The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy tuhgttg-1 Page 6

  “You don’t need to. Just put that fish in your ear.”

  Ford, with a lightning movement, clapped his hand to Arthur’s ear, and he had the sudden sickening sensation of the fish slithering deep into his aural tract. Gasping with horror he scrabbled at his ear for a second or so, but then slowly turned goggle-eyed with wonder. He was experiencing the aural equivalent of looking at a picture of two black silhouetted faces and suddenly seeing it as a picture of a white candlestick. Or of looking at a lot of coloured dots on a piece of paper which suddenly resolve themselves into the figure six and mean that your optician is going to charge you a lot of money for a new pair of glasses.

  He was still listening to the howling gargles, he knew that, only now it had taken on the semblance of perfectly straightforward English.

  This is what he heard . . .

  Chapter 6

  “Howl howl gargle howl gargle howl howl howl gargle howl gargle howl howl gargle gargle howl gargle gargle gargle howl slurrp uuuurgh should have a good time. Message repeats. This is your captain speaking, so stop whatever you’re doing and pay attention. First of all I see from our instruments that we have a couple of hitchhikers aboard. Hello wherever you are. I just want to make it totally clear that you are not at all welcome. I worked hard to get where I am today, and I didn’t become captain of a Vogon constructor ship simply so I could turn it into a taxi service for a load of degenerate freeloaders. I have sent out a search party, and as soon that they find you I will put you off the ship. If you’re very lucky I might read you some of my poetry first.

  “Secondly, we are about to jump into hyperspace for the journey to Barnard’s Star. On arrival we will stay in dock for a seventy-two hour refit, and no one’s to leave the ship during that time. I repeat, all planet leave is cancelled. I’ve just had an unhappy love affair, so I don’t see why anybody else should have a good time. Message ends.”

  The noise stopped.

  Arthur discovered to his embarrassment that he was lying curled up in a small ball on the floor with his arms wrapped round his head. He smiled weakly.

  “Charming man,” he said. “I wish I had a daughter so I could forbid her to marry one . . .”

  “You wouldn’t need to,” said Ford. “They’ve got as much sex appeal as a road accident. No, don’t move,” he added as Arthur began to uncurl himself, “you’d better be prepared for the jump into hyperspace. It’s unpleasantly like being drunk.”

  “What’s so unpleasant about being drunk?”

  “You ask a glass of water.”

  Arthur thought about this.

  “Ford,” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  “What’s this fish doing in my ear?”

  “It’s translating for you. It’s a Babel fish. Look it up in the book if you like.”

  He tossed over The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and then curled himself up into a foetal ball to prepare himself for the jump.

  At that moment the bottom fell out of Arthur’s mind.

  His eyes turned inside out. His feet began to leak out of the top of his head.

  The room folded flat about him, spun around, shifted out of existence and left him sliding into his own navel.

  They were passing through hyperspace.

  “The Babel fish,” said The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy quietly, “is small, yellow and leech-like, and probably the oddest thing in the Universe. It feeds on brainwave energy not from its carrier but from those around it. It absorbs all unconscious mental frequencies from this brainwave energy to nourish itself with. It then excretes into the mind of its carrier a telepathic matrix formed by combining the conscious thought frequencies with nerve signals picked up from the speech centres of the brain which has supplied them. The practical upshot of all this is that if you stick a Babel fish in your ear you can instantly understand anything said to you in any form of language. The speech patterns you actually hear decode the brainwave matrix which has been fed into your mind by your Babel fish.

  “Now it is such a bizarrely improbable coincidence that anything so mindboggingly useful could have evolved purely by chance that some thinkers have chosen to see it as the final and clinching proof of the non-existence of God.

  “The argument goes something like this: ‘I refuse to prove that I exist,’ says God, ‘for proof denies faith, and without faith I am nothing.’

  “ ‘But,’ says Man, ‘The Babel fish is a dead giveaway, isn’t it? It could not have evolved by chance. It proves you exist, and so therefore, by your own arguments, you don’t. QED.’

