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

  FORD PREFECT: (Firmly) No. Don’t even think about it.

  ARTHUR: If this is before I left, that must mean that I am—

  FORD PREFECT: (Sharply) Don’t!

  ARTHUR: What?

  FORD PREFECT: Try and phone yourself up at home.

  ARTHUR: How did you know?

  FORD PREFECT: (Sighs) People who talk to themselves on the phone never learn anything to their advantage. (Mouth FX imitating pick up, dialling, ringing tone and distant click) Hello? Is that Arthur Dent? Ah, hello, yes. This is Arthur Dent speaking. The Earth blows up tomorrow – no, don’t hang up!

  ARTHUR: What—?

  FORD PREFECT: (Mouth FX ‘click’ and 1970s dialling tone – brrrrr . . .) Arthur, this is not my first temporal anomaly. So finish your zarking tea and let’s get out of here . . .

  EXT. – LORD’S CRICKET GROUND

  FX: Play in background. Arthur and Ford walking disconsolately back to the stands . . .

  ARTHUR: So we’re not home and dry.

  FORD PREFECT: We could not even be said to be home and vigorously towelling ourselves off.

  ARTHUR: (Sighs heavily)

  INT. – THE BOOK AMBIENCE

  THE VOICE: The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy has this to say about towels: (Beat) see Secondary Phase.

  EXT. – LORD’S CRICKET GROUND

  FX: Leather on willow. Huge crowd roar. Ball flying towards them.

  FORD PREFECT: Nice . . . hit . . .

  ARTHUR: Full toss. If they had a fielder standing where we are, the ball would drop straight into his –

  FX: Ball drops in Arthur’s bag.

  ARTHUR:– rabbit-skin bag. Now I’d say that was also a very curious event.

  BOY: (Running up) Where’s the ball?

  ARTHUR: Er – I don’t know. It probably rolled off somewhere. Over there, I expect.

  FX: Boy runs off.

  FORD PREFECT: (With some slight efforty noises) Why didn’t you tell him you caught the ball in your bag?

  ARTHUR: (Mystified) I don’t know. I just got the feeling it might come in useful. Why are you dodging about trying to peer behind the sight screen?

  FORD PREFECT: (Efforty noises increasing) That’s the other thing – I was going to tell you. Neither you nor the crowd have noticed what is parked behind the sight screen. I think it might be an SEP. Can you see it?

  ARTHUR: A what?

  FORD PREFECT: An SEP – Somebody Else’s Problem.

  ARTHUR: Oh, good, I can relax, then.

  FORD PREFECT: Not till you tell me if you can see it.

  ARTHUR: You said that was somebody else’s problem.

  FORD PREFECT: That’s right. And I want to know if you can see it.

  ARTHUR: What does it look like?

  FORD PREFECT: (Shouting) How should I know, you fool? If you can see it, you tell me!

  ARTHUR: (Rising hysteria. Simon’s stock-in-trade – Douglas wrote this, Simon, not me, I am innocent – DM) Ford, I insist that I am not being stupid! You really are gibbering away without any regard for logic or the normal conventions of human discourse, and, all right, I know you’re not human but while you’re on what is after all my planet, where humans come from, I think you might at least try to—

  FORD PREFECT: (Patiently) Arthur, it’s perfectly simple. An SEP is something that we can’t see, or don’t see, or our brain doesn’t let us see, because we think that it’s somebody else’s problem. That’s what SEP means. Somebody Else’s Problem. The brain just edits it out, it’s . . . er . . . like a blind spot. Your only hope is to catch it by surprise out of the corner of your eye.

  ARTHUR: Oh. I can see it. It’s a spaceship!

  FORD PREFECT: What?

  ARTHUR: Just a spaceship. Parked behind the sight screen.

  FORD PREFECT: Great walloping Zarquon!

  ARTHUR: What an utterly extraordinary-looking thing, though. Strange that I couldn’t see it . . .

  INT. – THE BOOK AMBIENCE

  THE VOICE: Sometimes it’s much cheaper and easier to make people think that something works rather than actually make it work. After all, the result is, in all important aspects, the same. The extraordinary-looking spaceship was not actually invisible or anything hyper-impossible like that. The technology involved in making something properly invisible is so mind-bogglingly complex that nine hundred and ninety-nine million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety times out of a billion it’s simpler just to take the thing away and hide it.

  For instance, the ultra-famous sciento-magician Effrafax of Wug once bet his life that given a year he could render the great megamountain Magramal entirely invisible.

