The Ultimate Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Read online

Page 64


  “No.”

  “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 ready and writing.”

  “Listen, Murray, I called to ask you something.”

  “I have a lot to do.”

  “I just wanted to find something about the dolphins.”

  “No story. Last year’s news. Forget ’em. They’re gone.”

  “It’s important.”

  “Listen, no one will touch it. You can’t sustain a story, you know, when the only news is the continuing absence of whatever it is the story’s about. Not our territory anyway, try the Sundays. Maybe they’ll run a little ‘Whatever Happened to “Whatever Happened to the Dolphins”’ story in a couple of years, around August. But what’s anybody going to do now? ‘Dolphins Still Gone’? ‘Continuing Dolphin Absence’? ‘Dolphins—Further Days Without Them’? The story dies, Arthur. It lies down and kicks its little feet in the air and presently goes to the great golden spike in the sky, my old fruitbat.”

  “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 guy in California who claims to know something about it. I thought you might know.”

  Chapter 28

  People are beginning to talk,” said Fenchurch that evening, after they had hauled her cello in.

  “Not only talk,” said Arthur, “but print, in big bold letters under the bingo prizes. Which is why I thought I’d better get these.”

  He showed her the long narrow booklets of airline tickets.

  “Arthur!” she said, hugging him, “does that mean you managed to talk to him?”

  “I have had a day,” said Arthur, “of extreme telephonic exhaustion. I have spoken to virtually every department of virtually every paper in Fleet Street, and I finally tracked his number down.”

  “You’ve obviously been working hard, you’re drenched with sweat, poor darling.”

  “Not with sweat,” said Arthur wearily. “A photographer’s just been here. I tried to argue, but—never mind, the point is, yes.”

  “You spoke to him.”

  “I spoke to his wife. She said he was too weird to come to the phone right now and could I call back.”

  He sat down heavily, realized he was missing something, and went to the fridge to find it.

  “Want a drink?”

  “Would commit murder to get one. I always know I’m in for a tough time when my cello teacher looks me up and down and says, ‘Ah yes, my dear, I think a little Tchaikovsky today.’ ”

  “I called again,” said Arthur, “and she said that he was 3.2 light-years from the phone and I should call back.”

  “Ah.”

  “I called again. She said the situation had improved. He was now a mere 2.6 light-years from the phone but it was still a long way to shout.”

  “You don’t suppose,” said Fenchurch doubtfully, “that there’s anyone else we can talk to?”

  “It gets worse,” said Arthur. “I spoke to someone on a science magazine who actually knows him, and he said that John Watson will not only believe, but will actually have absolute proof, often dictated to him by angels with golden beards and green wings and Dr. Scholl footwear, that the month’s most fashionable silly theory is true. For people who question the validity of these visions he will triumphantly produce the clogs in question, and that’s as far as you get.”

  “I didn’t realize it was that bad,” said Fenchurch quietly. She fiddled listlessly with the tickets.

  “I phoned Mrs. Watson again,” said Arthur. “Her name, by the way, and you may wish to know this, is Arcane Jill.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m glad you see. I thought you mightn’t believe any of this, so when I called her this time I used the telephone answering machine to record the call with.”

  He went across to the telephone machine and fiddled and fumed with all its buttons for a while, because it was the one which was particularly recommended by Which magazine and is almost impossible to use without going mad.

  “Here it is,” he said at last, wiping the sweat from his brow.

  The voice was thin and crackly with its journey to a geostationary satellite and back, but was also hauntingly calm.

  “Perhaps I should explain,” Arcane Jill Watson’s voice said, “that the phone is in fact in a room that he never comes into. It’s in the Asylum, you see. Wonko the Sane does not like to enter the Asylum and so he does not. I feel you should know this because it may save you phoning. If you would like to meet him, this is very easily arranged. All you have to do is walk in. He will only meet people outside the Asylum.”

  Arthur’s voice, at its most mystified: “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Where is the asylum?”

  “Where is the Asylum?” Arcane Jill Watson again. “Have you ever read the instructions on a packet of toothpicks?”

  On the tape, Arthur’s voice had to admit that he had not.

  “You may want to do that. You may find that it clarifies things for you a little. You may find that it indicates to you where the Asylum is. Thank you.”

  The sound of the phone line went dead. Arthur turned the machine off.

  “Well, I suppose we can regard that as an invitation,” he said with a shrug. “I actually managed to get the address from the guy on the science magazine.”

  Fenchurch looked up at him with a thoughtful frown, and looked at the tickets again.

  “Do you think it’s worth it?” she said.

  “Well,” said Arthur, “the one thing that everyone I spoke to agreed on, apart from the fact they all thought he was barking mad, is that he does know more than any man living about dolphins.”

  Chapter 29

  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 a perfect time to disembark.”

  Chapter 30

  They rented a car in Los Angeles from one of the places that rents out cars that other people have thrown away.

  “Getting it to go around corners is a bit of a problem,” said the guy behind the sunglasses as he handed them the keys. “Sometimes it’s simpler just to get out and find a car that’s going in that direction.”

