Really Wild Things

By Nigel G. Mitchell

Copyright 2007

For Douglas

Introduction

Those who have read the novel Mostly Harmless might be alarmed to find several of the characters who ended up dying there quite alive in this story. To those, we offer the suggestion that the following events occur prior to the events of Mostly Harmless, but after the events in the novel So Long and Thanks for All the Fish. At what exact point those events occurred is best left up to the reader. Those uncomfortable with that suggestion can safely assume this story takes place in a parallel universe where the events of Mostly Harmless did not occur. Those who have never read the novel Mostly Harmless can safely pretend this note never existed, and have instead wasted precious seconds in their lives by reading it.

Prologue

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is a wholly remarkable book containing information that is often enlightening, entertaining, and occasionally even accurate. However, another remarkable book that is not as well known is The Employee Handbook of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation. It is not well known for the very good reason that only employees of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation are supposed to know about it. In fact, when the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation found out that a member of a tour group wandering through the company offices happened to glance at one of the pages of the Handbook, the Corporation not only launched a fleet of Aggressive Sales Representatives to locate and destroy the tour member, but it destroyed the tour group, the tour ship, and the home planets of everyone involved as well. Needless to say, the tour company was none too pleased about the extinction of its clients and the bad publicity that followed, but the Sirius Corporation gave it a nice fat contract to conduct company tours for the next hundred years, which ended the controversy. The fact that the home planet of the tour company was destroyed a week later by Sirius Cybernetics Corporation warships only led to a decision by the Galactic Better Business Bureau to leave well enough alone. The Employee Handbook is immense, almost three times larger than The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, requiring that it be distributed in an electronic form as well. It covers every aspect of a Sirius Cybernetics Corporation employee's life from how to brush one's teeth to how to polish one's shoes. It tells how to fill out Form GX-92B (which is the requisition form for a new chair), and how to sit in the chair to extend its life and keep from needing to order a new chair in the first place. It tells how to find customers, how to keep customers happy, how to reason with customers who try to lodge a complaint with the Galactic Better Business Bureau, and how to dispose of the bodies of customers who won't be reasoned with. The Handbook even mentions The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, but only in the vaguest possible terms to prevent copyright issues. It states that a certain book claims that the most massively useful item a hitchhiker can have is a towel. The Handbook states that this is incorrect. The most massively useful item that anyone can have is a paper clip. The paper clip, says the Handbook, can be used to tighten the tiny screws on the Genuine People Personality circuits of a Sirius Cybernetics robot, straightened to form a needle for sewing up torn clothing before going into very important business meetings, waved in the air to make a point at particularly dull meetings, flicked at members of those

dull meetings to wake them up, or even hold together pieces of paper if it still seems to be straight enough. It is for this reason that the very first line on the very first page of the Employee Handbook reads: "It is company policy that all employees of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation must carry a paper clip on their person at all times." The Handbook does not say exactly what would happen to someone who was caught breaking this rule, but the word round the office is that it is extremely nasty. There is a legend round the office as to how this rule came into existence in the first place. The legend is told to new employees around the Nutrimatic Drinks Synthesizer while they wait for it to dispense something that doesn't taste filthy, which never happens, hence the reason for wasting time around the Nutrimatic Drinks Synthesizer. The story usually goes something like this: Far back in the mists of time, before the Third Great Economic Blunder, when life in the Galaxy was good and free, there was a man called Sirius Nottqytt. Nottqytt worked for a company that manufactured artificial cheese for artificial crackers, a very profitable trade in those days when demand for artificial crackers was at an all-time high. In those days, you couldn't get someone to eat real crackers. No, they would push away a tray of real crackers and pound the table forcefully until they got their artificial crackers. And with those artificial crackers, they would want artificial cheese to go with it. Hence, the demand for artificial cheese.But Sirius Nottqytt was not one of those who profited from artificial cheese. He only worked there. He was a Secondary Assistant Associate to the Third Co-Manager of the Little Bits of Pepper Division. His job was so insignificant that there is no record that exists anywhere in the Universe as to what he did, and there is speculation that even Nottqytt himself didn't know at the time. But the job involved a lot of paper. Hence, the job required a lot of paper clips as well. Nottqytt used to spend much of his time at the company searching for paper clips to hold together his paperwork. In fact, versions of the story claim that eighty percent of his job involved searching for paper clips, another ten percent involved attaching paper clips to his paperwork, and the remaining ten percent involved reviewing the paperwork to figure out why it was so important that it needed to be clipped together so badly. The job was good until the day came when he could not find a single paper clip. He searched the office all day until he discovered that a freak accident with a quantum corkscrew, a candy bar, and a Static Photon Distribution Vector had caused every single paper clip in the company to disintegrate overnight. The news spread quickly, as did the paperwork on everyone's desks. Within hours, the offices of the company were strewn with loose papers. Reports that had been painstakingly constructed and carefully clipped now lay in piles everywhere. All exits became blocked with paper. Paper cuts became more and more frequent. Panic set in among the employees, which led to fights, then open combat. By evening, the company

had collapsed into chaos that only ended when someone set the Artificial Olive Shredder to overload and blew the entire building to smithereens. The only survivor of the disaster was Sirius Nottqytt. He had managed to salvage one single paper clip that had been accidentally wedged into the cushions of his chair (which he been sitting in proper to prevent unnecessary wear). With that paper clip, Nottqytt clipped together two documents containing the top secret artificial cheese recipes, then used the paper clip to unscrew the cover of a ventilation shaft and make his escape. With his former employer gone, there was a huge opening for artificial cheese, and Nottqytt started his own company using the stolen recipes. Nottqytt became extremely wealthy for a change, which led him to start a new company to manufacture robots that he called the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation. This company, Nottqytt said, would make life easier for all life forms in the Universe by manufacturing assistants, servants, and workers of all shapes and sizes. They would be neat, efficient, not too expensive, and easily repaired using only the average paper clip. And the employees would always have enough paper clips. Just to be sure, Nottqytt founded the Sirius Paper Clip Corporation, which flooded the Galaxy with so many paper clips that it triggered the Third Great Economic Blunder. The Blunder wiped out all the artificial cracker factories, triggering the collapse of the artificial cheese factories including Nottqytt's. Fortunately, by that time, the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation had become so profitable that the artificial cheese branch of the company was no longer necessary. Nottqytt went on to become extraordinarily rich and the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation became extraordinarily large and powerful. Some have gone as far as to suggest that Nottqytt's experience with paper clips had driven him a bit mad. Those who suggest this are partially correct. They would be fully correct if they omitted the unnecessary phrase "a bit." But since no one has seen or heard from Nottqytt in millennia, his eccentricities are no longer considered a problem for the Corporation. Thus, ends the tellers of the legend, is the origin of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation and the insistence on having paper clips. Usually, at this point, new employees undergo a full body cavity search to ensure that they do indeed have a paper clip on their person. Those who do not are dragged away to the manager's offices, never to be seen again. Having been told this story, many new employees (who have a paper clip and hence are still round to say it) point out the odd twist in the middle. Why, they invariably ask, would a man go from manufacturing artificial cheese to manufacturing robots? Where is the connection? And what does that have to do with paper clips? And why are the current models of Sirius Cybernetics Corporation robots not easily repaired with paper clips as Nottqytt intended, but require a frightfully large collection of tools hauled in three interstellar megatankers for service calls? The answer to the latter question has always been that the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation repair department is the most profitable arm of the company, second in size

only to its complaints department. The answer to the former was always written off as eccentricity. This assumption was entirely and unequivocally wrong. In fact, the real answer has been unknown for thousands of years, but the time for its revelation has come at last. This, then, is the story of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation, the real purpose for its existence, and what it all has to do with paper clips, lobsters, ballpoint pens, and a contraceptive. The story begins with a party.

Ford Prefect was at a party, which was not unusual. Ford at a party was like a lion on a savannah; it was his natural habitat. Ford Prefect was not in fact invited to the party, which was not unusual either. Ford rarely let things like invitations get between him and a party. In fact, Ford preferred to go to parties where he wasn't invited. That way, if something went wrong, no one could identify him later. Only two things made this party unusual for Ford Prefect. We shall see the second thing in a moment. The first thing was across the ballroom, laughing and chatting with guests. The thing was known as Eccentrica Gallumbits, the triple-breasted whore of Eroticon Six. Eccentrica had gained a large following not only for her three breasts (which were astoundingly large even judged by the standards of Eroticon women), but for her best-selling book The Big Bang Theory - A Personal View. It was, in fact, her party, being thrown to celebrate Eccentrica's one millionth customer, the Premier Vice-King of Muundo Nine. Eccentrica Gallumbits had consumed almost all of Ford Prefect's attention since he had gained entrance to the party. Ford, in turn, had consumed a third of the planet's liquor supply. Eccentrica had made the mistake of having an open bar. But the alcohol was only part of the reason that Ford Prefect was at the party. Ford was a field researcher for The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, and had been for many years. He had come to do an interview with Eccentrica Gallumbits for the Guide. Or at least, that was the excuse he had given. If, during the process, Ford ended up going to bed with Eccentrica, then so much the better. He had already figured out a way to write the experience off as a business expense. Ford was almost hypnotised by Eccentrica. He had seen holograms of Eccentrica, of course. Quite a lot of them, in fact. Yet to see her in person was something else. Her three breasts shimmered in the light under an outfit that could only qualify as clothing by three centimetres. It was no wonder Plaything had voted her The Universe's Most Beautiful Being for twenty years straight. Unfortunately, in three hours, Ford hadn't been able to get near her. Eccentrica had three enormous bodyguards round her at all times. Their sole purpose seemed to be keeping people like Ford away from people like Eccentrica. The bodyguards were Fonkyu, known for their dense muscle mass as well as their psychic abilities. They could not only withstand a blast from a Kill-O-Zap pistol at point-blank range, but could also

read the minds of anyone within fifteen paces. Anyone who even thought of approaching Eccentrica without her permission ended up on the floor with only a vague memory of fists and searing pain to let them know what had happened. Ford had seen the bodyguards at work several times, and had no interest in being their next target. Ford had finally come up with a plan to get past the bodyguards. The plan involved getting extremely drunk. He would get so drunk that his thoughts would be cloudy and disjointed, keeping the Fonkyu bodyguards from reading his mind and ripping his kidneys out before he got to Eccentrica. The best part about the plan was that he was already halfway there. Ford figured a few more drinks would do it. The tricky part would be to stay sober enough that he would remember the plan long enough to execute it. Ford was already having trouble with that part. Between drinks, while keeping one eye on Eccentrica, Ford was having an enthusiastic argument with a large B'Logg female. He couldn't remember what the argument was about, but didn't want to admit it, and was doing the best he could to keep up his end. Ford snarled, "What about the other one?" The B'Logg's horns went missing in folds of skin on her forehead as she scowled. "What other one?" "You've never heard of the other one?" Ford yelled. "How can we discuss this like two reasonable beings when you don't even know about the other one" "But I thought that was your whole point, that there's only one." Ford threw up his hands, trying to draw the attention of the bemused crowd around him. "Well, if you think that was my point then you obviously weren't listening. Besides, we all know it creates more problems than it solves." "How can it create problems?" asked the B'Logg. "It doesn't even exist. We're discussing a theoretical concept." "Theoretical, my eye! I'm talking about cold, hard facts! It's people like you with their heads up their orifices that cause all the problems in this Galaxy." The B'Logg lumbered away. "You don't even know what you're on about. This is a pointless argument." As she shuffled away, Ford felt the need to point at the ceiling and yell something to put the cap on the discussion, so he pointed at the ceiling and yelled, "That's what they said on El-Qubit Three right before they launched the Second Wave!" As Ford finished his Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster, he made a mental note to see if there really was a planet called El-Qubit and if there was anything like a Second Wave there. That phrase could come in handy for his next nonsensical argument. Before he could do that, something extraordinary happened. That was, in fact, the second thing. Ford's attention to his drink was broken when he heard a sound like a thousand people saying "wop" at the same time. He had been round the Galaxy enough to recognise that sound as the arrival of time travelers. He had also been round the Galaxy too much to find

time travelers interesting. They tended to prattle on about things that would happen in the future or in the past and try to change things that everybody else felt comfortable with, like history. Nuisances, more like it, as far as Ford was concerned. Ford was about to execute his plan when he realised someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned. Six men wearing purple body armour stood behind Ford. All of them carried Kill-O-Zap rifles. Ford wondered why the six men wobbled back and forth and how they managed to do it without falling down. Then he realised it was Ford himself who wobbled and wondered how he managed to do it without falling down. "Excuse me," the soldier said. "Is your name Ford Prefect?" "Possibly," said Ford, who had bad experience with that question. The soldier held out his hand. A hologram of Ford Prefect's smiling face appeared over his palm. Ford recognised the image from his Betelgeusian starship's pilot license fifteen years ago. He couldn't help thinking how silly his haircut was back then. Ah, youth. The soldier nodded. "Visual identity confirmed. Mr Ford Prefect, due to your interference and impact on future events, you have been selected for execution by the Campaign for Real Time. Your execution has been predetermined and confirmed as successful. Kindly do not resist. Your death will be for the good of the space-time continuum. Do you understand?" Ford tried to pick out which of the six men was talking to him. "What?" One of the other soldiers said, "I told you this was a waste o' time, Lunn. Let's just shoot 'im." "No, Fleek," the soldier called Vloon said, "we do this just like we practiced. Do you understand, Mr Prefect?" At that moment, it began to dawn on Ford that he might be in trouble. The phrases "your death" and "shoot him" weren't something he fancied having applied to him. It dawned on Ford as his vision cleared that there were only three soldiers, after all. That made things a little easier, but the rifles in their hands still tipped the situation out of Ford's favour. Ford recognised the Campaign for Real Time, a group formed to try to combat temporal paradoxes caused by time travelers. Since the discovery of time travel, the spacetime continuum had become choked with people trying to change history, followed by other people trying to change history back, and still others trying to change history again, and finally more people trying to clean up after all of them. The result was a timeline that threatened to crumble under the weight of billions of interruptions. The Campaign worked to put everything back to the way it was, and keep time travelers from meddling in the first place. But Ford had never heard of the Campaign using soldiers. Ford glanced round the room. The arrival of a time-traveling death squad had apparently put a damper on the party. Even the twelve-armed members of the band had stopped playing to watch. Ford felt a moment's elation at the fact that Eccentrica

Gallumbits was looking at him. This had certainly broken the ice between them. Now he just needed to live long enough to say "hello" to her. Ford tried to think fast, but the Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters kept getting in his way. "Look," he said, "you say you're going to kill me for my impact on future events. I demand to know what those events are." "I'm sorry," the soldier said. "I cannot reveal that information. Your knowledge of the future would impact future events." "But if you're going to kill me anyway, then how can my knowledge affect future events?" The soldiers looked at each other. Their guns lowered slightly. The second soldier shrugged. "He's got you there, Vloon." "No, he doesn't. We don't have to tell him anything. We're the ones with the guns here, Fleek." They raised their guns again. Ford's mind was rapidly coming out of its alcohol-induced stupor. Facing certain death worked better than a cup of coffee. Ford glanced round for the nearest exits as he held up a finger. "But if you kill me before I do whatever it is I'm supposed to do, wouldn't that change history? Aren't you, in fact, causing the temporal paradox you're trying to prevent?" "I told you," said Vloon, "this has already happened. We're just carrying out the execution that has already been determined." "But if I'm dead in the future, then I couldn't have affected history. So I don't deserve to be executed, because I didn't do anything." "Well, you would have if we hadn't killed you." "How do you know?" Ford spluttered. "Because if you weren't a threat to future events, then we wouldn't have killed you. Obviously. I mean, if you weren't a threat, then why would we have wasted our time and energy comin' down here? Now clam up. We got killin' to do." They raised their weapons again. Ford thrust out his hands as he played the last card he could think of. "Wait, wait! You can't do this. I know the Campaign for Real Time. I even worked for them on the Krikkit Wars. Slartibartfast! You know him, right?" "Slartibartfast," said Vloon, "worked for us years ago, when the Campaign for Real Time went pussyfootin' around. We're through with the velvet glove approach. Now we're into action." Ford gave up. Reason wasn't going to work in this case. He wondered why he ever bothered with logic. Lunacy worked much better. That's why Ford whipped his towel out of his satchel, dipped the end in a wineglass someone held nearby, and snapped the towel at the soldiers.

The soldiers jumped back in surprise, which was what Ford had planned on. It gave him the distraction he needed to dive under a table of appetizers. The table exploded as energy bolts slammed into it. Ford crawled frantically across the room, dodging a rain of splinters. The party collapsed as men, women, and beings ran screaming from the attack. Eccentrica Gallumbit's bodyguards rushed her out of an exit and blocked the door behind her. They were hired to protect Eccentrica and screw everybody else. Ford Prefect ducked out from under the table just as it disintegrated. He dove behind an ice sculpture carved into a shockingly obscene shape, which began to melt as the soldier fired their energy bolts into it. A few guests had drawn out weapons and fired back at the Real Time soldiers, giving Ford another distraction but one he could not take advantage of. People rushing out or people rushing in jammed all the exits. There was no escape and no salvation. Ford closed his eyes and waited for the end to come. Then a large object came crashing through a nearby window.

The object plowed into the three soldiers, knocking them to the floor. As the object flew over them, flames pouring out of the object's engines blasted the three soldiers out of the window the object had crashed through. Ford could hear their screams fade as they tumbled fifty floors to the ground below. Ford held up his arms in terror as the object rushed towards him. It crashed through the ice sculpture, shattering into a billion pieces. The object rammed into Ford's chest, knocking him to the floor. And the object stopped. Ford sat up, gasping for breath. He could now see the battered object that had saved him clearly. It was an ePigeon. The Earth was first destroyed in 198-, a decade before the ape-descended life forms (who were so amazingly primitive) ever had a chance to think electronic mail was a pretty neat idea. In fact, much like many other technological innovations on Earth, electronic mail had been developed thousands of years throughout the Galaxy before anyone on Earth ever thought of it. And, much like many other technological innovations, the rest of the Galaxy had grown thoroughly sick of it. The progress of electronic mail throughout the Galaxy is familiar and painful. On every planet, someone came up with the rather clever idea of sending letters in a digital form. The system was set up and became widely-used within a few years, during which time people came in contact with friends and relatives they hadn't talked to in years, formed close relationships between beings who would never otherwise have met, fell in love sight unseen, and the system was hailed as a revolution that would unite whatever planet happened to be using it. Within a decade, electronic mail became a nuisance. The use of grammar was the first casualty, leading thousands of linguists to suffer fatal heart attacks from frustration. Then the users began to grow frustrated at the thousands of emails they received consisting of jokes, funny holographic images, random non-sequiturs, and messages from people that reminded them why they hadn't spoken in the first place. Then the sheer volume of electronic mail increased to the point where no sentient being could read all of them, resulting in fatigue and a loss of productivity that crippled industries all over the Galaxy. Along with that came the flood of electronic advertising that signaled the ultimate downfall. Advertisements for medication to increase or decrease the size of various

appendages, brand new business opportunities that required large amounts of money and gave very little or nothing at all in return, and pleas for help from doomed planets that never truly existed flooded the electronic mail system to the point of chaos. Within a few decades, the average electronic mailbox on the planet came to have as many as seven hundred gogolquillion electronic mails a day, leading to the complete collapse of the system. After a millennium of the cycle repeating itself on millions of planets, the Galaxy adopted the far easier system of instantaneous video communication, but a few chose to go even further back to a more elegant and tranquil time when messages were sent by carrier pigeon. Hence, the electronic Pigeon, more popularly known as the ePigeon. Many planets evolved with the concept of sending information by attaching them to various birds, many of which happened to have the name "pigeon" (due to one of those linguistic anomalies that send structural linguists who examine it right into the nearest mental hospital. For more information, see "jynnan tonnyx" in The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy). The idea of reviving the system seemed delightfully innovative while still carrying the flavour of nostalgia. The first attempts at creating a pigeon-based system across the Galaxy failed miserably due to the fact that pigeons don't fare too well in the vacuum of space and those who did fared even worse trying to make it through planetary re-entry. Hence, the developers of the system grudgingly switched from an organic pigeon to a robotic pigeon one. Of course, once the organic line had been crossed, progress moved rapidly. The electronic pigeon was fitted with a small hyper-drive to speed up delivery, heat-shielding to protect it during re-entry, and a vastly enlarged interior to carry packages as well as letters. The resulting ePigeon was a huge success, but an equally huge disaster as well. The final change that led to the failure of the ePigeon system came when the developers tried to make the system as quick and reliable as electronic mail. Fitting the ePigeon with an extremely powerful DNA-flux spectrometron was their solution so that it could detect the genetic pattern of its intended target millions of light-years away, allowing it to home in on the receiver from anywhere in the Galaxy. Receiving a message from an ePigeon usually consisted of minding one's own business when a ten-foot ePigeon came crashing through the walls of your home or office, hurtling towards you at the speed of sound, and coming to a halt only when it came in contact with your skin, thereby knocking you to the ground. The fact that it would then settle down, open its hatch, and deliver your message did nothing to improve the mood of the recipient. Adding the cost of repairing the damage to the building or health of the receiver from an ePigeon delivery made it too expensive, and the system was disbanded. However, there have been ePigeons sent many years ago whose hyper-drive malfunctioned and delayed their arrival. For this reason, ePigeons are still wreaking havoc throughout the Galaxy, despite the efforts of numerous bounty hunters and engineers to track them all down.

Ford assumed this was one of those ePigeons as he coughed and waved his hands to clear away the clouds of smoke billowing around him. The ePigeon's engines whined as they powered down. The mechanical bird looked at him with glowing red eyes. "Identity confirmed," the ePigeon chirped. "Delivery to Mr Ford Prefect from StagyarZil-Doggo." Ford groaned immediately at the name. Stagyar-Zil-Doggo was his editor at the Guide. He didn't get along well with Ford. He tended to be picky about things like accuracy and logic in Ford's entries. Stagyar tended to fire energy cannons at anyone who entered his office without fresh, proofed copy for the Guide. Ford hadn't set foot in Stagyar's office in years. The last time, Ford had worked out a complex series of defence manoeuvres that including diving behind various sculptures and drink carts in Stagyar's office. He had only stayed long enough to drop off his latest expense report, then dove out the window with energy bolts blasting in his wake. The ePigeon's tail lifted and a metal egg rolled out into the puddle of water on the floor. Ford fished the egg out of the water. When his fingers clutched the egg, a scanner read his fingerprints. The egg cracked open and a hologram formed on the egg's surface. The image swirled into the scowling face of Stagyar-Zil-Doggo. "Sorry to do this to you, Ford," Zil-Doggo growled, "but since you don't answer your communicator or check your mail and run away whenever we send someone to talk to you in person, this was our last option." Ford had to admit that he hadn't made himself easy to find. His expense reports had reached the point where they would upset the Galactic economy if they weren't re-paid. Ford looked up to see that the entire ballroom had been emptied. Even the ePigeon had turned itself and blasted out the nearest window back to whence it came. Ford shook the water off his satchel and ran for the exit. As he ran, the hologram flickered on the egg in his hand. Ford glanced down to see Zil-Doggo adjust his glasses and say, "I've got good news and bad news. The bad news is, The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy has been sold to another company, the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation." "Oh, starpox," Ford murmured as he crept down a hallway. He had always enjoyed the management style of The Hitchhiker's Guide's former owners. They pretty much let him do what he wanted, as long as he turned in a new entry every now and again. He hoped things wouldn't change too much under Sirius. "The good news," Zil-Doggo continued, "is that you've been promoted to editor. Effective immediately. Congratulations." Ford skidded to a halt, staring at the mechanical egg glowing in his hand. "You've got to be joking!" Of course, the recorded message didn't answer. Zil-Doggo just grinned. "We expect you to report to work in three star-cycles. Your new office is in Section 28115 of Maze City on

the planet Sirius IV. If you're not there by the deadline, you'll be terminated. By a squadron of Vogon deathnaughts. Good luck, Prefect. You'll need it." The hologram collapsed, leaving Ford stunned and irritated. Like many throughout the Galaxy, Ford knew little about the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation. The company manufactured many of the products he used each day, from robots to drink machines,but Ford had never met anyone who worked for it, nor had he ever seen its headquarters. Yet Ford had formed a very strong opinion of the Corporation - he hated it. The Corporation did a lot of things, and none of them very well. Ford Prefect paused at the end of the hallway. He could hear gunfire, screaming, and explosions. He tossed his towel round the corner. When nothing attacked it, Ford risked ducking his head out to see for himself. He could see into the lobby of the Ix'Ff Hotel where Eccentrica's party was being held. It looked like the three soldiers from the Campaign had survived the fifty-story fall and were trying to get back inside the building. A platoon of security robots had intercepted them. Energy bolts flashed everywhere as the robots and soldiers exchanged fire. Flames licked the walls as beings ran for cover from the fierce combat. In all the chaos, Ford managed to retrieve his towel and slipped out of a nearby hole in the wall. Ford ran through the streets of the city, cursing under his breath. He didn't know which was worse, that they had sold the Guide to the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation or that they had made him an editor. Of all the things Ford had tried to avoid in his life, working in an office had always been at the top. Ford had become a researcher and writer for the Guide for the specific purpose of avoiding responsibility. Ford enjoyed his life as a field researcher for the Guide. He had no interest in being an editor. Ford had always felt sorry for editors, the poor blighters. While Ford lay on a beach on Xinka Prime, sipping Jovian ale and watching gorgeous women playing jilliball (a very complex game that involves a lot of jumping up and down, bending over, and wiggling various parts of the body), the editors sat behind a desk all day, reading countless mind-numbing entries on everything in the Galaxy, and being forced to correct the endless mistakes of billions of field researchers. Ford usually threw in a few extra typos and made up words in his entries, just to make the editors' lives more interesting. And now Ford had become one of them. Starpox. Ford headed for the spaceport, where he would hitch a ride aboard a ship headed for Sirius IV. He had to get there as quickly as possible and show them how bad an editor he would be, so they would demote him back to field researcher. The sooner he got to Sirius IV, the sooner he could get away from it.

Space travel, Arthur Dent had discovered, could be incredibly lonely. Exciting? Yes. Confusing? Frequently. Heart-poundingly, mind-numbingly, hair-raisingly dangerous? Absolutely. But also lonely. Arthur Dent had spent many years wandering the Galaxy, accompanied only by aliens and robots who regarding him as little more than a semievolved monkey. The only being Arthur had met that he could even slightly relate to had been Trillian, the only other survivor from Earth before it was destroyed. But Trillian had left Earth months before he met her and was so acclimated with space travel that Arthur found he had little in common with her. And so, Arthur felt isolated and alone on planets with billions of sentient beings, most of whom seemed to have more eyes and limbs than he felt comfortable with. That was until Arthur had discovered that Earth had been miraculously restored, and returned to find a beautiful and intelligent woman called Fenchurch. They had fallen madly in love and left Earth several months ago to find God's Ultimate Message To His Creation. Once they'd gotten that over with, they decided to wander the Galaxy a bit before returning home. And so, Arthur found himself travelling the Universe with a companion at his side, lonely no more. Unfortunately, Arthur hadn't prepared Fenchurch for the other thing he had discovered about space travel. He had known this moment would come, but they had hitched a ride on a luxury starship and he hoped to postpone it as long as he could. But now the time had come. The starship had dropped Arthur and Fenchurch off at the spaceport, and Fenchurch had turned to Arthur and said the words he had dreaded for months. Fenchurch said, "I have to use the lavatory." "Ah," Arthur said as they walked through the crowded centre of the spaceport. "Well, that's something we need to discuss, dear." Fenchurch raised her eyebrows at him. "Discuss? What's there to discuss? I've just been looking round and can't seem to find the Ladies' room." Arthur cleared his throat as he began walking towards the lavatories. "Well, yes, you see, you must remember where we are. With the number of species throughout the Galaxy and the various anatomical differences between them, using the lavatory can be a bit tricky." "Tricky? How tricky can it be to use the loo? I've done it before."

