to have a reason for anything he did at all: he had turned unfathomably into an art form. He attacked everything in life with a mixture of extraordinary genius and naive incompetence and it was often difficult to tell which was which.
Arthur slept: he was terribly tired.
There was a tap at Zaphod's door. It slid open.
“Zaphod?..”
“Yeah?”
“I think we just found what you came to look for.”
“Hey, yeah?”
Ford gave up the attempt to sleep. In the corner of his cabin was a small computer screen and keyboard. He sat at it for a while and tried to compose a new entry for the Guide on the subject of Vogons but couldn't think of anything vitriolic enough so he gave that up too, wrapped a robe round himself and went for a walk to the bridge.
As he entered he was surprised to see two figures hunched excitedly over the instruments.
“See? The ship's about to move into orbit,” Trillian was saying. “There's a planet out there. It's at the exact coordinates you predicted.”
Zaphod heard a noise and looked up.
“Ford!” he hissed. “Hey, come and take a look at this.”
Ford went and had a look at it. It was a series of figures flashing over a screen.
“You recognize those Galactic coordinates?” said Zaphod.
“No.”
“I'll give you a clue. Computer!”
“Hi gang!” enthused the computer. “This is getting real sociable isn't it?”
“Shut up,” said Zaphod, “and show up the screens.”
Light on the bridge sank. Pinpoints of light played across the consoles and reflected in four pairs of eyes that stared up at the external monitor screens.
There was absolutely nothing on them.
“Recognize that?” whispered Zaphod.
Ford frowned.
“Er, no,” he said.
“What do you see?”
“Nothing.”
“Recognize it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“We're in the Horsehead Nebula. One whole vast dark cloud.”
“And I was meant to recognize that from a blank screen?”
“Inside a dark nebula is the only place in the Galaxy you'd see a dark screen.”
“Very good.”
Zaphod laughed. He was clearly very excited about something, almost childishly so.
“Hey, this is really terrific, this is just far too much!”
“What's so great about being stuck in a dust cloud?” said Ford.
“What would you reckon to find here?” urged Zaphod.
“Nothing.”
“No stars? No planets?”
“No.”
“Computer!” shouted Zaphod, “rotate angle of vision through oneeighty degrees and don't talk about it!”
For a moment it seemed that nothing was happening, then a brightness glowed at the edge of the huge screen. A red star the size of a small plate crept across it followed quickly by another one – a binary system. Then a vast crescent sliced into the corner of the picture – a red glare shading away into the deep black, the night side of the planet.
“I've found it!” cried Zaphod, thumping the console. “I've found it!”
Ford stared at it in astonishment.
“What is it?” he said.
“That…” said Zaphod, “is the most improbable planet that ever existed.”
15
(Excerpt from The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Page 634784, Section 5a, Entry: Magrathea)
Far back in the mists of ancient time, in the great and glorious days of the former Galactic Empire, life was wild, rich and largely tax free.
Mighty starships plied their way between exotic suns, seeking adventure and reward amongst the furthest reaches of Galactic space. In those days spirits were brave, the stakes were high, men were real men, women were real women, and small furry creatures from Alpha Centauri were real small furry creatures from Alpha Centauri. And all dared to brave unknown terrors, to do mighty deeds, to boldly split infinitives that no man had split before – and thus was the Empire forged.
Many men of course became extremely rich, but this was perfectly natural and nothing to be ashamed of because no one was really poor – at least no one worth speaking of. And for all the richest and most successful merchants life inevitably became rather dull and niggly, and they began to imagine that this was therefore the fault of the worlds they'd settled on – none of them was entirely satisfactory: either the climate wasn't quite right in the later part of the afternoon, or the day was half an hour too long, or the sea was exactly the wrong shade of pink.
And thus were created the conditions for a staggering new form of specialist industry: custom-made luxury planet building. The home of this industry was the planet Magrathea, where hyperspatial engineers sucked matter through white holes in space to form it into dream planets – gold planets, platinum planets, soft rubber planets with lots of earthquakes – all lovingly made to meet the exacting standards that the Galaxy's richest men naturally came to expect.
But so successful was this venture that Magrathea itself soon became the richest planet of all time and the rest of the Galaxy was reduced to abject poverty. And so the system broke down, the Empire collapsed, and a long sullen silence settled over a billion worlds, disturbed only by the pen scratchings of scholars as they laboured into the night over smug little treaties on the value of a planned political economy.
Magrathea itself disappeared and its memory soon passed into the obscurity of legend.
In these enlightened days of course, no one believes a word of it.
16
Arthur awoke to the sound of argument and went to the bridge. Ford was waving his arms about.
“You're crazy, Zaphod,” he was saying, “Magrathea is a myth, a fairy story, it's what parents tell their kids about at night if they want them to grow up to become economists, it's…”
“And that's what we are currently in orbit around,” insisted Zaphod.
“Look, I can't help what you may personally be in orbit around,” said Ford, “but this ship…”
“Computer!” shouted Zaphod.
“Oh no…”
“Hi there! This is Eddie your shipboard computer, and I'm feeling just great guys, and I know I'm just going to get a bundle of kicks out of any programme you care to run through me.”
