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

  PROSTETNIC VOGON JELTZ: No. He rescued them.

  VOGON COUNCILLOR: Oh yes . . . then we had him lured into the Total Perspective Vortex. Probably still there – and no bad thing. Now, about this Earth. Seems it exists in a Plural Sector. Very unstable dimensionally. Very hard to destroy planets like that. They exist on several levels, keep popping back into reality.

  VOGON CLERK: I have the precedent here, Your Honour, Vogon Imperium versus Megabrantis Liposuction, Inc. Ruling: ‘Nature abhors a vacuum’.

  PROSTETNIC VOGON JELTZ: Whatever. Girlfriend. I’ll just keep destroying the Earth till nature settles for a bloody vacuum!

  FX: Cough. Zap gun. Scream and body fall.

  VOGON COUNCILLOR: Thank you. The problem has, however compounded itself somewhat. Now that Improbability Travel has become so popular, hyperspace bypasses have become somewhat . . . well, passé.

  PROSTETNIC VOGON JELTZ: Meaning?

  VOGON COUNCILLOR: We don’t actually need to demolish Earth.

  PROSTETNIC VOGON JELTZ: (Disappointed) Tch. Party-pooper.

  VOGON COUNCILLOR: However! An order cannot be countermanded once it has been seen to be issued.

  VOGON CLERK: The paperwork was registered in all galactic sectors.

  VOGON COUNCILLOR: Precisely. We must not be seen to be lax in matters bureaucratic.

  PROSTETNIC VOGON JELTZ: So I can destroy it?

  VOGON COUNCILLOR: Orders are orders, Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz. But given the planet’s Plural location, we need to approach the problem in a circuitous manner. What I have in mind is – is – excuse me— (He coughs, hackingly)

  VOGON CLERK: (Thoughtfully) Orders . . . is orders . . .

  FX: Zap gun shot. Body thud.

  VOGON COUNCILLOR: Argh! (Dying) Et . . . tu . . . Blurtus?

  PROSTETNIC VOGON JELTZ: What you have in mind is – what? What!!!

  INT. – THE BOOK AMBIENCE

  THE VOICE: The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy has several entries claiming to have found the most romantic location in the known Universe.

  One for example, is Brequinda in the Foth of Avalars; famed in myth as home of the magical Fuolornis Fire Dragons. In ancient days, when the air was sweet and the nights fragrant, but everyone somehow managed to be, or so they claimed, virgins, it was not possible to heave a brick on Brequinda in the Foth of Avalars without hitting at least half a dozen Fuolornis Fire Dragons. Whether you would want to do that is another matter. Not that Fire Dragons weren’t an essentially peace-loving species, but one so often hurts the one one loves, especially if one is a Fuolornis Fire Dragon with breath like a rocket booster and teeth like a park fence. Add to all that the relatively small number of madmen who actually went around the place heaving bricks, and you end up with a lot of people on Brequinda in the Foth of Avalars getting seriously hurt by dragons. And bricks.

  But did they mind? They did not.

  The Fuolornis Fire Dragons were revered throughout the land for their savage beauty, their noble ways and their habit of biting people who didn’t revere them.

  Why was this? The answer was simple. There is something almost unbearably sexy about having huge fire-breathing magical dragons flying low about the sky on moonlit nights which are already dangerously on the sweet and fragrant side. No sooner would a flock of half a dozen silk-winged Fuolornis Fire Dragons fly across the evening horizon than half the people of Brequinda were scurrying off into the woods with the other half, to emerge with the dawn all smiling and happy and still claiming, rather endearingly, to be virgins, if rather flushed and sticky virgins. The place was always stiff with researchers trying to get to the bottom of it all and taking a very long time about it.

  Not surprisingly, the Guide’s description of this planet has proved to be so popular that it has never been taken out, and thus latter-day hitchhikers have to find out for themselves that, like the dinosaurs, the dodos, and the greater drubbered wintwock of Stegbartle Major in the constellation Fraz, the Fuolornis Fire Dragons face certain extinction, and modern Brequinda in the City State of Avalars is now little more than concrete, strip joints and Dragon Burger Bars. There are, of course, no Fuolornis Fire Dragons in the Islington mews where Fenchurch lives, but if any had chanced by they might just as well have sloped off across the road for a pizza, for they are not needed.

  INT. – FENCHURCH’S LIVING ROOM

  Music: ‘Tunnel of Love’ by Dire Straits, under:

  ARTHUR: (Close, post-coital glow) . . . Your knee. There is something terribly and tragically wrong with your left knee. Right knee.

  FENCHURCH: (Close, glowing too) Both knees are absolutely fine.

