the President. There was only one ambition which
anyone on the planet ever had, and that was to leave.
Arthur checked himself into a small motel on the outskirts of
town, and sat glumly on the bed, which was damp, and flipped
through the little information brochure, which was also damp. It
said that the planet of NowWhat had been named after the open-
ing words of the first settlers to arrive there after struggling across
light years of space to reach the furthest unexplored outreaches of
the Galaxy. The main town was called OhWell. There weren't any
other towns to speak of. Settlement on NowWhat had not been
a success and the sort of people who actually wanted to live on
NowWhat were not the sort of people you would want to spend
time with.
Trading was mentioned in the brochure. The main trade that
was carried out was in the skins of the NowWhattian boghog but
it wasn't a very successful one because no one in their right minds
would want to buy a NowWhattian boghog skin. The trade only
hung on by its fingernails because there was always a significant
number of people in the Galaxy who were not in their right minds.
Arthur had felt very uncomfortable looking around at some of
the other occupants of the small passenger compartment of the
ship.
The brochure described some of the history of the planet.
Whoever had written it had obviously started out trying to drum
up a little enthusiasm for the place by stressing that it wasn't
actually cold and wet all the time, but could find little positive
to add to this so the tone of the piece quickly degenerated into
savage irony.
It talked about the early years of settlement. It said that the
major activities pursued on NowWhat were those of catching,
skinning and eating NowWhattian boghogs, which were the only
extant form of animal life on NowWhat, all other having long
ago died of despair. The boghogs were tiny, vicious creatures,
and the small margin by which they fell short of being completely
inedible was the margin by which life on the planet subsisted.
So what were the rewards, however small, that made life on
NowWhat worth living? Well, there weren't any. Not a one.
Even making yourself some protective clothing out of boghog
skins was an exercise in disappointment and futility, since the
skins were unaccountably thin and leaky. This caused a lot of
puzzled conjecture amongst the settlers. What was the boghog's
secret of keeping warm? If anyone had ever learnt the language
the boghogs spoke to each other they would have discovered
that there was no trick. The boghogs were as cold and wet as
anyone else on the planet. No one had had the slightest desire
to learn the language of the boghogs for the simple reason that
these creatures communicated by biting each other very hard on
the thigh. Life on NowWhat being what it was, most of what a
boghog might have to say about it could easily be signified by
these means.
Arthur flipped through the brochure till he found what he
was looking for. At the back there were a few maps of the
planet. They were fairly rough and ready because they weren't
likely to be of much interest to anyone, but they told him what
he wanted to know.
He didn't recognise it at first because the maps were the
other way up from the way he would have expected and looked,
therefore thoroughly unfamiliar. Of course, up and down, north
and south, are absolutely arbitrary designations, but we are used
to seeing things the way we are used to seeing them, and
Arthur had to turn the maps upside-down to make sense of
them.
There was one huge landmass off on the upper left-hand
side of the page which tapered down to a tiny waist and then
ballooned out again like a large comma. On the right-hand side
was a collection of large shapes jumbled familiarly together. The
outlines were not exactly the same, and Arthur didn't know if this
was because the map was so rough, or because the sea-level was
higher or because, well, things were just different here. But the
evidence was inarguable.
This was definitely the Earth.
Or rather, it most definitely was not.
It merely looked a lot like the Earth and occupied the same
co-ordinates in space/time. What co-ordinates it occupied in
Probability was anybody's guess.
He sighed.
This, he realised, was about as close to home as he was
likely to get. Which meant that he was about as far from home
as he could possibly be. Glumly he slapped the brochure shut
and wondered what on earth he was going to do next.
He allowed himself a hollow laugh at what he had just
thought. He looked at his old watch, and shook it a bit to wind it.
It had taken him, according to his own time-scale, a year of hard
travelling to get here. A year since the accident in hyperspace in
which Fenchurch had completely vanished. One minute she had
been sitting there next to him in the SlumpJet; the next minute
the ship had done a perfectly normal hyperspace hop and when
he had next looked she was not there. The seat wasn't even
warm. Her name wasn't even on the passenger list.
