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  '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, eyeing the big pink and chrome insect-like thing, bits of which could be seen through the windows of the bar. 'Good everything, pretty 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 be 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 away with it. They are going to suffer. It is my sacred and holy duty to see those guys suffer. Here, let me put something on the tab for the singer. I asked for a special request and we agreed. It's to go on the tab. OK?'

  'OK,' said the barman, cautiously. Then he shrugged. 'OK, however you want to do it. How much?'

  Ford named a figure. The barman fell over amongst the bottles and glasses. Ford vaulted quickly over the bar to check that he was all right and help him back up to his feet. He'd cut his finger and his elbow a bit and was feeling a little woozy but was otherwise fine. The big guy started to sing. The barman hobbled off with Ford's credit card to get authorisation.

  'Is there stuff going on here that I don't know about?' said Arthur to Ford.

  'Isn't there usually?' said Ford.

  'No need to be like that,' said Arthur. He began to wake up. 'Shouldn't we be going?' he said suddenly. 'Will that ship get us to Earth?'

  'Sure will,' said Ford.

  'That's where Random will be going ! ' said Arthur with a start. 'We can follow her! But . . . er . . .'

  Ford let Arthur get on with thinking things out for himself while he got out his old edition of the Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

  'But where are we on the probability axis thing?' said Arthur. 'Will the Earth be there or not there? I spent so much time look– ing for it. All I found was planets that were a bit like it or not at all like it, though it was clearly the right place because of the continents. The worst version was called NowWhat where I got bitten by some wretched little animal. That's how they commu– nicated, you know, by biting each other. Bloody painful. Then half the time, of course, the Earth isn't even there because it's been blown up by the bloody Vogons. How much sense am I making?'

  Ford didn't comment. He was listening to something. He passed the Guide over to Arthur and pointed at the screen. The active entry read 'Earth. Mostly harmless.'

  'You mean it's there!' said Arthur excitedly. 'The Earth is there! That's where Random will be going! The bird was showing her the Earth in the rainstorm!'

  Ford motioned Arthur to shout a little less loudly. He was listening.

  Arthur was growing impatient. He'd heard bar singers sing 'Love Me Tender' before. He was a bit surprised to hear it here, right in the middle of wherever the hell this was, certainly not Earth, but then things tended not to surprise him these days as much as formerly. The singer was quite good, as bar singers went, if you liked that sort of thing, but Arthur was getting fretful.

  He glanced at his watch. This only served to remind him that he didn't have his watch any more. Random had it, or at least the remains of it.

  'Don't you think we should be going?' he said, insistently.

  'Shhh!' said Ford. 'I paid to hear this song.' He seemed to have tears in his eyes, which Arthur found a bit disturbing. He'd never seen Ford moved by anything other than very, very strong drink. Probably the dust. He waited, tapping his fingers irritably, out of time with the music.

  The song ended. The singer went on to do 'Heartbreak Hotel'.

  'Anyway,' Ford whispered, 'I've got to review the restaurant.'

  'What?'

  'I have to write a review.'

  'Write a review? Of this place?'

  'Filing the review validates the expenses claim. I've fixed it so that it happens completely automatically and untraceably. This bill is going to need some validation,' he added quietly, staring into his beer with a nasty smirk.

  'For a couple of beers and a roll?'

  'And a tip for the singer.'

  'Why, how much did you tip him?'

  Ford named a figure again.

  'I don't know how much
that is,' said Arthur. 'What's it worth in pounds sterling? What would it buy you?'

  'It would probably buy you, roughly . . . er . . .' Ford screwed his eyes up as he did some calculations in his head. 'Switzerland,' he said at last. He picked up his Hitch Hiker's Guide and started to type.

  Arthur nodded intelligently. There were times when he wished he understood what on earth Ford was talking about, and other times, like now, when he felt it was probably safer not even to try. He looked over Ford's shoulder. 'This isn't going to take long, is it?' he said.

  'Nah,' said Ford. 'Piece of piss. Just mention that the rolls were quite good, the beer good and cold, local wildlife nicely eccentric, the bar singer the best in the known universe, and that's about it. Doesn't need much. Just a validation.'

  He touched an area on the screen marked ENTER and the message vanished into the Sub-Etha.

  'You thought the singer was pretty good then?'