  ARTHUR: Forgetting your calves, which I can’t, by the most sensuous process of elimination it has to be your feet.

  FENCHURCH: Ah.

  ARTHUR: I have to admit that I really don’t know what I’m looking for.

  FENCHURCH: I’ll give you a clue . . . pick me up.

  ARTHUR: (Getting up, slight effort) Unh . . .

  FENCHURCH: Kiss me again.

  ARTHUR: (Does so) Mwwwmmm . . .

  FENCHURCH: Now let me stand up.

  ARTHUR: Hm.

  FENCHURCH: Well?

  ARTHUR: It is the feet . . . (Moves down to inspect them) . . . but they look OK – on top . . . and underneath . . .

  FENCHURCH: You’re getting warmer.

  ARTHUR: Good grief. I see what’s wrong with your feet. They don’t touch the ground.

  FENCHURCH: (Insecure, worried) So . . . so what do you think . . . ?

  ARTHUR: Well . . . I’m guessing you’re an inch taller than you were before the dolphins disappeared.

  FENCHURCH: (Laughs uncertainly) I suppose so.

  ARTHUR: (Moving off) Which probably means . . . I wonder. Is this the old hay-loft door?

  FX: Bolts back door opened/exterior atmos up.

  FENCHURCH: Yes – careful, Arthur – we’re two floors up—

  ARTHUR: (Moving outside) Mind if pop outside for a minute?

  FENCHURCH: (Gasp) Arthur—! But – how are you doing that?! What are you standing on?

  ARTHUR: Nothing. Come on out . . . the air’s lovely . . .

  FENCHURCH: You . . . think . . . I can . . .

  ARTHUR: I’m sure of it. No, don’t bring anything . . . just come towards me. Think about tulips . . . or lost items of hand luggage . . .

  INT. – JUMBO JET

  FX: 747 interior. (We are with the steward.)

  STEWARD: (On overhead speakers) . . . shortly landing at London Heathrow, please make sure your cabin baggage is secure, your seat is in the upright position and your seatbelt firmly fastened. Thank you.

  FX: Intercom phone replaced. Soft chime of cabin attendant call.

  STEWARD: (Hanging up intercom phone) Not again.

  STEWARDESS: Do you want me to go?

  STEWARD: It’s OK . . . I’ll deal with her.

  FX: He makes his way to a nearby seat.

  STEWARD: Excuse me . . . Yes, er – Mrs – Kapinsky.

  MRS KAPELSEN: Kapelsen.

  STEWARD: Yes. You pressed your ‘call’ button.

  MRS KAPELSEN: Did I?

  STEWARD: Is something wrong?

  MRS KAPELSEN: (Seemingly confused) Ah – well I thought you might know.

  STEWARD: Is it the headphones again?

  MRS KAPELSEN: No.

  STEWARD: The child in front making milk come out of his nose again?

  MRS KAPELSEN: Er – no.

  STEWARD: Mrs Kapelsen, is it something outside the plane? You’re staring.

  MRS KAPELSEN: Yes. Well . . . (Turns to face steward) You know. I’ve seen a lot of life.

  STEWARD: I’m sorry . . . ?

  MRS KAPELSEN: I’ve been puzzled by some, but I do feel I was bored with a lot of it. It’s all been very pleasant, but perhaps a little too routine.

  STEWARD: Right.

  MRS KAPELSEN: I thought I just saw . . . but then I didn’t. Well I did, two of them, but it’s nothing to worry about.

>   STEWARD: So you don’t need help?

  MRS KAPELSEN: Oh no. I just needed to tell someone. Thank you.

  STEWARD: (Sighs) No problem. (He goes off, muttering)

  MRS KAPELSEN: (Intrigued – to self) I didn’t know you could do it on the wing of a plane, though . . .

  EXT. – A THOUSAND FEET OVER LONDON

  FX: Jumbo jet roars past.

  FX: Arthur and Fenchurch fly past.

  ARTHUR: Try a swoop.

  FENCHURCH: What?

  ARTHUR: Like this – wheeee!

  FENCHURCH: (Following) Whoooooo . . . I’m flying . . .

  ARTHUR: (Fearful) Don’t think about it!

  FENCHURCH: Think about what?

  ARTHUR: (Relieved) That’s the idea.

  FENCHURCH: Can we do this every night?

  ARTHUR: Maybe not so close to the Heathrow flight path?

  FENCHURCH: Coward!

  ARTHUR: (Flying off) I know . . . tomorrow we’ll bring the iPod, music and two sets of earphones . . .

  FENCHURCH: (Following him) And lots of Dire Straits . . .