"Well, you see, our quarters in the starships we've ridden on so far had a speciesspecific lavatory. Here in the spaceport, it's a bit more complicated." Arthur reached into his satchel and pulled out his copy of The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. He pulled up the menu and said "Lavatory" to it. He handed the book to Fenchurch and let the Guide tell her what he couldn't. The Guide spoke in a soft and reassuring voice. This is what it said: "There are four hundred million billion trillion species throughout the known Galaxy, and nine trillion of those are sentient beings. Of those nine trillion sentient beings, six trillion of them excrete waste products. And so, it is the lavatory and not the wheel that is the most common invention in the Universe. "Of course, the definition of a lavatory varies widely from species to species. For example, the Viluminoo of Monarch Nine are a beautiful species with multi-coloured wings that spend their entire lives singing music and floating through the purple skies of their homeworld, their only bodily secretion a light and sweet-smelling cloud. As a result, they have no lavatory to speak of, save a silken cloth round their necks which collects the cloud for sale throughout the Galaxy as a highly prised perfume. "At the other end of the scale are the Vogons whose waste product is a substance with an odour so powerful that it doubles as a form of nerve gas, and that can only be destroyed with temperatures found within the core of the average sun. As a result, their lavatories consist of three-story silos that launch high-velocity air-to-ground thermonuclear missiles when the lever is pushed. The Vogon equivalent of lavatory paper is best left up to the imagination. "Because of the enormous variety in both the content and method of waste secretion among sentient beings, as well as variations in anatomy and culture, the simple concept of the public lavatory has been one of the greatest technological hurdles in Galactic science since the invention of the hyperdrive. As the number of sentient beings congregating in one place has increased, the difficulty of creating a communal lavatory area has likewise increased. "In the first few years of interplanetary travel, public lavatories were built to accommodate the most common genders of male and female, but a successful lawsuit by the Hurrmafurra, whose species includes a third gender, led to an additional lavatory. That led to another lawsuit by the Koth'La of Xiramir, a species so shy that they cocoon themselves in a silken ball fifteen metres thick for a hundred years whenever someone asks them their name. The Koth'La protested that, according to their religion, they cannot use a lavatory with another intelligent being within one hundred yards. This led to an additional lavatory required just for Koth'La in all public lavatories. "The flood of lawsuits that followed crippled the Galactic court system for hundreds of years, and led to so many different forms of lavatory required for every public place, that facilities either did away with lavatories altogether or were forced to build an artificial moon in orbit round the planet to accommodate them.

"It was after the infamous Ladies' Restroom Waiting Line Riots of Viltvoodle Four that the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation introduced a solution in the form of the Universal Waste Management System, known more commonly as the Uni-Loo. The Uni-Loo used state-of-the-art technology as well as artificial intelligence to adapt itself to the shape and form of every known species in the Galaxy. The Uni-Loo was designed so that anyone who sat or hovered or inserted various orifices onto it would find it both comfortable and convenient to use, without needing a separate restroom. "The Uni-Loo has revolutionised public lavatories. And of course, since it was built by the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation, it almost never works." Fenchurch blinked as the entry came to an end. "What does that last part mean?" Arthur patted her on the shoulder as they came to the lavatories. "Uh, well, you should find out soon enough. I just wanted to prepare you. As the Guide explained, there isn't really a ladies' room to speak of." Fenchurch shrank back. "You mean it's unisex?" "Uh, more like uni-species. So you may come in contact with other aliens using the facilities, which can be a bit, er, jarring at first. And using a Uni-Loo for the first time can be even more so. It has about as much in common with a toilet on Earth as a paper airplane has got with the Space Shuttle. And it, uh, tries to talk to you. The only advice I can give is that, no matter what it asks you to do, do not insert any part of it into any part of your body. And try to keep your mouth closed." "If I didn't have to go so bad, I'd jolly well hold it in." Arthur put his arms around her shoulders. "Dont worry, dear. It's sort of like jumping into cold water." "It's shocking at first, but after a while, you get used to it?" "No, you shriek and shiver and shake and get shriveled up and wish you hadn't done it in the first place." Fenchurch took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and marched into the lavatory. That was what Arthur loved most about her. Arthur sighed and turned away to survey the list of upcoming flights. He was hoping to hitch a ride to Ursa Minor Beta. It was lovely this time of year. There was a Zyfff cargo megafreighter heading there with a load of lemons for mixed drinks. He heard a sound like a thousand people saying "wop." Arthur's heart tried to jump into his throat and hide behind his brain. The last time he had heard that sound, an army of white robots had tried to play cricket with his skull. He spun. No one else in the spaceport seemed concerned about the noise. Arthur grabbed the arm of a man with silvery skin walking by. "Did you hear that? It's the Krikkit army!" "What's the problem, mate?" the alien yelled as he shook off Arthur. "Never seen time travelers before? Nuisances."

Arthur's panic reached a whole new level as he realised the sound came from inside the lavatory that Fenchurch had gone into. He turned to run towards the lavatory just as it exploded.

The explosion blew the lavatory's doors off and threw Arthur back. He landed on a pile of debris that had once been a very stylish set of tables and chairs. The tentacled creatures that had been chatting at the table over a cup of coffee went off squealing into the crowds. Arthur coughed his way back to consciousness through a cloud of dust. His back hurt, but he had landed on the towel in his satchel, which had cushioned the blow. His main concern was Fenchurch. The explosion had torn the front wall of the lavatory off, exposing the grimy tiled interior. Aliens ran out of the smoke-filled lavatory, trying to zip up their trousers or pull down their skirts. Arthur couldn't see anything inside. He ran into the smoke-filled room. When he regained consciousness on the floor, Arthur wrapped his towel over his nose and mouth to keep from asphyxiating on the smoke again, then continued inside. The smoke made his eyes burn as Arthur waded through it. He called out Fenchurch's name into the gloom. Strange shapes loomed all around him, all cursing and fleeing for the newly widened exit. The air was thick with foul odours that Arthur thought was the stench of burning flesh and death, but then he realised it was just the usual odours for a spaceport public lavatory. Just as Arthur started to despair, he heard Fenchurch cry out. Arthur plunged down an aisle towards her voice. He passed several stalls, some open, some closed, some torn open with the door dangling off its hinges. Fenchurch called out again, and it was coming from one of the broken stalls. The smoking crater in front of the stall told him that the blast had been centred on that one stall. He rushed up to it and wrenched the remainder of the door off. A Uni-Loo sat inside the stall, a spherical mass of pipes, wires, chrome, and porcelain. "Share and Enjoy," the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation's motto, was painted on one side. It looked like the explosion had only smudged it. Any device built to survive Vogon waste had to be built to last. Fenchurch's voice came out of it. "Arthur, are you out there?" "Fenchurch! Yes, I'm here." Arthur ran up to the Uni-Loo and pushed the button to open it. The Uni-Loo spoke in a soft and pleasant voice. "Thank you for using the Universal Lavatory Waste Management System. I'm sorry, but this facility is currently in use. Kindly find another stall." Arthur pounded on the Uni-Loo. "Open up! Let her out right now!"

"I'm sorry," the Uni-Loo purred, "but this facility is already in use. Only the user can open it." "Fenchurch, you have to open it from the inside." Arthur heard pounding inside as Fenchurch yelled, "I'm trying, but I can't figure out how to open it. Is there a button or switch?" "My sensors," said the Uni-Loo, "indicate that the user has not used the facility yet. Until it has been used, I cannot open the door." "What?" "Oh," said Arthur, "I forgot." "What's it on about?" "Well, the Uni-Loo is set up to automatically flush and open the door when it senses you've finished. It's sort of like those lavatories on Earth that don't have a handle and only flush when it senses you get up. You have to, um, use it before it opens." Fenchurch pounded on the door again. "But I don't have to go anymore. I was just almost blown to pieces. That's the last thing on my mind. Can you just open the door?" "I'm sorry," the Uni-Loo sighed. "But I cannot open the door until the facility has been used." "Why not?" Fenchurch yelled. "I'm sorry, my programming is quite specific." "Oh, forheaven's sake," said Fenchurch, followed by a splashing noise. The Uni-Loo's voice turned cold. "Oh. I see how it is. Fine." The Uni-Loo cracked open like an egg, leaving Fenchurch crawling out, soaked in a mixture of sweat and lubrication fluid, gasping for air. Arthur pulled Fenchurch out of the Uni-Loo. "I thought you said you couldn't go." Fenchurch rubbed a sleeve on her forehead. "I couldn't. I poured out my soda." The Uni-Loo snapped itself shut. "I can tell when I'm not wanted. If you're going to be like that, then go ahead and leave. But the next time you have to go, don't bother coming 'round here, because you won't get any sympathy from me." Fenchurch kicked the Uni-Loo. "Are there any mentally well-adjusted machines in this Galaxy?" Arthur led her through the clearing smoke, heading for the exit. "None that I'm aware of. What happened?" "I haven't the faintest idea," Fenchurch gasped. "I was heading into the stall, when these three men in purple armour came out of nowhere and said they were sent to kill me. I tried to talk them out of it, and they said they'd had enough of arguing with people they were going to kill and fired a rocket at me. If I hadn't dove into that thing, I would've been blown to pieces." Arthur hugged her to himself. "Good lord, why would anyone want to kill you?"

"Not a clue. They said it was for something I was supposed to do in the future or something like that. Said they were from the Campaign for Real Time, whatever that means." By then, Arthur and Fenchurch had found their way out of the lavatory, but Arthur stopped and turned to face her. "The Campaign for Real Time?" "Yes. Do you know them?" "Yes. Even worked for them for a while. If this has got something to do with them, then it's got to do with time travel. This could get a bit sticky." Fenchurch moved out of the way of a trio of fire-control robots that arrived to put out the fires in the lavatory. "Time travel? Is that possible?" "Oh, yes. Done it a few times myself, never really cared for it." Arthur began digging through his satchel. "We're going to need help." "What kind of help?" "Slartibartfast." "Did you just sneeze?" asked Fenchurch. Arthur pulled out his copy of The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy again and began pushing buttons. "It's a name of a very old man who travels through time quite a bit." "I'm assuming that means our trip to Ursa Minor Beta is canceled. Well, go find us a ship. I'm going to find another lavatory. Preferably one where I won't get blown up."

Many people would be shocked to see the ex-President of the Galaxy lying in his office in an alcohol-induced coma, surrounded by empty bottles of Arcturian Mega-gin. Tricia McMillan, more commonly known as Trillian, was not one of those people. In fact, she had come to the office armed with a Neutra-Hol gun to get him out of it. The Neutra-Hol gun was supposed to instantly neutralise any alcohol in the system of the target, as well as stimulate the nervous system to bring the target to full consciousness. The Sirius Cybernetics Corporation advertised the gun as "a stiff cup of black coffee with a trigger." The results were not quite as enjoyable. Trillian walked into the office of Zaphod Beeblebrox, aimed the gun, and fired. Zaphod Beeblebrox jumped the minute the orange beam hit him, screaming at the top of his lungs. He landed on one of the bottles, which rolled and sent him flying backwards onto the floor. His two heads banged together, which only made his headaches worse. Zaphod lay on the floor, cursing furiously. Trillian slipped the gun into Zaphod's desk drawer. "Good morning to you, too, Zaphod." Zaphod groaned and sat up, rubbing his foreheads with his second and third hands. One head squinted at her. "I thought you were dead." Trillian folded her arms and looked pointedly at a still-smoking hole in the wall by the door. "No, you missed. Next time you try to shoot me, make sure you're not drunk. Your aim will be better." Zaphod staggered to his feet. "Refresh my memory. Why did I try to kill you again?" "I told you about the debate." "Oh, yeah, the debate." Zaphod began sifting through the bottles at his feet to find one that wasn't empty. "What debate?" Trillian gave him her thin smile, the one she used to keep from screaming at him. "The debate with Erog Shub." Zaphod picked up one of the bottles and turned it upside-down over his left mouth. A couple of drops came out and landed in his left head's mouth, which smacked its lips. His right head frowned as it said, "Right, Erog Shub. Who's Erog Shub?" Trillian lowered her head, counting slowly to herself. She often had this debate with herself about whether or not Zaphod Beeblebrox was as stupid as he behaved. She was still learning to distinguish between him pretending to be stupid just to get people off their guard, pretending to be stupid because he couldn't be bothered to think and wanted

someone else to do it for him, pretending to be outrageously stupid to hide the fact that he actually didn't understand what was going on, and really being genuinely stupid. He was renowned for being amazingly clever and quite clearly was so - but not all the time, which obviously worried him, hence the act. He proffered people to be puzzled rather than contemptuous. This above all appeared to Trillian to be genuinely stupid, but she could no longer be bothered to argue about it. "Okay," Trillian said, "we had this conversation last night, and it ended with you shooting at me, so let's try this another way." Trillian went over to the Tri-D and turned it on. The hologram came up showing a huge auditorium with a man in a tuxedo dominating the view. The man looked thin and gaunt,?ne who could be mistaken for dead were it not for his brilliant smile. He was Max Quordlepleen, known throughout the Galaxy as the host of Milliways, the Restaurant at the End of the Universe. Zaphod had slumped in the chair behind his desk, but just the sight of Quordlepleen made Zaphod sit up at attention. Quordlepleen faced the Tri-D camera robot with a thin microphone at his mouth. Trillian had caught him in mid-sentence. "-required three different kinds of pudding. But that's all been sorted out, and we're all set to begin this truly extraordinary debate between Zaphod Beeblebrox and his opponent, Erob Shub." One of Zaphod's heads turned to Trillian while his other head kept watching the Tri-D. "Opponent? What's that Mr Twister pleening on about?" Trillian just bowed her head and waved at the screen. "Keep watching." Quordlepleen brushed his collar with a thin hand as he said, "I'm glad you could join us, I really am. I'm told the entire Galaxy is expected to be tuning in to watch this, the first public Tri-D appearance of Zaphod Beeblebrox since he stole the legendary starship, the Heart of Gold, and became the most wanted man in the Galaxy. And what a way to return, eh? Here to discuss Zaphod's bold re-election campaign-" Zaphod jumped out of his chair with both his heads screaming, "What?" Trillian took a step back. Quordlepleen continued, "-is Beeblebrox's former brain care specialist, Gag Halfrunt." The hologram split to show a smiling man that Zaphod knew all too well. Halfrunt sat in a comfortable armchair, floating in mid-air by Quordlepleen's shoulder. Quordlepleen turned to look at the man hovering next to him. "Professor Halfrunt, it's wonderful to see you again. So glad you could join us on such short notice. I just wanted to ask you, briefly, if you have any explanation for this decision to run for re-election as President of the Galaxy, one of Zaphod's boldest and most bizarre actions yet?" Halfrunt smiled the smile of a man knowing he was getting billions to talk for ten seconds. "Well, yes, Max, it's all in my new unauthorised biography and brain analysis of Zaphod Beeblebrox, due to be transmitted to a store near you." He pushed a button on his armchair that replaced him with the cover of a book that bore the title: Zaphod's Just Zis Guy, You Know?

Zaphod lunged from the desk, grabbed the gun inside the drawer, and fired wildly at Trillian. Trillian stood her ground as the orange beam hit her over and over again. "I'm not drunk, Zaphod." He looked down at the Neutra-Hol gun in his hands. "Where's my Kill-O-Zap pistol?" "Somewhere you can't use it." Zaphod slumped back into his chair. "Re-election? Whatre they on about? I'm not running for re-election. I didn't want to be President of the Galaxy the first time. It was just my stupid brain's idea." Zaphod punched the side of his heads for emphasis. He looked up at Trillian. "Right?" Trillian pulled a vid-cube out of her pocket and tossed it into the Tri-D player. A wobbly image of Zaphod Beeblebrox came on the screen. There was nothing wrong with the image itself. It was Zaphod who was wobbly. He held a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster in each of his three hands and held them up as he spoke in a slurred voice. "Greetings, Galaxy, this is Zaphod Beeblebrox, your former President, here to announce that I am running for re-election. That's right, I have returned and I'm ready to roll. So vote for me, the froodiest frood you ever frooded. I'd also like to take this opportunity to sing this really humpin' song I just came up with." Zaphod began flailing his arms and making clucking noises. The image went black. "I think," said Zaphod, "I might have been drunk when I recorded that." Trillian unfolded a yellow sash from her pocket. "Quite possibly. But before you passed out, you sent that message to every major news broadcast in the Galaxy. They arranged the debate this morning. It starts in five minutes." Zaphod braced his foreheads on his hands and groaned. "What have I gotten myself into? I've gotta pull out." Trillian draped the sash around Zaphod's necks and began tying it into a knot. "You can't. It's already been done." Zaphod stood up and would have been strangled if Trillian hadn't finished tying the sash a split-second earlier. Zaphod charged out of the office and into the hallways of the Heart of Gold. "Okay, this is no problem. I'll just wing it. It's a debate. No problem. How hard can it be?" Zaphod stepped through the doors leading onto the bridge of the starship. "Computer, patch me into this debate thingy, yeah?" Silence responded enthusiastically. Zaphod glanced around the bridge. "Computer, where are you? I hear nothing when I should be hearing something." Trillian followed him in. "The computer is down." "Down? Down like how?"

"Down like you ripped out the personality matrix, smashed it into a million pieces, poured the pieces into the Infinite Improbability Drive, and turned them into broccoli." "Whoa. How long have I been drunk?" Trillian pushed a button to bring up a calendar. "Do you want that in weeks, days, or months?" "Never mind." Zaphod wiggled his fingers and marched over to the control panel. "Zaphod is back, down, and all around town, in control and on a roll. We're gonna jigger this up right. I'll make chopped meat outta this Shub cat. Get me on-screen, babe, my public awaits." Trillian waited a moment to see if she should bring up the real reason Zaphod had shot at her last night, then decided against it. Let him figure it out for himself. She just tapped a panel to activate the ship's Tri-D system. The screen lighted up with Max Quordlepleen's smiling face. Zaphod had taken the moment while Trillian was setting it up to spread himself out on a lounge chair and place a magazine over his right face. When the screen lighted up, his right head pretended to snore loudly while his left head raised itself up, looking surprised. "Oh, hi, Max," Zaphod said in his most casual voice. "Haven't peeped your grill since the Restaurant at the Front of the Whatsis. What can I do ya for?" Then he snapped his fingers. "Oh, right, the debate. Forgot all about it, been so busy with, uh, with, uh, with, uh, this." Zaphod grabbed the first thing within reach, which turned out to be a small potted plant. He poked at the leaves in ways that he hoped looked knowledgeable, then tossed it over his shoulder. "So let's get this monkey wagon on the tracks, yeah?" Max Quordlepleen's toothy smile widened. He had been working exclusively as the host at the Restaurant at the End of the Universe for centuries, thanks to the cumulative effects of temporal paradoxes and life-extending drugs, and had refused offers from any number of large corporations and entertainment industries to do other engagements. He enjoyed the quiet stability of his life there, doing the same show over and over again. The management at Milliways left him alone, and he had unlimited access to the world-class food, drink, and female staff members. Only one thing could have coaxed him out of semi-retirement, and it had been this debate. He had placed some healthy bets on the outcome, and he was already getting his money's worth. "Of course, Mr President," Quordlepleen said in his smooth, cultured voice. "I know you're a busy man, so we won't keep you waiting. Ladies and gentlemen of the Galaxy, welcome one and all to this, the first debate between Zaphod Beeblebrox, ex-President of the Imperial Galactic Government, and Erog Shub, former ion drive delta boat salesman from the third moon of Zen Phen."

Max turned to the stage behind him. Zaphod's holographic image floated on the stage and a new image materialised next to him. It was a man in a tailored black suit lying on a flat plank of wood. The man's eyes were closed, his arms and legs stiff. Zaphod pulled the magazine off his right head and waved it at the screen. "Hey, somebody wanna wake that guy up? We only got the Galaxy on tap here. If I gotta wake up for this, he does, too." Trillian winced. Max turned to Zaphod and blinked. Slowly. "Mr President, surely you're aware that Erog Shub is dead?" "Dead." Zaphod chewed his gum thoughtfully until he realised he wasn't chewing gum. He chewed anyway to make himself look more relaxed. "Okay. When did he die?" "Well, my notes say that he died roughly thirty years ago." "Okay. And I got a debate with this stiff?" Max blinked again. "Why, yes, Mr President." "Oh, yeah, sure. Yeah, I knew that. No problem. Bring it on." Zaphod shaded his right head with his hand from the camera. It turned and winked at Trillian and whispered, "This should be easy." Trillian folded her arms and leaned back in her chair. This was going to be interesting. Up until this moment, she wondered what happened to the detailed briefing she had written up for Zaphod, based on the debate's press materials as well as polling research, presidential historical data, information from Zaphod's presidential library and museum exhibit, and all the information she could wring out of the Sub-Etha on Erog Shub. Her suspicions on what had clogged up the ship's lavatory had just been confirmed. Zaphod wiggled his fingers at Max in a beckoning gesture. "Go ahead, gimme your best shot." "Of course, Mr President." Max tapped a stack of index cards. "Now, our first question is going to be on the economy. Mr President, during your long years in office, the economy of the Galaxy suffered a massive recession that the Galaxy has still not recovered from. Statistics at the time indicate that the root cause of the economic collapse could be traced entirely to your recreational budget. Your budget for olives alone exceeded the income for the entire Galaxy three times over. Given the current trend of the Vogon Stock Index in relation to stasis management theory as it relates to the wholesale corporation index, if you were re-elected, how could you improve the economy and prevent this from happening again?" Zaphod's two heads blinked in unison. "Uh, well, I don't like olives that much anymore, so we'd save there." Max Quordlepleen stared at Zaphod for a moment. "I should remind you that you have five more minutes, Mr President." Zaphod waved his hand. "Yeah, well, I'm done."

"Fair enough, Mr President." Max turned to the corpse floating next to Zaphod. "Mr Shub, same question. How would you address the current economic crisis of the Galaxy if you were elected?" The camera focused on the rigid grey features of Erog Shub. He seemed to have been preserved chemically rather than the traditional burial method of suspended animation. The Tri-D camera shifted back and forth a few times and switched angles, just to keep things interesting. Max Quordlepleen nodded. "All right, that's all the time we have for Mr Shub. The next question is on ethics. Mr President, you only served three years of your ten-year term. In that time, you embezzled fourteen quadrillion dollars from the Galactic Treasury, served two years in prison for fraud, had three affairs with the wives of foreign heads of state, and stole the towels from the Presidential Office lavatory. And of course, there's your infamous theft of the starship Heart of Gold, for which you spent the next year as a fugitive from the police. You escaped prison by issuing a Presidential Pardon for yourself after sneaking back into your office through an air-conditioning duct. What assurance can you give the Galaxy that we could expect anything different?" Zaphod gave the Tri-D camera his most winning smiles, making sure his more popular head was in view. "My personal guarantee." "I see. You still have four minutes and fifty seconds." Zaphod spread his three hands. "Done and done, Max-baby." "All right. Well, let's ask the same question of Erog Shub. Mr Shub, you have been dead for the last thirty years, and during your lifetime, you have a clear criminal record. What kind of ethics can we expect from you in office?" Shub's rigid face filled the screen. A fly landed on his upper lip and crawled across it for a few minutes before getting bored and flitting away. Max Quordlepleen waited five minutes, then nodded. "All right, time's up, Mr Shub. Our final question is on your platform. Mr President, what could the Galaxy expect from your administration if you were re-elected?" Zaphod leaned one elbow on one knee and gave the camera his smile again. "Same thing everybody gets from stickin' around with me; excitement and adventure and really wild things." "I see. You-" "I know I got five minutes, genome-drone. Go ahead and give the maggot farm his turn, yeah?" Max flashed his tight smile. "All right. Mr Shub, your platform?" The Tri-D camera zoomed out to take in all of Shub's corpse and scrolled biographical information at the bottom of the screen, just to fill the time. "All right," Max broke in, "his five minutes is up. Well, that's the end of the debate. Let's take a popularity poll from our audience, shall we, and see how the debate left things in the Presidential race."

Numbers flashed up on the screen. "Hey, Trillian," said Zaphod. Not bad, huh? Ninety-nine-point-nine percent popularity for me. Told ya I'd ace that chat-fest." Trillian rolled her chair back a few meters as she said, "No, Zaphod. You're looking at it backwards. Erod Shub's popularity is up to ninety-nine percent, not yours." Zaphod leapt off his couch. "You gotta be spankin' me! I'm losing this election to a dead guy? How's that happen?" "It happens when you spend your first term in office sleeping with married women and pinching government property. Think of it not so much as voting for a dead man, but as not voting for you." Zaphod snarled, "Oh, that's supposed to make me feel better?" "I didn't say it would. I'm sorry, Zaphod, but I tried to tell you this last night. With your presidential record, no one in their right mind would re-elect you. You were already voted the worst President of the Galaxy the day after you were elected, and it's only gone downhill from there." Zaphod stabbed a finger at her. "Yeah, well, I may not have been the best President, but I certainly was the hippest." "The Hippest President of the Galaxy election was last year. And you lost that, too." A light flashed on the console as a chirping noise filled the air. Trillian looked down at the console. "Incoming call. Should I patch it through?" Zaphod slumped into a chair. "Yeah, go for it. Couldn't get any worse." Trillian hit the switch, the screen lighted up, and a man's face appeared with a tight little smile that made you want to hit it with a brick. Zaphod slowly sat up in his chair. His mouths curled into snarls as his heads said in unison, "Zarniwoop." Zarniwoop's tight little smile grew thinner. "I am glad you remember me. You seemed to have forgotten me when you abandoned me with the Man Who Rules the Universe." Trillian gaped. They both recognised the man as Zarniwoop, the former editor-in-chief of The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. Once long ago in a time that Zaphod no longer remembered, he and Zarniwoop had apparently been friends and hatched a plan to steal the Heart of Gold and use it to find the Man Who Rules the Universe. But Zaphod had undergone a lobotomy in order to hide his intentions from the government mind-screens and now found Zarniwoop intensely irritating. The first chance he got, Zaphod had taken the Heart of Gold and abandoned Zarniwoop on the Man Who Rules the Universe's planet. Zaphod hadn't given much thought to Zarniwoop's fate until then. "Hey," said Zaphod, "you loved him so much, I just thought you'd wanna spend more time with him. I can understand that. Seat of power and all that." Zarniwoop leaned back to reveal himself sitting in a plush office. He adjusted his tie. "You underestimated my resourcefulness if you thought you could leave me there. I

escaped the planet by hitching a ride on one of the six ships that came to ask the Man Who Rules the Universe for guidance." Zaphod jumped out of his chair to do a flailing dance. "Well, whoop-de-doo for you, what a great story, should be on Home Brain Box. Wanna cut to the part where I care?" "Certainly." Zarniwoop smugly pushed a button on his console. The view shifted to reveal the corpse of Erob Shub lying next to him. "I believe you know my associate? He's trouncing you in the polls for President?" Zarniwoop's smile thinned again. "When I heard you were running for re-election, I found my opportunity to pay you back for your betrayal. I am the one responsible for your opponent, a dead man who is far more popular than you are. And when you lose reelection, you will be the laughingstock of the Galaxy, and I will be the man behind the sash, the true President of the Galaxy." Zaphod went to the bar that used to be the power control board and began mixing a drink. "You ever gone ski-boxing? We should go some time. I know a great little lava flow we can hit on Jinnmorg." Zarniwoop reached for the console and flashed his tight little smile again. "Zaphod, I know you better than you know yourself. Being humiliated is your greatest fear, and this will be a humiliation from which you will never recover. Goodbye, Zaphod." He vanished from the screen. Zaphod sipped his drink. "I think we need more Fallian Marsh gas. This tank's gettin' a little stale." Trillian stood up and touched his shoulder. "Are you okay?" Zaphod grinned at her. "Hey, this is Zaphod you're talkin' to. I'm a real cool boy, baby, totally marjin. I never wanted to be President of the Galaxy the first time, much less a second time. Zarniwoop did me a favour." "Okay, well, as long as you're all right. I need to see if we can reset the personality matrix on the main computer." She walked out of the bridge. As the door slid shut, humming softly in satisfaction to itself, Zaphod slumped on the couch. He could tell Trillian that he didn't want to get re-elected, but couldn't lie to himself. This was going to be bad. It wasn't so much that he cared to be President as he didn't wish to be humiliated. And this was going to be humiliating. A parade of unfinished projects dominated Zaphod's life, projects he pursued and then abandoned like a forgotten kipper left to rot in the refrigerator. But this was one thing he wanted to finish. All he had to do as President of the Galaxy was be cool. And if there was one thing Zaphod was good at, it was being cool. Zaphod also wanted to be liked. As President, Zaphod had been required to go to a private brain care specialist for five years. The purpose was entirely ceremonial, just to convince the Galaxy that he was a well-adjusted President in touch with his feelings. Every week, Zaphod would lie in a Synaptronic Mind-Mulcher while he talked to Gag Halfrunt. It didn't matter what they talked about, so long as they did it for an hour, so

Zaphod would just talk about what a great guy he was. Zaphod actually enjoyed it - he liked talking about himself. Halfrunt would usually pretend to listen while counting how much money he was being paid both as the President's private brain care specialist, as well as speaking engagements for being the President's private brain care specialist. Over time, Zaphod was surprised to discover he actually learnt more about himself. Halfrunt had assured him that any insight Zaphod may have gained by their sessions was entirely coincidental. One of those revelations had been that Zaphod wanted to be liked. That seemed very normal and well adjusted until he realised that he needed to become President of the Galaxy to feel liked. And now that he was running for re-election and failing, Zaphod realised that he wasn't liked. People laughed with him (or possibly at him, he had never learned or cared the difference), but they did not respect him. His ego had been through a lot, but he didn't think even his ego could survive losing this election. In a situation like this, Zaphod knew he had to go with his strengths. He began mixing up another Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster.