  'Yeah,' said Ford. The barman was returning with a piece of paper, which seemed to be trembling in his hand.

  He pushed it over to Ford with a kind of nervous, reverential twitch.

  'Funny thing,' said the barman. 'The system rejected it first couple times. Can't say it surprised me.' Beads of sweat were standing on his brow. 'Then suddenly it's, oh yeah, that's OK, and the system . . . er, validates it. Just like that. You wanna . . . sign it'?'

  Ford scanned the form quickly. He sucked his teeth. 'This is going to hurt InfiniDim a lot,' he said, with an appearance of concern. 'Oh well,' he added softly, 'screw 'em.'

  He signed with a flourish and handed it back to the barman.

  'More money,' he said, 'than the Colonel made for him in an entire career of doing crap movies and casino gigs. Just for doing what he does best. Standing up and singing in a bar. And he negotiated it himself. I think this is a good moment for him. Tell him I said thanks and buy him a drink.' He tossed a few coins on the bar. The barman pushed them away.

  'I don't think that's necessary,' he said, slightly hoarsely.

  'Tis to me,' said Ford. 'OK, we are outa here.'

  They stood out in the heat and the dust and looked at the big pink and chrome thing with amazement and admiration. Or at least, Ford looked at it with amazement and admiration.

  Arthur just looked at it. 'You don't think it's a bit overdone, do you?'

  He said it again when they climbed inside it. The seats and quite a lot of the controls were covered in fine fur skin or suede. There was a big gold monogram on the main control panel which just read 'EP'.

  'You know,' said Ford as he fired up the ship's engines, 'I asked him if it was true that he had been abducted by aliens, and you know what he said?'

  'Who?' said Arthur.

  'The King.'

  'Which King? Oh, we've had this conversation, haven't we?'

  'Never mind,' said Ford. 'For what it's worth, he said, no. He went of his own accord.'

  'I'm still not sure who we're talking about,' said Arthur.

  Ford shook his head. 'Look,' he said, 'there are some tapes over in the compartment to your left. Why don't you choose some music and put it on?'

  'OK,' said Arthur, and flipped through the cartons. 'Do you like Elvis Presley?' he said.

  'Yeah I do as a matter of fact,' said Ford. 'Now. I hope this machine can leap like it looks like it can.' He engaged the main drive.

  'Yeeehaah!' shouted Ford as they shot upwards at face-tearing speed.

  It could.

  Chapter 23

  The news networks don't like this kind of thing. They regard it as a waste. An incontrovertible spaceship arrives out of nowhere in the middle of London and it is sensational news of the highest magnitude. Another completely different one arrives three and a half hours later and somehow it isn't.

  'ANOTHER SPACECRAFT!' said the headlines and news stand billboards. 'THIS ONE'S PINK.' A couple of months later they could have made a lot more of it. The third spacecraft, half an hour after that, the little four berth Hrundi runabout, only made it on to the local news.

  Ford and Arthur had come screaming down out of the strato– sphere and parked neatly on Portland Place. It was just after six-thirty in the evening and there were spaces free. They min– gled briefly with the crowd that gathered round to ogle, then said loudly that if no one else was going to call the police they would, and made good their escape.

  'Home …' said Arthur, a husky tone creeping into his voice as he gazed, misty-eyed around him. 'Oh don't get all maudlin on me,' snapped Ford. 'We have to find your daughter and we have to find that bird thing.'

  'How?' said Arthur. 'This is a planet of five and a half billion people, and . . .'

  'Yes,' said Ford. 'But only one of them has just arrived from outer space in a large silver spaceship accompanied by a mechanical bird. I suggest we just find a television and some– thing to drink while we watch it. We need some serious room service '

  They checked into a large two-bedroomed suite at the Langham. Mysteriously, Ford's Dine-O-Charge card, issued on a planet over five thousand light years away, seemed to present the hotel's computer with no problems.

  Ford hit the phones straight away while Arthur attempted to locate the television.

  'OK,' said Ford. 'I want to order up some margaritas please. Couple of pitchers. Couple of Chef's Salads. And as much foie gras as you've got. And also London Zoo.'

  'She's on the news!' shouted Arthur from the next room.

  'That's what I said,' said Ford into the phone. 'London Zoo. Just charge it to the room.'