The spaceline had been wary of him when he had complained.
A lot of awkward things happen in space travel, and a lot of them
make a lot of money for lawyers. But when they had asked him
what Galactic Sector he and Fenchurch had been from and he
had said ZZ9 Plural Z Alpha they had relaxed completely in a
way that Arthur wasn't at all sure he liked. They even laughed
a little, though sympathetically, of
course. They pointed to the
clause in the ticket contract which said that the entities whose
lifespans had originated in any of the Plural zones were advised
not to travel in hyperspace and did so at their own risk. Every-
body, they said, knew that. They tittered slightly and shook their
heads.
As Arthur had left their offices he found he was trembling
slightly. Not only had he lost Fenchurch in the most complete
and utter way possible, but he felt that the more time he spent
away out in the Galaxy the more it seemed that the number of
things he didn't know anything about actually increased.
Just as he was lost for a moment in these numb memories a
knock came on the door of his motel room, which then opened
immediately. A fat and dishevelled man came in carrying Arthur's
one small case.
He got as far as, `Where shall I put -' when there was
a sudden violent flurry and he collapsed heavily against the
door, trying to beat off a small and mangy creature that had
leapt snarling out of the wet night and buried its teeth in his
thigh, even through the thick layers of leather padding he wore
there. There was a brief, ugly confusion of jabbering and thrash-
ing. The man shouted frantically and pointed. Arthur grabbed a
hefty stick that stood next to the door expressly for this purpose
and beat at the boghog with it.
The boghog suddenly disengaged and limped backwards, dazed
and forlorn. It turned anxiously in the corner of the room, its tail
tucked up right under its back legs, and stood looking nervously
up at Arthur, jerking its head awkwardly and repeatedly to one
side. Its jaw seemed to be dislocated. It cried a little and scraped
its damp tail across the floor. By the door, the fat man with
Arthur's suitcase was sitting and cursing, trying to staunch the
flow of blood from his thigh. His clothes were already wet from
the rain.
Arthur stared at the boghog, not knowing what to do. The
boghog looked at him questioningly. It tried to approach him,
waking mournful little whimpering noises. It moved its jaw pain-
fully. It made a sudden leap for Arthur's thigh, but its dislocated
jaw was too weak to get a grip and it sank, whining sadly, down
to the floor. The fat man jumped to his feet, grabbed the stick,
beat the boghog's brains into a sticky, pulpy mess on the thin
carpet, and then stood there breathing heavily as if daring the
animal to move again, just once.
A single boghog eyeball sat looking reproachfully at Arthur
from out of the mashed ruins of its head.
`What do you think it was trying to say?' asked Arthur
in a small voice.
`Ah, nothing much,' said the man `Just its way of trying
to be friendly. This is just our way of being friendly back,'
he added, gripping the stick.
`When's the next flight out?' asked Arthur.
`Thought you'd only just arrived,' said the man.
`Yes,' said Arthur. `It was only going to be a brief visit.
I just wanted to see if this was the right place or not. Sorry.'
`You mean you're on the wrong planet?' said the man lugu-
briously. `Funny how many people say that. Specially the people
who live here.' He eyed the remains of the boghog with a deep,
ancestral resentment.
`Oh no,' said Arthur, 'it's the right planet all right.' He
picked up the damp brochure lying on the bed and put it in
his pocket. `It's OK, thanks, I'll take that,' he said, taking his
case from the man. He went to the door and looked out into
the cold, wet night.
`Yes, it's the right planet, all right,' he said again. `Right
planet, wrong universe.'
A single bird wheeled in the sky above him as he set off
back for the spaceport.