  FX: Lux-O-Valves, Refracto-Nullifiers and Spectrum-Bypass-O-Mats, under:

  THE VOICE: (cont’d) Having spent most of the year fruitlessly jiggling around with immense Lux-O-Valves and Refracto-Nullifiers and Spectrum-Bypass-O-Mats, he finally realized, with nine hours to go, that he wasn’t going to make it.

  EXTREMELY BORING MAN: (There’s one at every mountain-hiding event) . . . I can still see it.

  THE VOICE: (cont’d) So he and his friends, and his friends’ friends and his friends’ friends’ friends and some friends of theirs who happened to own a major stellar trucking company, put in what is now recognized as being one of the hardest night’s work in history, and sure enough Magramal was no longer visible. He lost the bet, and therefore his life, because he was unable to a) just say ‘Abracadabra!’ and put it back and b) account for the suspicious-looking extra moon overhead.

  The Somebody Else’s Problem field is much simpler, more effective and can be run for over a hundred years on a nine-volt battery. This is because it relies on people’s natural predisposition not to see anything they don’t want to, weren’t expecting or can’t explain. If Effrafax had, instead of trying to render Magramal invisible, merely rendered it pink and then erected a cheap Somebody Else’s Problem field around it, then people would have walked past the mountain, round it, even over it and simply never noticed that the thing was there.

  Meanwhile, events of Universe-shaking magnitude are gathering to a climax . . .

  FX: Tumultuous applause and excitement at the winning stroke of the game.

  ARTHUR: (Remarkably helpfully, given the needs of the plot) That’s the end of the game!

  FORD PREFECT: Why’s everybody trying to get at those guys in the middle, what have they done?

  ARTHUR: Won the Ashes!

  FORD PREFECT: The what?

  SLARTIBARTFAST: Exciting, isn’t it, Earthman?

  ARTHUR: The hallucinations just keep on coming, Ford. For a moment there I thought I heard old Whatshisname. You know, sounds like some sort of Danish chopped sausage.

  SLARTIBARTFAST: Slartibartfast. I think your team has just won, Earthman.

  FORD PREFECT: Hello, Slartibartfast.

  SLARTIBARTFAST: You are English, aren’t you, Earthman?

  ARTHUR: Er, yes, I . . . What on Earth are you doing here? Or rather, I mean . . . I don’t know what I mean!

  SLARTIBARTFAST: Winning the Ashes – you must be very proud. I must say, I’m rather fond of cricket myself. Almost entertainingly dull. Though I wouldn’t want anyone outside this planet to hear me say so. (With a shudder) Oh dear no.

  FORD PREFECT: What are you doing here? I thought something terrible had happened.

  SLARTIBARTFAST: Something terrible is about to happen.

  FORD PREFECT: That’s generally true, isn’t it? Look, if that monstrosity is your ship, can you give us a lift?

  SLARTIBARTFAST: Patience, Ford Prefect . . .

  FORD PREFECT: It’s just that this planet’s about to be demolished.

  SLARTIBARTFAST: I know.

  FORD PREFECT: And, well, I just wanted to make the point.

  SLARTIBARTFAST: Earthman, explain precisely to me what ceremony is now taking place at the centre of the field.

  ARTHUR: Er . . . Pitch.

  SLARTIBARTFAST: It is a little puzzling.

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nbsp; ARTHUR: You want me to explain something to you? Well, that’s the presentation of the Ashes to the winning captain.

  FORD PREFECT: (Interrupting) It’s just that if we don’t go soon we might get caught in the middle of it all again, and there’s nothing depresses me more than a planet being senselessly destroyed.

  SLARTIBARTFAST: I see. And these Ashes are in that tiny pottery urn?

  ARTHUR: Yes.

  FORD PREFECT: Except, I suppose, being on it when it happens.

  SLARTIBARTFAST: Patience, great things are afoot.

  ARTHUR: That’s what you said last time.

  SLARTIBARTFAST: They were.

  ARTHUR: Well, true.

  SLARTIBARTFAST: Meet me at my ship in two minutes.

  FORD PREFECT: Where are you going?

  SLARTIBARTFAST: (Moving away) I have something of vital importance I have to do.

  FORD PREFECT: (Shouting after him) I know. You’ve got to get us off this planet!

  INT. – LORD’S CRICKET GROUND – COMMENTARY BOX

  FRED TRUEMAN: (Fade up) . . . The players are lined up as the urn containing the Ashes is presented to the captain of the winning team.

  HENRY BLOFELD: A wonderful moment, isn’t it, but there’s an elderly gentleman apparently overcome with the heat, looking just a little bit like Moses, and – I do declare – he’s demanding that he should be given the urn.

