background of the stars in their constellations. The display was
completely static.
`We have great skills,' the Leader was saying. `Great skills in
computation, in cosmological trigonometry, in three-dimensional
navigational calculus. Great skills. Great, great skills. Only we
have lost them. It is too bad. We like to have skills only they
have gone. They are in space somewhere, hurtling. With our
names and the details of our homes and loved ones. Please,' he
said, gesturing her forward to sit at the computer's console, `be
skilful for us.'
Obviously what happened next was that Tricia quickly set
the video camera up on its tripod to capture the whole scene.
She then walked into shot herself and sat down calmly in front
of the giant computer display, spent a few moments familiarising
herself with the interface and then started smoothly and com-
petently to pretend that she had the faintest idea what she was
doing.
It hadn't been that difficult, in fact.
She was, after all, a mathematician and astrophysicist by
training and a television presenter by experience, and what
science she had forgotten over the years she was more than
capable of making up by bluffing.
The computer she was working on was clear evidence that
the Grebulons came from a far more advanced and sophisticated
culture than their current vacuous state suggested, and with its
aid she was able, within about half an hour, to cobble together
a rough working model of the solar system.
It wasn't particularly accurate or anything, but it looked
good. The planets were whizzing around in reasonably good
simulations of their orbits, and you could watch the movement
of the whole piece of virtual cosmological clockwork from any
point within the system - very roughly. You could watch from
Earth, you could watch from Mars, etc. You could watch from
the surface of the planet Rupert. Tricia had been quite impressed
with herself, but also very impressed with the computer system
she was working on. Using a computer workstation on Earth the
task would probably have taken a year or so of programming.
When she was finished, the Leader came up behind her and
watched. He was very pleased and delighted with what she had
achieved.
`Good,' he said. `And now, please, I would like you to
demonstrate how to use the system you have just designed
to translate the information in this book for me.'
Quietly he put a book down in front of her.
It was You and Your Planets by Gail Andrews.
Tricia stopped the tape again.
She was definitely feeling very wobbly indeed. The feeling
that she was hallucinating had now receded, but had not left
anything any easier or clearer in her head.
She pushed her seat back from the editing desk and wondered
what to do. Years ago she had left the field of astronomical
research because she knew, without any doubt whatsoever,
that she had met a being from another planet. At a par-
ty. And she had also known, without any doubt whatsoever,
that she would have made herself a laughing stock if she had
ever said so. But how could she study cosmology and not
say anything about the single most important thing she knew
about it? She had done the only thing she could do. She had
left.
Now she worked in television and the same thing had happened
again.
She had videotape, actual videotape of the most astounding
story in the history of, well anything: a forgotten outpost of an
alien civilisation marooned on the outermost planet of our own
solar system.
She had the story.
She had been there.
She had seen it.
She had the videotape for God's sake.
And if she ever showed it to anybody, she would be a
laughing stock.
How could she prove any of this? It wasn't even worth thinking
about. The whole thing was a nightmare from virtually any angle
she cared to look at it from. Her head was beginning to throb.
She had some aspirin in her bag. She went out of the little
editing suite to the water dispenser down the corridor. She took
the aspirin and drank several cups of water.
The place seemed to be very quiet. Usually there were more
people bustling about the place, or at least some people bustling
around the place. She popped her head round the door of the
editing suite next to hers but there was no one there.
She had gone rather overboard keeping people out of her
own suite. `DO NOT DISTURB,' the notice read. `DO NOT
EVEN THINK OF ENTERING. I DON'T CARE WHAT IT
IS. GO AWAY. I'M BUSY!'
When she went back in she noticed that the message light
on her phone extension was winking, and wondered how long
it had been on.
`Hello?' she said to the receptionist.
`Oh, Miss McMillan, I'm so glad you called. Everybody's
been trying to reach you. Your TV company. They're desperate
to reach you. Can you call them?'
`Why didn't you put them through?' said Tricia.
`You said I wasn't to put anybody through for anything. You
said I was to deny that you were even here. I didn't know what
to do. I came up to give you a message, but...'
`OK,' said Tricia, cursing herself. She phoned her office.
`Tricia! Where the haemorrhaging fuck are you?'
`At the editing...'
`They said...'
`I know. What's up?'