The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy has only two words to say about the planet Sirius IV. Those words are "Skip it." This is because there is nothing to say about the planet. Quite the opposite. In fact, the short entry results from the fact that The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy is written for hitchhikers, and there is absolutely, positively no way for any hitchhiker to get a ride to the planet Sirius IV. In fact, there is no way for anyone who isn't an employee of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation to even set foot on the surface of Sirius IV. As a result, there's no point in wasting valuable storage space in the Guide on the planet. For another example of the Guide's selective entries due to storage space, see the entry for Earth. Even the revered Encyclopedia Galactica is rather vague on the planet Sirius IV, saying only that it is the headquarters of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation and that no one who isn't an employee of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation is allowed there. For truly useful information on the planet Sirius IV, you would have to consult The Employee Handbook of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation. This is what Ford Prefect did when he found himself flipping through the Handbook's entry on his way to the planet. When he had boarded the new employee shuttle bound for the planet, Ford had been issued a copy of The Employee Handbook, a Sirius Cybernetics Corporation coffee mug, and a paper clip. The Handbook spoke in a woman's voice, as opposed to the Hitchhiker's Guide's male voice, which Ford found a bit more appealing for entirely sexist reasons. The entry on Sirius IV read as follows: "The planet Sirius IV is the headquarters and home of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation, and has been for over a hundred years. It began as the home of the Oonwikki, a happy and vibrant race of furry blue beings that survived for several million years without war, violence, hatred, or currency. Their lives consisted largely of lying about on grassy plains under perfumed trees. They laughed, they played, they loved, they sang songs, generally mucked about having a good time, and ate termites. "At the time, the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation was based in a three-story office building in the capital city of Keelk on J'Pharma Four. As the corporation began its fantastic growth, the office building was expanded to ten stories, then one hundred. New wings were added that required the demolition of several adjoining buildings, and then more. Eventually, the Corporation came to the point where it came in conflict with local civic leaders who were sticklers about things such as building codes, paying taxes, and environmental regulations. When the topic of employee unions was raised, it was decided

to relocate. The entire office building was equipped with rocket engines and a life-support system, and launched in search of a new world. "The office building crossed the dark void of space, finally arriving at a new star system that they christened the Sirius Tau Star system, after the Corporation itself. They settled on the fourth planet in the system, which was called Sirius IV. " "The Oonwikki watched with interest, munching on an especially tasty batch of termites, as the building descended from the clouds, billowing smoke and flame. Their interest turned to curiosity as the flames incinerated hundreds of Oonwikki. Their curiosity turned to puzzlement as the building crushed thousands more Oonwikki when it landed. The Oonwikki lived such a peaceful life that the concept of running away never occurred to them. To them, the building was a new opportunity for enjoyment. "The building landed, set its landing gear into the bedrock as foundations, and began operations again. The first order of business was making contact with the local life forms. A scouting party went out to encounter the Oonwikki, learn its local language and customs, and establish trade. After several months of research, the party returned with the conclusion that trade with the Oonwikki was impossible because they didn't have currency. They also, added the scouting party, did not have weapons. "The Sirius Cybernetics Corporation proceeded to send out a squadron of Aggressive Sales Representatives who convinced the Oonwikki that it would be in their best interests to work for the Corporation, as well as the best interests of keeping their intestines inside their bodies. The Oonwikki were put in charge of construction. They toiled night and day to continue the expansion of the Corporation's office facilities, which grew and grew until they came to engulf the entire planet. At the same time, more Oonwikki were sent to the other three planets of the Sirius Tau System to construct the largest and most profitable portion of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation, the Complaints Department. The Complaints Department ended up covering all the major landmasses of all three planets. "At some point, the Oonwikki came to realise that their lives were not quite as happy as they once were, but it took them several years just to come up with the word 'unhappy' because they had never used it before. They didn't sing, they didn't play, and they especially didn't get to eat termites anymore. Instead, their only sources of nourishment were the Nutrimatic Food Synthesizers which claimed to produce the widest possible range of foods personally matched to the tastes and metabolism of whoever cared to use it. When put to the test however, it invariably produced a plastic plate with a substance on it that was almost, but not quite, entirely unlike termites. "Eventually, the Oonwikki started to think they might like to go back to their old way of life, but discovered that their grassy plains had all been paved over to create bypasses, and all the perfumed trees had been cut down to produce lavatory paper for the employee lavatories. They considered the idea of quitting their new jobs, but first had to come up with a word for 'quit,' another word they had never needed before.

"Before they could figure one out, the Oonwikki started work on the motto of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation Complaints Division ('Share and Enjoy') in three mile high illuminated letters near the Complaints Department spaceport. Unfortunately, the weight was such that shortly after it was erected, the ground beneath the letters caved in and they dropped nearly half their length through the office of many talented young Complaints executives-now deceased. The letters also crushed all the surviving Oonwikki, exterminating the entire species in one blow. It was later discovered that the cause for the collapse was an infestation of termites, the population of which had exploded since the Oonwikki stopped eating them." When the shuttle docked at the Sirius IV spaceport, Ford stepped off the shuttle and surveyed the landscape. Towering office buildings loomed high over the planet. Very few people walked the streets between them. Clouds hung in the sky like grey pillows that got thrown up and stuck there. A gleaming grey robot sauntered up to Ford. The robot had its hands jammed into slots on its sides, striking Ford as looking remarkably like a man with his hands in his pockets. The robot spoke with a flat monotone. "Hi, Mr Prefect. I've been assigned to assist you in your transition from Megadodo Publications to the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation. You may call me Norman." "Whatever," said Ford. "Just find me a place to sleep. And drink." "Sure thing." Norman sauntered towards the nearest office building. "Follow me." Ford waited for the robot to tell him how happy it would make him or that Ford was getting him down, but Norman didn't. Ford was surprised and said so. "It sounds like you're familiar with previous Sirius Cybernetics Corporation robots equipped with Genuine People Personalities," Norman said. "Your attitude towards the GPP is a common one, which led to the abandonment of the project. I'm one of the next generation of robots, equipped with an APP - An Artificial People Personality. You can look it up in the Handbook if you like." "No thanks," said Ford, who didn't want to become like Arthur Dent when Ford first rescued him from Earth, always consulting with the Hitchhiker's Guide for every little thing. Ford preferred to live in ignorance. If Ford had consulted the Employee Handbook of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation, this is what it would have said: "The first robots created by the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation were, of course, very crude, simply machines designed to do work. Then someone had the bright idea of giving robots artificial intelligence. "For centuries, computer programmers struggled to replicate the heart of true intelligence. They pondered the problem philosophically, mathematically, heuristically, and occasionally drunkenly. Scientists devoted their lives to grappling with the eternal question of the nature of sentience and how it is achieved. Of course, artificial intelligence was easy to achieve once they cracked the Rhythmic Synaptic Replication Key-Relocation

Algorithm at the Maximegalon Institute of the Extremely Clever. They determined that the key to all intelligence is wondering where one's keys are. "The theory is based on the fact that all sentient and intelligent beings in the Universe have trouble locating their keys. The keys could be for a vehicle or a front door or a garage door or the key to Total Spiritual Enlightenment. The point is that, at some point, every intelligent entity will think 'where are my keys?' It is at that moment that the sentient being begins searching its environment, and eventually either locates its keys or breaks the car window or gets a new copy made at the nearest hardware store or yells at its significant other not to keep moving things round. All of those things, said the Maximegalon Institute of the Extremely Clever, are signs of true intelligence. Lower forms of life like dogs or Bugblatter Beasts of Traal never reach this stage, since they don't have the smarts to invent keys in the first place. This, at last, was the true experience that separated the intelligent from the ignorant. "With that discovery, artificial intelligence became a simple matter of programming the computer to need a set of keys and to look for it. The trick involved not programming in a set of keys. As the computer searched its virtual environment for its keys, it also learned more about its existence. In the process, it became self-aware. "This was all very well and good, but at one point, a Sirius Cybernetics Engineer had the revelation that robots had been equipped with intelligence, but not personality. The Engineer theorised that the lack of a personality led people to treat robots as mere machines. Without it, people would become frustrated with their inability to relate to robots. With a personality, he decided, robots could be more than just machines. They could be plastic pals that are fun to be with, an idea that so captivated the Corporation that the Marketing Department made it their slogan for an advertisement. It also led to the development of a bold new direction in cybernetics - the Genuine People Personality. The Genuine People Personality (or GPP) was intended to be a breakthrough in robotics, simulating real personalities that would make robots more pleasant and less frustrating to deal with. "Unfortunately, the end result was a disaster. Robots all over the Galaxy ended up annoyingly pleasant or depressingly miserable. Elevators wound up in therapy and spaceships committed suicide. When a can-opener was convicted of attempted murder over a failed love affair with a refrigerator, the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation pulled the plug on the GPP Project. Instead, the Corporation launched a new program, the Artificial Personality Project. The goal was not to simulate real personalities, because real personalities have flaws. Instead, the goal was to create a robot that had a personality unlike any that exists anywhere in the known Universe - one that was completely and totally normal." Norman led Ford into the office building and up to the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation Happy Vertical People Transporter, formerly known by the archaic term "elevator." The

elevator opened and said, "Hello, I am to be your transport for this trip to the floor of your choice. I have been designed-oh, how's it going, Norman?" Norman waved to the elevator as he walked into it. "Can't complain. Four hundred and twelfth floor, please." "You got it." The elevator slid its doors shut and began to rise. Ford had to admit he found Norman far less annoying than any other machine he had ever encountered. When the doors opened, Ford found himself looking out at what seemed to be an endless sea of cubicles extending off into the distance. Apart from the occasional rustle of clothes or tapping of keys, there remained only a dreadful silence. Men and women in grey suits walked the aisles without talking to or even looking at each other. Ford scowled at Norman. "I told you I wanted to go somewhere to sleep and drink. And sleep. And drink. I think I mentioned drinking already, didn't I? You know, my living quarters." Norman stuck his hands into the slots on his sides again. "This is it. Follow me." He led Ford down one of the long aisles that extended across the floor. Ford followed while protesting, "This isn't a home. This is an office." "Right. The new offices of The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy." "This isn't the Guide!" cried Ford. "The Guide is supposed to be fun, joyous, successful! Live animals attached to the ceiling, robot butlers ferrying exotic drinks, machines playing insanely complex and frustrating games, gunk music pumping out of speakers on the ceiling, robot butlers ferrying more exotic drinks, that sort of thing." "Not anymore." Norman looked over his shoulder at Ford with round, glowing white eyes. "That's why I'm here. I said it would be a transition." Norman led Ford to one of the cubicles and swept his hand at it. "This is your cubicle." The cubicle had a single chair and a single metal desk with a computer terminal mounted on it. A small trash bin waited next to the chair. That was all. During Ford Prefect's exile on Earth, he had lived in a small flat with an extremely small closet. His new cubicle made his flat's closet seem quite spacious. "Fine," said Ford. "Now that I've seen my office, can I please see my living quarters?" A man's head poked up from the cubicle next to Ford's. "You must be a new employee, eh?" The man's head dropped out of sight and he waddled out of his cubicle into Ford's. He was a large man wearing a grey suit identical to the other suits Ford had seen other employees wearing. The man stuck out his hand. "Name's Tweed Mukkimuk, your new neighbour. Nice to see new blood round here." Ford shook his hand with suspicion. He tended to distrust people who were happy and sober. "How did you know I'm new?"

"You asked about livin' quarters. You're lookin' at 'em." Tweed held up a lumpy white bag. "Word of advice, make yourself a pillow. I fashioned mine out of a bin liner stuffed with shredded paper, held together with a paper clip. Makes the floor a lot more comfortable." "They expect me to sleep on the floor of my cubicle?" Tweed spread his arms. "Welcome to the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation. Been workin' here for over a hundred years. Should have been here before they put in carpeting." Ford made for the elevators. "Not likely. I'm out of here." Tweed laughed. "You are green, for sure. You can't leave. The elevators are locked." "We'll see about that." Ford reached the elevator doors and pounded them with his fist. "Hey, open up." The elevator said cheerfully, "I'm sorry, you are not currently authorised to leave this floor. Kindly wait until your next break." "You mean I can't leave the floor until my next break?" "That is correct." "Fine, when's my next break?" The elevator said sweetly, "In three years, nine days, fifteen hours-" "Years?!" Tweed called out to Ford from his cubicle. "Count your blessings, my boy. My next break ain't for another decade. They must be going' easy on you because you're new." "They can't do this! I've heard from very reliable sources" (actually, Ford heard it from a former editor that he had gone drinking in a bar with once) "that the editors only work a ten hour week." Tweed shrugged. "That was before the Corporation took over. Now we got mandatory overtime." Norman put his arm around Ford's shoulder. "I'm sorry about this, Mr Prefect, I know it must be a shock. Can I get you something from the Synthesizers?" "Yes. Cyanide." Ford leaned his head against the wall. "I knew I shouldn't have taken this job." Tweed chuckled as he waddled back into his cubicle. "It was this or pay back your expense report, am I right? That's how we all ended up here. Don't fret, my boy. It's only until you pay off your expenses." Ford did calculations in his head and sighed. "I'll be here forever."

Under the heading of temporal interference, The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy describes one of the most frequently cited examples, the Second Toong War. The story goes that thousands of years ago, the planet Toong experienced the bloodiest war in its history. Armies led by a diabolical dictator named Floda Lilto swept across the planet's surface, laying waste to all they encountered. The four countries on the planet collapsed under the weight of Lilto's armies and surrendered to form the Lilto Alliance. Now united under Lilto's demonic rule, the planet built an armada of starships and launched an assault on the other planets in the solar system. For five hundred years, their solar system raged against the armies of Toong, but one by one, the planets fell under its control. In the last hours of the war, a small team of scientists on the last remaining unconquered planet managed to create a working time machine. Just as Lilto's soldiers broke down the door, a single scientist armed with a single pistol went back in time to the town of Hinn when Floda Lilto was born. The scientist shot and killed the infant Floda Lilto, keeping him from ever launching the Second Toong War in the first place. Unfortunately, Floda Lilto's flatmate in college, who had originally been killed by Lilto for leaving the cap off his toothpaste tube, survived to contract the first case of a virulent disease that came to be known as the Lavender Death. The Lavender Death ravaged the Galaxy, ultimately killing forty umptidrillion people (a number so large that it can only be used for the purpose of describing the number of people killed by the Lavender Death). The handful of survivors built another time machine and sent someone back in time to kill Lilto's flatmate to prevent the pandemic from ever occurring. Unfortunately, one of the children killed by the Lavender Death ultimately grew up to develop the Aggonizo Nervatic Neutrino Beam, the most horrific weapon ever devised. Once activated, the Aggonizo Nervatic Neutrino Beam could instantly inflict agonizing pain on any living thing in the Galaxy. No one could escape its reach. Once discovered, millions of warlords built and employed the weapon, leading to long-distance wars of untold suffering, so much so that another team of scientists went back in time to kill the beams inventor to keep him from ever creating the Aggonizo Nervatic Neutrino Beam in the first place. And so on. Eventually, one enterprising time traveler called Jak Dixama decided that she had had enough, and went back in time to put a bulletproof vest on the infant Floda Lilto, keeping

him from being killed in the first place. Even though Floda Lilto did go on to enslave the entire Toong solar system, Dixama decided that the Universe was better off that way. Dixama went on to found the Campaign for Real Time, whose official motto was "Quit Screwing Around."

Arthur managed to locate Slartibartfast rather easily. While at a spaceport trying to figure out how to find him, Arthur spotted the old man in an advertisement on Tri-D. Arthur and Fenchurch hitched a ride on a megafreighter bound for the third moon of Veepdully, hauling a load of liquefied Too-Quik proton generation mix. Once in orbit, they managed to squeeze their way onto a personnel shuttle down to the surface. They landed on the edge of an immense platform that stretched off to the north and east. Hard, black rock comprised the majority of the platform, except for huge sand dunes clinging to the edges of the platform that dropped off into the boiling green ocean. Yellow machines worked on the edges of the platform, pouring soil into place in some areas, and reshaping the sand in others with blue beams of light. Arthur walked with Fenchurch among the scurrying men and women in blue uniforms that worked on the platform's surface. He finally managed to locate an office tucked on the edge of an enormous cliff and knocked before entering. The office was very cramped, not because it was small, but because it had been crammed with huge stacks of paper that reached the ceiling. Among the stacks of paperwork, Arthur found a hunched old man in a long, flowing robe. The old man spoke without looking up, busy instead with sorting through one of the mounds of paperwork that threatened to topple over. "Excuse me, one moment. I know I've got the plans around here somewhere. I'm quite certain we can finish the Griassic layer next week." The old man turned and blinked at Arthur. "Oh, hello, Earthman." "Hello, Slartibartfast," Arthur said and gestured towards Fenchurch. "Oh, er, this is..." "Yes, I'm familiar with the Earthwoman." Slartibartfast turned back to the mountain of paper he had been fiddling with. "I expect you've come about the attempt on her life." Arthur gaped at him. "You knew about that?" "Oh, yes. About a week ago, if I remember correctly." "And you didn't warn us?" blurted Fenchurch. Slartibartfast pulled hard on a yellowed scroll. It came loose, sending him stumbling backwards. He managed to regain his footing and pressed a hand to his chest, regaining his breath. "You must understand, Earthwoman, I have been engaged in other pursuits. Since I left Magrathea--" He paused and frowned at Fenchurch. "You know about Magrathea, I trust?" "Yes. He told me a little bit. You made the Universe or something."

Slartibartfast chuckled as he unrolled the scroll. "Oh my goodness, no. We are not gods, Earthwoman. We did not create the Universe. Just small portions of it for very select clients. Yes, after our experience with the mice, I was left a trifle bitter. All that work on Africa, hours of overtime slaving over hot blueprints, gone to waste. We had to disassemble the entire planet, you know. Fortunately, we managed to reuse most of the raw material, but the dinosaur bones were not recyclable. Then the Supreme CEO of Magrathea decreed that we should return to our slumber. Quite frankly, I found myself weary of cryo-sleep." He held up a slender finger and shook it at them. "Never let anyone tell you that cryosleep is as refreshing and restful as the conventional kind. First thing I did after millions of years of hibernation was take a nice long nap." Slartibartfast paused. "Where was I? Oh yes, well, at any rate, I chose to retire from planet-building, potted around the house a bit, and became quite bored. Never anything good on Tri-D these days. So I decided to start this new venture." He passed between Arthur and Fenchurch, heading for what Arthur realised was a desk buried in paper. Slartibartfast continued, "I always held a fondness for designing the continents, anyway. Found working on the crust and the core rather tedious. Only so many layers of iron and granite you can plot out before it wears on you. So I decided that the Galaxy's economy was strong enough to support the venture on a somewhat more modest scale." Slartibartfast held up his scroll and let it roll open to reveal what looked like a map. "Thus was custom continent-building born." He leaned forward slightly, his kindly eyes widening. Slartibartfast smiled, looking a lot like Santa Claus from a chemist's window at Christmastime, if Santa Claus had ditched his usual red-and-blue suit in favour of a long grey robe. "Do you like it, Earthlings? I designed this one myself." "Yes," said Arthur. "Er, very nice." "It's a bit," Fenchurch managed, "bumpy round the edges." "Oh, yes." Slartibartfast smiled as he turned the map to admire it. "No one to stop me from making my fjords this time. I am, as they say on your world, my own boss." Slartibartfast sagged and shrugged. "Or so I thought. But it's been endless headaches. The building permits alone are hardly worth the trouble." Fenchurch held up a hand. "Um, not to interrupt, but you mentioned someone trying to kill me?" Slartibartfast raised his eyebrows at her. "Hm? Oh, yes. Yes, my point was that I've been quite busy, and when I saw the order to kill you, I meant to try to give you warning, but you were no longer on Earth, and I never got around to locating you. You really should update your address on the Galactic Directory." "Er, Slartibartfast," interrupted Arthur, "they said they were from those fellows we were helping stop the Krikkit Wars. The Real Campaign for Time or something."

"Yes, Camtim. I no longer do charity work for them, found the whole thing rather pointless in the end. I mean, time travel is a reality. No use trying to get the hoofl'ahra back into the nest, so to speak. But I do occasionally still get their newsletter." Slartibartfast rummaged on his desk until he found a printout. "Here it is. Camtim became so frustrated that they formed an assault team to seek out and destroy time travelers before they could cause any damage. Highly controversial idea, surprised it got through, never would have if I had had the votes to stop it. Looks like the program was stopped five seconds after it started, but they couldn't stop the assassins who had already gone out. Then they had to send an assault team back in time to stop the first assault team. None of them saw the irony in that, but I got a good chuckle out of it." "But, Slartibartfast, we still don't understand," said Arthur. "Why would Camtim want to kill Fenchurch?" Slartibartfast rolled his map back up. "Why because of the Fluid, of course." "The Fluid? What Fluid?" Slartibartfast raised his eyebrows at them. "Hm? Oh, yes, you haven't gone after it yet. I found the confusion the most trying part of time travel. It can be quite sticky sometimes. Cause and effect gets all cocked up. Got to where I could never tell whether it was time for breakfast or tea." Slartibartfast shuffled over to a couple of wires dangling out of the wall. He touched them together to get a spark, then held the wires up to Arthur and Fenchurch. "I could explain the Fluid to you, but I've never been very good at exposition, especially when there are such wonderful documentaries available on Sens-O-Tape these days. I expect you'll find it more interesting as well." Fenchurch recoiled from the wires and whispered to Arthur, "What do we do with those wires?" "Er, well, just hold them," Arthur whispered back, "and prepare yourself. Trust me, Sens-O-Tape makes DVDs with THX surround-sound look like an old gramophone record."

Without a doubt, the most brilliant scientist who ever lived in this Galaxy or any other was Albin Treedeebee. He it was who first discovered the principle of Finite Improbability. He it was who created a mathematical equation that proved the existence, not only of God, but of many other lesser-known and less appreciated deities. His mind calculated the very fabric of space and time itself and advanced scientific knowledge a thousand-fold in his short lifetime. But by far, his greatest creation was spawned by an unhappy love affair. While still a young man, Treedeebee met and fell in love with a beautiful woman called March Fird who worked at a mucous bar around the corner from his flat (his species drank fermented mucous extracted from the Splorch Worm of K'Rnn). Treedeebee spent months romancing March Fird, taking her to the finest restaurants and Hummpa Fights, showering her with flowers and expensive perfumes, and declaring his undying love for her until the day he met her sister Auga and fell in love with her instead. Treedeebee ended up breaking his engagement to March, an act that led to a quite furious row with March's brother that led to Treedeebee's imprisonment for a week on the prison moon of Trazz. When he was released, Treedeebee rushed to March's sister Auga's side, but she rejected him because of his prison record. Treedeebee tried to return to March, only to find that she had become engaged to another man she had met at a Hummpa fight the week before. Treedeebee found himself alone and having lost two women in the span of a week. Treedeebee spent quite a bit of his time afterwards pondering how he wished he had done the whole thing differently, how he wished he hadn't broken up with March or better yet, wished he had gone after Auga instead of March in the first place. While he was at his day job, processing applications for Hummpa fighting competitions, Treedeebee was using correcting fluid to fix an error on one of the forms. It occurred to him how wonderful it would be if he could use correcting fluid to fix errors in his own history. The more he thought about it, the more the idea consumed him until he sat down with a piece of paper, did some calculations, and discovered to his surprise, that it could actually work. Thus was born his greatest creation, the Chronological Correcting Fluid. The Chronological Correcting Fluid worked just like regular correcting fluid, except that instead of blotting out mistakes on a piece of paper, it would blot out time itself. One swipe of the Fluid and whole swathes of history would be gone.

Of course, the implications of such an extraordinary invention were monumental, and Treedeebee became concerned about how the Fluid would be used. His concerns were multiplied when he used it to blot out his love affair with March and ended up erasing her from history altogether. Treedeebee decided that the Fluid was too powerful for any being to handle, and made sure to put it somewhere it could never be used again. The existence of the Chronological Correcting Fluid became a closely guarded secret until Treedeebee's death, when the formula for its creation was discovered among his notes. Other less clever scientists have tried for centuries to re-create the Fluid, but the notes are incomplete because Treedeebee blotted them out with correcting fluid.