  INT. – ROBOT SPACESHIP CORRIDOR

  FX: Running ship FX. The occasional ratchet screwdriver whizzes past.

  FORD PREFECT: (Snores)

  THE VOICE: The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy was conceived of as a reference work dedicated to the pursuit of cheap travel, cheap food and the cheapest possible intoxicants. As a result, even in its eight to the sixteenth edition it can fail entirely to include certain very necessary entries, such as how to report a pair of flying people using the aerofoil of a commercial jetliner to consummate their affections, or which methods to conquer insomnia work best in the noisy confines of huge spacecraft. This latter omission is no longer of significance to Ford Prefect, who snores cocooned in towels and well-thumbed copies of Playbeing in a maintenance hatchway aboard the Xaxisian robot ship, deaf to the traffic of flying ratchet screwdrivers, dreaming fitfully of old haunts . . . like the East Side of New York, where the river has become so extravagantly polluted that new life forms are now emerging from it spontaneously, demanding welfare and voting rights . . .

  FX: New York soundscape up.

  FX: Creature thrashes ashore.

  EAST RIVER CREATURE: Urhh . . . Ahh . . . Hello, hello . . . Excuse me. I need some help.

  FORD PREFECT: Sure, what can I do for you?

  EAST RIVER CREATURE: I just oozed up out of the river. I’m pretty much new to the surface in every respect. Is there any useful information you can give me?

  FORD PREFECT: Phew . . . I can tell you where some bars are, I guess.

  EAST RIVER CREATURE: I’ll be honest with you, this is not my field. What about love and happiness? I sense deep needs in myself for things like that. Got any leads there?

  FORD PREFECT: Only that you can get most of what you require around Seventh Avenue.

  EAST RIVER CREATURE: Uh-huh, OK. Now I instinctively feel that I need to be beautiful. Would you put me in the category of beautiful? (Silence) Hello? Who am I talking to?

  FORD PREFECT: You’re, umm, you’re pretty direct, aren’t you?

  EAST RIVER CREATURE: Me, I don’t waste time. Am I, or am I not, beautiful?

  FORD PREFECT: Well, to me— Not— But, listen, most people make out, you know. Are there any more like you in the river?

  EAST RIVER CREATURE: How should I know, you think we have mirrors down there? It’s a dirty, filthy, disgusting place, dirty water, you can’t see your tentacle in front of your face.

  FORD PREFECT: No, fair enough, stupid question.

  EAST RIVER CREATURE: Listen, I’m new here. Life is entirely strange to me. What’s it like?

  FORD PREFECT: Ah. Now this is something that I can speak about with some authority.

  EAST RIVER CREATURE: Good, good, tell me everything. I’m all ears.

  FORD PREFECT: Yes, you are . . . Where you’re not all tentacles.

  EAST RIVER CREATURE: Hey, schmuck, I need the tentacles to clean out the ears. So, what about Life? I’m listening.

  FORD PREFECT: Life . . . Life is like a grapefruit.

  EAST RIVER CREATURE: Life is like a grapefruit. Help me out here. I’m struggling. Describe to me in concrete terms how life is like a grapefruit. Use your hands if it helps.

  FORD PREFECT: Well, it’s sort of orangey-yellow and dimpled on the outside, wet and squidgy in the middle. It’s got pips inside, too. Oh, and some people have half a one for breakfast.

  EAST RIVER CREATURE: This is advice I can use? Is there anyone else in this dream I can talk to?

  FORD PREFECT: (Losing patience) I dunno. Look – ask a policeman. Ask anybody but me. I’m going to roll over and dream about girls . . . air cars . . . single malt . . . (Burbles into snoring, fades)

  EAST RIVER CREATURE: That’s great. That’s great. Go back to sleep, see if I care. You think I’m going to work your dream out for myself? Forget about it! (Squidging off) I need to get up, put on my slippers and go to the bathroom anyway!

  INT. – FENCHURCH’S LIVING ROOM – DAY

  FX: Teacup put down on saucer.

  FENCHURCH: Elevenses. What a treat.

  ARTHUR: My pleasure.

  FENCHURCH: This is all very wonderful.

  ARTHUR: The sandwich?

  FENCHURCH: Everything. But I do still feel . . . I need to know what has happened to me. You see, there’s this difference between us. That you lost something and found it again, and I found something and lost it. I need to find it again.

  ARTHUR: Yes, I know. And I’ve had an idea. Pass the phone.

  FX: Phone passed and dialling. Distant futzed ring, under:

  ARTHUR: (cont’d) Murray Bost Henson is a journalist on one of those papers with small pages and big print.