  They stayed for one night in a hotel on Sunset Boulevard which someone had told them they would enjoy being puzzled by.

  “Everyone there is either English or odd or both. They’ve got a swimming pool where you can go and watch English rock stars reading Language, Truth and Logic for the photographers.”

  It was true. There was one and that was exactly what he was doing.

  The garage attendant didn’t think much of their car, but that was fine because they didn’t either.

  Late in the evening they drove through the Hollywood hills along Mulholland Drive and stopped to look out first over the dazzling sea of floating light that is Los Angeles, and later stopped to look across the dazzling sea of floating light that is the San Fernando Valley. They agreed that the sense of dazzle stopped immediately at the back of their eyes and didn’t touch any other part of them and came away strangely unsatisfied by the spectacle. As dramatic seas of light went, it was fine, but light is meant to illuminate something, and having driven through what this particularly dramatic sea of light was illuminating they didn’t think much of it.

  They slept late and restlessly and awoke at lunchtime when it was unbearably hot.

  They drove out along the freeway to Santa Monica for their first look at the Pacific Ocean, the ocean which Wonko the Sane spent all his days and a good deal of his nights looking at.

  “Someone told me,” said Fenchurch, “that they once overheard two ladies on this beach, doing what we’re doing, looking at the Pacific Ocean for the first time in their lives. And apparently, after a long pause, one of them said to the other, ‘You know, it’s not as big as I expected.’ ”

  Their mood grad
ually lifted as they walked along the beach in Malibu and watched all the millionaires in their chic shanty huts carefully keeping an eye on one another to check how rich they were each getting.

  Their mood lifted further as the sun began to move down the western half of the sky, and by the time they were back in their rattling car and driving toward a sunset that no one of any sensibility would dream of building a city like Los Angeles in front of they were suddenly feeling astonishingly and irrationally happy and didn’t even mind that the terrible old car radio would only play two stations, and those simultaneously. So what, they were both playing good rock and roll.

  “I know that he will be able to help us,” said Fenchurch determinedly, “I know he will. What’s his name again, the one he likes to be called?”

  “Wonko the Sane.”

  “I know that he will be able to help us.”

  Arthur wondered if he would and hoped that he would, and hoped that what Fenchurch had lost could be found here, on this Earth, whatever this Earth might prove to be.

  He hoped, as he had hoped continually and fervently since the time they had talked together on the banks of the Serpentine, that he would not be called upon to try to remember something that he had very firmly and deliberately buried in the furthest recesses of his memory, where he hoped it would cease to nag at him.

  In Santa Barbara they stopped at a fish restaurant in what seemed to be a converted warehouse.

  Fenchurch had red mullet and said it was delicious.

  Arthur had a swordfish steak and said it made him angry. He grabbed a passing waitress by the arm and berated her.

  “Why’s this fish so bloody good?” he demanded, angrily.

  “Please excuse my friend,” said Fenchurch to the startled waitress. “I think he’s having a nice day at last.”

  Chapter 31

  If you took a couple of David Bowies and stuck one of the David Bowies on the top of the other David Bowie, then attached another David Bowie to the end of each of the arms of the upper of the first two David Bowies and wrapped the whole business up in a dirty beach robe you would then have something which didn’t exactly look like John Watson, but which those who knew him would find hauntingly familiar.

  He was tall and he gangled.

  When he sat in his deck chair gazing at the Pacific, not so much with any kind of wild surmise any longer as with a peaceful deep dejection, it was a little difficult to tell exactly where the deck chair ended and he began, and you would hesitate to put your hand on, say, his forearm in case the whole structure suddenly collapsed with a snap and took your thumb off. But his smile when he turned it on you was quite remarkable. It seemed to be composed of all the worst things that life can do to you, but which when he briefly reassembled them in that particular order on his face made you suddenly feel “Oh. Well, that’s all right then.”

  When he spoke, you were glad that he used the smile that made you feel “Oh. Well, that’s all right then” pretty often.

  “Oh yes,” he said, “they come and see me. They sit right here. They sit right where you’re sitting.” He was talking of the angels with the golden beards and green wings and Dr. Scholl sandals.

  “They eat nachos which they say they can’t get where they come from. They do a lot of coke and are very wonderful about a whole range of things.”

  “Do they,” said Arthur, “are they? So, er … when is this then? When do they come?”

  He gazed out at the Pacific as well. There were little sandpipers running along the margin of the shore which seemed to have this problem: they needed to find their food in the sand which a wave had just washed over, but they couldn’t bear to get their feet wet. To deal with this problem they ran with an odd kind of movement as if they’d been constructed by somebody very clever in Switzerland.

  Fenchurch was sitting on the sand, idly drawing patterns in it with her fingers.

  “Weekends, mostly,” said Wonko the Sane, “on little scooters. They are great machines.” He smiled.

  “I see,” said Arthur, “I see.”