8
Ford had his own code of ethics. It wasn't much of one, but it
was his and he stuck by it, more or less. One rule he made was
never to buy his own drinks. He wasn't sure if that counted as an
ethic, but you have to go with what you've got. He was also firmly
and utterly opposed to all and any forms of cruelty to any animals
whatsoever except geese. And furthermore he would never steal
from his employers.
Well, not exactly steal.
If his accounts supervisor didn't start to hyperventilate and
put out a seal-all-exits security alert when Ford handed in his
expenses claim then Ford felt he wasn't doing his job properly.
But actually stealing was another thing. That was biting the hand
that feeds you. Sucking very hard on it, even nibbling it in an
affectionate kind of a way was OK, but you didn't actually bite
it. Not when that hand was the Guide. The Guide was something
sacred and special.
But that, thought Ford as he ducked and weaved his way
down through the building, was about to change. And they
had only themselves to blame. Look at all this stuff. Lines of
neat grey office cubicles and executive workstation pods. The
whole place was dreary with the hum of memos and minutes of
meetings flitting through its electronic networks. Out in the street
they were playing Hunt the Wocket for Zark's sake, but here in
the very heart of the Guide offices no one was even recklessly
kicking a ball around the corridors or wearing inappropriately
coloured beachware.
`InfiniDim Enterprises,' Ford snarled to himself as he stalked
rapidly down one corridor after another. Door after door magi-
cally opened to him without question. Elevators took him happily
to places they should not. Ford was trying to pursue the most
tangled and complicated route he could, heading generally down-
wards through the building. His happy little robot took care of
everything, spreading waves of acquiescent joy through all the
security circuits it encountered.
Ford thought it needed a name and decided to call it Emily
Saunders, after a girl he had very fond memories of. Then he
thought that Emily Saunders was an absurd name for a security
robot, and decided to call it Colin instead, after Emily's dog.
He was moving deep into the bowels of the building now,
into areas he had never entered before, areas of higher and
higher security. He was beginning to encounter puzzled looks
from the operatives he passed. At this level of security you
didn't even call them people anymore. And they were probably
doing stuff that only operatives would do. When they went home
to their families in the evening they became people again, and
when their little children looked up to them with their sweet
shining eyes and said `Daddy, what did you do all day today?'
they just said, `I performed my duties as an operative,' and left
it at that.
The truth of the matter was that all sorts of highly dodgy
stuff went on behind the cheery, happy-go-lucky front that the
Guide liked to put up - or used to like to put up before this new
InfiniDim Enterprises bunch marched in and started to make the
whole thing highly dodgy. There were all kinds of tax scam
s and
rackets and graft and shady deals supporting the shining edifice,
and down in the secure research and data-processing levels of
the building was where it all went on.
Every few years the Guide would set up its business, and
indeed its building on a new world, and all would be sunshine
and laughter for a while as the Guide would put down its roots
in the local culture and economy, provide employment, a sense
of glamour and adventure and, in the end, not quite as much
actual revenue as the locals had expected.
When the Guide moved on, taking its building with it, it
left a little like a thief in the night. Exactly like a thief in
the night in fact. It usually left in the very early hours of
the morning, and the following day there always turned out
to be a very great deal of stuff missing. Whole cultures and
economies would collapse in its wake, often within a week,
leaving once thriving planets desolate and shell-shocked but
still somehow feeling they had been part of some great adven-
ture.
The `operatives' who shot puzzled glances at Ford as he
marched on into the depths of the building's most sensitive
areas were reassured by the presence of Colin, who was flying
along with him in a buzz of emotional fulfilment and easing his
path for him at every stage.
Alarms were starting to go off in other parts of the building.
Perhaps that meant that Vann Harl had already been discovered,
which might be a problem. Ford had been hoping he would be
able to slip the Ident-i-Eeze back into his pocket before he came
round. Well, that was a problem for later, and he didn't for the
moment have the faintest idea how he was going to solve it. For
the moment he wasn't going to worry. Wherever he went with
ADAMS, Douglas - Mostly Harmless Page 7