  FENCHURCH: Doesn’t sound like he’s much of a journalist.

  ARTHUR: He isn’t. But he’s the only one I knew. Or rather . . .

  FENCHURCH: (Checks watch, jumps up, peck on cheek) Eek. I’m late for my cello lesson. (Leaving) Back soon. Good luck.

  FX: Cello case grabbed, door opens/closes, off.

  FX: Following phone call may flip from Arthur’s perspective to Murray’s, with newspaper office background:

  ARTHUR: (Sighs happily) Ahhhh.

  MURRAY BOST HENSON: (Phone distort) Yyyup?

  ARTHUR: (Startled) Murray?

  MURRAY BOST HENSON: (Distorted) . . . Arthur Dent?

  ARTHUR: Yes.

  MURRAY BOST HENSON: (Distorted) Arthur, my old soup spoon, my old silver tureen, how particularly stunning to hear from you. Someone told me you’d gone off into space or something.

  ARTHUR: What?

  MURRAY BOST HENSON: (Distorted) Just a rumour, my old elephant tusk, my little green baize card table, got it from someone who picked up a hitchhiker in Somerset. Probably means nothing at all, but I may need a quote from you.

  ARTHUR: Oh, well then, I deny it.

  MURRAY BOST HENSON: (Distorted) That’s perfect, thank you. Fits like a whatsit in one of those other things with the other stories of the week, that denial. Excuse me, something has just fallen out of my ear. Good Lord.

  ARTHUR: Murray—?

  MURRAY BOST HENSON: (Distorted) Ur . . . Just remembered what an odd evening I had last night . . . Anyway, my old I won’t say what, we’re calling this the Week of the Weirdos. Got a ring to it. You see we have this man it always rains on.

  ARTHUR: What?

  MURRAY BOST HENSON: (Distorted) It’s the absolute stocking-top truth. All documented in his little black book, it all checks out. The Met Office is going ice-cold thick banana whips. This man is the bee’s knees, Arthur, he is the wasp’s nipples. He is, I would go so far as to say, the entire set of erogenous zones of every major flying insect of the Western world. We’re calling him the Rain God. Nice, eh?

  ARTHUR: I think I’ve met him.

  MURRAY BOST HENSON: (Distorted) Incredible! You met the Rain God?

  ARTHUR: If it’s the same man. I told him to stop complaining and
show someone his book.

  MURRAY BOST HENSON: (Distorted) Well, you did a bundle. Do you know how much tour operators are paying him not to go abroad this year? Listen, we may want to do a feature on you, Arthur, the Man Who Made the Rain God Rain. Got a ring to it, eh? Photograph you under a garden shower, but that’ll be OK. Where do I send the snapper?

  ARTHUR: Er, I’m in Islington. Listen, Murray . . .

  MURRAY BOST HENSON: (Distorted) Islington! Home of the real weirdness of the week, the real seriously loopy stuff. You know anything about these flying people?

  ARTHUR: No.

  MURRAY BOST HENSON: (Distorted) Arthur, where have you been? Oh, space, right, I got your denial. But that was months ago. Listen, it’s night after night this week, my old cheese grater, right on your patch. This couple just fly around the sky and start doing all kinds of stuff. And I don’t mean looking through walls or pretending to be box-girder bridges. You don’t know anything?

  ARTHUR: No.

  MURRAY BOST HENSON: (Distorted) Arthur, it’s been almost inexpressibly delicious conversing with you, chumbum, but I have to go. I’ll send the guy with the camera and the hose. Give me the address, I’m already writing.

  ARTHUR: Listen, Murray, I called to ask you something. I want to find out something about the dolphins.

  MURRAY BOST HENSON: (Distorted) No story. Last year’s news. Forget ’em. They’re gone. And so is the story.

  ARTHUR: Murray, I’m not interested in whether it’s a story. I just want to find out how I can get in touch with that man in California who claims to know something about it. I thought you might know.

  MURRAY BOST HENSON: (Distorted) Him? My old herringbone tweed, why didn’t you say so?

  INT. – JUMBO JET

  FX: Ding dong.

  STEWARD: (Cabin intercom) . . . This is an important announcement. This is flight 121 to Los Angeles. If your travel plans today do not include Los Angeles, now would be the perfect time to disembark.

  ARTHUR: (Sitting, breathless) Foof. I wonder when they start serving the drinks.

  FENCHURCH: (Breathless) When you said, ‘meet me at the airport’, I didn’t think you’d be bringing our passports and a pair of plane tickets.

  ARTHUR: Sorry about that. I remembered your toothbrush, though.

  FENCHURCH: Look at you – drenched with sweat.