  'She's . . . Good God!' shouted Arthur. 'Do you know who she's being interviewed by?'

  'Are you having difficulty understanding the English lan– guage?' continued Ford. 'It's the zoo just up the road from here. I don't care if it's closed this evening. I don't want to buy a ticket, I just want to buy the zoo. I don't care if you're busy. This is room service, I'm in a room and I want some service. Got a piece of paper? OK. Here's what I want you to do. All the animals that can be safely returned to the wild, return them. Set up some good teams of people to monitor their progress in the wild, see that they're doing OK.'

  'It's Trillian!' shouted Arthur. 'Or is it . . . er . . . God, I can't stand all this parallel universe stuff. It's so bloody confusing. it seems to be a different Trillian. It's Tricia McMillan which is what Trillian used to be called before . . . er . . . Why don't you come and watch, see if you can figure it out?'

  'Just a second,' Ford shouted, and returned to his negotia– tions with room service. 'Then we'll need some natural reserves for the animals that can't hack it in the wild,' he said. 'Set up a team to work out the best places to do that. We might need to buy somewhere like Zaire and maybe some islands. Madagascar. Baffin. Sumatra. Those kind of places. We'll need a wide variety of habitats. Look, I don't see why you're seeing this as a problem. Learn to delegate. Hire whoever you want. Get on to it. I think you'll find my credit is good. And blue cheese dressing on the salad. Thank you.'

  He put the phone down and went through to Arthur, who was sitting on the edge of his bed watching television.

  'I ordered us some foie gras,' said Ford.

  'What?' said Arthur, whose attention was entirely focused on the television.

  'I said I ordered us some foie gras.'

  'Oh,' said Arthur, vaguely. 'Um, I always feel a bit bad about foie gras. Bit cruel to the geese, isn't it?'

  'Fuck 'em,' said Ford, slumping on the bed. 'You can't care about every damn thing.'

  'Well, that's all very well for you to say, but . . .'

  'Drop it!' said Ford. 'If you don't like it I'll have yours. What's happening?'

  'Chaos!' said Arthur. 'Complete chaos! Random keeps on screaming at Trillian, or Tricia or whoever it is, that she aban– doned her and then demanding to go to a good night club. Tricia's broken down in tears and says she's never even met Random let alone given birth to her. Then she suddenly started howling about someone called Rupert and said that he had lost his mind or something. I d
idn't quite follow that bit, to be honest. Then Random started throwing stuff and they've cut to a commercial break while they try and sort it all out. Oh! They've just cut back to the studio! Shut up and watch.'

  A rather shaken anchorman appeared on the screen and apologised to viewers for the disruption of the previous item. He said he didn't have any very clear news to report, only that the mysterious girl, who called herself Random Frequent Flyer Dent had left the studio to, er, rest. Tricia McMillan would be, he hoped, back tomorrow. Meanwhile, fresh reports of UFO activity were coming in . . .

  Ford leaped up off the bed, grabbed the nearest phone and jabbed at a number.

  'Concierge? You want to own the hotel? It's yours if you can find out for me in five minutes which clubs Tricia McMillan belongs to. Just charge the whole thing to this room.'

  Chapter 24

  Away in the inky depths of space invisible movements were being made.

  Invisible to any of the inhabitants of the strange and tem– peramental Plural zone at the focus of which lay the infinitely multitudinous possibilities of the planet called Earth, but not inconsequential to them.

  At the very edge of the solar system, hunkered down on a green leatherette sofa, staring fretfully at a range of TV and computer screens sat a very worried Grebulon leader. He was fiddling with stuff. Fiddling with his book on astrology. Fiddling with the console of his computer. Fiddling with the displays being fed through to him constantly from all of the Grebulons' monitoring devices, all of them focused on the planet Earth.

  He was distressed. Their mission was to monitor. But to monitor secretly. He was a bit fed up with his mission, to be honest. He was fairly certain that his mission must have been to do more than sit around watching TV for years on end. They certainly had a lot of other equipment with them that must have had some purpose if only they hadn't accidentally lost all trace of their purpose. He needed a sense of purpose in life, which was why he had turned to astrology to fill the yawning gulf that existed in the middle of his mind and soul. That would tell him something, surely.