there.'
Deep in the bowels of his unsightly yellow ship, the Vogon Captain grunted as he reached for a slightly faded and dog-eared piece of paper that lay in front of him. A demolition order.
If you were to unravel exactly where the Captain's job, which was to do his job which was to do his job, actually began, then it all came down at last to this piece of paper that had been issued to him by his immediate superior long ago. The piece of paper had an instruction on it, and his purpose was to carry out that instruction and put a little tick mark in the adjacent box when he had carried it out.
He had carried out the instruction once before, but a number of troublesome circumstances had prevented him from being able to put the tick in the little box.
One of the troublesome circumstances was the Plural nature of this Galactic sector, where the possible continually interfered with the probable. Simple demolition didn't get you any further than pushing down a bubble under a badly hung strip of wallpaper. Anything you demolished kept on popping up again. That would soon be taken care of.
Another was a small bunch of people who continually refused to be where they were supposed to be when they were supposed to be there. That, also, would soon be taken care of.
The third was an irritating and anarchic little device called the Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy. That was now well and truly taken care of and, in fact, through the phenomenal power of temporal reverse engineering, it was now itself the agency through which everything else would be taken care of. The Captain had merely come to watch the final act of this drama. He himself did not have to lift a finger.
'Show me,' he said.
The shadowy shape of a bird spread its wings and rose into the air near him. Darkness engulfed the bridge. Dim lights danced briefly in the black eyes of the bird as, deep in its instructional address space, bracket after bracket was final– ly closing, if clauses were finally ending, repeat loops halting, recursive functions calling themselves for the last few times.
A brilliant vision lit up in the darkness, a watery blue and green vision, a tube flowing through the air, shaped like a chopped up string of sausages.
With a flatulent noise of satisfaction, the Vogon Captain sat back to watch.
Chapter 25
'Just there, number forty-two,' shouted Ford Prefect to the taxi-driver. 'Right here!'
The taxi lurched to a halt, and Ford and Arthur jumped out. They had stopped at quite a number of cash- dispensers on the way, and Ford chucked a fistful of money through the window at the driver.
The entrance to the club was dark, smart and severe. Only the smallest little plaque bore its name. Members knew where it was, and if you weren't a member then knowing where it was wasn't any help to you.
Ford Prefect was not a member of Stavro's though he had once been to Stavro's other club in New York. He had a very simple method of dealing with establishments of which he was not a member. He simply swept in as soon as the door was opened, pointed back at Arthur and said, 'It's OK, he's with me.'
He bounded down the dark glossy stairs, feeling very froody in his new shoes. They were suede and they were blue, and he was very pleased that in spite of everything else going on he had been sharp-eyed enough to spot them in a shop window from the back of a speeding taxi.
'I thought I told you not to come here.'
'What?' said Ford.
A thin, ill-looking man wearing something baggy and Italian was walking up the stairs past them, lighting a cigarette, and had stopped, suddenly.
'Not you,' he said. 'Him.'
He looked straight at Arthur, then seemed to become a little confused.
'Excuse me,' he said. 'I think I must have mistaken you for someone else.' He started on up the stairs again, but almost immediately turned round once more, even more puzzled. He stared at Arthur.
'Now what?' said Ford.
'What did you say?'
'I said, now what?' repeated Ford irritably.
'Yes, I think so,' said the man and swayed slightly and dropped the book of matches he'd been carrying. His mouth moved weakly. Then he put his hand to his forehead.
'Excuse me,' he said, 'I'm trying desperately to remember which drug I've just taken, but it must be one of those ones which mean you can't remember.'
He shook his head and turned away again, and went up towards the men's room.
'Come on,' said Ford. He hurried on downstairs, with Arthur following nervously in his wake. The encounter had shaken him badly and he didn't know why.
He didn't like places like this. For all of the dreams of Earth and home he had had for years, he now badly missed his hut on Lamuella with his knives and his sandwiches. He even missed Old Thrashbarg.
'Arthur!'
It was the most astounding effect. His name was being shouted in stereo. He twisted to look one way. Up the stairs behind him he saw Trillian hurrying down towards him in her wonderfully rumpled RymplonTM. She was looking suddenly aghast.
He twisted the other way to see what she was looking suddenly aghast at.
At the bottom of the stairs was Trillian, wearing .. . No
– this was Tricia. Tricia that he had just seen, hysterical with confusion, on television. And behind her was Random, looking more wild-eyed than ever. Behind her in the recesses of the smart, dimly lit club, the other clientele of the evening formed a frozen tableau, staring anxiously up at the confrontation on the stairs.
For a few seconds everyone stood stock still. Only the music from behind the bar didn't know to stop throbbing.
'The gun she is holding,' said Ford quietly, nodding slightly towards Random, 'is a Wabanatta 3. It was in the ship she stole from me. It's quite dangerous in fact. Just don't move for a moment. Let's just everybody stay calm and find out what's upsetting her.'
'Where do I fit?' screamed Random suddenly. The hand holding the gun was trembling fiercely. Her other hand delved into her pocket and pulled out the remains of Arthur's watch. She shook it at them.
'I thought I would fit here,' she cried, 'on the world that made me! But it turns out that even my mother doesn't know who I am!' She flung the watch violently aside, and it smashed into the glasses behind the bar, scattering its innards.
Everyone was very quiet for a moment or two longer.
'Random,' said Trillian quietly from up on the stairs.
'Shut up!' shouted Random. 'You abandoned me!'
'Random, it is very important that you listen to me and understand,' persisted Trillian quietly. 'There isn't very much time. We must leave. We must all leave.'
'What are you talking about? We're always leaving!' She had both hands on the gun now, and both were shaking. There was no one in particular she was pointing it at. She was just pointing it at the world in general.
'Listen,' said Trillian again. 'I left you because I went to cover a war for the network. It was extremely dangerous. At least, I thought it was going to be. I arrived and the war had suddenly ceased to happen. There was a time anomaly and . . . listen! Please listen! A reconnaissance battleship had failed to turn up, the rest of the fleet was scattered in some farcical disarray. It's happening all the time now.'
'I don't care! I don't want to hear about your bloody job!' shouted Random. 'I want a home! I want to fit somewhere!'
'This is not your home,' said Trillian, still keeping her voice calm. 'You don't have one. We none of us have one. Hardly anybody has one any more. The missing ship I was just talking about. The people of that ship don't have a home. They don't know where they are from. They don't even have any memory of who they are or what they are for. They are very lost and very confused and very frightened. They are here in this solar system, and they