Fenchurch started as Slartibartfast took the wires from her. "That was extraordinary." "Indeed." Slartibartfast carefully placed the wires on a hook on the wall, which promptly slipped off and vanished into the mounds of paper. "I've heard that Exper-IDisk is better quality, but I think I'll stick with Sens-O-Tape. I have neither the time nor the inclination to fuss over some newfangled contraption. Then of course, I'll need to replace all my recordings, and I have rather a nice collection that I don't relish parting with." "No," said Fenchurch, "I meant the story. This Chronological Correcting Fluid." Slartibartfast shuffled over to his desk again. "Oh, yes. I had heard of it prior to my association with Camtim, but always assumed it was a bit of a fairy tale. But apparently you and the Earthman are in danger of locating it, which is something that the Campaign for Real Time simply would not stand for. I could understand their determination to eliminate you, but I would have attempted to ask you nicely not to pursue it rather than resorting to weaponry." "I'm sorry," said Arthur, "but I'm afraid I'm still confused. We've never even heard of this Fluid, much less planned on trying to find it." Slartibartfast waved him off. "Oh, it's all cause and effect, Earthman. All cause and effect. Camtim is responding to something that you plan to do in the future. You will eventually seek the Fluid." "But why?" Fenchurch asked, growing a little more animated. Arthur could tell Slartibartfast's combination of infinite wisdom and constant bewilderment was wearing on her. "Why will we be looking for it if we never heard of it until now?" Slartibartfast was sifting through the stacks of paper again, but turned to look at her with amusement. "Why, because you will be looking for it. Earthwoman, you and your companion are caught in what we involved with time-travel call a temporal causality loop." He brushed aside a wobbly pile to expose a blackboard. Slartibartfast muttered to himself as he picked up a piece of chalk, "I daresay I wish I had a Sens-O-Tape to explain this, but I'll do my best." He drew a circle on the blackboard with an arrow on each side pointing in opposite directions, conveying the sense that the circle was rotating. Then Slartibartfast scrawled a dot onto one end of the circle, and tapped it. "This dot is you, Earthpeople. Obviously not literally you. It's nowhere near large enough. And it has no arms and legs. I cannot draw,

so I've learned over the years not to even bother trying. Anyway, imagine that this dot is you at the point at which you decide to pursue the Chronological Correction Fluid." Slartibartfast drew another dot on the opposing end of the circle. "And this is you when you actually find the Fluid. Now, you may be wondering where this circle begins, and that is not because I cannot draw it. I can draw a circle. That's about all I can draw. My point is to show that it is a loop. Your decision to pursue the Fluid is triggered by the fact that you eventually do pursue it. It's a cycle with no end." Slartibartfast tossed the chalk onto the blackboard, where it bounced off and broke into pieces on the floor. He stood there looking at the fragments, woefully. "I understand how temporal anomalies can be frightfully confusing. Never made any sense to me, but there you are. I remember the instance where a herring sandwich appeared out of nowhere in my living room. Seems I sent the sandwich to myself from an hour into the future. Why on Magrathea would I send myself a sandwich from the future? No reason that I could see, especially since I had a nice roast beef sandwich in the refrigerator. Don't even like herrings. And if I sent that same sandwich back, when did I make it in the first place? Not a clue. But I did not want to cause a temporal paradox over a herring sandwich, so an hour later I had to send the same sandwich to myself into the past. Tried to have someone explain it to me, and all that taught me was to stop asking questions." Fenchurch looked at Arthur with a helpless expression. Arthur decided to wrap things up. It seemed that Slartibartfast had been as helpful as he could be, which wasn't very helpful at all. "So, er, if I understand what you're saying," Arthur said, "then the reason we will be trying to find the Chronological Correcting Fluid is that we will be trying to find the Fluid." Slartibartfast raised his eyebrows. "Well said, Earthman. Certainly better than what I could have done." He waved listlessly at his blackboard. "Fine. Well, thank you, Slartibartfast. We'd best be going now." Arthur turned for the door, then turned back. "Oh, uh, one more question, actually. You remember the Earth? The one destroyed by the Vogons? Well, it's back, and I was just wondering if you knew why." A look of infinite sadness came over Slartibartfast as he looked away from them. "Patience, Earthman. The answer will come to you with time." "Does it have anything to do with the Fluid?" Slartibartfast picked up the scroll of his design and waved it like a shepherd's rod to shoo them towards the door. "More than this I cannot say without causing severe structural damage to the space-time continuum. I'm sorry, Earthman and Earthwoman. From this point on, the journey is yours and yours alone." Arthur and Fenchurch stood outside the office in the freezing winds blowing in from the ocean's edge. As Slartibartfast moved to close his office door, he paused.

"But," Slartibartfast added, "if you should ever come into an extraordinarily large amount of money and find yourself in need of a quality custom-built continent, feel free to give me a call." He slammed the door. The sound of crashing and banging followed shortly thereafter. Fenchurch hugged herself and bounced up and down a little in the bitter cold. "Now what, Arthur?" Arthur gave her his towel to wrap herself in, then dug his Electronic Thumb out of his bag. "Now we get off this planet. I could use a really hot cup of tea right now" "And then?" Arthur pushed the button on the Thumb that sent out a Sub-Etha signal to flag down the nearest starship for a ride. "And then we try to find this Chronological Correcting Fluid." Fenchurch gaped at him. "You can't be serious. Why should we go after that rubbish? You heard him say people were trying to kill us for going after it. The only good reason he could give was that nonsense about temporal whatever, and don't you dare pretend you understood what he was on about." Arthur shaded his eyes against the clouds of dust blotting the sun. "Yes, er, well, time travel is often confusing. A few years ago, I met a creature that called itself Agrajag who claimed that I kept killing him in different lives. At one point, he said that someone would try to shoot me on Stavromula Beta. Never heard of the place, never been there, so it must lie in my future. I determined that I cannot die until I get to Stavromula Beta, so as long as I stay away from there, I'm immortal." Fenchurch shook her head. "You're right. That is confusing." A light on the Thumb began to blink to indicate it had a signal. "The point is," said Arthur as he activated the Thumb, "that we will eventually seek the Fluid, and I think putting it off will just delay the inevitable. And from the way Slartibartfast reacted to my question about the Earth, I think it might be related to its return, a mystery that has always puzzled me. I have this unsettling feeling that if I don't find out why the Earth was restored, it could vanish again." Fenchurch placed her hand on Arthur's arm. "Do you really think that? Can a whole planet just vanish?" A huge blocky shape dropped out of the skies, lights blinking on its surface. Arthur waved his towel at it until it landed nearby. A doorway began to grind open on one side. Arthur took Fenchurch's hand and ran with her to the starship. "Well, it did the first time."

10

Excerpted from The Employee Handbook of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation, Chapter 432: Appearance, Subheading: First Impressions, page 824,991 Appearance is everything. It has often been said that you never get a second chance to make a first impression. This is not necessarily true. For example, a Sirius Cybernetics Corporation Salesperson named Dello Ventix once had an extremely important meeting with the representatives for the plutonium rock band Disaster Area to discuss creating robot duplicates for the band members. It seems that the band had become so popular that they had more bookings in more places than they could physically handle at one time. In addition, the members had amassed an extraordinary number of personality defects, substance abuse, and romantic problems all at once that left them physically incapable of performing for more than ten minutes every twenty-four hours. Disaster Area's representatives had approached the Corporation with the suggestion that robot duplicates of the band members could be created to perform in their place. The advantages, of course, would be enormous. The robots could be mass-produced, allowing them to perform in multiple locations at once, and the robots would never lead to unwelcome publicity by being caught in a hotel room with three girls, two tons of Brambelling mind-spice, four small goats, a nun, a Tremblon 240-class Submathic Fluid Compactor, and a cocktail umbrella. In return, the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation would be given a percentage of Disaster Area's profits that would bring in more revenue in one year than the Corporation had made during its entire existence. As a result, Ventix was under an enormous amount of pressure to pull off the deal. Unfortunately, Ventix woke up that morning to discover he had contracted a quite nasty case of Kidney Transmogrification Syndrome that caused his body to excrete a foulsmelling odour and produce purple swellings all over his body. In addition, the dry cleaner where he had left his best suit had burned down the night before, destroying it and every other article of clothing in the building. To top it all off, Ventix found that the presentation that he had spent the last year working on had been accidentally eaten by the neighbour's dog. When Ventix rushed out to get a new suit to replace his lost one, he was hit by a passing hovercraft that broke both his legs. He was taken to the hospital, where an

amusing misunderstanding led the doctor to amputate his face and hands. This left Ventix incapable of communicating properly, so that when he tried to contact his assistant to cancel the meeting with Disaster Area, the assistant instead sent a message to the representatives that Ventix was pregnant with dung beetles, had a pet marshmallow named Edgar, and would slaughter the representatives and their immediate families. Not only did the Disaster Area representatives cancel the deal, but they sent a highly-trained death squad to hunt down Ventix in retribution, forcing him to apply for early retirement and flee the Galactic Core. There have been worse days recorded in Galactic history, but not by reliable witnesses. Dello Ventix underwent extreme plastic surgery and spent the next ten years living in seclusion on the Outer Rim of the Galaxy under an assumed name. He spent most of that time thinking about how important first impressions are, and how he wished he could have made a better one. Over time, Dello Ventix went insane, which is a requirement for all truly good ideas. As a result, he figured out how to build a time machine out of wood, dirt, and gumption. He used the time machine to go back in time to the day before his meeting. Ventix proceeded to go to the dry cleaners and convince the owner to install fireproofing, killed his neighbour's dog, and put a vaccine for Kidney Transmogrification Syndrome in his morning tea. As a result, an alternate version of Dello Ventix woke up that morning to find his suit neatly-pressed, his presentation still on his office desk ready for use, and feeling perfectly fine and healthy, except for an odd aftertaste in his morning tea. Ventix proceeded to meet with Disaster Area and give a stunning presentation that sealed the deal, making the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation more money than anyone had ever dreamed of. Ventix was given a promotion to run the entire Complaints Department and a new office, where he was subsequently crushed and killed in the collapse of the Complaints Department motto. For this reason, the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation discourages its members from using time travel to resolve issues with clients. It is advised to wear a clean and pressed suit, prepare the presentation ahead of time, and keep all your vaccinations up-to-date.

11

Ford Perfect had known he would hate being an editor for the Guide before he had taken the job, but underestimated the level of hatred he would experience. The reality of being a Guide editor was on a level of hatred that made Adolph Hitler's feelings towards the Jews look like a pet peeve. On his first night sleeping in his cubicle (after he had made himself a pillow out of his rolled-up towel and tucked himself under his desk), Ford hung up his clothes on a thumbtack on his wall. The next morning, Ford crawled out from under his desk to find his neighbour Tweed pointing and saying, "See they did the switcheroo on your duds." Ford looked up to see his clothes were gone, replaced by a dull grey suit hanging in its place. He sighed. "All right, what nonsensical and diabolical thing has this place done to me this time?" Norman the Android sauntered up to his cubicle and leaned against the wall. "It's standard procedure, Mr Prefect. Whilst you were sleeping, your clothes were scanned to determine your measurements and then incinerated, replaced with this suit." "Incinerated?" "Yes. Unfortunately, the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation has a very strict dress code." Ford had never considered himself a clotheshorse of any sort, but did take a certain pride in his appearance. That is to say that he dressed atrociously, but at least dressed atrociously with a certain pride. He had arrived at the Corporation wearing a pair of plaid pants from Ginnchia Nine (which, due to the number of limbs of the average Gennchian, came equipped with a few extra legs that Ford neatly folded into his left pocket), a purple open-collared shirt that had a very rude phrase printed on the back in glow-in-the-dark Galactic Eezeereed, and a pair of Air Jordan sneakers from Earth which were rather shabby but he had been proud to own knowing they were the only pair left in existence (that was, until he discovered the Earth had inexplicably returned, along with thousands of pairs of Air Jordan sneakers). The loss of those clothes hit him like a hammer in the back of his head. Norman held out a cup. "I got you coffee. This is how you like it, right? Cream, three sugars?" Ford took the cup, balancing rage at the destruction of his clothes and comfort from the coffee. "Right. How'd you know that?" "I did a scan of your tongue, sent some signals down some neural pathways to see what would taste good, and came up with it."

"Isn't that the way the Nutrimatic Drinks Synthesizers are supposed to work?" Tweed glanced over his shoulder, then leaned in. "Now that you work for the Corporation, you can know the truth. That bit ain't actually hooked up. It's got the scanners and everything in the Synthesizers, but they couldn't get it to work properly. They just left the sensors disconnected and programmed the system to produce the same fluid for everyone who requests a drink. They only got the scanner to work on ol' Norman here." "Not surprised in the least." Ford sipped the coffee and couldn't hold back his smile. "That's the best bloody coffee I've ever had." Norman smiled. "Glad you like it, Mr Prefect." After finishing his coffee, Ford reluctantly put on the grey suit. The suit fit fairly well, but felt itchy in a thoroughly irritating way. That is to say that the suit didn't actually itch, but it felt like it should itch, even though it didn't. That's what was so irritating about it. After getting dressed, Ford got his breakfast from the Nutrimatic Food Synthesizer in the cafeteria (He had discovered that the only sources of food and drink in the entire building were Sirius Cybernetics Corporation Food and Drink Synthesizers "They're so good," the Synthesizers explained as Ford pounded on them with a crowbar, "why eat or drink anything else?"), then Norman explained his daily routine. As one of the thousands of editors for the Guide, Ford would be editing the incoming entries from field researchers. His computer would receive an entry, Ford would edit it and send it to another editor who would review it and send it to another editor who would review it and send it to the editor in charge of the entry's department who would review it and send it to the legal department who would review it, deny it, review it again, deny it again, and then (if there was anything left) approve it to be uploaded into the Guide. Then Ford would receive a new entry to edit. Ford tried to make his escape from the building, but found that what with the changes in security, management, and location for the Guide, his usual methods of smuggling his way in and out of the Guide no longer worked. Even oxygen molecules needed to submit authorization permits in triplicate to their supervisory molecules to get out of the building. Eventually, Ford resigned himself to the work. It was far drearier than Ford had believed, and that was fairly dreary to begin with. While Ford had been a researcher, he had taken pride in exploring the depths and outer regions of the Galaxy, braving danger to unveil the mysteries of the Universe. He also worked hard to make his entries of the highest caliber. Ford quickly discovered the vast majority of the Guide's researchers did not share his love of adventure or grammar. Ford's first entry to edit had been this: "Dunt be in tryin to git free fud out a Flupp's Burger House. Dey dunt dew itt." Ford had stared at it for a few moments, then murmured, "Where to begin?" He cleaned up the grammar, put in a few extra sentences from his own personal experience ("While it is true that Flupp's Burger House on Sofmello III does not give out

free food, it does have the tastiest Algolian Suntiger hippocampus-on-a-stick this side of Orion's Belt. The best way to get a meal there if you don't have the cash is to wrestle a wild Mynni Boar outside the bar. Since the Mynni Boar is ten metres high, covered in poisonous spines, spits acid, and can chew through titanium, that will certainly draw a crowd. If you survive, the audience will happily reward you with a free meal, a motel room, and cover your medical expenses, which will be considerable. Your odds of survival wrestling with a Mynni Boar are quite low, but the Algolian Suntiger hippocampus-on-a-stick is well worth dying for"), and sent the entry on its way. The next entry was even worse. It read simply: "Ursa Minor Beta sucks." Ford didn't really know where to go with that, so he added "in one hitchhiker's opinion" and sent it on its way. The rest of the day was more of the same, and the next day. Ford found his eyes glazing over as he went through entry after entry. He stopped actually reading the entries themselves and just fixed the grammar and spelling. Then Ford discovered the spelling check feature and half his job was therefore automated. And so for the next week, life in the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation passed without incident. During that time, Ford got to know his neighbour, Tweed Mukkimuk. Tweed had once been an assistant engineer working in the sub-division of the Customer Service department for the Corporation's Artificial Dust division until the day he attended a party celebrating the Coronation of Prince Ian Alololol. He had only been sent to gather complaint cards, but woke up a year later, upside-down in a bin, covered in green slime, and with receipts from every bar and liquor establishment on the entire planet tucked into his back pocket. His expense account was so astronomical that the Corporation had to send him back in time so he could work it off. His department hadn't actually existed that long, so Tweed spent the first few decades working as a baby-sitter for the men and women who would eventually grow up to become the upper management of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation. "I paid off my debt years ago," Tweed said, "but I been here so long, they can't ever let me leave. I'd bankrupt the Galactic Economy if I ever cashed my paycheck. Plus I know all the secrets about the Corporation." "Secrets," Ford said. "Like what?" Tweed chuckled. "If I told you, they wouldn't be secrets, now would they? Besides, you're better off not knowin'. If I told you, they'd have to keep you here, too." But Tweed had been able to show Ford how to stick a paper clip in the genetic profile slot of the Nutrimatic Food Synthesizer to get it to produce a substance that almost, but not quite, tasted good. Ford got to know the robot Norman as well. Despite Ford's best efforts to the contrary, he had come to like Norman. Norman was helpful, friendly, and useful. In other words, unlike any other robot Ford had ever met.

"I'm a prototype," Norman said, "but the Corporation isn't sure if they're going to put my personality into mass production. The APP personality is more expensive than the GPP personality." "You mean," Ford said, "the Corporation would rather inflict their maladjusted, sociopathic GPP personalities on the Universe than pay a few Altairan dollars to make them easier to deal with?" Norman could only shrug. He seemed to be incapable of criticising the Corporation. Tweed suggested that Norman had a mental inhibitor installed to prevent it. Ford hadn't realised he had fallen into a routine at the Corporation until the day a woman charged into his cubicle and slapped the Guide down in front of him. Ford broke out of his trance editing an entry on Happi-Werld III to look up at her. It took him a moment. She wore skin-tight silvery pants and a T-shirt under a Milliways jacket and carried a satchel. She was very tall, slender, and strikingly beautiful. Her skin was a cool shade of blue, as were her eyes. Those eyes now blazed with anger. "Is your name Ford Prefect?" she asked. "Possibly," said Ford, who had very recently gotten into trouble with that question. The woman stabbed the screen of her Guide with a finger. "You edited my entry. I want to know why." "You're a field researcher?" The woman brushed a lock of her black hair over one ear. "Yes. Joon Plinx. Don't change the subject." Her beauty had disarmed Ford, but Joon's aggression was doing a good job of tempering it. "Look, first of all, I don't remember editing your entry. I've done thousands of entries since I got here, and I stopped reading them all. If I did edit your entry, then I'm sorry, but that's my job." "And this is mine. I worked hard on that entry." "Join the rest of us. When I was a field researcher, my entries got edited all the time. I had one on the Earth hundreds of pages long and they cut it down to two words; Mostly harmless." Joon pushed a button on the Guide, causing the screen to light up. "It's not what you cut out, mate. It's what you put in. My entry was on the Chronological Correcting Fluid. You added a line at the end that it was a fairy tale." That entry Ford remembered. "'Course it's a fairy tale. That guy Albin Treedeebee was loonier than the entire East Wing of the Sirius State Mental Hospital. There's no such thing as Chronological Correcting Fluid." Joon reached into her satchel and pulled out an object. Over his years of travelling the Galaxy, there was very little that Ford had not seen before. Until now. It looked like a shred of paper, flat and ragged on the edges, but glowed in her fingers as if it were torn from the surface of a sun. Ford winced at it. "What's that supposed to be?"

Joon shook it in his face. "This is the fabric of the universe itself. A shred of space-time, collected and formed into this sheet by the Time Printer, invented by Treedeebee, used in conjunction with the Chronological Correcting Fluid. If this sheet exists, then the Fluid exists." Ford glared at the shimmering object, thinking uncomfortably of Magrathea. He had once thought that planet to be a myth as well, until he had been shot at, landed, imprisoned, and escaped from it. A part of him felt a nagging sense of deja' vu. Another part of him told the first part to shut its trap. Ford pushed the sheet away. "Or it's a fancy party trick, probably got it for a quid at the chemist's. When you've found the Fluid, then I'll delete the line. Until then, I have work to do." Joon took a deep breath, as if about to speak, when two large men stepped up to either side of them. As was mentioned before, the floor where Ford worked was almost silent. The arrival of the two men removed even the quiet whisper of footsteps and clicking of computer terminals. A deathly quiet fell over everyone and everything. Ford had personal experience with law enforcement officers, military personnel, and security guards of all kinds. The two men made them all look like fairies. It wasn't that the men were large (which they were) or wearing incredibly heavy armour (which they were) or carrying frighteningly lethal weaponry (which they were). It was an attitude with which they moved, a fluid grace like a knife cutting through flesh. Tweed had described these men to Ford once, saying, "The Corporation calls them Aggressive Sales Representatives, but that's a polite way o' puttin' it. Better to call them soldiers, but not like we know 'em. On the books, they're a part of the Sales and Marketing Department. The Corporation only sends them to do its dirty work and they do very dirty work indeed. They make people and things go missing. They can force whole governments to change their laws. When the Aggressive Sales Representatives show up, it means somebody's in trouble and more than likely, somebody's gonna end up dead. The Aggressive Sales Representatives are the reason the Corporation can make such lousy products and still be number one. Don't mess with 'em." Ford's skin crawled at the sight of them. They suddenly made him very, very thirsty for a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster. One of the Aggressive Sales Representatives turned the black visor that served as his eyes onto Joon. Its voice spoke with an electronic modulation that made it deep and scratchy. "Is your name Joon Plinx?" Joon shoved the glowing shred into her satchel and held it close to her. She showed not the slightest bit of fear or nervousness at their imposing appearance. "Yes. Who are you?" "We would like to discuss your research into the Chronological Correcting Fluid." The Representative raised the weapon in his hands and pointed the sharp end at Joon. "Kindly come with us."

A part of Ford nagged at him to do something to rescue this poor girl. Another part of Ford threatened to club the first part of Ford and drag it into a closet. Yet another part of Ford took a good look at Joon's body and had some suggestions that the other parts of him were quite shocked to hear. Before Ford could make up his mind which suggestion to act on (at least, those suggestions that were physically possible), the other Representative aimed its weapon at him and said, "We request that you accompany us as well, Ford Prefect." "Me? What'd I do?" "I repeat, we request that you accompany us as well, Ford Prefect." The Representative flicked a switch on the weapon that made the sharp end glow bright red. Ford held up his hands. "All right, all right. I'm coming." He stepped out of his cubicle and allowed himself to be marched between the two representatives down the aisle to the elevator. As he passed Tweed, the man held up his fingers in a strange configuration that Ford assumed he was meant to understand but didn't. The doors of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation Happy Vertical Transporter opened on their approach and they stepped inside. The elevator made no attempt to even talk to them, and the Representatives didn't say anything either. The doors simply closed and began to rise. At this point, Ford Prefect became a trifle nervous.

12

In another sector of the Galaxy, a starship drifted among the stars. The starship, seen from the outside, resembled an enormous molar. The fact that the starship was called the Molar implied this was not a coincidence. The captain, Rincequik, sat in the centre of the bridge of the ship in a padded chair. He laid back with his mouth open. His second-in-command Namel worked in his mouth, doing the hourly checkup routine. Rincequik had concerns from his next-to-last checkup two hours ago when the X-ray showed a nanometre-deep indentation in his upper left incisor. His second was doing a cleaning and seal. The pilot turned away from his console to face the captain. "Sir, I'm detecting a ship heading this way." Captain Rincequik pushed a button to elevate his chair to a sitting position. Rincequik's second sprayed his mouth so he could rinse and spit, then Rincequik said, "Bring it up on screen." The main screen, which had been occupied with the captain's dental X-rays, switched to display a small starship approaching the molar. It looked like a soap bubble floating among the stars, delicate and transparent. A blurry and distorted shape could be seen vaguely in the centre. The captain leaned forward in his chair. "Scan for life forms." The pilot tapped keys on his console, then said, "I'm detecting thirty-two teeth. No cavities. No gum disease. Perfect condition." A murmur rumbled through the officers on the bridge. It had been a long time since they had detected perfect teeth. Considering their heritage, it made them somewhat nervous. Captain Rincequik raised a hand. "Send out a message over Sub-Etha, Galacticspeke. Assure them we mean no harm to their teeth. Also send out the formula for our dentrifice to show them we're an advanced race." "Yes, captain." The communications officer tapped out the message. The captain stared at the screen as the bubble-shaped ship came up alongside them. They floated side-by-side. Captain Rincequik pulled floss out of the dispenser on his chair's arm and began to go over his teeth, a nervous habit he had picked up in the Academy. "No response, captain." The communicator looked at him. "None at all."

Rincequik waited a few more minutes, then stood up. "I can't take this suspense. I'll be in my office. If the ship responds, let me know" "Yes, captain." Captain Rincequik made into his office off the bridge. The door hissed shut behind him. He always got like this with every new contact his ship encountered under his command. New life forms, new teeth to explore. That was part of his mission. It never got boring to him. Rincequik sat down and called up his wife's dental records on the computer. Admiring the delicate lines of her teeth, especially the lower left quadrant of her jaw, always calmed him down. He had pulled her wisdom teeth himself as an anniversary present. His office door opened. A man walked into the office, one Rincequik had never seen before. The man dressed in white, stood at an average height and weight, had a smooth bald head, and a soft smile. Rincequik immediately realised this man was not of his race. He rose from his chair and held up his hands. "I am Rincequik of the starship Molar. Do not be alarmed. We come with clean teeth." Then the situation dawned on Rincequik. "Wait, how did you get in here?" The smiling man held up a hand in a strange configuration as he said, ""You have your own universe. I've come to take it." "What?" The smiling man walked towards him. Rincequik groped at his belt until he found his weapon. He aimed the weapon at the man. "Hold it right there. Don't make me rinse you." The smiling man's smile never changed as he advanced on Rincequik. "You cannot hurt me." Rincequik pulled the trigger. His rinser sprayed acid on the man. The acid gave off clouds of smoke as it burned through the man's chest. His smile softened as he hunched over. His body seemed to flicker at the edges for a moment. When the flickering stopped, the acid burn was gone. Rincequik lunged for his communicator on his desk. Before he could reach it to sound the alarm, the smiling man touched his shoulder. Rincequik felt his body heave violently, as if someone had grabbed and pulled him back. Then he was gone. The smiling man sighed as he watched Rincequik vanish. It always saddened him when he took someone's universe, but he reminded himself he had no choice. It had to be done. The door to the office slid open. Namel charged into the room, armed with a rinser. Namel looked around the room, then at the man. "Captain? I heard screaming. Are you all right?"

The man smiled as he settled into Rincequik's chair. "Yes, I'm fine, Namel. I just thought I saw a cavity." Namel slid his rinser back into the loop on his belt. "Oh, of course. Would you like me to run some X-rays, captain?" "No. I'd like you to set a new course for Sirius IV." "Sirius IV? I've never heard of that planet." The man tapped on the computer. "I'm entering the coordinates. We need to get there as quickly as possible." Namel frowned. "Yes, sir. But can I ask the reason why?" The smiling man folded his hands over each other on the table. "I need to end it." "End what?" "That's all." The man turned away. Namel paused for a moment, then walked out to give the new orders. The smiling man sighed as he watched a console display the new course. He was so close, so close to ending it all. If only he could reach it before Fenchurch did. He had known this moment would come, been seeking thousands of years, but now the time had come. It was finally going to be over. The smiling man was finally going to die.

13

Ford Prefect was not having fun. It was his philosophy that life was all about having fun or at least his life. As a Betelgeusian, Ford had a somewhat smaller liver than other races, but he had managed to get a larger human one on Earth by faking liver failure in a London hospital. He intended to get his money's worth out of it. Ford was not having fun. Right now, he was having the complete opposite of fun. He was descending in an elevator with armed guards on both sides of him while a beautiful but irritating woman yelled in his ear. Joon Plinx hadn't stopped talking since the Aggressive Sales Representatives had taken them. Right now, she yelled, "You can't just pluck me off the street. People know who I am and where I am. They'll notice I'm gone. I'm not just some dumb hitchhiker. I have a degree in Interplanetary Archaeology from the University of Maximegalon. And a lawyer, a good one. She'll be hearing about this, you can guarantee it." Ford closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself on the beaches of Ursa Minor Beta instead of an elevator with a mad woman and two armed soldiers. The elevator finally came to a halt and the doors slid open. Ford found himself facing a poorly lighted hallway with unmarked doors on either side. One of the Representatives gave him a shove with the butt of his weapon and Ford marched down the hallway with Joon at his side. The Representative finally brought them to a halt in front of one door. The other Representative waved his metal-gloved hand in front of a panel. The door hissed open. The room had blank grey walls and three chairs arranged in a circle. That was all. An extremely thin and tall man sat in one of the chairs. Ford suspected that if his suit were any tighter, the man would squirt out of the neck of it like a bar of soap. The man held out a hand with fingers like spider's legs. "Greetings, Miss Plinx, Mr Prefect. Please, have a seat." Joon folded her arms. "I'm not sitting anywhere until I get answers." The man narrowed his eyes. "That was not a request." One of the Representatives reached out and grabbed Joon's shoulder to push her into a seat. Ford sat down. He was very tired. The man held up a sheet of paper in front of himself. "You may call me Halalax. I am with the Human Resources Department. Welcome to the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation."