  “ ‘Oh dear,’ says God, ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ and promptly vanished in a puff of logic.

  “ ‘Oh, that was easy,’ says Man, and for an encore goes on to prove that black is white and gets himself killed on the next zebra crossing.

  “Most leading theologians claim that this argument is a load of dingo’s kidneys, but that didn’t stop Oolon Colluphid making a small fortune when he used it as the central theme of his best-selling book Well That About Wraps It Up For God.

  “Meanwhile, the poor Babel fish, by effectively removing all barriers to communication between different races and cultures, has caused more and bluddier wars than anything else in the history of creation.”

  Arthur let out a low groan. He was horrified to discover that the kick through hyperspace hadn’t killed him. He was now six light years from the place that the Earth would have been if it still existed.

  The Earth.

  Visions of it swam sickeningly through his nauseated mind. There was no way his imagination could feel the impact of the whole Earth having gone, it was too big. He prodded his feelings by thinking that his parents and his sister had gone. No reaction. He thought of all the people he had been close to. No reaction. Then he thought of a complete stranger he had been standing behind in the queue at the supermarket before and felt a sudden stab—the supermarket was gone, everything in it was gone. Nelson’s Column had gone! Nelson’s Column had gone and there would be no outcry, because there was no one left to make an outcry. From now on Nelson’s Column only existed in his mind. England only existed in his mind—his mind, stuck here in this dank smelly steel-lined spaceship. A wave of claustrophobia closed in on him.

  England no longer existed. He’d got that—somehow he’d got it. He tried again. America, he thought, has gone. He couldn’t grasp it. He decided to start smaller again. New York has gone. No reaction. He’d never seriously believed it existed anyway. The dollar, he thought, had sunk for ever. Slight tremor there. Every Bogart movie has been wiped, he said to himself, and that gave him a nasty knock. McDonalds, he thought. There is no longer any such thing as a McDonald’s hamburger.

  He passed out. When he came round a second later he found he was sobbing for his mother.

  He jerked himself violently to his feet.

  “Ford!”

  Ford looked up from where he was sitting in a corner humming to himself. He always found the actual travelling-through-space part of space travel rather trying.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “If you’re a researcher on this book thing and you were on Earth, you must have been gathering material on it.”

  “Well, I was able to extend the original entry a bit, yes.”

  “Let me see what it says in this edition then, I’ve got to see it.”

  “Yeah, OK.” He passed it over again.

  Arthur grabbed hold of it and tried to stop his hands shaking. He pressed the entry for the relevant page. The screen flashed and swirled and resolved into a page of print. Arthur stared at it.

  “It doesn’t have an entry!” he burst out.

  Ford looked over his shoulder.

  “Yes, it does,” he said, “down there, see at the bottom of the screen, just under Eccentrica Gallumbits, the triple-breasted whore of Eroticon 6.”

  Arthur followed Ford’s finger, and saw where it was pointing. For a moment it still didn’t register, then his mind nearly blew up.


  “What? Harmless? Is that all it’s got to say? Harmless! One word!”

  Ford shrugged.

  “Well, there are a hundred billion stars in the Galaxy, and only a limited amount of space in the book’s microprocessors,” he said, “and no one knew much about the Earth of course.”

  “Well, for God’s sake, I hope you managed to rectify that a bit.”

  “Oh yes, well I managed to transmit a new entry off to the editor. He had to trim it a bit, but it’s still an improvement.”

  “And what does it say now?” asked Arthur.

  “Mostly harmless,” admitted Ford with a slightly embarrassed cough.

  “Mostly harmless!” shouted Arthur.

  “What was that noise?” hissed Ford.

  “It was me shouting,” shouted Arthur.

  “No! Shut up!” said Ford. “I think we’re in trouble.”

  “You think we’re in trouble!”

  Outside the door were the sounds of marching feet.

  “The Dentrassi?” whispered Arthur.

  “No, those are steel tipped boots,” said Ford.

  There was a sharp ringing rap on the door.

  “Then who is it?” said Arthur.

