The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Further Radio Scripts Read online

AGRAJAG: You may go. After I have killed you!

  ARTHUR: No, er, that won’t be any use, because I have to save the Universe, you see. I have to find a Silver Bail, that’s the point. Tricky thing to do dead.

  AGRAJAG: Save the Universe? You should have thought of that before you started your vendetta against me! What about the time when you were on Stavromula Beta and someone tried to assassinate you and you ducked. Who do you think the bullet hit?

  ARTHUR: I’ve never been there.

  AGRAJAG: What did you say?

  ARTHUR: Never been there. What are you talking about?

  AGRAJAG: You must have been there. You were responsible for my death there, as everywhere else. An innocent bystander!

  ARTHUR: I’ve never heard of the place. I’ve certainly never had anyone try to assassinate me. Other than you. Perhaps I go there later, do you think?

  AGRAJAG: You haven’t been to Stavromula Beta . . . yet?

  ARTHUR: No. I don’t know anything about the place. Certainly never been to it, and don’t have any plans to go.

  AGRAJAG: Oh, you go there all right, you go there all right. Oh, zark! I’ve brought you here too soon! I’ve brought you here too zarking soon!

  ARTHUR: Well, that’s a dreadful bore for you, of course, but there it is.

  AGRAJAG: I’m going to kill you anyway! Even if it’s a logical impossibility, I’m going to zarking well try! I’m going to blow this whole mountain up!

  FX: Agrajag effort and wingflaps as he moves off.

  ARTHUR: Leave that switch alone!

  AGRAJAG: Let’s see you get out of this one, Dent!

  ARTHUR: If that does what I think it does, you’ll be bringing about your own death this time. Don’t do it!

  AGRAJAG: I’m gonna to kill you!

  ARTHUR: (Effort, leaping on him) No . . . you’re . . . not!

  AGRAJAG: (Screams) HhhhhhrrrrrraaaaaaHHHHHH!

  FX: Big chomp. Splurgy bleeding noises, under:

  ARTHUR: Oh, you shouldn’t have tried to bite me. Gosh, those teeth are sharp . . . you’ve made a real mess of yourself.

  AGRAJAG: You know what you’ve done? You’ve gone and killed me again! I mean, what do you want from me, blood?

  ARTHUR: I’m sorry!

  AGRAJAG: HhhhhhrrrrrraaaaaaHHHHHH!

  ARTHUR: No! No! No! Not the switch—!

  FX: Huge rusty old lever thrown. Klaxons. Subterranean rumble starts. Huge cracking noises, rubble.

  ARTHUR: Er . . . er . . . er . . . What to do now? Run! B-b-but where? Er . . . (He runs off into an echoey tunnel) Anywhere! Aaaarrrgh!

  INT. – LABYRINTH

  FX: Arthur runs past ltor, screaming. In fact he does a lot of running around screaming at this point, not having Ford around to engage in witty banter with whilst almost certain death rains down upon him . . .

  ARTHUR: Aaaaaaaaaaaaargh! Aaaagh! (A beat) Daylight! Daylight this way! (Runs off screaming to left) Aaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!

  EXT. – LABYRINTH-PLANET SURFACE

  FX: Distant explosions. Arthur running out of cave from centre right. Rocks hurled into the air and crashing about him. Avalanche approaches. Gnerally a grim situation.

  ARTHUR: (Running off, panicking) Aaaagh!

  FX: Arthur runs up, panting.

  ARTHUR: Oh . . . great. An avalanche!

  FX: Avalanche.

  ARTHUR: (Breathless, pell-mell) Whoa! Whoa, whoa, whoa! But logically . . . I’m bound to survive this . . . if only to pursue my alleged persecution . . . of Agrajag on Stavromula Beta – but if this isn’t it – why am I still panicking? Why am I still . . . risking my life? And why, lying in front of me, is the small navy-blue holdall that I know for a fact I lost in the baggage-retrieval system at Athens airport ten years ago? (Trips) Whup! I’m falling! Upwards? – Oh . . . I’mflying!

  FX: Flying whooshing sounds.

  THE VOICE: The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy has this to say on the subject of flying.

  There is an art, it says, or rather, a knack to flying.

  The knack lies in learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss.

  Pick a nice day, it suggests, and try it.

  The first part is easy.

  All it requires is simply the ability to throw yourself forward with all your weight, and the willingness not to mind that it’s going to hurt.

  ARTHUR: Weeeeeee!

  THE VOICE: That is, it’s going to hurt if you fail to miss the ground.

  Most people fail to miss the ground, and if they’re really trying properly, the likelihood is that they will fail to miss it fairly hard.