`What's up? Only a bloody alien spaceship!'
`What? Where?'
`Regent's Park. Big silver job. Some girl with a bird. She
speaks English and throws rocks at people and wants someone
to repair her watch. Just get there.'
Tricia stared at it.
It wasn't a Grebulon ship. Not that she was suddenly an
expert on extraterrestrial craft, but this was a sleek and beautiful
silver and white thing about the size of a large ocean-going yacht,
which is what it most resembled. Next to this, the structures of the
huge half-dismantled Grebulon ship looked like gun turrets on a
battleship. Gun turrets. That's what those blank grey buildings
had looked like. And what was odd about them was that by the
time she passed them again on her way to reboarding the small
Grebulon craft, they had moved. These things flitted briefly
through her head as she ran from the taxi to meet her camera
crew.
`Where's the girl?' she shouted above the noise of helicopters
and police sirens.
`There!' shouted the producer while the sound engineer hurried
to clip a radio mike to her. `She says her mother and father came
from here in some parallel dimension or something like that, and
she's got her father's watch, and... I don't know. What can I
tell you? Busk it. Ask her what it feels like to be from outer
space.'
`Thanks a lot, Ted,' muttered Tricia, checked that her mike
was securely clipped, gave the engineer some level, took a deep
breath, tossed her hair back an
d switched into her role of pro-
fessional reporter, on home ground, ready for anything.
At least, nearly anything.
She turned to look for the girl. That must be her, with
the wild hair and wild eyes. The girl turned towards her. And
stared.
`Mother!' she screamed, and started to hurl rocks at Tricia.
22
Daylight exploded around them. Hot, heavy sun. A desert plain
stretched out ahead in a haze of heat. They thundered out into
it.
`Jump!' shouted Ford Prefect.
`What?' shouted Arthur Dent, holding on for dear life.
There was no reply.
`What did you say?' shouted Arthur again, and then realised
that Ford Prefect was no longer there. He looked around in panic
and started to slip. Realising he couldn't hold on any longer he
pushed himself sideways as hard as he could and rolled into a
ball as he hit the ground, rolling, rolling away from the pounding
hooves.
What a day, he thought, as he started furiously coughing
dust up out of his lungs. He hadn't had a day as bad as this
since the Earth had been blown up. He staggered up to his
knees , and then up to his feet and started to run away. He
didn't know what from or what to, but running away seemed a
prudent move.
He ran straight into Ford Prefect who was standing there
surveying the scene.
`Look,' said Ford. `That is precisely what we need.'
Arthur coughed up some more dust, and wiped some other
dust out of his hair and eyes. He turned, panting, to look at
what Ford was looking at.
It didn't look much like the domain of a King, or the King,
or any kind of King. It looked quite inviting though.
First, the context. This was a desert world. The dusty earth
was packed hard and had neatly bruised every last bit of Arthur
that hadn't already been bruised by the festivities of the previous
night. Some way ahead of them were great cliffs that looked like
sandstone, eroded by the wind and what little rain presumably
fell in those parts into wild and fantastic shapes, which matched
the fantastic shapes of the giant cacti that sprouted here and there
from the arid, orange landscape.
For a moment Arthur dared to hope they had unexpectedly
arrived in Arizona or New Mexico or maybe South Dakota, but
there was plenty of evidence that this was not the case.
The Perfectly Normal Beasts, for a start, still thundering,
still pounding. They swept up in their tens of thousands from
the far horizon, disappeared completely for about half a mile,
then swept off, thundering and pounding to the distant horizon
opposite.
Then there were the spaceships parked in front of the Bar
& Grill. Ah. The Domain of the King Bar & Grill. Bit of an
anti-climax, thought Arthur to himself.
In fact only one of the spaceships was parked in front of
the Domain of the King Bar & Grill. The other three were in
a parking lot by the side of the Bar and Grill. It was the one in
front that caught the eye, though. Wonderful looking thing. Wild
fins all over it, far, far too much chrome all over the fins and most
of the actual bodywork painted in a shocking pink. It crouched
there like an immense brooding insect and looked as if it was at
any moment about to jump on something about a mile away.
