Chapter 9
Another world, another day, another dawn.
The early morning’s thinnest sliver of light appeared silently.
Several billion trillion tons of superhot exploding hydrogen nuclei rose slowly above the horizon and managed to look small, cold and slightly damp.
There is a moment in every dawn when light floats, there is the possibility of magic. Creation holds its breath.
The moment passed as it regularly did on Squornshellous Zeta, without incident.
The mist clung to the surface of the marshes. The swamp trees were grey with it, the tall reeds indistinct. It hung motionless like held breath.
Nothing moved.
There was silence.
The sun struggled feebly with the mist, tried to impart a little warmth here, shed a little light there, but clearly today was going to be just another long haul across the sky.
Nothing moved.
Again, silence.
Nothing moved.
Silence.
Very often on Squornshellous Zeta, whole days would go on like this, and this was indeed going to be one of them.
Fourteen hours later the sun sank hopelessly beneath the opposite horizon with a sense of totally wasted effort.
And a few hours later it reappeared, squared its shoulders and started on up the sky again.
This time, however, something was happening. A mattress had just met a robot.
– Hello, robot, - said the mattress.
– Bleah, - said the robot and continued what it was doing, which was walking round very slowly in a very tiny circle.
– Happy? - said the mattress.
The robot stopped and looked at the mattress. It looked at it quizzically. It was clearly a very stupid mattress. It looked back at him with wide eyes.
After what it had calculated to ten significant decimal places as being the precise length of pause most likely to convey a general contempt for all things mattressy, the robot continued to walk round in tight circles.
– We could have a conversation, - said the mattress, - would you like that?
It was a large mattress, and probably one of quite high quality. Very few things actually get manufactured these days, because in an infinitely large Universe such as, for instance, the one in which we live, most things one could possibly imagine, and a lot of things one would rather not, grow somewhere. A forest was discovered recently in which most of the trees grew ratchet screwdrivers as fruit. The life cycle of ratchet screwdriver fruit it quite interesting. Once picked it needs a dark dusty drawer in which it can lie undisturbed for years. Then one night it suddenly hatches, discards its outer skin which crumbles into dust, and emerges as a totally unidentifiable little metal object with flanges at both ends and a sort of ridge and a sort of hole for a screw. This, when found, will get thrown away. No one knows what it is supposed to gain from this. Nature, in her infinite wisdom, is presumably working on it.
No one really knows what mattresses are meant to gain from their lives either. They are large, friendly, pocket-sprung creatures which live quiet private lives in the marshes of Squornshellous Zeta. Many of them get caught, slaughtered, dried out, shipped out and slept on. None of them seem to mind and all of them are called Zem.
– No, - said Marvin.
– My name, - said the mattress, - is Zem. We could discuss the weather a little.
Marvin paused again in his weary circular plod.
– The dew, - he observed, - has clearly fallen with a particularly sickening thud this morning.
He resumed his walk, as if inspired by this conversational outburst to fresh heights of gloom and despondency. He plodded tenaciously. If he had had teeth he would have gritted them at this point. He hadn’t. He didn’t. The mere plod said it all.
The mattress flolloped around. This is a thing that only live mattresses in swamps are able to do, which is why the word is not in more common usage. It flolloped in a sympathetic sort of way, moving a fairish body of water as it did so. It blew a few bubbles up through the water engagingly. Its blue and white stripes glistened briefly in a sudden feeble ray of sun that had unexpectedly made it through the mist, causing the creature to bask momentarily.
Marvin plodded.
– You have something on your mind, I think, - said the mattress floopily.
– More than you can possibly imagine, - dreaded Marvin. - My capacity for mental activity of all kinds is as boundless as the infinite reaches of space itself. Except of course for my capacity for happiness.
Stomp, stomp, he went.
– My capacity for happiness, - he added, - you could fit into a matchbox without taking out the matches first.
The mattress globbered. This is the noise made by a live, swamp-dwelling mattress that is deeply moved by a story of personal tragedy. The word can also, according to
The mattress globbered again.
– I sense a deep dejection in your diodes, - it vollued (for the meaning of the word “vollue”, buy a copy of
– Because my leg is stuck, - said Marvin simply.
– It seems to me, - said the mattress eyeing it compassionately, - that it is a pretty poor sort of leg.
– You are right, - said Marvin, - it is.
– Voon, - said the mattress.
– I expect so, - said Marvin, - and I also expect that you find the idea of a robot with an artificial leg pretty amusing. You should tell your friends Zem and Zem when you see them later; they’ll laugh, if I know them, which I don’t of course - except insofar as I know all organic life forms, which is much better than I would wish to. Ha, but my life is but a box of wormgears.
He stomped around again in his tiny circle, around his thin steel peg-leg which revolved in the mud but seemed otherwise stuck.
– But why do you just keep walking round and round? - said the mattress.
– Just to make the point, - said Marvin, and continued, round and round.
– Consider it made, my dear friend, - flurbled the mattress, - consider it made.
– Just another million years, - said Marvin, - just another quick million. Then I might try it backwards. Just