  Clearly, it’s the second point, the missing, which presents the difficulties.

  One problem is that you have to miss the ground accidentally. It’s no good deliberately intending to miss the ground because you won’t. You have to have your attention suddenly distracted by something else when you’re halfway there, so that you’re no longer thinking about falling, or about the ground, or about how much it’s going to hurt if you fail to miss it.

  ARTHUR: Wow!!!

  THE VOICE: It is notoriously difficult to prise your attention away from these three things during the split second you have at your disposal. Hence most people’s failure, and their eventual disillusionment with this exhilarating and spectacular sport.

  ARTHUR: Ha ha ha!

  THE VOICE: Do not listen to what anybody says to you at this point because they’re unlikely to say anything helpful.

  They are most likely to say something along the lines of, ‘Good God, you can’t possibly be flying!’

  It is vitally important not to believe them or they will suddenly be right. If, however, you are lucky enough to have your attention momentarily distracted at the crucial moment by . . . er, say, a gorgeous pair of legs (tentacles, pseudopodia, according to phylum and/or personal inclination), you will miss the ground completely.

  Try a few swoops, gentle ones at first, then drift above the treetops breathing regularly.

  Do not wave at anybody.

  When you’ve done this a few times you’ll find the moment of distraction rapidly becomes easier and easier to achieve.

  In the case of Arthur Dent, his instincts have correctly told him that he mustn’t think about it, or the law of gravity will suddenly glance sharply in his direction and demand to know what the hell he thinks he is doing up here . . .

  EXT. – LABYRINTH-PLANET – SURFACE

  FX: Arthur flying.

  ARTHUR: (Trying to be serious) Oooh, ahh! Tulips! I’ll think about tulips. (Briefly overcome with glee) This is great! Ha ha ha. (Serious) No, no, tulips. Nice tulips. The pleasing firm roundness of the bottom of tulips, the interesting variety of colours they come in . . . Oh, I’m bored.

  FX: He loses altitude.

  ARTHUR: (cont’d) Whoooaaa! Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Mustn’t be bored, that way groundness lies – stay distracted, stay flying – (Gleeful) I’m flying! (Serious) No, no, distract yourself – the bag!

  FX: He gains altitude as he distracts himself.

  ARTHUR: (cont’d) The bag, that’s a point. How can a hold-all I left at Athens airport end up here? Who cares? I’m flying – concentrate, Arthur – whoa, whoooah – I mean, don’t concentrate . . .

  FX: He loses altitude.

  ARTHUR: (cont’d) OK, OK, let’s use this fall and turn it into a – (Effort) a swoop . . . and I should be able to grab it. Oh, gosh. I haven’t seen that since I gave it to the pretty stewardess with the nice . . . aaahh, too distracted. (Soaring up) Look, look, Arthur! You’re two hundred feet above the ground! (Falls) Waaaah!

  FX: He loses altitude. This time frantic flapping of the arms returns him to us. This is not logical but makes for a nice visual sound effect.

  ARTHUR: (cont’d) Better . . . better . . . OK, think of the bag – if it’s still in the state in which I lost it, it’ll contain a can which would have in it the only Greek olive oil still surviving in the Universe . . . if I can just . . .

  FX: Swoops past us – he grab
s the bag.

  ARTHUR: (cont’d) (Zooming off away upwards) Yes! Got it!

  EXT. – LABYRINTH-PLANET – SURFACE – ANOTHER PART OF THE SKY

  ARTHUR: (cont’d) (Now flying up to meet us, high over the ground) Not only a can of Greek olive oil but – the cricket ball I caught at Lord’s? – very odd. What else? Ah! A duty-free allowance of retsina . . . Ha ha! . . . Some interesting stones and, joy of joys, my towel! Ha ha ha ha ha ha! Oh, if only Ford could see me now, ha ha!

  FX: Rapid approach of the party behind him.

  FORD PREFECT: (Off) Arthur, look out! You’re gonna crash into the party!

  ARTHUR: Ford? Waaa!

  FX: Party whooshes past, scooping Arthur up and carrying him away.

  INT. – THE BOOK AMBIENCE

  THE VOICE: When Arthur Dent, Ford Prefect and Slartibartfast arrived, the longest and most destructive party ever held was into its fourth generation and still no one showed any sign of leaving.

  The mess was extraordinary, and had to be seen to be believed.

  There had recently been some bangs and flashes up in the clouds, and there is one theory that these were battles being fought between the fleets of several rival carpet-cleaning companies, who were hovering over the thing like vultures, but you shouldn’t believe anything you hear at parties, and particularly not anything you hear at this one.

