“In fact that comes over terribly well in this film,” said the marketing girl, “and just gives it that poignant twist which is the hallmark of the really great documentary. The producer's very committed.”
“He should be,” muttered Ford.
“I gather,” said the girl, turning to address the Captain who was beginning to nod off, “that he wants to make one about you next, Captain.”
“Oh really?” he said, coming to with a start, “that's awfully nice.”
“He's got a very strong angle on it, you know, the burden of responsibility, the loneliness of command…”
The Captain hummed and hahed about this for a moment.
“Well, I wouldn't overstress that angle, you know,” he said finally, “one's never alone with a rubber duck.”
He held the duck aloft and it got an appreciative round from the crowd.
All the while, the Management Consultant had been sitting in stony silence, his finger tips pressed to his temples to indicate that he was waiting and would wait all day if it was necessary.
At this point he decided he would not wait all day after all, he would merely pretend that the last half hour hadn't happened.
He rose to his feet.
“If,” he said tersely, “we could for a moment move on to the subject of fiscal policy…”
“Fiscal policy!” whooped Ford Prefect, “Fiscal policy!”
The Management Consultant gave him a look that only a lungfish could have copied.
“Fiscal policy…” he repeated, “that is what I said.”
“How can you have money,” demanded Ford, “if none of you actually produces anything? It doesn't grow on trees you know.”
“If you would allow me to continue…”
Ford nodded dejectedly.
“Thank you. Since we decided a few weeks ago to adopt the leaf as legal tender, we have, of course, all become immensely rich.”
Ford stared in disbelief at the crowd who were murmuring appreciatively at this and greedily fingering the wads of leaves with which their track suits were stuffed.
“But we have also,” continued the Management Consultant, “run into a small inflation problem on account of the high level of leaf availability, which means that, I gather, the current going rate has something like three deciduous forests buying one ship's peanut.”
Murmurs of alarm came from the crowd. The Management Consultant waved them down.
“So in order to obviate this problem,” he continued, “and effectively revaluate the leaf, we are about to embark on a massive defoliation campaign, and… er, burn down all the forests. I think you'll all agree that's a sensible move under the circumstances.”
The crowd seemed a little uncertain about this for a second or two until someone pointed out how much this would increase the value of the leaves in their pockets whereupon they let out whoops of delight and gave the Management Consultant a standing ovation. The accountants amongst them looked forward to a profitable Autumn.
“You're all mad,” explained Ford Prefect.
“You're absolutely barmy,” he suggested.
“You're a bunch of raving nutters,” he opined.
The tide of opinion started to turn against him. What had started out as excellent entertainment had now, in the crowd's view, deteriorated into mere abuse, and since this abuse was in the main directed at them they wearied of it.
Sensing this shift in the wind, the marketing girl turned on him.
“Is it perhaps in order,” she demanded, “to inquire what you've been doing all these months then? You and that other interloper have been missing since the day we arrived.”
“We've been on a journey,” said Ford, “We went to try and find out something about this planet.”
“Oh,” said the girl archly, “doesn't sound very productive to me.”
“No? Well have I got news for you, my love. We have discovered this planet's future.”
Ford waited for this statement to have its effect. It didn't have any. They didn't know what he was talking about.
He continued.
“It doesn't matter a pair of fetid dingo's kidneys what you all choose to do from now on. Burn down the forests, anything, it won't make a scrap of difference. Your future history has already happened. Two million years you've got and that's it. At the end of that time your race will be dead, gone and good riddance to you. Remember that, two million years!”
The crowd muttered to itself in annoyance. People as rich as they had suddenly become shouldn't be obliged to listen to this sort of gibberish. Perhaps they could tip the fellow a leaf or two and he would go away.
They didn't need to bother. Ford was already stalking out of the clearing, pausing only to shake his head at Number Two who was already firing his Kill-O-Zap gun into some neighbouring trees.
He turned back once.
“Two million years!” he said and laughed.
“Well,” said the Captain with a soothing smile, “still time for a few more baths. Could someone pass me the sponge? I just dropped it over the side.”
33
A mile or so away through the wood, Arthur Dent was too busily engrossed with what he was doing to hear Ford Prefect approach.
What he was doing was rather curious, and this is what it was: on a wide flat piece of rock he had scratched out the shape of a large square, subdivided into one hundred and sixty-nine smaller squares, thirteen to a side.
Furthermore he had collected together a pile of smallish flattish stones and scratched the shape of a letter on to each. Sitting morosely round the rock were a couple of the surviving local native men whom Arthur Dent was trying to introduce the curious concept embodied in these stones.
So far they had not done well. They had attempted to eat some of them, bury others and throw the rest of them away. Arthur had finally encouraged one of them to lay a couple of stones on the board he had scratched out, which was not even as far as he'd managed to get the day before. Along with the rapid deterioration in the morale of these creatures, there seemed to be a corresponding deterioration in their actual intelligence.
In an attempt to egg them along, Arthur set out a number of letters on the board himself, and then tried to encourage the natives to add some more themselves.
It was not going well.
Ford watched quietly from beside a nearby tree.
“No,” said Arthur to one of the natives who had just shuffled some of the letters round in a fit of abysmal dejection, “Q scores ten you see, and it's on a triple word score, so… look, I've explained the rules to you… no no, look please, put down that jawbone… alright, we'll start again. And try to concentrate this time.”
Ford leaned his elbow against the tree and his hand against his head.
“What are you doing, Arthur?” he asked quietly.
Arthur looked up with a start. He suddenly had a feeling that all this might look slightly foolish. All he knew was that it had worked like a dream on him when he was a chid. But things were different then, or rather would be.
“I'm trying to teach the cavemen to play Scrabble,” he said.
“They're not cavemen,” said Ford.
“They look like cavemen.”