  SLARTIBARTFAST: (Distantly, shouting) I must have the Ashes! They are vitally important for the past, present and future safety of the Galaxy! (Indignantly, as if having his robes interfered with by an officious umpire) Do you mind?

  EXT. – LORD’S CRICKET GROUND, CONTINUOUS

  FORD PREFECT: What in the name of zarking fardwarks is the old fool doing?

  ARTHUR: I have no idea.

  FX: A Krikkit ship appears in the sky overhead with a noise like a hundred thousand people saying ‘wop’ – or a distinguished radio cast overdubbed many times.

  ARTHUR: Interesting. That’s the second spaceship we’ve seen at Lord’s today. And to think I woke up in a prehistoric cave this morning. It’s very impressive, hanging up there. Much sleeker than Slartibartfast’s, isn’t it?

  FX: Krikkit robots’ rocket pads ignite. They swirl down from the ship like expensive fireworks.

  FORD PREFECT: The hatch is opening . . . One, two, three . . .

  ARTHUR: Is that a cricket team arriving from some other galaxy? Or another publicity stunt for Australian margarine?

  FORD PREFECT: . . . ten, eleven . . . All in white, carrying bats and balls –

  ARTHUR:– and flying down with cricket pads . . . no, rocket pads. On their shins.

  FX: A robot lands near them. Rocket pads switch off.

  ROBOT: Howzat.

  FORD PREFECT: They’re dressed like cricketers, but they’re robots.

  ROBOT: Silly mid-on.

  FX: A Krikkit war club propels a Krikkit war grenade into the stands, where it explodes extravagantly.

  ARTHUR: What was that?!

  ROBOT: LBW.

  FX: Another club hits a grenade, another huge explosion.

  ARTHUR: Hey!

  FORD PREFECT: (Dragging him away, breathless) We must get to the ship!

  ARTHUR: What is this?

  FORD PREFECT: I don’t want to know, this is not my planet, I didn’t choose to be here, I don’t want to get involved!

  FX: Panicking people, screams and explosions.

  HENRY BLOFELD: (Distort, on a radio) Well, Fred, the supernatural brigade certainly seems to be out in force here at Lord’s today . . .

  FX: Explosion as the radio is targeted.

  ROBOT: (Distantly ironic) Full and bye-bye.

  FORD PREFECT: (Yelling over the din) What I need is a strong drink and a peer group.

  ROBOT: Bodyline.

  FX: Explosions. Mayhem.

  ARTHUR: It’s incredible – they’re doing a bizarre parody of batting strokes, except that every ball they hit explodes where it lands.

  FORD PREFECT: I can see that.

  ARTHUR: I do not know why they are doing this, but that is what they are doing. They’re not just destroying Lord’s, they’re sending it up . . . Ford, they’re taking the—

  FORD PREFECT: Precisely.

  FX: The explosions die down. Crowd panic continues.

  ROBOTS: We declare.

  FX: Eleven pairs of rocket pads ignite. The robots shoot back up to their ship. Crowd quietens, trying to assess damage.

  FORD PREFECT: They don’t hang about.

  ARTHUR: No.

  FX: The Krikkit ship disappears with a noise like a hundred thousand people saying ‘foop’.

  SLARTIBARTFAST: (Off, indistinct) They’ve taken the Ashes!

  ARTHUR: Good heavens!

  FORD PREFECT: What?

  ARTHUR: Ashes. The remains of a cricket stump burnt in Melbourne, Australia, in 1882, to signify ‘the death of English cricket’ – a trophy – it’s an Earth thing. That they have come and taken.

  FORD PREFECT: Strange thing to want to tell us.

  ARTHUR: Strange thing to take.

  FORD PREFECT: Strange ship.

  ARTHUR: Clever how it just appeared one minute and disappeared the next.

  FORD PREFECT: Not the robots’ ship, this ship.

  ARTHUR: Good Lord. This is Slartibartfast’s ship? It looks very different close up.

  FORD PREFECT: Ah. That’s the Somebody Else’s Problem field at work. Now you can clearly see the ship for what it is, simply because you know it’s here. Whereas no one else here can.

  ARTHUR: Probably because close up it looks much less like a spaceship and much more like a small upended Italian bistro.

  SLARTIBARTFAST: (Arriving) Yes, I know, but there is a reason. Come, we must go. The ancient nightmare is come again. Doom confronts us all. We must leave at once.

  FX: Slarti unlocks the bistro doors and enters the ship’s charming rustic foyer. It’s a bit plastic and echoey.

  FORD PREFECT: (Following him in) I fancy somewhere sunny.