  One of the problems, and one which would obviously get worse, was that all the people at the party were either the children or the grandchildren or the great-grandchildren of the people who wouldn’t leave in the first place. And because of all the business about selective breeding and regressive genes and so on, it meant that all the people currently at the party were either absolutely fanatical partygoers, or gibbering idiots – or, more and more frequently, both.

  Either way, it meant that, genetically speaking, each succeeding generation was now less likely to leave than the preceding one.

  Now because of certain things that had happened which seemed like a good idea at the time (and one of the problems with a party which never stops is that all the things which only seem like a good idea at parties continue to seem like good ideas), one of the things which seemed like a really good idea at the time was that the party should fly. Literally.

  One night, long ago, a band of drunken astro-engineers clambered round the building calibrating this, fixing that, banging very hard on the other and when the sun rose the following morning, it was startled to find itself shining on a building full of happy drunken people which was floating like a young and uncertain bird over the treetops.

  FX: The party engines start up and it lifts off . . .

  THE VOICE: The flying party had also managed to arm itself rather heavily. If they were going to get involved in any petty arguments with wine merchants, they wanted to make sure they had might on their side.

  FX: Door opened suddenly.

  SYDNEY OPERA HOUSE WOMAN: All right, do as we say and nobody gets hurt!

  FARMER: Wh-wh-what do you people want?

  SYDNEY OPERA HOUSE WOMAN: Hand over all your cheese footballs. And those little savoury twig things. The ones with the tasty brown paint on.

  FARMER: B-b-but we are simple farmers—

  SYDNEY OPERA HOUSE WOMAN: Shut up and get stacking.

  THOR: And we want the cakes. Fairy cakes.

  SYDNEY OPERA HOUSE WOMAN: Better give us fifty cases of Cabernet Sauvignon as well.

  FARMER: Cabernet? But we only drink milk.

  SYDNEY OPERA HOUSE WOMAN: Don’t give me that.

  FX: Zap gun cocked

  FARMER: (Grudgingly, found out) Oh all right, what vintage . . . ?

  FX: Gunshots, screams, sounds of looting.

  THE VOICE: They looted, they raided, they held whole cities for ransom for fresh supplies of cheese crackers, avocado dip and wine and spirits.

  But the planet over which they were floating was no longer the planet it had been when they started.

  It was in bad shape and had been since long before Agrajag destroyed its only respectable mountain, in the vain attempt to kill Arthur Dent.

  FX: Boom! As mountain collapses below.

  THE VOICE: But it was one hell of a party. It was also one hell of a thing to get hit by in the small of the back, as Arthur Dent has just discovered . . .

  EXT./INT. – THE PARTY

  FX: Wind whistling around the building. Muffled sounds of partying. Music: ‘I Left My Leg On Jaglan Beta’ played by a very tired band, so tired it is in both 3/4 and 4/4 time.

  ARTHUR: Owwww . . . Ford . . .

  FORD PREFECT: Where the foetid photon have you been?

  ARTHUR: Is this Slartibartfast’s party?

  SLARTIBARTFAST: Hold tight, Earthman. There’s only a very thin walkway around the building.

  ARTHUR: Ooh. Everywhere I touch it hurts.

  FORD PREFECT: Then don’t touch it; you’ve sprained your wrist.

  ARTHUR: What are you doing out here?

  FORD PREFECT: They won’t let us in without a bottle.

  ARTHUR: Ah – there I think I can help you . . . (Takes out retsina)

  FX: Knocks on door. Door opens.

  DOORMAN (WIX): Got a bottle?

  ARTHUR: Retsina!

  DOORMAN: Never ’eard of it. (Tuts) In you come.

  SLARTIBARTFAST: (Going in) Thank you. Thank you so much.

  INT. – PARTY

  FX: Door closes shut. Hubbub, music, occasional glass smashes, laughter.

  ARTHUR: (Struggling through the throng) Right, now we’re in, we can—

  PTERODACTYL CREATURE: Your bottle – what is it?

  ARTHUR: Retsina, an Earth drink – very rare, now – hey!

  PTERODACTYL CREATURE: (Moving off with it) A new pleasure, a new pleasure!

  ARTHUR: That’s mine!

  FORD PREFECT: I warned you: never trust a pterodactyl in lurex.

  ARTHUR: No, you didn’t.

  FORD PREFECT: Oh, I forgot.

  ARTHUR: Good grief! It’s Trillian.

  FORD PREFECT: Yeah. And that’s Thor, the Thunder God, with her. Blimey, half of Asgard have turned up. I wonder if Zaphod’s here. (Wanders off) I’ll go and look over by the drinks . . .

