“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 gr@ce:
“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 away.
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.
“Resistance is useless!”
“And you can shut up as well!” snapped Ford.
“Resistance is useless!”
“Oh give it a rest,” said Ford. He twisted his head till he was looking straight up into his captor's face. A thought struck him.
“Do you really enjoy this sort of thing?” he asked suddenly.
The Vogon stopped dead and a look of immense stupidity seeped slowly over his face.
“Enjoy?” he boomed. “What do you mean?”
“What I mean,” said Ford, “is does it give you a full satisfying life? Stomping around, shouting, pushing people out of spaceships…”
The Vogon stared up at the low steel ceiling and his eyebrows almost rolled over each other. His mouth slacked. Finally he said, “Well the hours are good…”
“They'd have to be,” agreed Ford.
Arthur twisted his head to look at Ford.
“Ford, what are you doing?” he asked in an amazed whisper.
“Oh, just trying to take an interest in the world around me, OK?” he said. “So the hours are pretty good then?” he resumed.
The Vogon stared down at him as sluggish thoughts moiled around in the murky depths.
“Yeah,” he said, “but now you come to mention it, most of the actual minutes are pretty lousy. Except…” he thought again, which required looking at the ceiling – “except some of the shouting I quite like.” He filled his lungs and bellowed, “Resistance is…”
“Sure, yes,” interrupted Ford hurriedly, “you're good at that, I can tell. But if it's mostly lousy,” he said, slowly giving the words time to reach their mark, “then why do you do it? What is it? The girls? The leather? The machismo? Or do you just find that coming to terms with the mindless tedium of it all presents an interesting challenge?”
“Er…” said the guard, “er… er… I dunno. I think I just sort of… do it really. My aunt said that spaceship guard was a good career for a young Vogon – you know, the uniform, the lowslung stun ray holster, the mindless tedium…”
“There you are Arthur,” said Ford with the air of someone reaching the conclusion of his argument, “you think you've got problems.”
Arthur rather thought he had. Apart from the unpleasant business with his home planet the Vogon guard had half-throttled him already and he didn't like the sound of being thrown into space very much.
“Try and understand his problem,” insisted Ford. “Here he is poor lad, his entire life's work is stamping around, throwing people off spaceships…”
“And shouting,” added the guard.
“And shouting, sure,” said Ford patting the blubbery arm clamped round his neck in friendly condescension, “… and he doesn't even know why he's doing it!”
Arthur agreed this was very sad. He did this with a small feeble gesture, because he was too asphyxicated to speak.
Deep rumblings of bemusement came from the guard.
“Well. Now you put it like that I suppose…”
“Good lad!” encouraged Ford.
“But alright,” went on the rumblings, “so what's the alternative?”