  “Well,” said Ford, “if we’re lucky it’s just the Vogons come to throw us into space.”

  “And if we’re unlucky?”

  “If we’re unlucky,” said Ford grimly, “the captain might be serious in his threat that he’s going to read us some of his poetry first . . .”

  Chapter 7

  Vogon poetry is of course the third worst in the Universe.

  The second worst is that of the Azagoths of Kria. During a recitation by their Poet Master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem “Ode To A Small Lump of Green Putty I Found In My Armpit One Midsummer Morning” four of his audience died of internal haemorrhaging, and the President of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off. Grunthos is reported to have been “disappointed” by the poem’s reception, and was about to embark on a reading of his twelve-book epic entitled My Favourite Bathtime Gurgles when his own major intestine, in a desperate attempt to save life and civilization, leapt straight up through his neck and throttled his brain.

  The very worst poetry of all perished along with its creator Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Greenbridge, Essex, England in the destruction of the planet Earth.

  Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz smiled very slowly. This was done not so much for effect as because he was trying to remember the sequence of muscle movements. He had had a terribly therapeutic yell at his prisoners and was now feeling quite relaxed and ready for a little callousness.

  The prisoners sat in Poetry Appreciation Chairs—strapped in. Vogons suffered no illusions as to the regard their works were generally held in. Their early attempts at composition had been part of bludgeoning insistence that they be accepted as a properly evolved and cultured race, but now the only thing that kept them going was sheer bloodymindedness.

  The sweat stood out cold on Ford Prefect’s brow, and slid round the electrodes strapped to his temples. These were attached to a battery of electronic equipment—imagery intensifiers, rhythmic modulators, alliterative residulators and simile dumpers—all designed to heighten the experience of the poem and make sure that not a single nuance of the poet’s thought was lost.

  Arthur Dent sat and quivered. He had no idea what he was in for, but he knew that he hadn’t liked anything that had happened so far and didn’t think things were likely to change.

  The Vogon began to read—a fetid little passage of his own devising.

  “Oh frettled gruntbuggly . . .” he began. Spasms wracked Ford’s body—this was worse than ever he’d been prepared for.

  “? . . . thy micturations are to me | As plurdled gabbleblotchits on a lurgid bee.”

  “Aaaaaaarggggghhhhhh!” went Ford Prefect, wrenching his head back as lumps of pain thumped through it. He could dimly see beside him Arthur lolling and rolling in his seat. He clenched his teeth.

  “Groop I implore thee,” continued the merciless Vogon, “my foonting turlingdromes.”

  His voice was rising to a horrible pitch of impassioned stridency. “And hooptiously drangle me with crinkly bindlewurdles,| Or I will rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon, see if I don’t!”

  “Nnnnnnnnnnyyyyyyyuuuuuuurrrrrrrggggggghhhhh!” cried Ford Prefect and threw one final spasm as the electronic enhancement of the last line caught him full blast across the temples. He went limp.

  Arthur lolled.

  “Now Earthlings . . .” whirred the Vogon (he didn’t know that Ford Prefect was in fact from a small planet in the vicinity of Betelgeuse, and wouldn’t have cared if he had) “I present you with a simple choice! Either die in the vacuum of space, or . . .” he paused for melodramatic effect, “tell me how good you thought my poem was!”

  He threw himself backwards into a huge leathery bat-shaped seat and watched them. He did the smile again.

  Ford was rasping for breath. He rolled his dusty tongue round his parched mouth and moaned.

  Arthur said brightly: “Actually I quite liked it.”

  Ford turned and gaped. Here was an approach that had quite simply not occurred to him.

  The Vogon raised a surprised eyebrow that effectively obscured his nose and was therefore no bad thing.

  “Oh good . . .” he whirred, in considerable astonishment.

  “Oh yes,” said Arthur, “I thought that some of the metaphysical imagery was really particularly effective.”

  Ford continued to stare at him, slowly organizing his thoughts around this totally new concept. Were they really going to be able to bareface their way out of this?