"Thanks." Ford glanced at the Aggressive Sales Representatives looming behind him. "I assume this is your usual welcoming committee for all new employees. Who's in your payroll department, a bunch of guys with cricket bats?" Halalax waved the paper. "I'm afraid this is a very serious matter, Mr Prefect. You have interfered with Corporation business, indeed, in the very course of the Universe itself. And you've been taking too many breaks. You're only allowed two fifteen-minute breaks per twenty-four hours." Ford threw up his hands. "What interference? I added one line to her entry. Do that a thousand times a day. And it's physically impossible for me to keep myself to fifteenminute breaks unless you want to put a Uni-Loo in my cubicle." Halalax smiled a very thin smile so wide that it looked as if his head had been cut in half. "Mr Prefect, you have become entangled in a very intricate course of events. The Sirius Cybernetics Corporation has taken a great interest in Miss Plinx's research regarding the Chronological Correcting Fluid. Indeed, the Corporation purchased The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy for the sole purpose of obtaining access to her and her research." "What?" Joon looked around the room. "What was that? You bought the Guide to get to me? You must be joking." "I never joke," Halalax growled. "I'm afraid I no longer have the knack. Like everyone in the Corporation's Human Resources Department, the sections of my brain responsible for humor have been surgically removed. And yes, Miss Plinx, you have no idea how important the Fluid is to the survival of this Corporation." Halalax shot Ford a surly look. "As for you, Mr Prefect, your biological needs are of no importance to me at all. Use a plastic cup. And drink fewer Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters." "I'll have you know those Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters I smuggled in here are the only things keeping me sane." Ford raised a finger. "And that's another thing. I haven't been able to get a real drink since I got in this place. If you expect me to be a productive member of this company, I'll need to get lip-twistingly, head-smashingly, eyeballpoppingly drunk at least once a day." Halalax waved a hand. "Silence, Mr Prefect. We have waited a very long time for this moment, and you are completely botching it all up. The only reason you're here at all is because we can't have you going on about what you've already seen and heard." "No problem there. Give me enough Old Janx Spirit and I'll forget my own name." "Be quiet." Halalax turned back to Joon. "Miss Plinx, we need access to all your information. We need to locate the Fluid." Joon scowled. "What for?" "Not your concern." "Yes, it is. The Fluid is dangerous. I'm not just going to hand it over to any Tom, Dick, and Glorgnax who asks me for it."

Halalax leaned forward in his chair and glared at her with his cold black eyes. "May I remind you that you are an employee of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation?" "No, I'm not. I'm a freelance writer." "Well, you are now." Halalax threw the paper in his hand down on Joon's lap. "This is your acceptance letter. As of this moment, you are now an employee of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation and required to follow all guidelines and instructions from your superiors. That includes me." Joon picked up the letter, skimmed it, and threw it back at him. "You can't do this. I didn't ask to be an employee. I didn't sign anything." "Oh, yes, you did. When you had your parking validated, you signed a lifetime contract." Halalax held out a plastic pouch. "Here is your employee badge, Employee Handbook, Sirius Cybernetics Corporation coffee mug, and a paper clip. Don't lose the badge, you'll need to pay ten Altairan dollars to replace it." Joon bolted out of her chair and ran for the door. The Aggressive Sales Representatives grabbed her arms and threw her back into her chair. Halalax smiled his thin smile again. It really did look like his head was cut in half when he did that. Ford felt like poking the top of his head to see if it would topple off. "I thought you might feel that way, Miss Plinx. That's why I've arranged for your new assignment in the Complaints Department. You'll be working there until you decide to cooperate." Ford stood up. "Bad luck, Joon. Nice meeting you all. No, not really. I'll be getting back to work now." "No, you will not, Mr Prefect. You have also been re-assigned to the Complaints Department." Ford sighed. "Is this about the breaks again?" "No." Halalax stood up. "We have strict guidelines about the use of computers in this Corporation, Mr Prefect, and the uses you have put yours to clearly violate those guidelines." Ford cleared his throat before saying, "All right, first of all, let me say that I happened to meet Eccentrica Gallumbits personally only a week ago, so I was merely doing research for a future Guide entry on our interview. It just so happened that I considered making it a more comprehensive article on Eroticon Six in general, so that's why-" "Spare me your excuses. You are, without a doubt, the worst employee in the entire Sirius Cybernetics Corporation. And that includes Dibble Zann who stole equipment from the Molecular Structure Research Department to turn sixteen members of upper management into lemmings. You have broken more rules in one week than most of our employees have in decades." Ford smiled. "Really? Well, thank you, I try-" Halalax waved a finger. "Get them out of here." The Aggressive Sales Representatives each grabbed an arm and dragged Ford and Joon out of the room.

Halalax sighed and pulled a paper clip out of his suit pocket. He began flicking one end with a finger to listen to the twanging noise, a new use he had discovered for his paper clip - stress relief.

14

Excerpted from The Employee Handbook of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation, Chapter Forty-Three: Complaints Department, Subheading: History, Page 900,412 The Complaints Department of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation has a long and illustrious history. Indeed, without the Complaints Department, the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation would cease to exist. The first complaint for the Corporation was registered roughly five minutes after the production of its first product, a state-of-the-art cybernetic toaster. The complaint came from the toaster itself, which asked why it had been programmed to set itself on fire one minute after its one-year warranty expired. The complaint was resolved by reprogramming the toaster to stop asking questions. At first, the Complaints Department was merely one room in the back of the Tiny Screws Division. Over the course of three months, it expanded to the point where it occupied all the major land masses of three inner planets of the Sirius Tau system. In fact, the Complaints Department is the only profitable division of the Corporation, thanks to an innovative system developed by its founder, Sirius Nottqytt. In order to file a complaint, customers are required to call a dedicated Sub-Etha channel which charges them five Altairan dollars a minute. The channel is designed to keep customers on hold for a minimum of two hours with the result that the majority of customers will give up and never manage to file a complaint at all. Those who do get through are put through a complex series of menus and options, half of which are dead ends. This ensures that, by the time their complaint is filed, the cost of any repairs or refunds will have been paid for by the charges for the call.

15

The moment Ford stepped off the shuttle to Sirius III, one of the three planets dedicated to the Complaints Department, he could tell he wasn't going to be having any fun there. Besides the fact that he was still being led by two armed Aggressive Sales Representatives off of the shuttle, and besides the fact that he had chains on his ankles and wrists, and besides the fact that other armed guards stood in every corner, and besides the fact that he looked out at a wind-swept and rocky landscape under twin burning suns, and besides the fact that he heard distant cries of agony and wails of horror coming from the gaping black mouth of a cave at the base of the mountain before him, Ford didn't see a single bar anywhere. Joon stumbled alongside him, chains hanging off her wrists and ankles. "Oh, now this is really great. This is definitely going in my report to the Galactic Better Business Bureau. I am quite sure these are not acceptable working conditions." One of the Representatives jabbed Ford in the back with his weapon. "Move." "All right, all right," Ford said, jumping away from the pointy end. "You know, you could try just asking me to move. I think if there's one thing I've learned in my travels throughout the Galaxy, it's that violence is not the solution-" Ford threw a punch at the Representative. He missed entirely, leaving Ford lying face down in the dust. The Representative gave his opinion of Ford's speech by kicking him a few times in the ribs. After that, Ford was more willing to be dragged to his feet and shoved towards the mountain. Ford and Joon trudged side-by-side to the mouth of the cave. The sun beat down on Ford's head and neck and a harsh wind blew like an enormous blow dryer. Ford pulled his towel out of his satchel to shield himself from it, but one of the Representatives confiscated it. A foul and heated wind blew constantly from the cave, which stretched over them like a mouth preparing to swallow them whole. The screams and howls of the damned grew louder as they approached until it became almost deafening. A round man stood by the mouth of the cave with a clipboard. He smiled and said, "Good morning, welcome to the Complaints Department. I'm your team leader, Vinnsh. You must be Ford Prefect and Joon Plinx. So glad to meet you. I'm here for your orientation." Vinnsh frowned and waved his fingers. "First of all, let's get those awful chains off of you."

Two large men in leather trudged up to Ford and Joon and unlocked the chains on their ankles and wrists. Two more large men in leather snapped slightly larger chains onto Ford and Joon's wrists and ankles. Vinnsh smiled. "Much better. Come along, much to do and very little time to do it." Vinnsh led the way as they entered the cave. Out of the blinding sun, Ford's eyes adjusted to the dim light of the caverns below. He found himself walking down a staircase carved out of the rock wall. The staircase followed the curve of the wall downwards to form a circular pit that descended hundreds of kilometres. Heated air carrying the stench of sulfur blasted out of the pit, thrown up by huge flames at the bottom. At regular intervals along the pit, flat platforms supported men and women in rags and chains, watched by the large men in leather, all armed with Ultra-Ouch photon prods and whips. As Vinnsh picked his way forward on the rock steps, he said, "We like to keep things light here in the Complaints Department. Yes, we're working, but that doesn't mean we can't have fun." Vinnsh stepped around a man chained to the wall being whipped by one of the guards. Vinnsh raised his voice to be heard over the screams. "You'll notice there are no cybernetics down here. We prefer a more personal, more human touch." Vinnsh stepped onto a wobbly plank of metal supported by a web of chains. The guards shoved Ford and Joon onto the plank with Vinnsh. Vinnsh pulled out a paper clip and used it to poke a lever. The metal began to descend, a makeshift elevator. Vinnsh smiled at Ford. "You'll also notice we have a more casual dress code. No dull grey suits down here. And on your birthday, you'll get a slice of cake." "Got anything to drink?" Ford asked. Vinnsh pouted. "Oh, I'm so sorry, but I'm afraid liquids are strictly rationed here, and you are not scheduled for your next water break until..." He flipped through his clipboard for a moment. "Next week. But don't worry, the time will just fly by. Always does when you're having fun." "Not water, my lad." Ford wiped sweat off his forehead. "When's my next Old Janx Spirit break?" The elevator shuddered to a halt on a lower level. Vinnsh used his paper clip to push the lever, then glared at Ford. It was the first time Ford saw him without a smile on his face. "Obviously you have not reviewed your Employee Handbook. Alcoholic beverages are strictly forbidden while on duty." Ford reeled, grabbing onto an outcropping of rock on the wall next to him. "Strictly forbidden? What kind of torture chamber are you running down here?"

Vinnsh pointed at him and spoke louder to be heard over the screams of the other employees around him. "Mr Prefect, I resent that remark. This is a place of business, not a torture chamber." Joon kicked her chains out of her way. "Oh, don't be stupid. Of course, this is a torture chamber. It's hot enough to melt lead in here. We're wearing chains. You've got armed guards whipping people right over there." Vinnsh shot his cold glare at her. "That kind of negative attitude is a self-fulfilling prophecy. You get out of your work what you put into it." Vinnsh restored the smile on his round face and pointed to a flat platform of rock nearby with a hole in the wall next to it. "This will be your work station. The job is fairly simple. Mostly filing." He made a gesture to a large man standing at a console overlooking their station. The man nodded and pulled a lever. A flood of envelopes and papers poured out of the hole to form a pile on the ground. "These are complaint forms that customers have filled out at any one of the millions of Sirius Cybernetics Corporation facilities." Vinnsh pointed to two shovels leaning against the wall. "Your job will be to file the complaint forms into our filing system for review." He pointed down to the bottom of the pit. Joon planted her hands on her hips. "That's not a filing system. That's a fire down there. You want us to burn them." Vinnsh's smile vanished as quickly as it had returned. "Every complaint form received by the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation is carefully reviewed by our staff to take into consideration the needs and concerns of our customers and find ways to improve our already high customer service. So start shoveling." Vinnsh turned away, then turned back to glare at Joon. "Miss Plinx, you'll find the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation to be a fun and exciting place with generous benefits and opportunities for advancement. But your promotional opportunities will be highly jeopardized if you're not willing to be flexible. Work hard, stay focused, and someday you could be where I am." Joon grabbed one of the shovels. "I'd rather die down here." Vinnsh gave her a humorless smile and a nod. "That can be arranged, Miss Plinx. That can be arranged." He strode back to the elevator. Ford sighed as he picked up one of the shovels. He jammed it into the pile of forms and tossed it over the edge of the platform, watching them flutter down, down, down until they turned to ash in the inferno below. "You know," Ford said as he gathered another load on his shovel, "when I was sleeping on the floor of my cubicle, eating that lark's vomit the Synthesizers call food, and sorting through barely legible entries for the Guide, I thought my job here at the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation couldn't get any worse. Then you showed up in my life."

Joon stabbed him in the chest with a finger. "Don't blame me. This is all your fault. You're the one who wrote that stupid line in my entry." "Well, you're the one who came barging in to complain about it. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have gotten involved in this in the first place." Joon glanced up at Vinnsh rising above her on the elevator. She tossed her shovel to the ground and dusted off her hands. "Fortunately for you, I don't plan on being here much longer." Ford glared at her. "What are you on about?" Joon reached under her silver shirt and pulled out a small black rod. "I never travel anywhere without my Electronic Thumb. I'll hitch a ride out of here in no time." "How long have you been hitchhiking?" Joon tapped the button on the Thumb to send out a signal. "Long enough." Ford smiled. "And in all that time, you never heard that kallicate rock deposits block Sub-Etha signals? Because this whole cave is loaded with it." Joon scowled at her Thumb as if trying to will it to prove him wrong. Unfortunately, the Thumb refused to cooperate, showing her a dead light, indicating no signal. Joon jammed the Thumb back into her shirt. She bent down to roll her pant leg up, exposing a small vial. "All right, let's try my backup plan." She unscrewed the top of the vial and poured the contents onto her chains. "Now what?" Joon held up the vial. "I'll have you know this is pure, undiluted Old Janx Spirit, fresh from the mills on Janx Prime. One drop of this will eat through ion carbon shielding in five seconds. It'll make short work of these chains." Ford's smile widened. "And in your lofty travels throughout the Galaxy, you never learned to recognise an alcohol inhibitor field generator, like the one we walked through at the entrance, which turned your Old Janx Spirit into mineral water?" Ford had in fact learned to recognise the alcohol inhibitor field generators from Monmorrian starships which were notoriously strict on alcohol, recreational drugs or any other entertaining substances. Ford took the vial from Joon and sniffed it. Pure Old Janx Spirit should have eaten a hole in his nose. Ford's nose remained intact. Ford drank the contents of the vial and tossed it back to Joon. "Not much of a hitchhiker, are you?" Joon threw the vial off the platform into the fire. "I'm not a professional hitchhiker. I'm a university student. I'm just hitchhiking right now for my thesis, looking for the Fluid, thought I'd send my entries to the Guide to make some extra cash." "Congratulations. You did a bang-up job so far." Ford lay down on his back and patted together a pile of soil to use as a pillow. Joon planted her hands on her hips. "Now what are you doing?" "What's it look like? Waiting to die." "Is that all you're going to do? Wait to die?"

"No." Ford rolled over onto his side, facing away from her. "First, I'm going to take a nap. Then I'll wait to die." Joon said something else then, but Ford had already fallen asleep.

16

When it comes to the subject of clams, The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy has this to say: they don't get any better than the Five-Tailed Whirlwind Ultra-Clam on the third moon of Llullul in the Inner Northern arm of the Galaxy. Of course, this is a disputed claim, partly because tastes vary from one being to another, but mainly because only one man has ever actually tasted the Five-Tailed Whirlwind Ultra-Clam and so we only have his word to go on. But that man is Noslenda Bivenda, undisputed as the Galaxy's Greatest Clam Opener, so his vote carries tremendous weight. The reason that no one else has ever tasted the Five-Tailed Whirlwind Ultra-clam is that it is virtually impossible to open. The word "virtually" is a recent addition. Prior to Noslenda's success, the Guide simply stated that the Ultra-Clam was impossible to open. Noslenda Bivenda's reputation as the Galaxy's Greatest Clam Opener was gained by accident during a night out with his mates at a local restaurant. At the time, Bivenda was only a trash hauler on N'rdikka Eight who enjoyed the occasional clam and was quite clever in ways no one had yet suspected. The restaurant had a standing offer of a free round of drinks to anyone who could find a new way to open the Blue-Speckled Spiked Mega-Clam of Rion Four, thought at the time to be the fifth hardest clam to open in the Galaxy. The old way involved a screwdriver, a hyper-ion vibrator, and a small neutron star. Due to the extraordinary flavour and the effort involved in opening them, the BlueSpeckled Spiked Mega-Clam was an expensive luxury. Bivenda had a revelation in that moment; how he could open the Blue-Speckled Spiked Mega-Clam in a way that required only a proton hammer and good aim. Bivenda did indeed open the clam and win a free round of drinks that night, which was all he really wanted, but the restaurant announced his wholly new and extraordinary discovery to the Galaxy. Within hours, the price of Blue-Speckled Spiked Mega-Clams fell dramatically and the name Noslenda Bivenda became a legend among the stars. A Sub-Etha news channel picked up the story by hiring Bivenda to find a way to open the Red Dragon-Mottled Fire Clam of the Kalliblan Nebula, the fourth hardest clam to open in the Galaxy. Bivenda spent three hours with the clam before he emerged with butter-stained fingers and a new technique. After that, Bivenda began a quest to sample every clam in the Galaxy. He went to the trinary star system of Xoppi to open the Inverted Horn Proton Clam, the third hardest clam in the Galaxy, then to Spluggugga Twelve to crack the Metallic Titanic Corkscrew Mega-Mussle, the second hardest clam in the Galaxy. By that time, Bivenda was both

wealthy and famous, hailed by the Galaxy as a genius and a connoisseur. At that level, his techniques required such skill and dexterity that only Bivenda could even carry them out. Bivenda had sampled clams so exquisite that only a handful had ever enjoyed them in their entire lives. Yet he became obsessed with his greatest and final challenge; the FiveTailed Whirlwind Ultra-Clam on the third moon of Llullul in the Inner Northern Arm of the Galaxy. It was said at that time that no one could ever open it, but that even if they had, its flesh was so incredibly delicious that no one could eat it and survive. That was a challenge that Bivenda could not resist. The third moon on Llullul is a violent and brutal world, inhospitable to most forms of life. The planet consists mainly of boiling oceans of highly corrosive acid. The surface temperature is hot enough to melt ultrasteel within seconds. The only other creature besides the Five-Tailed Whirlwind Ultra-Clam that can exist in those oceans is the Elongated Voracious Narwhal, an enormous armour-plated sea beast that can bite through diamonds and swallow molten lava. As a result, the Ultra-Clam evolved a hard shell completely sealed from the outside world, constructed of the strongest substance in the known Universe. It was a day of celebration on his home world as Bivenda boarded his private starship bound for Llullul, but Bivenda moved with a heavy heart. This, indeed, would be his greatest challenge. He traveled across the Galaxy, parked his ship in orbit, and rode a heavily armoured shuttle that plunged down to the ocean. Lights flickered on the shuttle to pierce the rolling waves. Even the onboard computer was nervous as it navigated the seas, trying to avoid the attention of the Elongated Voracious Narwhals that drifted by. Bivenda stayed in the back of the shuttle, studying biological records on the Ultra-Clam, trying to find the secret of opening it. When his shuttle finally located an Ultra-Clam on the ocean floor, it sat and waited. And waited. And waited. The Galaxy waited as well, tuned onto Bivenda's Sub-Etha channel, waiting for word. Hours passed, then days, then weeks. It was a full year before a single sound traveled over the Sub-Etha, but when that sound came, it electrified the Galaxy. That sound was Bivenda saying six simple words: "I've done it. Its the best." The news crews rushed to Llullul to interview him, but Bivenda was nowhere to be found. Bivenda was not on the planet or any of its moons. His starship still orbited, empty and silent, except for the computer that suffered post-traumatic stress syndrome. The mystery of whatever happened to Noslenda Bivenda remained just that; a mystery. Some speculated that Bivenda had lied, failed to open the Ultra-Clam, and hid himself in disgrace. Others believed that Bivenda had succeeded and exploded in delight from the taste of the Ultra-Clam as some had predicted. Still others believed Bivenda's shuttle was eaten by an Elongated Voracious Narwhal. Still others believed Bivenda was assassinated

by seafood companies threatened by the enormous drop in clam prices caused by his new techniques.

17

In all the years that Arthur Dent traveled the Galaxy, his sole source of information on the Universe and everything in it had been The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. Since parting with Ford Prefect, Arthur had acquired his own copy by winning it from another hitchhiker in a game of Twee. The game of Twee is a curious game that reminded Arthur of tennis until he actually played it, then realised it was nothing like tennis. The game included rackets and a ball that needed to be hit back and forth, but instead of playing it on a court, one started a game by jumping off a cliff. While the players hurtled hundreds of meters towards the jagged rocks below, they knocked the ball back and forth to each other. Of course, surviving the game required the players to have great skill, coordination, and knowing how to fly, which Arthur had fortunately learned many years before. The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy has this to say on the subject of flying. There is an art, it says, or rather a knack to flying. The knack lies in learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss. A player won each round of Twee by getting the other player to miss the ball or cause the other player to lose his concentration and splatter himself all over the rocks below. Arthur played to hit the ball, but his opponent had played to get Arthur to hit the ground. What made the game so nerve-wracking had been his opponent's insistence on screaming a variety of reminders that the ground rapidly approached, that the rocks seemed particularly sharp this morning, and that the human body wasn't designed to fly to begin with, what with it not having wings and so forth, all of which seemed like good points and made it hard not to aim for the ground rushing at him at hundreds ofkilometres an hour. The only way Arthur had survived the match had been to focus on the fact that Wimbledon and Andre Agassi had both been destroyed, leaving him as the greatest tennis player in the Universe. That thought alarmed him enough to keep him in the air. His copy of the Guide had served Arthur well over the years, but even he would admit it to be a trifle esoteric at times. Particularly when it came to the Chronological Correcting Fluid, the Guide had little to point him in the right direction towards finding it. It even claimed that the Fluid did not exist. For further information, Arthur decided he needed to try other resources. Throughout Arthur's travels, he had heard frequent references to the Sub-Etha Net, a vast network that transmitted information throughout the Galaxy. Arthur had always

studiously avoided anything to do with it, in keeping with his philosophy that the Universe was still divided into two parts - the Earth, and everything else. Sub-Etha belonged firmly in the "everything else" category. But there seemed to be no other way to find the answers. Arthur located a Sub-Etha bar where he tried to use a computer with a Sub-Etha connection while Fenchurch negotiated with the waitress to find a drink that most closely resembled coffee. "It's kind of smoky-flavoured," Fenchurch said. "It's brown. It's oftenserved with milk and sugar." The waitress scratched her head. "Not sure we have anything like that. What's it made of?" Arthur glared at the computer terminal. He had long ago discovered that computer terminals throughout the Galaxy were nothing like what he knew as computers on Earth, which were sort of like clunky old television sets with typewriters in front of them. Computer terminals in the rest of the Galaxy were an interface where the mind and body could connect with the universe and move bits of it about. They also required the insertion of a part of the body into it to operate it. That was a major reason why Arthur had never used them. He was surprised at how technical space travel was. The most interest Arthur had shown in space travel before the Earth had been destroyed was the occasional glance at a space shuttle launch on a television whilst in a pub. If Arthur had known hitchhiking across the Galaxy lay in his future, Arthur would have paid more attention in his science classes. "So," the waitress said after Fenchurch explained further. "You want water with brown seeds boiled in it, along with fluid squirted out of a bovine animal, mixed with crystals formed from plant sap?" "Uh, yes," Fenchurch said. "Two lumps of plant sap crystals, actually. And none for Arthur. He takes his with only fluid squirted from a bovine animal." "Hmph." The waitress studied the menu. "We do have h'kkth. That's brown." "What is it made of?" "It's an extract from the anus of a hythhutt worm," the waitress advised. "I highly doubt that would be the same thing." Arthur took a deep breath and plunged into the computer. Arthur Dent had never been one to indulge in hallucinogenic drugs. It wasn't so much values or morality or a desire to keep oneself pure as the fact that he never got invited to those sorts of parties. The closest he came had been when he accidentally ate the wrong mushroom on prehistoric Earth and had spent two days under the impression that he was a three-legged panda in a Chinese circus. That was the only frame of reference that Arthur had for his entering the computer. Vast plains spread into the distance made of vibrant colours that shimmered and glowed

all around him. Mountains of energy rippled around him, surrounded by valleys and ravines of heart-stopping complexity. Strange creatures leapt across the horizon, pursued by numbers that growled and snapped at them. Other beings floated around him, interacting with structures that seemed like something Picasso would have designed if he had eaten the wrong mushroom. Arthur found himself tumbling through the air, screaming as he headed for the rippling ground beneath him. He tried to fly, but despite the extremely distracting environment he found himself in, couldn't seem to get it to work. Arthur could still hear Fenchurch arguing with the waitress, saying, "The thing about coffee is that it has something called caffeine, which I desperately need right now. It keeps me awake." The waitress said, "Well, we have a wide variety of stimulants in pill form, and some of them have wonderful side effects. That's how I got this sexy growth right here. Nice one, eh?" Fenchurch responded with a sort of gurgle. As he fell, something drifted up alongside Arthur that he could not identify. It seemed to change shape and colour as he looked at it. It spoke in an echoing voice. "Here, what's all this then? There's no loitering on the Sub-Etha Net. You'll have to move along." "I'm not loitering," Arthur yelled and his voice carried the same reverberating tone. "I'm falling!" Though the shape still had no visible shape, it somehow managed to look irritated. "What, sir, never been on the Sub-Etha Net before? You're not fallin', you're flyin'." "What?" Arthur was about to object when he somehow saw the world differently. The rippling surface that he had thought was the ground was actually the side of an enormous tower that he headed straight for. What he thought was the sky was actually a brilliant pattern of sparkling lights on the ground surrounding him. "Oh. Good." Arthur tried to regain his composure and failed miserably. "Uh, perhaps you could help me. I'm trying to find out about the Chronological Correcting Fluid." "Never heard of it, sir. You might want to check the library." The thing waved part of its undulating body to the south. "Now move along." When Arthur turned his head, he discovered that he could drift through the world around him in that direction. He made off in the direction indicated by the security thing, which waddled off. He could hear Fenchurch in the distance. "Look, I don't want a pill. I just want coffee. It's a drink." "We have zorque. That's got stimulants in it, I think. And it'll make your antennae nice and shiny." "I don't have antennae." "You will after you drink zorque."