The Domain of the King Bar & Grill was slap bang in
the middle of where the Perfectly Normal Beasts would be
charging if they didn't take a minor transdimensional diversion
on the way. It stood on its own, undisturbed. An ordinary Bar
& Grill. A truckstop diner. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere.
Quiet. The Domain of the King.
`Gonna buy that spaceship,' said Ford quietly.
`Buy it?' said Arthur. `That's not like you. I thought you
usually pinched them.'
`Sometimes you have to show a little respect,' said Ford.
`Probably have to show a little cash as well,' said Arthur.
`How the hell much is that thing worth?'
With a tiny movement, Ford brought his Dine-O-Charge
credit card up out of his pocket. Arthur noticed that the hand
holding it was trembling very slightly.
`I'll teach them to make me the restaurant critic...' breathed
Ford.
`What do you mean?' asked Arthur.
`I'll show you,' said Ford with a nasty glint in his eye.
`Let's go and run up a few expenses shall we?'
`Couple beers,' said Ford, `and, I dunno, a couple bacon rolls,
whatever you got, oh and that pink thing outside.'
He flipped his card on the top of the bar and looked around
casually.
There was a kind of silence.
There hadn't been a lot of noise before, but there was defi-
nitely a kind of silence now. Even the distant thunder of the
Perfectly Normal Beasts carefully avoiding the Domain of the
King seemed suddenly a little muted.
`Just rode into town,' said Ford as if nothing was odd about
that or about anything else. He was leaning against the bar at
an extravagantly relaxed angle.
There were about three other customers in the place, sitting
at tables, nursing beers. About three. Some people would say
there were exactly three, but it wasn't that kind of a place, not
the kind of a place that you felt like being that specific in. There
was some big guy setting up some stuff on the little stage as well.
Old drum kit. Couple guitars. Country and Western kind of stuff.
The barman was not moving very swiftly to get in Ford's
order. In fact he wasn't moving at all.
`Not sure that the pink thing's for sale,' he said at last
in the kind of accent that went on for quite a long time.
`Sure it is,' said Ford. `How much you want?'
`Well...'
`Think of a number, I'll double it.'
`T'ain't mine to sell,' said the barman.
`So, whose?'
The barman nodded at the big guy setting up on the stage.
Big fat guy, moving slow, balding.
Ford nodded. He grinned.
`OK,' he said. `Get the beers, get the rolls. Keep the tab open.'
Arthur sat at the bar and rested. He was used to not knowing
what was going on. He felt comfortable with it. The beer was
pretty good and made him a little sleepy which he didn't mind
at all. The bacon rolls were not bacon rolls. They were Perfectly
Normal Beast rolls. He exchanged a few professional roll-making
remarks with the barman and just let Ford get on with whatever
Ford wanted to do.
`OK,' said Ford, returning to his stool. `It's cool. We got
the pink thing.'
The barman was very surprised. `He's selling it to you?'
`He's giving it to us for free,' said Ford, taking a gnaw at his
roll. `Hey, no, keep the tab open though. We have some items
to add to it. Good roll.'
He took a deep pull of beer.
`Good beer,' he added. `Good ship too,' he said, eying
the big pink and chrome insect-like thing, bits of which could
be seen through the windows of the bar. `Good everything,
prett
y much. You know, he said, sitting back, reflectively, `it's
at times like this that you kind of wonder if it's worth worrying
about the fabric of space/time and the causal integrity of the
multi-dimensional probability matrix and the potential collapse
of all wave forms in the Whole Sort of General Mish Mash and
all that sort of stuff that's been bugging me. Maybe I feel that
what the big guy says is right. Just let it all go. What does it
matter? Let it go.'
`Which big guy?' said Arthur.
Ford just nodded towards the stage. The big guy was saying
`one two' into the mike a couple of times. Couple other guys
were on the stage now. Drums. Guitar.
The barman, who had been silent for a moment or two,
said, `You say he's letting you have his ship?'
`Yeah,' said Ford. `Let it all go is what he said. Take the
ship. Take it with my blessing. Be good to her. I will he good
to her.'
He took a pull at his beer again.
`Like I was saying,' he went on. `It's at times like this that
you kind of think, let it all go. But then you think of guys like
InfiniDim Enterprises and you think, they are not going to get
ADAMS, Douglas - Mostly Harmless Page 23