  ARTHUR: (Approaching) Trillian! How the hell did you get here?

  THOR: (Swedish. Chatting up Trillian. Getting closer as Arthur walks towards them) Didn’t I see you at Milliways?

  TRILLIAN: (Slightly merry) Were you the one with the hammer?

  THOR: Yes. I much prefer it here. So much less reputable, so much more fraught. Ha ha ha ha.

  TRILLIAN: Well, it seems fun—

  ARTHUR: (Off) Trillian!

  TRILLIAN: Oh, what are you trying to say, Arthur?

  ARTHUR: I said, how the hell did you get here?

  TRILLIAN: Oh, I was a row of dots floating randomly through the Universe. Just . . . Oh, have you met Thor? He’s in thunder.

  ARTHUR: Hello.

  THOR: Hi.

  ARTHUR: I expect that must be very interesting.

  THOR: It is. Have you got a drink?

  ARTHUR: Er, no, actually.

  THOR: Then why don’t you go and get one?

  TRILLIAN: Hmmm. See you later, Arthur.

  ARTHUR: Hm. Zaphod isn’t here, is he?

  TRILLIAN: (Firmly) See you. Later.

  THOR: (Leading her away) One of the interesting things about being immortal is you don’t have to . . .

  SLARTIBARTFAST: One of the interesting things about space is how dull it is.

  ARTHUR: Slartibartfast?

  SYDNEY OPERA HOUSE WOMAN: Dull? Really?

  SLARTIBARTFAST: Staggeringly dull. Bewilderingly so. You see, there is so much of space and so little in it. Would you like me to quote you some statistics?

  SYDNEY OPERA HOUSE WOMAN: What do you think?

  SLARTIBARTFAST: They too are quite sensationally dull.

  SYDNEY OPERA HOUSE WOMAN: (Yawning) Ah, well. You must tell me all about it when I’m interested, hmm? Excuse me.

&
nbsp; ARTHUR: Slartibartfast?

  SLARTIBARTFAST: I thought she’d never go.

  ARTHUR: Drink?

  SLARTIBARTFAST: Come, Earthman . . .

  ARTHUR: But I’m in the drinks queue.

  SLARTIBARTFAST: No, we have to find the Silver Bail. It is here somewhere.

  ARTHUR: Oh, can’t we relax a little? I’ve had a tough day. Trillian’s being chatted up by a Thunder God who was very rude to me. I’d consider thumping him if the muscles in his upper arm didn’t move around each other like a couple of Volkswagens parking.

  SLARTIBARTFAST: (Grabbing his arm) Think . . . of the danger to the Universe . . .

  ARTHUR: The Universe is big enough and old enough to look after itself for half an hour.

  SLARTIBARTFAST: (Infinitely weary) Please.

  ARTHUR: (Sighs) Oh all right, I’ll circulate and see if anybody’s seen it.

  SLARTIBARTFAST: Good, good. (Moving off) I’ll do this side of the party, you do that . . .

  ARTHUR: Ah – hallo . . . hallo there . . .

  LAUGHING MAN: (Deeply boring) Hello!

  ARTHUR: Have you seen a bail anywhere? Er, made of silver, vitally important for the future safety of the Universe, and about this long.

  LAUGHING MAN: (Moving him away) No, but come and have a drink and tell me all about it . . .

  Music up. Dancing and singing.

  FORD PREFECT: (Moving in, breathless, dancing, yelling over music) You’re a great little dancer!

  SYDNEY OPERA HOUSE WOMAN: (Dancing with him) Thank you!

  FORD PREFECT: Like that hat!

  SYDNEY OPERA HOUSE WOMAN: I’m not wearing a hat.

  FORD PREFECT: Oh, right. Like the . . . head.

  SYDNEY OPERA HOUSE WOMAN: What?

  FX: She smacks into him.

  FORD PREFECT: Ow! The head. Interesting bone-structure.

  SYDNEY OPERA HOUSE WOMAN: What?

  FX: She smacks into him again.

  FORD PREFECT: Ow! Ever heard of the Sydney Opera House?

  SYDNEY OPERA HOUSE WOMAN: What?!

  FX: She smacks into him again.

  FORD PREFECT: (In pain) Aagh. I said – look, could you not nod so much?

  SYDNEY OPERA HOUSE WOMAN: What?

  FX: She smacks into him again.

  FORD PREFECT: (Moving off again) You keep pecking me on the head.

  FX: She smacks into him again.

  FORD PREFECT: . . . Ow!