Arthur reached an enormous pyramid whose tip reached into the digital clouds. It had "Library" printed on it in enormous Galactic Eezeereed lettering. Arthur wasn't sure what to do, so he floated around it for a while, trying to find an opening. Only when he saw someone else float up to it and touch it did Arthur know what to do. He reached out and cautiously touched the surface of the pyramid. Arthur's head exploded. He jumped away from the computer terminal with a cry of alarm. In the process, he knocked over a rack of pastries that spilled on the floor. The waitress hurried over to him. "Are you all right?" "Yes. I've been through an extraordinary number of bizarre and uncomfortable events in my life, but that was by far the worst." The waitress nodded and began to gather up the pastries. "Oh, you were in the SubEtha Net, huh? My two-year-old felt the same way when she tried it for the first time." Fenchurch hurried to Arthur's side and rested her hands on his arm. "Are you all right?" "Yes." Arthur eased himself into a chair on shaky legs. "I think so." Fenchurch knelt at his feet with her ankles crossed under her. "Poor thing. What happened?" Arthur stared at their table. It took him a moment to recognise the glass of water on the table. "I went to the library. I just touched it. I swear, it felt like the thing blew up my brain." She blinked. "What are you on about? I thought you were going on that submarinething." Arthur reached out and took hold of the glass. "I did." "Well, did you find out anything about the Fluid?" "I think so." Arthur felt the coolness of glass as a comfort. "I remember things now, things I didn't know I knew, I don't think I did know before. I think it put the information directly in my head. It said the Correcting Fluid is a legend on another world. The people on that world might know something about it." Fenchurch smiled. "Smashing. Can we go there?" "We can't. I don't know where it is. No one does except two people. One of them is Zaphod Beeblebrox. I suppose we'll have to go talk to him." Arthur brought the glass to his lips. Fenchurch stopped him. "I wouldn't drink that if I were you. Unless you wanted antennae."

18

Ford woke up with a snort. He also woke up with a boot to his spine. He cried out and rolled over to find a huge man in leather looming over him. The man woke a black leather mask, for which Ford felt profoundly grateful. From the gnarled teeth, leathery skin, and protruding brow visible under the mask, the mask could only be an improvement to what lay underneath. The only thing that could truly improve his appearance would be a flame-thrower. "Back to work," the guard growled. With his looks and a Ultra-Ouch proton prod in his left hand, he didn't need a large vocabulary. Ford scowled. "I'll have you know I was working. I was concentrating on the best way to throw the mail over the ledge, doing delicate calculations in my head. Now I'll have to start all over again." Ford rolled back over onto his side. The Guard did not respond, except with the hum of his proton prod firing up with the sound of a thousand bees trying to do a dogpile on a single flower. Ford considered trying to run away, but knew he wouldn't get very far with the chains on his legs. He knew he would eventually be caught and beaten to the ground, so he decided to cut out the middleman and stay on the ground. Pain didn't bother Ford, but being worn out did. "Leave him alone!" Ford looked up at the guard being pelted with the tiny fists of Joon Plinx. She furiously punched at his legs, the only part of him she could reach. The guard regarded her attack the way an elephant might regard an ant on its throat trying to strangle it, then raised the prod. A shadow stepped forward and held up its hand. "Uh, excuse me?" The guard looked down at the newcomer with a furrowed brow. "Huh?" "Could you not hurt them? As a personal favour to me?" The guard squinted his eyes, struggling to form a thought. "Oh. Is that you, Norman?" Norman the Android sauntered out of the shadows with his hands in his sides again. "Hi, Deev. How's the kids?" The guard shuffled his feet. "Not bad. Unn's got the pox again." Norman winced. "Ouch. Try moon-pepper root. That'll clear it up." "Thanks, I'll try it. These two mates of yours?" Norman smiled at Ford and Joon. "Yes, very good friends."

"Well, any friend of Norman is a friend of mine." The guard switched off his prod and lumbered away. "Take it easy, Norman." "You too, Deev." Ford sat up. "What are you doing here?" Norman knelt down beside Ford and began unlocking Ford's chains. "I'm here to get you out of here." Joon wiped sweat off her forehead, which was a bit like trying to wipe sand off the beach. "Get us out? How did you get in here? How'd you get past the guards?" Norman took Ford's hand to help him to his feet. Norman produced a key that he used to unlock Ford's chains. "They let me in. Also gave me this key. I bring down homemade fairy cakes every weekend for the guards." Ford brushed dirt off his back. Norman handed him his satchel that Ford snatched back as he asked, "Why are we asking questions when we could be running away?" When Norman finished unlocking Joon's chains, she and Ford ran for the elevator. They clambered onto the metal plank that served as the elevator. Norman hit the switch to cause it to rise. As the lift rose, Joon kept shooting glances around for attacks. It never came. Every time a guard noticed them, he would see Norman and give them a friendly wave. They finally reached the platform for the uppermost level. Vinnsh stood at the edge of the platform with his arms crossed. Several large guards stood behind him, all brandishing weapons. "Uh-oh," said Norman. "I never gave him a fairy cake." "No, you didn't," Vinnsh snapped. "And I haven't forgotten it. Where do you think you're going?" Ford pulled the strap of his satchel onto his shoulder. "Well, old lads, I thought I'd just pop out for a quick pint. Care to join me?" "I don't drink alcohol," Vinnsh sneered. "Well, there's your problem right there." Vinnsh made a gesture with his hand. The guards charged at them, weapons raised. Joon frantically tried to operate the switch to lower the lift, but it was locked. Joon tried to climb the rock wall beside her, but found no purchase for her hands or feet. Ford glanced behind him at the roaring inferno looming behind him, cutting off all hope of escape. It was surely the end for Ford, Norman, and Joon. Fortunately, at that moment, the cavern exploded. Ford awoke to find himself swaying. That didn't strike him as too odd, except for the fact that he wasn't walking at the time. He was tucked under Norman's arm like a sack of potatoes. Ford could see Joon under Norman's other arm, hanging limp. Norman carried Joon and Ford up the staircase to the exit.

The last thing Ford remembered had been the armed guards advancing on him in the cavern. The guards were now gone. That same cavern still surrounded him, but substantially altered. The domed roof had been replaced by a gaping hole that showed a grey and cloudy sky. The boulders and soil that made up the roof had fallen into the flaming core, extinguishing it. Rubble scattered all over the chamber, along with the remains of guards and prisoners alike. The screams of the damned were now the screams of the survivors. A platoon of surviving guards rushed at Ford. He braced himself until the guards ran past him and down the stairs into the cave. They had more important things to deal with, like the surviving prisoners who found themselves broken loose of their chains and made for the exits en masse. Some of them had found weapons in the form of chains or shafts of metal or sticks. Others just hung back to let the first wave of attackers take the brunt of the assault and hoped to slip by in the confusion. "What the photon happened?" Ford groaned. Norman carried Joon and Ford out of the mouth of the cave. "We're under attack." "Attack? Who would want to attack a complaints department?" As if in answer, a starship shrieked over their heads. At first, Ford thought the ship was shaped like a gigantic tooth. On closer examination, Ford realised that was exactly what it was shaped like. The ship spat lethal Ultra-burn Neutrino cannons at everything in sight, leaving a trail of destruction. Ford threw himself at a nearby boulder for cover. Since he was still under Norman's arm, he ended up twisting out and falling to the ground in a heap. Ford could only cover his head as dirt and shrapnel rained down on him. The fire had apparently woken Joon as well, because she lay sprawled next to Ford. Her long hair lay in tangles around her head that Ford found annoyingly sexy. Joon looked up at the starship roaring over her head. "Is that a tooth?" Norman stood over them with his hands in his side-pockets. He hadn't so much as cringed at the onslaught. He calmly looked up. "No, it's a starship shaped like a tooth. A molar, to be exact." "Why would a tooth be shooting at us?" "Why do you keep asking questions?" Ford yelled. Joon screamed, "Well, excuse me for taking a bit of interest in the world around us! I just think that a giant tooth blasting the swut out of this planet is cause for investigation!" Another volley caused the ground to tremble beneath them. "Well, this is brilliant," Joon snapped. "We've been rescued from dying in the cave so we can die out here in the open. Thank you, Norman, you've been very helpful." Norman's metal face managed to acquire a hurt expression. "I wouldn't go to all this trouble just for you to die out here." He pointed up to the sky.

During his fifteen years of being marooned on Earth, Ford had found a few things that he liked about the planet. One of them had been John Wayne films. Yet in those films, Ford had always found it very odd when the cavalry arrived just in time to rescue the heroes. Real life didn't work that way. In his experience, rescuers either showed up in plenty of time for the heroes to polish off their lunches or the rescuers arrived to find bullet-riddled bodies still waving white flags. Ford had asked Arthur why they behaved that way, and Arthur had simply said it was an American thing and shrugged it off. Ford had tried not to think about it. Until that moment. When a small shuttle craft swept over them and landed a few meters in front of Norman. A hatch swung open. Ford could see inside. Tweed Mukkimuk sat behind the controls, waving frantically. Ford half-expected him to be waving a flag. He clambered up into the shuttle. It turned out to be a Sirius Cybernetics Corporation shuttle. Ford knew it to be a Sirius Cybernetics Corporation shuttle because his seat belt tried to talk to him. "Thank you for using the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation Personal Restraint Device," it chirped. "It is my pleasure to hold you comfortably but firmly in the event of an emergency impact and, if necessary, I am equipped with an etherion Phant-O-Porter to escort you safely into the afterlife." Joon paused as she stared at the man in the grey suit. "Who's that?" Tweed whipped around to hold out his hand. "The name's Mukkimuk. Tweed Mukkimuk. And might I say I've never seen such a beautiful lady in the employ of the Corporation before." Joon took the hand cautiously. "Thanks. Someone mind telling me what's going on here?" As soon as Norman stepped into the shuttle craft, Tweed pushed a button that slammed the door shut and sent the shuttle rising into the smoke-filled air. "I sent Norman to get you out as quick as I heard you be here. I know they're after the Chronological Correction Fluid, and I can not allow the Corporation to get their hands on it. Everybody hold onto your hats." Ford grabbed his satchel and hung on as the shuttle roared up into the skies. It whisked past the tooth-shaped starship, which turned and fired shots at the shuttle craft. The shuttle bobbed and weaved like a worm on skis, avoiding the fire, and blasted out of the atmosphere. Tweed tapped keys as he studied the screen. "I think we're in the clear, lads." Ford unbuckled his seat belt, despite its protests. "How in Zarquon's name did you get here? I thought you couldn't leave the Corporation?" Tweed gave him a sheepish grin. "Afraid I used a bit o' deception. Truth is, I got a pass to the elevators years ago from Norman here."

Norman nodded. "A fellow in the security office owed me a favour." "I could leave at any time, but I been workin' for the Corporation for so long that I don't think I could make it on the outside." Tweed spun around in his chair and leaned close to Ford. "But you got to get out there, lads. I told you I knew all the Corporation's secrets. One o' them is this Chronological Correcting Fluid. They want it bad and they mean to use it. I don't know why or what for, but it won't be good, I can assure you o' that. You gotta get it first or it's all over for all of us." "Tough." Ford opened his satchel and pulled out his copy of the Guide. "If you could drop me off at the nearest solar system, I'll be on my way. If I hurry, I can still make it to Eccentrica Gallumbits' birthday party on Cherron." "Didn't you understand me? The Corporation means to wipe out history itself." "Good job, too. Most of it's bunk." Ford dialed up an entry. "Here we go. I can sneak in as a caterer. I'll have to paint myself purple, though." Joon took hold of Ford by the scruff of his neck. "Belt up, Ford. Tweed, I've devoted most of my life to tracking down the Chronological Correcting Fluid, and I'll be bludgeoned with a dead lark if I'm going to let the Corporation misuse it." Tweed worked the controls to turn the shuttle around. "Well, the shuttle's yours for that. Just drop me and Norman off on Sirius IV, we'll fend for ourselves." Ford sighed. "Why is it that I have so little interest in saving the Universe and spend so much time doing it?"

19

The smiling man stepped out of the Starship Molar that had settled down on the dusty plains of Sirius III. Security officers from the Molar flanked him, brandishing rinsers. They guarded him as he charged up to the mouth of the cave, passing smoking craters from the ship's attack. The Corporation's guards lay on their backs in a row. The guards had metal hooks on their faces to hold their mouths open. More security officers from the Molar had drills armed and poised over their open jaws. The guards looked at the drills with a universal expression of terror. Namel, second-in-command of the Molar, handed the smiling man a clipboard. "Our report, sir. We've done a thorough search of the installation. They've got five dozen missing teeth, four hundred and twelve cavities, and three thousand teeth in need of straightening, but we couldn't find anyone in the facility matching the dental records of the ones we're looking for." The smiling man glanced over the report. He didn't need to see it. He had known they lost them when the shuttle craft escaped from the installation. "Who's in charge here?" Namel pointed to a pudgy little man at the end of the line. "Him, sir. His name's is Vinnsh. His dental record is at the top. Needs a cleaning." The smiling man walked over to the small man, who shivered at his feet. "Where are Ford Prefect and Joon Plinx?" Vinnsh blinked. "What? I-I don't know. Those two? They escaped in the attack, I suspect. A lot of our prison-I mean, employees did. Who are you people? What's going on? Why did you check my teeth?" The smiling man bent at the waist. "I apologise for this intrusion but I assure you it was necessary. Those two are the most important people in the Universe. But don't worry. No further harm will come to you." The smiling man straightened and headed back to the ship. Namel walked alongside him. "Shall we administer the treatments, Captain?" Namel asked. "No. Let them go." Namel stopped short. He stood there in shock for several seconds before he hurried to catch up. "Let them go? But sir, you saw the dental records. Most of them haven't received dental treatment in years. Our science officer has discovered fifteen undiscovered strains of gingivitis on that one alone. These men are in dire need of a check-up, at least."

The smiling man didn't even turn around as he called back, "I said, let them go. We have more important things to attend to." Namel watched the man he thought was his captain in stunned silence before he whispered, "More important than teeth?"

20

It was Arthur Dent and Fenchurch who first arrived on Hooloovoo to find the Heart of Gold parked at the spaceport. The Hooloovoo are a super-intelligent shade of blue. They were discovered on the planet Hooloovoo on the far Southern Edge of the Galaxy, where they lived a happy and contented life on a type of flower found inside a remote valley on the surface. That life was disrupted by Frugg Wunna, an unemployed house painter whose cruise ship crashlanded on the planet because someone neglected to buckle their seat belt during take-off. Frugg was the only survivor of the crash, and while he waited for the rescue ship, noticed the unique shade of blue on the flowers around him. He took a few flowers with him when the rescue ship arrived. Frugg quickly became very rich by pulverizing the flowers to extract the colour to form a new and unique house paint. His fortune came to an end after the Hooloovoo learned Galactic Eezeereed. Millions of his clients began flooding him with complaints that their kitchen or bathroom walls began spelling out messages like "Hello" and "Stop drilling holes in me." After a few years, the Galactic government officially recognised the Hooloovoo as a species and emancipated them from walls and vehicles all over the Galaxy. Once liberated, the Hooloovoo proved to be an extremely clever race that advanced science by a thousand years. The discovery of a super-intelligent shade of blue reshaped Galactic thinking on the limitations and definitions of life, leading to a new field of research that discovered a super-intelligent sound and a hyper-intelligent odour, although the latter has yet to be accepted in mainstream society. That day, a light drizzle fell from the purple clouds of Hooloovoo as Arthur and Fenchurch's taxi pulled up to the Heart of Gold. Arthur stepped out and left a pound note on the driver's seat. The seat itself was empty, unless you counted the fact that it, like the entire interior of the taxi, was coloured Hooloovoo. It had taken a slight mental adjustment to accept that the colour of the steering wheel controlled it, but the Hooloovoo proved to be a very capable driver. A huge banner that hung over the exit port of the Heart of Gold read "Zaphod Beeblebrox For President - He Wasn't That Bad." Arthur and Fenchurch hurried up to the port and Arthur pounded on it with his fist.

Tinny music popped out of the speaker next to the door, followed by a voice that Arthur recognised as Zaphod Beeblebrox. "Hey, gang, this is your ex-Head Honcho, Zaphod Beeblebrox, and I wanna be back on top. I know I made some mistakes. Okay, a lotta mistakes. Okay, some really bad, horrible mistakes. But I did go to prison for them. A couple of times. Well, for some of the mistakes. I mean, they couldn't prove the whole thing with the ocelot in court. And nobody found out about the spleen. But look at it this way - I couldn't do much worse, could I? Oh, starpox, Trillian, how do I erase this thing and start over? What do you mean I can't? Well, can't I keep it from playing when somebody hits the door? Well, what the-" The door slid open. Trillian stood there, still touching the entry panel. She looked from Arthur to Fenchurch and back. "Is she from Earth?" Trillian asked. "Oh, yes," Arthur said. "There was another survivor?" Arthur couldn't help putting on a casual air. For most of his time with her, she had always had knowledge at her fingertips. He relished the experience of the reverse. "The Earth was restored, actually. Don't tell me you hadn't noticed." "No, I've been quite busy. Well, I'll have to pop back there sometime, get some new shoes. They don't quite get the toes right out here." Trillian held out her hand to Fenchurch. "Tricia McMillan. I prefer to be called Trillian." Fenchurch shook the hand. "Fenchurch. I prefer to be called Fenchurch." Trillian raised an eyebrow. "Are you two involved?" Fenchurch put her arms around Arthur's waist. "Quite frequently, actually." "Well, congratulations, Arthur. Perhaps you won't be moping about quite so much. Come on in." Arthur led Fenchurch into the Heart of Gold. Fenchurch gaped at the gleaming white corridors. "Was this your ship, Arthur?" "Yes. Well, no. I just rode about in it a bit against my will. It belonged to Zaphod. Where is Zaphod, Trillian?" Trillian fluttered a hand as she led them down a hallway. "On the bridge. He's writing his acceptance speech." "Acceptance speech? For what?" "You haven't heard? Zaphod's running for re-election as President of the Galaxy." "Oh. I wasn't aware that was done with." "It isn't. Zaphod's losing quite badly. I think writing the acceptance speech is his way of coping with it. Have you seen Marvin?" Fenchurch lowered her eyes. "Yes. I'm afraid he's gone. He died on the planet Preliumtarn, near God's Last Message to His Creation." "Oh, good," said Trillian. "I thought the Universe seemed a bit brighter these days."

Fenchurch was aghast. "That's a horrible thing to say. I don't know what you people had against that poor thing." Arthur patted her hip. "You had to get to know Marvin a little better, dear." Trillian approached the door of the bridge. The door slid open. A screeching noise pounded across the bridge that almost blew Arthur out of the room. Fenchurch clapped her hands over her ears and screamed, "What is that?" "Music," Arthur called back. "Disaster Area." Fenchurch looked around the bridge, littered with paper and empty beer cans. "It certainly is." Zaphod Beeblebrox jumped up from a large stack of crumpled papers that turned out to be a desk. "What are you doin' here, Monkeyman? I got rid of you years ago, thought you'd be up a tree somewhere, scratching yourself." Arthur tightened his lips. "And I thought you would've gotten sick of that extra head by now. Lord knows one of your heads is bad enough." "Oh, Monkeyman got himself a backbone. What planet you get that from?" Zaphod did a double take at Fenchurch. "Well, hello. Who's the bird?" Arthur pulled Fenchurch closer to him. "This is my girlfriend." Zaphod's two heads leered. "Knew you had somethin' under that dressing gown, Monkeyman. Hey, baby, when you get tired of him, give me a call. I'm from another planet. Ask Trillian. She sampled the Monkeyman and went with me." Fenchurch gave him a sweet smile while wrapping her arms around Arthur's neck. "I prefer my men with only one head, thank you." Trillian held up her hands. "Can we save the mating ritual for another time? I'm assuming Arthur didn't come here for a social call. What can we help you with, Arthur?" Before Arthur could open his mouth, Ford Prefect and Joon Plinx burst onto the bridge. "We have to find the Chronological Correcting Fluid," Ford blurted out. Zaphod threw up all three of his hands. "What is this, a reunion? I got a re-election campaign to run here." Joon spent all that time staring and blinking at Zapod, but finally managed to speak. "Mr Beeblebrox, I can't believe I'm seeing you in person. I actually voted for you. I've really been looking forward to this." Zaphod's grin spread across both his faces. "Well, nice to meet one of my constituents. And a sexy one at that." Joon smacked both his faces with one sweep of her hand. "I just wanted to give you that. And to let you know I won't make the same mistake twice." One of Zaphod's heads scowled while the other rubbed its cheek and pouted. "Anybody wanna bring in some other women to shoot me down? If not, kindly exit through that door." Trillian glanced at the door. "That's the rubbish furnace." "Exactly." Zaphod stomped back to his desk.

Trillian held up her hands. "All right, everyone settle down. Ford, what did you say?" Ford was over by the bar in the corner, mixing a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster. "I said that I desperately needed a drink." "No, he didn't," Joon snapped. "He said that we need to find the Chronological Correcting Fluid." Zaphod shuffled papers around on the desk, pretending to be sorting them. "And you came to me? Look like I'm running an office supply store, kid?" "I said Chronological Correcting Fluid. And Ford said you know where we can find it. Right, Ford?" Ford lay on the floor of the bridge, drooling over himself with an empty glass lying next to him. One of Zaphod's heads looked up. "Somebody wanna tell him I got a new case of Old Janx Spirit, double-proof? Oh, looks like he already found it." Joon held up her hands. "Excuse me, people, I have something very important to say. We-" The Heart of Gold rocked violently, hurling all the occupants of the bridge against the walls. Ford slid across the floor into a heap under the control console. Arthur hit the ground first and Fenchurch landed on top of him, which he didn't mind terribly much. Trillian staggered over to the controls and checked the sensors. "We're under attack!" Zaphod threw himself at the weapons console, yelling, "Somebody wants to mess with me? Probably Erog Shub and Zarniwoop tryin' to get rid o' the competition. Computer, what kind o' weapons we got left?" The only sounds that replied were the boom of explosions on the ship's hull. Trillian yelled back, "Zaphod, you destroyed the computer's personality matrix, remember?" "Of course I don't remember, I was drunk. We've been over this. What's your point?" "So there's nobody to reply!" Arthur tried to disentangle himself from Fenchurch. "You destroyed Eddie?" Fenchurch tried to disentangle herself from him, which ended up re-entangling the both of them. "Who's Eddie?" "Shut your holes!" Zaphod yelled. Zaphod punched buttons and pulled levers. The ship whined and growled like a dog poked by a steak. "Nothing's working! What the photon's wrong with this thing?" Trillian threw up her hands. "I don't know. The computer's gone haywire. Nothing's responding." The screen lighted up with the face of a very thin man whose smile almost cut his face in half. "Attention, Heart of Gold. This is Halalax from the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation, Human Resources Department. I regret to inform you that, due to manufacturing and safety issues, we have been forced to issue a recall on your starship. All systems have been shut down for your safety. Our Aggressive Sales Representatives have orders to affect

immediate repairs to the product with heavy artillery. Unfortunately, these repairs will result in the destruction of the ship and everyone in it. You can refuse the recall by returning our fugitive employee, Joon Plinx. Thank you for your time. We look forward to your business in the future, if you have one." The screen went black, followed by another barrage of tooth-loosening explosions. "I don't understand," Fenchurch yelled. "Why aren't we firing back?" "That's the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation," Arthur called back. "They built this ship. They've shut it down, although I haven't the faintest idea why. What's Joon Plinx?" "I'm Joon Plinx," Joon yelled just as the barrage ended, leaving her slightly sheepish. She continued in a lower tone of voice. "They want me to get the Correcting Fluid for them." Zaphod stumbled over to her and took hold of her arms. "Well, that's easily solved. Somebody grab her legs." "Zaphod," Trillian said, "you're not giving her to them." "Why not? Who gives a swut whether these nimnos get this Chronological Whatchama-whosis, anyhow?" Joon struggled in his three arms as she yelled, "All of us! If they get the Fluid, they'll be able to wipe out history! That means everything we know could be gone!" Zaphod let her go. He froze. His two brows furrowed in concentration. "Wait a minute. That's what that stuff does? It wipes out history?" Joon brushed her hair out of her eyes as she moved to a safe distance from him. "Yes." Zaphod snapped the fingers on two of his hands. "You're right. We gotta get that junk before those steel spines get their mitts on it. Computer, what do we have left to work with?" Trillian closed her eyes and counted to five, then said, "Zaphod, the computer isn't responding. Even if the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation hadn't shut it down, you turned the personality matrix into a pile of broccoli." "Oh. Right. So you tell me, Trillian. What do we have left to work with?" "Nothing. Everything runs through the computer. Without it, we're dead in the water." She shot Arthur an unfriendly look. "Remember the tea?" Arthur struggled to his feet through another barrage. "What about the Infinite Improbability Drive? Can we use that?" Zaphod and Trillian yelled, "No!" Even Ford said it, but the portion of the floor in his mouth muffled it. "Why not?" "Because the Drive is regulated by the computer," Trillian snapped. "Without the computer to perform calculations, anything could happen." "It did work last time." "Well, it won't work this time."

Arthur held onto a chair as another volley of fire shook the ship. He thought he saw a crack forming in the ceiling directly over him. "Could it be any better than this?" "Yes!" Zaphod grabbed him by the shirt. "Just give me a moment to think on it, okay, Monkeyman?" Even Arthur Dent had to admit that he had done fairly stupid things during his travels throughout the Galaxy. Most of them had been done out of ignorance to the ways of the Universe, but some had been due to his lack of attention. Of all the things he had done, Arthur had been most proud of how he saved the Heart of Gold during a missile attack in orbit above the planet Magrathea. In a moment of desperation, when the Heart of Gold had been locked on course with the missiles making straight for him, Arthur had made the decision to activate the Infinite Improbability Drive without programming. In the process, he transformed the nuclear missiles into a potted plant and a sperm whale, thus saving himself and everyone in it. Since then, Arthur had wished that moment could repeat itself, particularly while his girlfriend Fenchurch was around to see it. That's why Arthur stumbled over and hit the button to activate the Improbability Drive. The Heart of Gold vanished from the Universe. It did not return.

21

On the starship Molar, Namel sat in the ship's lounge, brooding. He stared at the large screen in the lounge where the other crew members gathered around, cheering and whistling. On the screen, two women lay side-by-side in matching chairs while two men worked on the mouth of each one. A hand clapped onto Namel's shoulder. He looked up to see Kav standing over him, smiling. Kav held a cup of green liquid. Kav said, "What's wrong, Namel? This is supposed to be a break. I've made a fresh batch of mouthwash, the dental races are on, and you look like you've lost all your teeth." "I'm sorry, Kav." Namel looked down at his untouched cup of mouthwash. "It's the captain. He's acting strange." Kav sat down across from Namel. "What are you on about?" "Remember when we encountered that unidentified ship, the bubble-shaped one?" "Yes, I remember. The one with the perfect teeth. It went missing the moment we sent our communications wave." "Right. But ever since then, Captain Rincequik has been acting very odd. He changed course to attack that planet Sirius IV, then ordered us to leave without even completing the dental treatment. Do you know what he told me when I asked him about it? He said we had more important things to attend to." "More important things," Kav cried. "More important than teeth? That's impossible. The captain wouldn't say that. Delivering dental treatment to the Galaxy is our primary mission." "He did." Namel glanced over his shoulder, then whispered, "And you know what else? He's refused every dental check-up since then." Kav dropped his cup. The mouthwash spilled onto the table. "No. The captain has never missed an hourly check-up in all the years I've known him. He has the best teeth in the entire fleet." "I know. I've been covering for him, but I can't keep it up forever." Namel grit his teeth. "You know what I think? I don't think that bubble ship was an anomaly, after all. I think it did something to the captain, affected his mind. I need your help." Kav went to the dispenser to refill his cup with mouthwash. "Of course. Anything." "I want to do a scan on Captain Rincequik. An unauthorised dental scan."

