The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

Chapter 13

Marvin trudged on down the corridor, still moaning.

“. . . and then of course I’ve got this terrible pain in all the diodes down my left hand side . . .”

“No?” said Arthur grimly as he walked along beside him. “Really?”

“Oh yes,” said Marvin, “I mean I’ve asked for them to be replaced but no one ever listens.”

“I can imagine.”

Vague whistling and humming noises were coming from Ford. “Well well well,” he kept saying to himself, “Zaphod Beeblebrox . . .”

Suddenly Marvin stopped, and held up a hand.

“You know what’s happened now, of course?”

“No, what?” said Arthur, who didn’t want to know.

“We’ve arrived at another of those doors.”

There was a sliding door let into the side of the corridor. Marvin eyed it suspiciously.

“Well?” said Ford impatiently. “Do we go through?”

“Do we go through?” mimicked Marvin. “Yes. This is the entrance to the bridge. I was told to take you to the bridge. Probably the highest demand that will be made on my intellectual capacities today, I shouldn’t wonder.”

Slowly, with great loathing, he stepped towards the door, like a hunter stalking his prey. Suddenly it slid open.

“Thank you,” it said, “for making a simple door very happy.”

Deep in Marvin’s thorax gears ground.

“Funny,” he intoned funerally, “how just when you think life can’t possibly get any worse it suddenly does.”

He heaved himself through the door and left Ford and Arthur staring at each other and shrugging their shoulders. From inside they heard Marvin’s voice again.

“I suppose you want to see the aliens now,” he said. “Do you want me to sit in a corner and rust, or just fall apart where I’m standing?”

“Yeah, just show them in, would you, Marvin?” came another voice.

Arthur looked at Ford and was astonished to see him laughing.

“What’s . . . ?”

“Shhh,” said Ford, “come in.”

He stepped through into the bridge.

Arthur followed him in nervously and was astonished to see a man lolling back in a chair with his feet on a control console picking the teeth in his right-hand head with his left hand. The right-hand head seemed to be thoroughly preoccupied with this task, but the left-hand one was grinning a broad, relaxed, nonchalant grin. The number of things that Arthur couldn’t believe he was seeing was fairly large. His jaw flapped about at a loose end for a while.

The peculiar man waved a lazy wave at Ford and with an appalling affectation of nonchalance said, “Ford, hi, how are you? Glad you could drop in.”

Ford was not going to be outcooled.

“Zaphod,” he drawled, “great to see you, you’re looking well, the extra arm suits you. Nice ship you’ve stolen.”

Arthur goggled at him.

“You mean you know this guy?” he said, waving a wild finger at Zaphod.

“Know him!” exclaimed Ford, “he’s . . .” he paused, and decided to do the introductions the other way round.

“Oh, Zaphod, this is a friend of mine, Arthur Dent,” he said, “I saved him when his planet blew up.”

“Oh sure,” said Zaphod, “hi, Arthur, glad you could make it.” His right-hand head looked round casually, said “hi” and went back to having his teeth picked.

Ford carried on. “And Arthur,” he said, “this is my semi-cousin Zaphod Beeb . . .”

“We’ve met,” said Arthur sharply.

When you’re cruising down the road in the fast lane and you lazily sail past a few hard driving cars and are feeling pretty pleased with yourself and then accidentally change down from fourth to first instead of third thus making your engine leap out of your bonnet in a rather ugly mess, it tends to throw you off your stride in much the same way that this remark threw Ford Prefect off his.

“Err . . . what?”

“I said we’ve met.”

Zaphod gave an awkward start of surprise and jabbed a gum sharply.

“Hey . . . er, have we? Hey . . . er . . .”

Ford rounded on Arthur with an angry flash in his eyes. Now he felt he was back on home ground he suddenly began to resent having lumbered himself with this ignorant primitive who knew as much about the affairs of the Galaxy as an Ilford-based gnat knew about life in Peking.

“What do you mean you’ve met?” he demanded. “This is Zaphod Beeblebrox from Betelgeuse Five, you know, not bloody Martin Smith from Croydon.”

“I don’t care,” said Arthur coldly. “We’ve met, haven’t we, Zaphod Beeblebrox—or should I say . . . Phil?”

“What!” shouted Ford.

“You’ll have to remind me,” said Zaphod. “I’ve a terrible memory for species.”

“It was at a party,” pursued Arthur.

“Yeah, well, I doubt that,” said Zaphod.

“Cool it, will you, Arthur!” demanded Ford.

Arthur would not be deterred. “A party six months ago. On Earth . . . England . . .”

Zaphod shook his head with a tight-lipped smile.

“London,” insisted Arthur, “Islington.”

“Oh,” said Zaphod with a guilty start, “that party.”

This wasn’t fair on Ford at all. He looked backwards and forwards between Arthur and Zaphod. “What?” he said to Zaphod. “You don’t mean to say you’ve been on that miserable planet as well, do you?”

“No, of course not,” said Zaphod breezily. “Well, I may have just dropped in briefly, you know, on my way somewhere . . .”

“But I was stuck there for fifteen years!”

“Well, I didn’t know that, did I?”

“But what were you doing there?”

“Looking about, you know.”

“He gatecrashed a party,” persisted Arthur, trembling with anger, “a fancy dress party . . .”

“It would have to be, wouldn’t it?” said Ford.

“At this party,” persisted Arthur, “was a girl . . . oh well, look it doesn’t matter now. The whole place has gone up in smoke anyway . . .”

“I wish you’d stop sulking about that bloody planet,” said Ford. “Who was the lady?”

“Oh, just somebody. Well, alright, I wasn’t doing very well with her. I’d been trying all evening. Hell, she was something though. Beautiful, charming, devastatingly intelligent, at last I’d got her to myself for a bit and was plying her with a bit of talk when this friend of yours barges up and says ‘Hey doll, is this guy boring you? Why don’t you talk to me instead? I’m from a different planet.’ I never saw her again.”

“Zaphod?” exclaimed Ford.

“Yes,” said Arthur, glaring at him and trying not to feel foolish. “He only had the two arms and the one head and he called himself Phil, but . . .”

“But you must admit he did turn out to be from another planet,” said Trillian wandering into sight at the other end of the bridge. She gave Arthur a pleasant smile which settled on him like a ton of bricks and then turned her attention to the ship’s controls again.

There was silence for a few seconds, and then out of the scrambled mess of Arthur’s brain crawled some words.

“Tricia McMillian?” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“Same as you,” she said, “I hitched a lift. After all with a degree in Maths and another in astrophysics what else was there to do? It was either that or the dole queue again on Monday.”

“Infinity minus one,” chattered the computer, “Improbability sum now complete.”

Zaphod looked about him, at Ford, at Arthur, and then at Trillian.

“Trillian,” he said, “is this sort of thing going to happen every time we use the Improbability drive?”

“Very probably, I’m afraid,” she said.