  A tiny cough from Fenchurch attracted his attention and he looked round at her. She had scratched a little stick figure drawing in the sand of the two of them in the clouds. For a moment he thought she was trying to get him excited, then he realized that she was rebuking him. “Who are we,” she was saying, “to say he’s mad?”

  His house was certainly peculiar, and since this was the first thing that Fenchurch and Arthur had encountered it would help to know what it was like.

  It was like this:

  It was inside out.

  Actually inside out, to the extent that they had had to park on the carpet.

  All along what one would normally call the outer wall, which was decorated in a tasteful interior-designed pink, were bookshelves, also a couple of those odd three-legged tables with semicircular tops which stand in such a way as to suggest that someone just dropped the wall straight through them, and pictures which were clearly designed to soothe.

  Where it got really odd was the roof.

  It folded back on itself like something that M. C. Escher, had he been given to hard nights on the town, which it is no part of this narrative’s purpose to suggest was the case, though it is sometimes hard, looking at his pictures, particularly the one with all the awkward steps, not to wonder, might have dreamed up after having been on one, for the little chandeliers which should have been hanging inside were on the outside pointing up.

  Confusing.

  The sign above the front door read “Come Outside,” and so, nervously, they had.

  Inside, of course, was where the Outside was. Rough brickwork, nicely done pointing, gutters in good repair, a garden path, a couple of small trees, some rooms leading off.

  And the inner walls stretched down, folded curiously, and opened at the end as if, by an optical illusion which would have had M. C. Escher frowning and wondering how it was done, to enclose the Pacific Ocean itself.

  “Hello,” said John Watson, Wonko the Sane.

  Good, they thought to themselves, “hello” is something we can cope with.

  “Hello,” they said, and all, surprisingly, was smiles.

  For quite a while he seemed curiously reluctant to talk about the dolphins, looking oddly distracted and saying, “I forget …” whenever they were mentioned, and had shown them quite proudly round the eccentricities of his house.

  “It gives me pleasure,” he said, “in a curious kind of way, and does nobody any harm,” he continued, “that a competent optician couldn’t correct.”

  They liked him. He had an open, engaging quality and seemed able to mock himself before anybody else did.

  “Your wife,” said Arthur, looking around, “mentioned some toothpicks.” He said it with a hunted look, as if he was worried that she might suddenly leap out from behind a door and mention them again.

  Wonko the Sane laughed. It was a light easy laugh, and sounded like one he had used a lot before and was happy with.

  “Ah yes,” he said, “that’s to do with the day I finally realized that the world had gone totally mad and built the Asylum to put it in, poor thing, and hoped it would get better.”

  This was the point at which Arthur began to feel a little nervous again.

  “Here,” said Wonko the Sane, “we are outside the Asylum.” He pointed again at the rough brickwork, the pointing, and the gutters. “Go through that door”—he pointed at the first door through which they had originally entered—“and you go into the Asylum. I’ve tried to decorate it nicely to keep the inmates happy, but there’s very little one can do. I never go in there myself. If ever I am tempted, which these days I rarely am, I simply look at the sign written over the door and I shy away.”

  “That one?” said Fenchurch, pointing, rather puzzled, at a blue plaque with some instructions written on it.

  “Yes. They are the words that finally turned me into the hermit I have now become. It was quite sudden. I saw them, and I knew what I had t
o do.”

  The sign read:

  “Hold stick near center of its length. Moisten pointed end in mouth. Insert in tooth space, blunt end next to gum. Use gentle in-out motion.”

  “It seemed to me,” said Wonko the Sane, “that any civilization that had so far lost its head as to need to include a set of detailed instructions for use in a package of toothpicks, was no longer a civilization in which I could live and stay sane.”

  He gazed out at the Pacific again, as if daring it to rave and gibber at him, but it lay there calmly and played with the sandpipers.

  “And in case it crossed your mind to wonder, as I can see how it possibly might, I am completely sane. Which is why I call myself Wonko the Sane, just to reassure people on this point. Wonko is what my mother called me when I was a kid and clumsy and knocked things over, and sane is what I am, and how,” he added, with one of his smiles that made you feel “Oh. Well, that’s all right then, I intend to remain. Shall we go to the beach and see what we have to talk about?”

  They went out onto the beach, which was where he started talking about angels with golden beards and green wings and Dr. Scholl sandals.

  “About the dolphins …” said Fenchurch gently, hopefully.

  “I can show you the sandals,” said Wonko the Sane.

  “I wonder, do you know.

  “Would you like me to show you,” said Wonko the Sane, “the sandals? I have them. I’ll get them. They are made by the Dr. Scholl company, and the angels say that they particularly suit the terrain they have to work in. They say they run a concession stand by the message. When I say I don’t know what that means they say no, you don’t, and laugh. Well, I’ll get them anyway.”

  As he walked back toward the inside, or the outside depending on how you looked at it, Arthur and Fenchurch looked at each other in a wondering and slightly desperate sort of way, then each shrugged and idly drew figures in the sand.