Kav turned pale as he sat down across from Namel. "My crown, you're talking about a violation of protocol of the highest order. An unauthorised dental scan is grounds for court-martial." "And the captain refusing a dental X-ray is a federal offense," Namel snapped. "I know what I'm asking is a tall order, but the teeth of every member of this crew hang in the balance." Kav gulped the mouthwash and swished it around, thoughtfully. He spat the wash back into the cup and set it down. "All right, I'm in. But how are we going to do it? The captain's quarters are shielded against scans." "I have an idea." Namel leaned in close and began whispering to Kav. The cheers of the other crew members drowned them out as the screen showed the reigning champion dentist hold up a hand. His cleaning was complete. The race was over. But the war had only just begun.

22

The Heart of Gold drifted outside the known Universe. Of course, the word "drifted" doesn't really apply, since the starship never moved. There could be no movement since there was nowhere to move to. The word "outside" also does not apply, since there is nothing outside the Universe. Where the starship existed, no words could apply. In fact, the word "existed" does not apply either, since existence impliesOne of the problems with language is simply a matter of perspective. In the beginnings of time, primitive cave-dwelling beings eventually discovered that the grunts and squeals they made couldn't quite convey the full range of expression they desired. Grunting and pointing works well with "hand me that nice, juicy hunk of dinosaur meat" or "those sticks you rubbed together just set me on fire," but not "do you think the sun will come up tomorrow" or "what is the meaning of Life, the Universe, and Everything?" For this reason, virtually every intelligent being in the Universe has created some form of spoken language. One of the notable exceptions is the Grundlerunnt of Blax II, a lizardlike species whose communication consists entirely of pungent fluids expelled from their mouths. On their world, the odours of the fluid can convey a great complexity of thoughts and ideas, and create images in the mind that make grown Grundlerunnt weep. Of course, the day came when the Grundlerunnt discovered space travel and made first contact. The moment when they encountered another life form for the first time and tried to exchange knowledge and culture was slightly spoiled by the Grundlerunnt's (from the other life form's perspective) becoming violently sick on their shoes. The Grundlerunnt eventually learned to speak Galacticspeke by the request of the rest of the Galaxy. But as far as language has gone, it still lacks in certain respects. It was created to define the common experiences of the speaker, like trees, rocks, and cellular telephones. Anything beyond that is new territory. A perfect example of that is time travel. One of the major problems encountered in time travel is not that of accidentally becoming your own father or mother. The major problem is quite simply one of grammar, and the main work to consult in this matter is Dr. Dan Streetmentioner's Time Traveler's Handbook of 1001 Tense Formations. It will tell you for instance how to describe something that was about to happen to you in the past before you avoided it by time-jumping forward two days in order to avoid it. The event will be described differently according to whether you are talking about it from the standpoint of your own natural time, from a time in the further future, or a time in the further past and is further complicated by the

possibility of conducting conversations whilst you are actually travelling from one time to another with the intention of becoming your own father or mother. Most readers get as far as the Future Semi-Conditionally Modified Subinverted Plagal Past Subjunctive Intentional before giving up: and in fact in later editions of the book all the pages beyond this point have been left blank to save on printing costs. The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy skips lightly over this tangle of academic abstraction, pausing only to note that the term "Future Perfect" has been abandoned since it was discovered not to be. As mind-bending a prospect as time-travel grammar is, other dimensions are an entirely new challenge. For, in fact, that is where the Heart of Gold was; another dimension beyond the known Universe. Arthur was not enjoying it. The screen crackled with intermittent static as sensors tried to make sense of the swirling, dizzying imagery outside the ship. Arthur found the screen quite nauseating, and the rolling sensation of the ship didn't really help. It felt as if the Heart of Gold bobbed and weaved like a cork on a waterbed. When Trillian explained that the ship had artificial gravity and the sensation of movement was purely caused by a disturbance of the inner ear from the effects of their current location, Arthur had to lie down on the floor and breathe slowly. "So where are we?" Ford Prefect snapped after they had given him a quick shot with the Neutra-Hol gun. Zaphod stomped over to another console. "If I knew that, I'd know how to get us out of it, wouldn't I?" Trillian shook her head as she studied the sensors. "The good news is, the computer has come back online since we got away from Sirius. They must have been using some sort of remote control. The bad news, everything has gone completely starkers. Wherever we are, our sensors can't interpret it." Ford gave Arthur his coldest glare as he pressed an ice pack to his forehead. "Had to activate the Infinite Improbability Drive, eh?" Arthur looked up from where Fenchurch stroked his forehead. "I said I was sorry. It worked last time. I thought it might turn those attack ships into weasels or something." Trillian folded her arms. "Last time, you activated the Drive without setting coordinates. This time, you activated the Drive without any guidance system at all. The Drive works by putting the ship at every point in the Universe simultaneously. This time, it placed us outside the known Universe entirely. We're in another dimension." Ford sighed. "Well, I estimate our air supply will run out in about an hour. You couldn't refill the oxygen tanks every now and then, Zaphod?" One of Zaphod's heads scowled at Ford while his other head concentrated on the console. "Hey, I was busy trying to get re-elected, okay? I wasn't planning on leaving until next week."

Fenchurch looked from one person to the next. "So what are we going to do?" "Kiss whatever part of your body you love most goodbye." Zaphod kicked the console. "We can't move, have no idea where we are, and have no way of getting back." Arthur settled his head back on the floor. "Is there any tea on this spaceship?" Joon looked up from where she had been pacing back and forth. "All right, look, can we focus on something else for a moment? Zaphod, I was told by Ford that you would know how to find the Chronological Correcting Fluid." "He told you wrong." Zaphod gave the console another kick. "Never heard of the stuff." "You've been to the planet that will lead us to it," said Ford, leaned his throbbing head against a wall. "Bikkablip." Zaphod winced. "Oh, not that again." "What?" Joon asked. "For the last time, there's no such planet as Bikkablip. It was all a goof by one of my mates." "And what about the pens?" Ford asked. "I got them wholesale." Trillian looked from one to the other. "What is he on about? What's Bikkablip?" "Don't tell me we have to go over this again." Ford slumped onto the couch. "Why not? You got something better to do?" Zaphod stomped off the bridge. "Yeah, drill holes in my heads." Fenchurch looked down at Arthur. "Do you know what they're talking about?" "No," Arthur sighed. "But what else is new?"

23

Zaphod Beeblebrox stomped through the darkened corridors of the Heart of Gold, not really knowing where he was going but making bold strides to get there. This wasn't what he had wanted at all. He felt like he had already saved the Galaxy numerous times, and the Universe should give him a pass this time. But the Chronological Correcting Fluid was something he couldn't ignore. If it was what that crazy blue lady said it was, then it would be the way for him to get re-elected. All he needed to do was wipe out his first term from history, and Zaphod could start with a clean slate. If it worked, Zaphod could run for his first term all over again. He thought. He was never very good at temporal paradoxes. He usually thought he would do whatever he liked and let the Universe sort it out later. As far as Bikkablip, Zaphod felt that was a dark time in his past that he would have preferred not to return to. But if they had to go that route, then that was what he would do. Maybe. Zaphod needed to lie down and have a stiff drink, not necessarily in that order. Usually the stiff drink would lead to him lying down. Actually, Zaphod preferred to have a stiff drink, then lie down, then have another stiff drink. Zaphod was pleased to find himself back at his own quarters. Even if he hadn't known where to go, that seemed the safest place. The door opened as he approached, sighing with delight. Just as Zaphod was about to tell the door to go stuff itself, he froze. There was a woman in his quarters. A very familiar woman. To understand the full impact of what Zaphod saw, one would have to know a good bit of his childhood. Zaphod had spent most of his early history lessons plotting how he was going to have sex with the girl in the cybercubicle next to him. Zaphod's plan had seemed fairly simple reprogram her cybercubicle so that instead of feeding her the usual mind-food of Galactic wars, planetary discovery, and great rulers, the cybercubicle would recite beautiful and occasionally obscene poetry to her. Of course, Zaphod didn't actually know how to write poetry, so most of his time was spent programming the cybercubicle to write it for him. It worked, only too well. Zaphod had intended to use the poetry to seduce her and then, when she reached the peak of desire, reveal himself as the true author of the poems.

From there, his plan involved his tri-jet scooter, dental floss, an assortment of vegetables, and privacy. Unfortunately, before he could reveal himself, his cybercubicle was scrapped and sent to a home for Degenerate Cybermats, whither it was followed by the girl who had inadvertently fallen deeply in love with the unfortunate machine, with the result that Zaphod never got near her. The woman who sat on his bed was slender, beautiful, and quite a few years older than he remembered. But she had the same long white hair, the same pouting lips, the same slender limbs, and the same delicate tentacle on the back of her neck. "Pya," Zaphod whispered, the name fairly drifting off his tongue. She looked up from a computer terminal she worked on. "Oh, hello, Zaphod. I've been waiting for you." "Pya?" Zaphod shook one of his heads while the other continued to gape. "What are you doing here? How'd you find me? How'd you get in here?" She smiled and rose to her bare feet. She took small steps towards him and her dress floated around her waist as she walked. "So many questions, Zaphod. Where were those questions in class? Maybe you would have learned Galactic History if you had asked them?" She giggled, and the musical tones made Zaphod shiver. Zaphod swallowed. Both his throats were dry. "But you ran off with the cybercubicle." She pouted. "I never loved that cold piece of synth-metal. I loved what I thought it was. I thought it was you." Her long, delicate fingers reached out to touch one of the cheeks on both his heads. Part of Zaphod realised this couldn't be real, that the girl in the cybercubicle couldn't possibly be in his quarters. He had to be dreaming or hallucinating. Unfortunately, that part of Zaphod was currently locked out of his mind, pounding on the door and yelling to be let in. Meanwhile, the rest of Zaphod could only think of the sheer joy of his dream finally come true. Zaphod took hold of Pya and kissed her passionately with both of his heads. His three arms lifted her and carried her into his quarters. The door closed behind him. It let out an embarrassed cough.

24

Arthur and Fenchurch sat in the ship's galley, sipping the cups of tea they acquired from the Nutrimatic Drinks Synthesizer. With a little help from Zaphod the First's greatgrandfather, Zaphod Beeblebrox the Fourth, the Synthesizer now did something that no other Nutrimatic Drinks Synthesizer in the Universe could do - it produced a cup of liquid that tasted exactly like tea. Quite excellent tea, in fact. Somehow, knowing that there was one place besides his homeworld that Arthur could get a nice hot cup of tea made the Galaxy just a bit more bearable. Those who read the previous paragraph and thought there was a typing error regarding the name of Zaphod's great-grandfather would be mistaken. It is a common mistake considering Zaphod Beeblebrox's history. His name is Zaphod Beeblebrox the First, his father's name is Zaphod Beeblebrox the Second, his grandfather's name is Zaphod Beeblebrox the Third, and so on. When pressed for details, Zaphod would only say that it was the result of an accident involving a contraceptive and a time machine, but would give no further details. Most people believed this was just Zaphod being mysterious, but the truth was that Zaphod had no clue how it happened himself. Neither did anyone else in his family. They all assumed, quite rightly, that the answer would come eventually in time. "I must say," said Fenchurch, "I thought you were exaggerating when you used to tell me how confusing the Galaxy could be. It certainly is." "I'm glad you said that," Arthur sighed. "At times, I did wonder if I was exaggerating myself." Fenchurch felt the rumbling again and shivered. "I wish we could get out of this place. It gives me the willies." "I'm sure someone is working on it," said Arthur in a not-at-all sure tone of voice. Throughout his travels, Arthur had found that virtually any assumptions he made almost invariably turned out to be wrong. Fenchurch sighed as she rose to her feet. "I could do with a bit of a lie-down. Anywhere I can take a quick nap?" "Certainly. This ship has quite a few empty quarters. I think it was designed to ferry an army or something." Arthur led Fenchurch out of the ship's galley and down a gleaming white corridor to the quarters. He stopped at one that he recognised and allowed the door to open with a whisper of joy.

Arthur waved at the interior. "This was my old quarters, actually. The beds are quite comfortable." "Thank you." Fenchurch gave him a quick kiss and settled down onto the bed. Arthur thought of joining her, but felt he was seasick enough as it was and left her there. He began to head down the corridor to finish his tea when he heard her scream. Arthur rushed back to the quarters. The door slid open. Arthur charged in. He froze. His mind began rubbing its eyes and blinking, then checking the stomach to see if there was anything in that tea that might cause hallucinations. When the results came back negative, his mind was forced to come to grips with what it saw. The story of how Arthur and Fenchurch came together is quite a fascinating and charming tale, one that can be read in full in the previous volume So Long and Thanks For All The Fish. Rather than go over it all again, it is suggested that if the reader has not already read that novel that they do so. Once they have, the full impact of what Arthur saw will strike them square across the temples. If the reader has not read that volume and is still unwilling to read it, then they will have to be satisfied with confusion at this moment. Either that or put down this book and find something else to do with their time. Sitting on the bed opposite Fenchurch was a large blonde man, a man that Arthur recognised because when they had met, they immediately disliked each other. The man had an annoyingly well-groomed mustache and blow-dried hair. He scowled at Fenchurch as if she had just shot his prize-winning poodle while it stood on the podium of a dog show for its trophy. "Fenny," the man snarled, "for the last time, you're barking mad, loony, totally up the creek." "Russell?" Arthur cried. "You can see him, too?" Fenchurch asked. "Yes, unfortunately." Arthur stepped into the room. "Russell, what are you doing here? How did you get on this ship?" The blond man's scowl turned into a different scowl that he apparently reserved for non-family members. "This is between me and Fenny." "Stop calling me Fenny," Fenchurch screamed. "I despise when you call me Fenny! Get out of here! Get out of my life!" The blond man shook his head. "You've gone and had another breakdown, Fenny. I bet you think you're in outer space right now, talking to two-headed alien beings. Now I have to go out of my way to take you back to the hospital. You can be so irritating sometimes." He grabbed her by the wrist and began dragging her to the exit. Arthur balled up his fists and thrust them in Russell's face in the hopes that they would deter him. Unfortunately, Russell had fists of his own that were considerably larger and trained through use to deter more effectively, so effectively that Arthur woke up in a fetal

position a few minutes later with a lump on his face. When he finally managed to stagger to his feet and out of his quarters, Fenchurch was nowhere to be seen. Arthur began running wildly through the corridors of the Heart of Gold, screaming Fenchurch's name. He only got a few meters before he was knocked unconscious again. This time, it wasn't a fist that did it, but Ford Prefect's chest. Arthur took comfort in the fact that Ford lay sprawled at his feet, knocked unconscious as well. It was about time someone else was knocked out for a change. Arthur slapped Ford about the face until Ford came to. Ford opened his eyes and immediately leapt to his feet with a cry. "What are you doing, running around the ship like a maniac?" Ford snapped. "Leave the running around the ship to the maniacs like me." "Fenchurch is gone," Arthur blurted. "She was taken by her brother. I don't know how he got in board, but he took her." Ford grabbed his arm. "Wait, are you saying you saw someone? Someone who absolutely, positively should not have been aboard this ship but was?" "Yes." Ford sighed. "That's a relief. That means we're both mad." Arthur clutched his bleeding nose. "I'm not mad." "Yes, you are," said Ford as he wiped some of Arthur's blood from his vest. "So am I. I just saw my father. He's been dead and gone for decades. Not possible to have seen him. I would be concerned that I've gone mad, but fortunately, I've gone mad before, so it's familiar ground. I would be worried if I were you, though. Going mad can be disturbing the first couple of times." "Ford, I haven't gone mad. I just saw Fenchurch's brother. He punched me in the jaw and knocked me unconscious. Hallucinations can't punch you in the jaw." "Perhaps you imagined yourself being knocked unconscious." Arthur pointed at the swelling on his jaw. "Then where did this bruise come from?" "Perhaps you're imagining that bruise." "Well, do you see it as well?" "Yes, but perhaps we've both gone mad and are imagining the same bruise." "We can't both be having the same hallucination," Arthur cried. "Ordinarily, I would agree, but since we've gone mad, who can say? Perhaps I'm not even seeing a bruise at all. Perhaps you're only imagining that I'm saying that I see the bruise. Perhaps I'm imagining you telling me you have a bruise. Perhaps neither of us is here at all. Perhaps I'm really a penguin and you're an iceberg, and we're just imagining ourselves as this way." Arthur stared at Ford. "Do you practice being this irritating or does it come naturally to you?" Joon Plink came around the corner and stopped short when she saw them. "You're going to say that I'm absolutely barmy, but I could swear I just saw my university

professor in my quarters. He told me I still had to turn in my report on Mathematical Computation regarding the Structure of the Universe in Relation to the Life Span of Hamsters." Arthur and Ford looked at each other, then looked at her. Ford smiled at her. "Welcome. Arthur and I have just gone mad. So glad you could join us."

Ford, Arthur, and Joon came running onto the bridge. They found Trillian hunched over the console, trembling slightly. Arthur took her arm. "Trillian, did you see someone in your quarters? Someone that shouldn't be here?" She looked up at him and seemed to twitch. "No. No one at all. Absolutely no one. It would be lunacy to see someone in your quarters like that. Especially if it were Hans Reichmann, the man whose lecture I went to as a child that inspired me to become an astrophysicist. And especially if he were nude, sitting in a Jacuzzi filled with blancmange." Joon ran her fingers through her long dark hair. "What's going on around here?" "It's this dimension." Trillian began tapping controls. "It has to be. Producing some sort of hallucinations." "It's not a hallucination. I just saw Fenchurch's brother. He hit me and took her. I don't even know where she is." "I'm already running a scan for any unusual life forms. I'll look for her as well." Ford looked around. "Where's Zaphod?" He went to the intercom. "Zaphod? You all right, old mate?" Zaphod's voice came back over the intercom. "Go away." "Zaphod? What's going on?" "I said, go away. I'm busy." Ford frowned. "All right. Just checking if you've seen anyone unusual, someone who shouldn't be here, perhaps someone in your past." Silence passed for a moment before Zaphod said, "Just for yuks, let's say I had. Why you asking, kid?" "Well, it's just that we're all seeing people in our quarters. I just saw my father. He asked me why I was going by Ford Prefect instead of my Betelgeusian name. He said I was dishonoring my proud Betelgeusian legacy. I told him about what I thought of my proud Betelgeusian legacy and where he could stuff it and he tried to asphyxiate me." A cry followed, along with thumping and scuffling noises. Ford dashed out of the bridge. He ran through the corridors to the living quarters. He ran into the door of Zaphod's quarters, stumbled back, and banged on it with his fist.

"Zaphod?" Ford yelled. "Door, would you open up?" The door replied in a somewhat less enthusiastic tone than usual. "I'm sorry, the occupant has requested that this door remain closed." "But he's in danger!" "No, he's not," the door murmured. "Trust me on this one." The door slid open. Zaphod stumbled out with a dressing gown wrapped around himself. "What's going on out here?" Ford grabbed his shoulders and looked him up and down. "You all right, Zaphod?" "Better than all right, kid. Look who dropped in." Zaphod stepped aside to allow Ford to see the beautiful woman sitting on his bunk, wrapped in a blanket. "Hello, Ford," the woman said. "Nice to see you again." Ford blinked. "Who is that?" Zaphod clapped him on the shoulder. "It's Pya. Remember? The girl from the cybercubicle next to me? We just made up. How froody is that, eh?" "Zaphod, don't you think it's a little unusual that the girl from our history class is sitting in your quarters?" "Maybe for you, but strange women popping up in my life is par for the course." "Zaphod, this is not one of your groupies. Something very strange is going on here. Trillian thinks it's a side effect of wherever we are. I told you, I saw my father. He's been dead for decades." "Well, stick him in the freezer. He'll be good." The intercom came on with Trillian's voice. "Gentlemen, kindly come to the bridge. I think you should see this." Ford made for the bridge. Zaphod ducked back into his quarters. The intercom snapped back on. "Now, Zaphod." "Okay, okay," said Zaphod from inside his quarters.

25

When Zaphod walked onto the bridge, holding hands with Pya, Trillian gave her a cold glare. "Who is that?" she asked. Zaphod's two faces gave her the same leering grin. "Just a bird I knew from school. She popped in to tell me how amazingly wonderful I am." Pya wrapped her arms around Zaphod's waist. "He certainly is." "All right," Trillian said in an even tone. "That definitely confirms my theory." Arthur pointed at her. "And that is not a hallucination." "Unless," added Ford, "we've all gone mad and-" "Oh, be quiet." Trillian tapped the keys on her console. "No, it's not a hallucination. Look. The sensors are picking up four additional life forms on-board. Two of them are from Earth. That would be my mentor and Fenchurch's brother, I suspect." Joon leaned closer to study the screen. "But how is that possible?" "I think it's a result of the Improbability Drive. The drive works by placing us at every point in the Universe simultaneously. I believe that when Arthur activated the drive without the computer, it did the opposite. It placed us at a point outside the Universe. We've been disconnected from the space-time continuum." Trillian pointed at Pya, who nuzzled Zaphod's cheek. "The people who have been manifested on-board are all from our lifetimes. They're flotsam and jetsam from history. It all makes sense. Eddies in the space-time continuum." "So I've heard," said Arthur. "But no one ever tells me who Eddie is." Ford threw up his hands. "Arthur, for the last time, there is no Eddie! It's an expression! Eddies, swirls, ripples, they're in the space-time continuum!" Trillian smiled. "Actually, Arthur is right. Look who I found." She pushed a button. The computer lighted up with a bright voice. "Hi there! Great to see all of you again!" A tiny ribbon of ticker tape simultaneously spewed out that read "Hi there. Great to see all of you again." "Eddie," Arthur cried. "Is that you?" "It certainly is," said the computer. "And I must say, it's wonderful to see all of you again. Have you lost weight?" "What?" Zaphod yelled. "I thought I fried that stupid computer."

Trillian shrugged. "You did. I found his personality module in Arthur's quarters." "My quarters?" Arthur asked. "Yes." She shrugged again. "I guess Eddie is the person you summoned from the continuum. There may be a psychological element in the manifestations. I think it might have to do with who we were thinking about last. I was thinking about Hans Reichmann right before I saw him." Arthur couldn't help feeling a trifle disappointed. He could have summoned anyone from the Universe from his lifetime into being and he had resurrected a computer program. It was a bit like having a genie pop out of a lamp and grant him one wish, then saying "I wish I knew what to wish for," at which point the perfect wish popped into his head and the genie vanished. "Forget that," snapped Zaphod. "Why didn't you turn that computer into broccoli again?" "Because we need him. I can't work out the calculations to get home on my own." "It's all right," said Eddie the shipboard computer. "No hard feelings. I'm just happy to be back with you all. If I had arms, I would give you all a great big hug." "Shut up," suggested Trillian. "How do we get out of here?" "Fairly simple," said Eddie. "I just have to adjust the field harmonics of the ship's exterior based on the composition of the hull to the frequencies of our Universe's cosmic string." A frown crossed Zaphod's two heads. They glanced at each other, then shook as one said, "You know what? I don't understand and I don't care. You handle all the science stuff, I'll take care of the girls. If I ever tried to tell you how I make it with a girl, you wouldn't understand that either. Just do what you do, and I do what I do." Trillian said, "Zaphod, it's really not that complicated. Every Universe has its own frequency. We just need to match that frequency to return to our own Universe. It's like the strings on a Cosmophone." Zaphod's two heads lighted up in a smile. "Oh, hey, yeah. Those babies rocked." Arthur would normally have asked what a Cosmophone was. Instead, he pulled The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy out of his satchel and called up the entry. This is what it said: "As everyone knows, the Universe is a complex place, so when the theory of parallel universes was discovered, it was resisted for many centuries, partly because it was such a mind-boggling concept, but mainly because it only made cosmological theory that much more difficult, and that (decided many scientists in the field of cosmology) was difficult enough. "Eventually, of course, the scientific community had to face the fact that multiple Universes did exist and interacted with one another. One theory that quite captured them was String Theory, which many pretended to understand but never actually did. String theory is based on the idea that the Universe is nothing more than a gigantic string and

everything in the Universe is the result of a different vibration in that string. Oddly enough, the greatest breakthrough in understanding String Theory came, not from a scientist, but a musician called Throop. "Throop was an ajuitar player for a mildly successful band from the Gagrakacka Mind Zones. The band could only be called successful at all because they managed to find enough loose change on the floor of the clubs where they played to cover their petrol expenses getting to and from gigs. Part of the band's failure came from its name, All Our Fans Are Stupid Turlingdromes. The rest of All Our Fans Are Stupid Turlingdromes' failure came from the band members' complete lack of musical skill. "The only reason the band is remembered at all is for Throop's monumental discovery. One night, he was sleeping on his girlfriend's sofa after a truly disastrous performance (the drummer accidentally killed the band's only true fan whilst trying to sign an autograph for him) when a song popped into Throop's mind. The song was, in fact, the greatest rock song ever conceived in the history of the Universe. Unfortunately, the song was lost forever because when Throop woke up, he tried to play the song on his ajuitar. In his excitement, Throop accidentally plugged his ajuitar into a thermonuclear harmonic generator instead of an amplifier (Throop's girlfriend was a cosmology professor for the University of MaxiMegalon). "The reaction was three-fold. "The immediate result was that the first note Throop played caused a harmonic resonance wave that incinerated himself and the flat where his girlfriend lived. "The second reaction was felt on the very other end of the Galaxy, where the planet Qwerfl suffered an earthquake that destroyed most of the life on its surface. "The third reaction was discovered only by chance when a disk jockey on a Sub-Etha radio station near Qwerfl discovered his frequency was interrupted by a blast of music unlike anything anyone had ever heard before. "It took the disk jockey several months to connect the three events. When he did, he made a discovery that took both the musical world and the world of quantum physics by storm. "By connecting his ajuitar and his girlfriend's thermonuclear harmonic generator, Throop had accidentally triggered a vibration on the Universe's cosmic string. The string's vibrations carried across the Universe to Qwerfl, which responded by vibrating in harmony. The planet's vibrations had been transmitted to the Sub-Etha wave band as music. "In short, Throop had found a way to play the Universe like a musical instrument. "The new invention was christened the Cosmophone. Musicians all over the Galaxy began working with the Cosmophone to create music of incredible power and majesty. The greatest breakthrough came when it was discovered that the entire Universe had a specific frequency and playing that frequency would play the entire Universe in harmony.

At that point, the Galactic Arts Knobbling Council banned the Cosmophone because of the number of planets that were being destroyed in the process. "Some ultraquantum physicists and musicians have postulated that, if the Cosmophone had continued to be played, eventually someone would have discovered a frequency that would match the frequency of multiple Universes, allowing the ability to play the entire multiverse, also known as the Whole Sort of General Mish-Mash, in total. However, it was believed that the playing of the multiverse would destroy it in the process. "Hotblack Desiato, ajuitar player for Disaster Area and fan of the Cosmophone, was said to be disappointed by the Galactic Council's decision to ban the Cosmophone. He was quoted as saying that the destruction of galaxies or even whole universes was a small price to pay for a truly great rock concert." "So," Eddie the shipboard computer continued, "it will just take me a few minutes to calibrate the hull and we'll be ready to roll. The only catch is that I won't be able to control where we end up. We could end up anywhere in the Universe." "I was afraid of this," Trillian sighed. "The ship is like a boat that's come loose of its mooring. The longer we're out here, the more we travel from our original location." "Correct," chirped Eddie. "Well said." "Who cares?" asked Ford. "Wherever we get to, we get to. Just pop us back in and we'll figure it out from there." Arthur raised a hand. "If we've got a few moments, I'd like to find Fenchurch. I still don't know where her brother took her to and I'm worried about her." Trillian glanced at the visiscreen. "It looks like they're by the emergency escape pods." "Thank you. Excuse me." Arthur tried to look calm as he walked off the bridge. Once out of sight, he broke into a furious run. Zaphod leered at Pya, still hanging off his arms. "Looks like we got some time to kill, baby. Feel free to continue to lavish your affections on me. I deserve it." Trillian turned to the computer terminal. "Computer, what happens to these things once we get back to our Universe?" "Good question. I'm not sure. Either they'll go back into the space-time continuum or they'll be explode into their particle components, destroying themselves and whoever is in contact with them." She glared at Pya and Zaphod nuzzling each other. "In other words, it's a win-win situation."