  “Yes, do continue . . .” invited the Vogon.

  “Oh . . . and er . . . interesting rhythmic devices too,” continued Arthur, “which seemed to counterpoint the . . . er . . . er . . .” He floundered.

  Ford leaped to his rescue, hazarding “counterpoint the surrealism of the underlying metaphor of the . . . er . . .” He floundered too, but Arthur was ready again.

  “. . . humanity of the . . .”

  “Vogonity,” Ford hissed at him.

  “Ah yes, Vogonity (sorry) of the poet’s compassionate soul,” Arthur felt he was on a home stretch now, “which contrives through the medium of the verse structure to sublimate this, transcend that, and come to terms with the fundamental dichotomies of the other,” (he was reaching a triumphant crescendo . . .) “and one is left with a profound and vivid insight into . . . into . . . er . . .” (. . . which suddenly gave out on him.) Ford leaped in with the coup de grace:

  “Into whatever it was the poem was about!” he yelled. Out of the corner of his mouth: “Well done, Arthur, that was very good.”

  The Vogon perused them. For a moment his embittered racial soul had been touched, but he thought no—too little too late. His voice took on the quality of a cat snagging brushed nylon.

  “So what you’re saying is that I write poetry because underneath my mean callous heartless exterior I really just want to be loved,” he said. He paused. “Is that right?”

  Ford laughed a nervous laugh. “Well I mean yes,” he said, “don’t we all, deep down, you know . . . er . . .”

  The Vogon stood up.

  “No, well, you’re completely wrong,” he said, “I just write poetry to throw my mean callous heartless exterior into sharp relief. I’m going to throw you off the ship anyway. Guard! Take the prisoners to number three airlock and throw them out!”

  “What?” shouted Ford.

  A huge young Vogon guard stepped forward and yanked them out of their straps with his huge blubbery arms.

  “You can’t throw us into space,” yelled Ford, “we’re trying to write a book.”

  “Resistance is useless!” shouted the Vogon guard back at him. It was the first phrase he’d learnt when he joined the Vogon Guard Corps.

  The captain watched with detached amusement and then turned a
way.

  Arthur stared round him wildly.

  “I don’t want to die now!” he yelled. “I’ve still got a headache! I don’t want to go to heaven with a headache, I’d be all cross and wouldn’t enjoy it!”

  The guard grasped them both firmly round the neck, and bowing deferentially towards his captain’s back, hoiked them both protesting out of the bridge. A steel door closed and the captain was on his own again. He hummed quietly and mused to himself, lightly fingering his notebook of verses.

  “Hmmmm,” he said, “counterpoint the surrealism of the underlying metaphor . . .” He considered this for a moment, and then closed the book with a grim smile.

  “Death’s too good for them,” he said.

  The long steel-lined corridor echoed to the feeble struggles of the two humanoids clamped firmly under rubbery Vogon armpits.

  “This is great,” spluttered Arthur, “this is really terrific. Let go of me, you brute!”

  The Vogon guard dragged them on.

  “Don’t you worry,” said Ford, “I’ll think of something.” He didn’t sound hopeful.

  “Resistance is useless!” bellowed the guard.

  “Just don’t say things like that,” stammered Ford. “How can anyone maintain a positive mental attitude if you’re saying things like that?”

  “My God,” complained Arthur, “you’re talking about a positive mental attitude and you haven’t even had your planet demolished today. I woke up this morning and thought I’d have a nice relaxed day, do a bit of reading, brush the dog . . . It’s now just after four in the afternoon and I’m already thrown out of an alien spaceship six light years from the smoking remains of the Earth!” He spluttered and gurgled as the Vogon tightened his grip.

  “Alright,” said Ford, “just stop panicking.”

  “Who said anything about panicking?” snapped Arthur. “This is still just the culture shock. You wait till I’ve settled down into the situation and found my bearings. Then I’ll start panicking.”

  “Arthur, you’re getting hysterical. Shut up!” Ford tried desperately to think, but was interrupted by the guard shouting again.