  FX: A familiar-sounding spaceship descends in the background, under:

  ARTHUR: (Hesitating outside) Wait a minute – Ford? You won’t believe this, but there’s another spaceship landing near that ambulance—

  FORD PREFECT: (Coming back to grab Arthur) Come on, Arthur, we’re leaving.

  ARTHUR: (Struggling) Wait a minute – I think I recognize it – ow!

  FX: Hatch closes. Ship takes off.

  INT. – LORD’S CRICKET GROUND – COMMENTARY BOX

  FX: Debris falling, rubble settling, sirens.

  HENRY BLOFELD: Well, I – I really don’t know what’s going on here, I have to be honest, Fred. I don’t think this is good for the game. Can you see exactly what’s happening?

  FRED TRUEMAN: Well, some unearthly looking chap is going up to one of the wounded spectators lying in the middle of the wicket. Never had this in my day.

  FX: Steps on steel ramp. Wounded people groaning.

  WOWBAGGER: (For it is he) Excuse me, out of the way, yes, I know you’re mortal, just don’t bleed on me. Ah. Here you are.

  DEODAT: (Dying, coughing) Help me . . . Please . . .

  WOWBAGGER: Deodat?

  DEODAT: . . . Eh?

  WOWBAGGER: (Closer. He kneels) Arthur Philip Deodat?

  DEODAT: (Coughs) Yes . . .

  WOWBAGGER: (Whispers) You’re a no-good dumbo nothing.

  DEODAT: (Dying breath) Wha—?

  WOWBAGGER: (Getting up) I thought you should know that before you went.

  FX: Body thud. Boots up ramp. Hatch closes. Wowbagger’s ship leaves.

  EXT. – SPACE

  FX: Starship Bistromath zooms past us. Sounds like a spaceship crossed with an Italian accordion wedding band.

  INT. – STARSHIP BISTROMATH – FLIGHT DECK

  FX: Ship’s steady hum throughout. Slartibartfast pottering, electronic whirrings and pops from flight controls.

  FORD PREFECT: Nice mover. Shame about the decor.
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  SLARTIBARTFAST: (Interrupted) What did you say?

  FORD PREFECT: For a flight deck, this looks very like the lobby of an Italian restaurant.

  SLARTIBARTFAST: Deep in the fundamental heart of mind and Universe, there is a reason.

  FORD PREFECT: I’d say the fundamental heart of mind and Universe can take a running jump, this spaceship is complete pants.

  ARTHUR: It’s not very high tech, is it? Plastic ivy, cheap tiles and those raffia-wrapped bottles you’re trying to fit candles in.

  SLARTIBARTFAST: The flight controls?

  ARTHUR: I refuse to be surprised.

  FX: Squeak of a Chianti cork.

  SLARTIBARTFAST: Hold tight, please.

  FX: Loud pop and accordion overdrive, huge engine roar.

  EXT. – SPACE. WHERE NO ONE CAN HEAR YOU SCREAM, BUT THIS IS RADIO SO WE’LL PUT WHAT WE HAVE HANDY INTO THE MIX, IN THIS CASE LOTS OF SUB-WOOFER

  FX: The Starship Bistromath whips past in accordion overdrive.

  ARTHUR/FORD PREFECT: (And possibly Slarti too, for this would tend to take him by surprise) Whoah!

  INT. – STARSHIP BISTROMATH – FLIGHT DECK

  FX: Ship’s steady hum as before. Slartibartfast pottering.

  FORD PREFECT: (Recovering, breathless) Ooh . . . On the other hand, I can’t deny that the way it moves makes the Heart of Gold seem like an electric pram. How far did we just travel?

  SLARTIBARTFAST: Oh . . . about, um, about two-thirds of the way across the Galactic disc, I would say – roughly.

  FORD PREFECT: (Respectful) Not bad.

  ARTHUR: Where are we going?

  SLARTIBARTFAST: We’re going to confront an ancient nightmare of the Universe.

  FORD PREFECT: And where are you going to drop us off?

  FX: The sound of a small in-flight-catering can of Indian tonic water being opened. It’s flat.

  SLARTIBARTFAST: I will need your help. Come. (Moving off) There is much I must show and tell you.

  FX: Feet on green cast-iron spiral staircase.

  FORD PREFECT: Where is he going?

  ARTHUR: Up that green spiral staircase, how should I know? (Moving off) We’d better follow him.

  FORD PREFECT: (Calling out, but following Arthur) My doctor says that I have a malformed public-duty gland and a natural deficiency in moral fibre, and that I am therefore excused from saving Universes.