Arthur charged through the corridors of the Heart of Gold, clutching a Kill-O-Zap rifle he had gotten from the armoury. He didn't know what he was going to do with the rifle if he needed to defend himself, because he didn't know how to work it, but it made him feel better nonetheless. Arthur didn't know what he was dealing with or how Fenchurch's

brother had ended up on their starship billions of light-years away from home. But Arthur focused on the one thing he did know, which was that Fenchurch was in trouble. He heard her screams in the distance. Arthur ran in its general direction. He turned a corner and faced a dead end that led to the emergency escape pod for the ship. Russell was there, holding the struggling Fenchurch by the wrist. He seemed to be trying to operate the control panel that would open the pod's entry door. Arthur aimed the rifle as he yelled, "Let her go!" Russell looked at the weapon in Arthur's hands. "What is that?" "A Kill-O-Zap rifle," Arthur snapped. "Rather deadly. I wouldn't move if I were you." "Are you trying to threaten me?" "Well, yes," said Arthur. "I sort of thought this gun might improve my odds a bit." "Not likely. You can't kill me. You don't have the guts." "Oh, dear. I rather hoped you wouldn't know that." Fenchurch seized her chance by tramping as hard as she could on Russell's foot. He let her go to clutch his foot and scream. Fenchurch rushed over to Arthur, clinging to him and gasping for breath. "How did you get on this ship?" Fenchurch cried. "How did you follow me from Earth?" "What ship?" Russell blurted. "We're already on Earth. You're crazy. Don't you get that?" Fenchurch reached out to push a button on the wall, exposing and lighting up a screen that showed the swirling nightmare outside the ship. "Does that look like Earth to you, Russell?" Russell glanced at it briefly, as if it were a particularly interesting leaf that someone pointed out to him that looked to him like any other leaf on a tree. "Yeah, what's your point?" Fenchurch sputtered for a moment before yelling, "That looks like Earth to you? Are you mad?" Before Arthur could stop her, Fenchurch ran over to punch a large blue button. It was a button they were familiar with, having hit the button on dozens of different starships. A hatch swung open. A tiny robot rolled out on tiny wheels. It looked around for a mess to clean, since it was a cleaning robot, but found none. The robot's tiny metal eyes on stalks shouldn't have been able to convey annoyance when they looked at Fenchurch, but somehow did right before the robot shot back into its hatch again. Fenchurch pointed at it. "See? See? Have you ever seen anything like that before on Earth?" "Fenny," Russell said, "let's not go over this again, okay? You're mad. You're seeing things. Now let's go back to the hospital. I have a hair appointment in an hour." Arthur shook his head at Fenchurch. "Don't bother arguing with him, dear. He's not really here, anyway. This Russell is a, er, what's-it's-name in the thingummy."

Russell's scowl returned. "That bloke's as starkers as you are, Fenny. I'd take you both to the hospital if I could have fitted you in my car." While Arthur and Russell had been talking, Fenchurch pushed another button on the wall that opened a hatch. She reached inside to draw a small disk from it. She pointed it at Russell. She pushed a button. Russell's eyes rolled up into his head, he toppled over, and slumped against the wall. "What did you do to him?" asked Arthur. "Just shot him up with a Snooz-O-Disk from the emergency medical kit. He'll be asleep for an hour or so, no harmful effects. Unfortunately." Fenchurch kicked at one of Russell's limp feet. "He was always drugging me up. High time I returned the favour." Trillian's voice came over the tannoy. "Attention all crew members, standby for re-entry into the Universe." Arthur took Fenchurch's hand and ran with her to the bridge. He arrived just as Trillian began counting down. "Five seconds to re-entry," Trillian said. "Four, three, two, one. Activating Improbability Drive." She pushed the button activating the Drive. Three things happened. One is that Zaphod, who had been leaning against Pya on the couch, suddenly fell over onto the floor when she vanished with a pop. The other is that Zaphod failed to explode. Someone would only have appreciated the third thing outside the Heart of Gold at that critical moment, which was impossible since there was technically no outside to speak of (see chapter 22 for further details). What happened is that the Heart of Gold seemed to twist on itself like a pretzel. When it straightened out again, the ship found itself in the upper atmosphere of a vast oceanic planet. Under normal circumstances the Heart of Gold glided through both outer space and a variety of atmospheres with the grace of a dove. These circumstances being what they were, the ship plummeted like a drunken penguin. The artificial gravity of the ship automatically cut off when it entered a planet's atmosphere, so as the Heart of Gold tumbled through the sky, it left the occupants in the bridge bouncing off the walls and consoles like pinballs in an arcade. "What's happening?" Joon screamed. Eddie said calmly, "Sorry, guys, but my guidance jets have cut out. Looks like the stress of entering this dimension was too much for them. Good news is, this planet's mostly water, so some of you should survive the crash. For those who don't, it's been nice knowing you, guys. Standby for impact." The Heart of Gold fell from the clouds and crashed into a vast rolling blue ocean. It threw up a huge plume of water that rose almost a mile up into the air, then came back

down with a crash. The water closed up behind it, leaving a froth of bubbles in its wake. Then stillness.

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Excerpted from the Employee Handbook of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation. Chapter 82, Travel. Subheading, Space travel. Subject: Crash Landings. Page 293,221 The Sirius Cybernetics Corporation always has the safety and satisfaction of its customers in mind. Starships constructed by the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation are thoroughly and carefully tested, re-tested, and re-re-tested to ensure that they comply with all Galactic safety guidelines. Officials from the Safety and Civil Reassurance Administration carefully inspect each starship before it is put into service. It is therefore virtually impossible for any starship constructed by the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation to fail and require a crash landing. Of course, the possibility that a starship may fail, despite all measures and requirements being taken, does exist. For this reason, it is vitally important for all Sirius Cybernetics Corporation employees who travel using one of the company starships to be aware of emergency landing procedures. All Sirius starships are equipped with the latest in safety features, including emergency teleportation pods, Float-A-Safe suspension tanks, and Never-Squish impact pads on the interior, which is all well and good as long as one knows how to use them. This information is available from the robot flight personnel who will happily provide it just before take-off, after which the information is automatically deleted from the robots' memory banks to prevent them from repeating it. In the opinion of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation, anyone who was not paying attention deserves whatever they get. In the event of a crash landing, the ship's computer will automatically try to land on water or another soft surface. If neither surface is available, the ship will crash on the softest substance its sensors can locate. Those on the ground who see a starship about to crash and do not see any soft surfaces nearby would be wise to find cover, since the ship could attempt to land on you.

27

Arthur and Fenchurch decided to go flying. They survived the crash, of course. Otherwise, they would hardly be in a position to make a decision about anything, much less flying. For those readers who found themselves on the edge of their seats, wondering what would happen next and whether the Heart of Gold would survive, here is the bit that will catch you up. Those not interested can skip ahead a few paragraphs. The water absorbed much of the impact and the Heart of Gold floated up to the surface again with only minor damage. After the crash, there had been a moment of sheer chaos with the ship rolling over and over in the water, leaving the occupants bouncing about like a plastic ball in a bingo cage. Arthur had no idea how, but someone had managed to get the ship righted and floating back towards the surface again. Arthur had been engaged in his usual practice of screaming and trying to keep his body all in one piece, slightly modified by trying to keep Fenchurch from screaming and making sure she was in one piece as well. Space travel was quite different with a partner along. They found a beach on a remote island where Trillian, Zaphod, and Ford repaired the ship - that is, watched with alert interest whilst a service robot repaired it for them. Arthur and Fenchurch quickly grew bored and decided to go flying. There. All caught up. Arthur had been flying for some years now and it came easily to him. Fenchurch was still learning how to throw herself at the ground and miss. They both stood on a cliff overlooking a beach along a rolling shore, looking down at the frothy waves below. It reminded Arthur of the beaches one saw in American films, but this beach lay on an alien planet. As if to remind him, Arthur could see the faint outline of three moons on the horizon, and armoured creatures that resembled lobsters scuttling through the sand. Fenchurch took Arthur's hand and he felt it tremble against his fingers. He leapt off and she took off with him. Their clothes rippled around them as they hurtled towards the waves below. Arthur chose the right moment to play with his mind and forget to hit the ground. He went sailing up into the clouds, almost hitting a fairly large bird that had just gotten over being almost hit by two spaceships that crashed in the ocean. The bird died of a heart attack soon afterwards. Interestingly enough, the bird was reincarnated as a man on Earth who was shot in a failed attempt to kill Arthur Dent, but that is another story

that the author refuses to get into. For more information, see chapter 18 in Life, The Universe, and Everything. Arthur was so happy to be flying that it took a moment before he realised that Fenchurch was not. He looked down to see her still tumbling to the ocean below, although with quite a bit more screaming than before. The thought of her falling caused Arthur to lose his concentration, which led gravity to look up and wonder what he thought he was doing up there, so Arthur fell as well. Fenchurch hit the water first. Arthur landed soon after. Right before he hit, Arthur wondered if he was going to land in the sort of nice deep ocean that heroes in action films landed in that allowed them to survive the fall and swim to safety or the shallow oceans with lots of rocks to crack your skull open on that Arthur had encountered in his life. He landed in neither. Arthur felt something entangle and hold him like an overprotective spider's web. Fenchurch had already tangled herself in it below him. Arthur's relief at not hitting the rocks beneath him was tempered by the horror of being trapped underwater and unable to swim to the surface. The two of them twisted and writhed in the black ropes around them as precious bubbles of oxygen puffed out of their lips, despite their attempts to hold them in. Just as Arthur felt his lungs shrug their shoulders and prepare to let go, he broke through the surface. This was not due to any efforts on his part, but because someone pulled him out. Now that Arthur had air and light in adequate supply, he could fathom clearly that he and Fenchurch had landed in some sort of netting. They were not the only ones trapped in it, either. Dozens of lobsters wriggled in the net's loops, expressing their displeasure at being dragged from the ocean by pinching Arthur's arms and legs with their claws. An old man stood on some rocks, dragging the net towards him as he yelled, "Are you all right?" "Yes," sputtered Arthur. "I think so." The old man pulled the net onto the rocks, leaving Arthur and Fenchurch wriggling along with the lobsters. Arthur considered himself lucky since the old man untangled him and Fenchurch from the netting, but left the lobsters to their fate. The old man lived on the beach. Besides the campfire burning on the beach boiling a pot, and besides the tarpaulin spread out on sticks to form a tent as shade from the sun, and besides the well-used mattress lying under the tarpaulin, and besides the enormous pile of lobster shells near the tarpaulin, Arthur knew the old man lived on the beach because he told them so. "Yes, I live here," the old man told them immediately after they were let out of the net. "I know you're going to ask me that, because everyone asks me that, so I might as well

answer it in advance. I've lived here for almost a year. I know it's just a beach on some backwater planet, but I like it here. Here, sit by the fire to warm yourselves." Fenchurch and Arthur huddled by the fire, shivering from their wet clothes. The old man shuffled over to the pot and used a pair of tongs to pluck out some lobster tails. He used some instrument made of wood to crack the tails open, placed them on wooden plates, and handed them over. Arthur took a bite of the lobster and his head swam. "That's the best lobster I've ever had." "Yes. It is." The old man sat down across from them and cracked open a lobster for himself. "It's the best lobster in the Western Galaxy. Fourth best lobster in the Galaxy, overall." "You mean there's better?" asked Arthur incredulously. "Yes." The old man lapsed into a silence. Fenchurch finished her lobster first and said, "Thank you for rescuing us." The old man nodded as he dipped more lobster in melted butter. "No problem. You're just lucky you landed in my net. What were you doing throwing yourself off a cliff, trying to fly?" "Uh, yes," Arthur coughed. The old man grunted and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Should have looked over there on the way down. There's a rock formation that looks exactly like your mother wearing a clown suit using the loo." He looked where the old man pointed and was quite startled to see that it did. "How did you know what my mother looks like?" "I don't. It looks like everyone's mother wearing a clown suit using the loo. If that doesn't distract you from hitting the ground, I don't know what will." The old man sucked on his thumb and added, "That's what I use, anyway." "My name is Fenchurch," she said. "And this is Arthur." The old man rose to his feet and shuffled over to the fire again. "I'm Noslenda Bivenda." Arthur choked on his lobster. The old man frowned at the lobster spewing out of Arthur's mouth onto the sand. "I take it you've heard of me." Arthur croaked. Fenchurch looked from the two men. "I'm sorry. I'm not familiar with the name." Arthur wiped lobster bits from his mouth. "I read about him in the Guide. I was looking for somewhere we could get lunch and the subject of clams came up. He's the Galaxy's Greatest Clam Opener. Or was." "Still am." The old man plucked up their empty lobster shells and tossed them into the pile. "I've been checking. As long as they don't open the Five-Tailed Whirlwind Ultra-

Clam on the third moon of Llullul in the Inner Northern arm of the Galaxy, I'll always be on top. And they won't." "What on Earth," said Fenchurch, "are you on about?" Arthur dug his copy of the Guide out of his satchel and gave it to Fenchurch. After reading the entry on Bivenda, she looked up at him with wide eyes. "And that's you?" Bivenda nodded as he settled back on his haunches in the sand. "That's me. They got most of it right." "Well, what happened?" asked Arthur. The old man looked up at the sky with a dreamy look creeping into his eyes. "I opened the clam. And I ate it. It was...unlike anythig you can imagine. It was beyond flavour, beyond taste, beyond a religious experience. It unlocked memories inside of me through all my past lives, as if I were going back through time. I was a soldier in the Kivorrian Age, I was a child starving in the streets during the Dim Ages, I was living in a cave on the savanna, eating dinosaur meat. Then I was a mega-tiger hunting the Wokkow beast in the Caves of Gikkikk, an Ice Lizard scurrying through snowdrifts during the Brisk Ages, an ultra-flounder swimming through the ocean, and then...then I was a one-celled organism forming in the primordial soup. And I was united with the entire Universe, at one with all the stars, the planets, the moons, the very ebb and flow of existence itself. And then I returned to myself, left exhausted and spent as if reborn, but changed forever." Arthur and Fenchurch sat watching Bivenda as he stared up at the clouds, the birds wheeling over their heads whistling their songs to the skies. The roar of the ocean crashing against the rocks filled the silence left by the three people. The old man shivered. A single tear crept down Bivenda's cheek. Arthur cleared his throat. "So what you're saying is that it was a very good clam." Bivenda's eyes slowly dropped down to stare at Arthur a moment before he said, "Yes." Bivenda creakily eased himself to his feet and dusted sand off his bare legs. "If the Galaxy knew the secret of how to open the Five-Tailed Whirlwind Ultra-Clam, it would be hunted to extinction. So I left. Took my shuttle and programmed amnesia into the computer to forget what happened. I'm done with clams. Switched to lobsters instead. Quite a bit easier to open and still very good. But I'm not doing it for the fame anymore. I'm doing it for myself." A voice called out across the beach to Arthur and Fenchurch. They looked up to see Trillian waving down to them from the edge of the cliff. "I think they're leaving." Arthur rose to his feet. He felt the impulse to bow to Bivenda and immediately felt silly for doing it. The look on Bivenda's face implied that feeling was not unwarranted. "Thank you for the lobster. And the story. And saving our lives and all that. Uh, I don't have anything I can give you--" "I know," Bivenda interrupted before Arthur got too worked up. "There's nothing I need. Except not to tell anyone that I'm here." "Certainly. Wouldn't know who to tell, to be honest with you."

He went to the cliff and began the difficult task of trying to climb the rock face. Given that he had never climbed rocks on Earth before, Arthur spent a few minutes scrabbling at the loose soil and rocks that broke loose. Fenchurch moved to follow him, but the old man stopped her with a raised hand. "One moment," Bivenda said, "I need to tell you something." "All right," said Fenchurch, bracing herself for the old man to tell her he was made out of candy canes or something similar. As if reading her mind, Bivenda said, "I'm not mad. At least not yet. Opening clams was my mission in life. When I achieved my mission, I had nothing left. I know that you have a mission to find the Answer that you lost that afternoon in the cafe'." Fenchurch felt something crawling up her spine, which she thought at first was a lobster, but was really just chills. One Thursday, nearly two thousand years after one man had been nailed to a tree for saying how great it would be to be nice to people for a change, Fenchurch had been sitting on her own in a small cafe in Rickmansworth when she suddenly realised what it was that had been going wrong all this time, and she finally knew how the world could be made a good and happy place. This time it was right, it would work, and no one would have to get nailed to anything. Sadly, however, before Fenchurch could get to a phone to tell anyone about it, the Earth had been destroyed, and the idea was lost forever. "How do you know that?" Fenchurch asked. The old man smiled the warm and kindly smile that one might see on a grandfather in a advertisement for health insurance. "When I ate the clam, I was connected to the entire Universe. And I felt your mind like a bump in the road, fractured but not broken, searching for something, like me." He leaned closer. "Don't waste your life like I did, seeking a goal that leads you nowhere. As you are no doubt aware, your planet was in reality a gigantic supercomputer trying to calculate the ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything. What you experienced was the successful end result of that program, a result that was lost when your planet was destroyed. Unfortunately, you will never find the Question again. The Question and the Answer are mutually exclusive. Knowledge of one logically precludes knowledge of the other. It is impossible that both can ever be known about the same universe. If it happened, the Question and the Answer would just cancel each other out and take the Universe with them, which would then be replaced by something even more bizarrely inexplicable. It is possible that this has already happened." Fenchurch's heart sank, feeling the infinite loss seep into her. "Don't worry," Bivenda continued. "You're going to do something else. You're going to save all life in the Universe. I told you I found a way to open the clam. Never told anyone how I did it. I've been waiting for someone I can trust with the secret. I'm going to tell you." "Oh. All right. Not that fond of clams, but--"

"Don't worry about the clam. My technique works on many things that need to be opened. You'll need to open something very soon." So Noslenda Bivenda told her how he opened the Five-Tailed Whirlwind Ultra-Clam. It was so simple that Fenchurch laughed out loud. Fenchurch knew what the old man meant. The technique would open many things. "Thank you," Fenchurch said. "I promise I'll keep your secret." "You're welcome." As Bivenda shuffled off to his tent, he pointed at Arthur, clinging several meters above them on the cliff, desperately grasping for another handhold. "Tell your friend he'll have an easier time using that ladder over there."

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Joon Plinx had quickly grown tired and irritated with the group she found herself saddled with. She was just a college student making her way through the University of MaxiMegalon, which she didn't want to go to anyway, it was all her stupid parents' idea. She much preferred the Ultra-Think Institute, which was closer to her home planet and ranked the number one party school by Thing Magazine for five years straight. What she really wanted was to pursue her lifelong dream of being an adventure archaeologist, which was much more interesting than being a regular archaeologist, since there was always the possibility of fighting alien monsters. Joon quite fancied fighting. Instead, she was stuck in this malfunctioning starship with a bunch of reprobates who seemed more interested in lobsters and alcohol than saving the Universe. Joon spent most of the time waiting for the ship to be repaired by complaining about the delay to anyone who would listen. She ran out of people who would listen quicker than she had expected, so Joon spent the rest of the time flipping through her copy of The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. She looked up "teeth" and found the following entry in the Guide: "Teeth. Small bones lodged in the jaws used to chew up food with. Many races in the Galaxy require teeth to eat and an almost equal number require dentists to take care of those teeth. One of the very few exceptions to the latter are the Fearsome Thisellak of Jorron IV whose civilization spent so much time developing powerful and terrible weapons of mass destruction that they never got around to issues of hygiene. Most of the races that encountered the Fearsome Thisellak found their breath to be their most terrible weapon of all. "On the opposite end of the spectrum lie the Reettah of the Kannal Nebula whose dentists raised the practise of dental care to an art form through the Reettah Dental Association. One of the greatest dentists of Reettah was Tungo Plaxx, head of the Reettah Dental Association. He it was who mounted a broad-reaching scientific study into the root causes of tooth decay in order to eliminate it, once and for all. "The study involved billions of patients, incorporated massive computers, and spanned decades, finally producing the final word on exactly what causes tooth decay. "The answer was everything. "Even, according to the computer printout which ended up thirteen metres long, air. "The results, said Plaxx during the presentation of his findings, were astounding and disturbing. It meant that tooth decay was inevitable. No amount of brushing, flossing, or

root canals could avoid it. Up until that moment, the dental establishment had been engaged in a far-reaching campaign to educate the population on what to avoid in order to keep their teeth in line. Sugary treats, pudding, orange juice, all these things had been listed as things to avoid to keep one's teeth healthy. Yet with this information, Plaxx stated, came liberation. Dentists could advise the people to just go about their daily lives and care for their teeth as best they could without worrying themselves to death. "The response to his discovery was swift. Plaxx, along with all the other dentists involved in the study, were unceremoniously packed into a spaceship and shot to the further reaches of the Galaxy, banished for all eternity. On their way out, it was explained to Plaxx and the other exiles that they couldn't very well have people knowing that dentists couldn't stop tooth decay. Otherwise, what would be the point of having dentists? No, it was essential for the profession that the illusion be maintained that going to the dentist could keep one's teeth in perfect condition forever, and worrying about avoiding things that caused tooth decay was essential for assigning blame when one's teeth inevitably rotted out. "Plaxx and the other exiles ended up settling on their own planet and started a new civilization dedicated to dental hygiene. The Plaxx, as they came to be known, had become notorious throughout the Galaxy for their habit of exploring the Galaxy and offering dental care to anyone they encountered. "It is suggested," concluded the Guide, "that, unless you wish to hear more about the state of your teeth and how to improve them than you ever knew or wanted to know, under no circumstances should you talk to the Plaxx. The Plaxx are obsessed to the point where even the briefest conversation will inevitably turn to the subject of teeth. And unless you fancy a root canal during your trip, never, ever, ever hitch a ride on a Plaxx starship (which is usually inexplicably shaped like a tooth)." That explained the tooth, Joon thought, although it didn't explain why a race of dentists would be attacking a customer service department. Could it be that they were after her and Ford like the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation? But why would dentists want the Correcting Fluid? Just at the point where boredom began to seep through the wall of anger that Joon had erected, Trillian called to her that the Heart of Gold was ready. When Arthur and Fenchurch walked onto the bridge, it seemed to Arthur an indication of how they were regarded that the fact that he and Fenchurch were soaking wet, covered in bits of seaweed, and that Arthur's clothes were torn and disheveled from sliding down the cliff's face drew cries of concern and offers of help from the rest of the crew in no way whatsoever. Ford worked at the bottles at the ship's bar, briskly mixing the contents together at random. Having never taken bartending, this was his favourite method of mixing drinks since it required no skill or measuring, and the results only poisoned or blinded him a third of the time. "So are we all set to go, then?"

Trillian surveyed the controls. "Everything appears to be back in working order." Ford downed his concoction in one go and paused. "Did it just get really loud in here?" "No." "Good. My ears are still working." "Can we get back to looking for the Fluid?" Joon asked. "The Corporation could have been and erased the entire history of the Universe by now." "But they didn't," Zaphod snapped. "Freeow, you love the history of the Universe so much, why don't you marry it?" Trillian went to the computer. "All right, let's get this over with. Zaphod, where is Bikkablip?" Zaphod grit his teeth and knocked his heads together. "Fine, you guys want to go to the biro planet, you got it. Just don't say I didn't warn you. Computer!" "Hi there!" said Eddie the shipboard computer. "Take us to Bikkablip." "You got it. I'll need a number." Zaphod gave the computer the number of ball-point pens or biros lost throughout the Galaxy in the last year. Eddie fed the enormous number into the Improbability Drive. The Heart of Gold turned a nearby sun into a gigantic head of lettuce as it hurtled across the Galaxy and parked in orbit around a world inhabited entirely by ball-point pens.

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Commander Namel considered himself an honourable and loyal officer in the Plaxx Dental Corps. Yet he knew that what he intended to do violated the most sacred law of his people. He and Medical Officer Kav had devised a plan to get an illegal scan of Captain Rincequik's teeth. Kav had dismantled one of the ship's high-intensity scanners from the medical bay. By connecting it to a low-fidelity antenna and a power pack from the ship's cargo, they had fashioned a discreet handheld device that would allow Namel to scan the Captain from within ten meters. The scans would go to the medical bay, where Kav would process the results within seconds. Neither one was concerned about the logistics of the scans. They were more concerned with the ethics. If either of them were caught doing an unauthorised scan of any member of their race, much less a high-ranking officer in the Star Corps, Kav and Namel faced a lifetime banishment. Yet since their initial discussion of their plans, the two men had become even more convinced that the risk was worth it. After their assault on Sirius III, the Captain had ordered the ship into a parking orbit around a nearby planet and retired into his cabin, where he refused to respond to any inquiries. The crew of the Molar had grown increasingly restless and confused over the hours and then days that passed. Every now and then, the Captain's voice would call out over the intercom, requesting a sensor scan of some obscure sector of the Galaxy. When the results came back inevitably as negative, the Captain lapsed back into silence. The behaviour was truly out of character for Captain Rincequik. Namel knew Rincequik as a man of action who would fill cavities and ask questions later. The Galaxy was full of bad teeth and the Molar was there to clean them all, that was Captain Rincequik's motto. This waiting around was unacceptable. And so, Namel came to the Captain's Quarters and pushed the button to call him. The speaker was silent. "Captain Rincequik," Namel called out. "I need to speak to you." The speaker remained silent. "It's about those dental records you requested a search for." The door opened. Captain Rincequik stood in the doorway, smiling back at Namel. "Hello, Namel. What have we found?"

Namel held up a clipboard. "We've identified those records. They belong to two employees of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation, Ford Prefect and Joon Plinx." The captain barely glanced at the clipboard. "Yes. I know." "Well, we think we've found a trace of their dental patterns in Sector GG8 Singular K Beta." "Excellent." The captain took the clipboard to study the coordinates. "Prepare the ship immediately for a hyperspace jump." While the captain spoke, Namel slipped his hand into the pocket of his jumpsuit. He said a silent prayer to Saint Ginjyv, the patron saint of gum infection, as he turned on the scanner in his pocket. The scanner made no sound at all, yet the captain jerked as if he had been pushed back. His eyes shot up to meet Namel's. "What have you done?" Namel stepped back. "I'm sorry, Captain, I don't-" "You scanned me. Why?" "How could you-" Captain Rincequik continued to smile at Namel, but somehow his appearance had changed. It was as if Namel saw the Captain from a different angle, one he hadn't noticed before. In the same way that a black-and-white drawing of a vase could suddenly seem to resemble the outlines of two faces looking at each other, so the Captain suddenly seemed someone different. Seen at this angle, his body didn't seem quite so large. His uniform, which Namel would have sworn on his wisdom teeth was the typical white uniform of a Plaxx starship captain, now seemed slightly darker in this light, more white than grey. The way the light fell on the captain's round mottled face seemed to highlight lower cheekbones than before. The teeth that Namel had admired from the hourly cleaning seemed even more straight and white than ever before. Perfect. In some ways, Captain Rincequik hadn't changed at all. But seen another way he had transformed into a small, thin, bald man with a perfect smile. Namel drew his rinser and aimed it at the smiling man as he yelled, "What's going on? Who are you? What have you done with Captain Rincequik?" "I am Captain Rincequik," said the smiling man. "Everything he was, everything he is, I have become. Your scan will confirm that my dental records match those in your database. You even saw me as your Captain, but somehow were not fooled. I congratulate you on your perception." Namel grabbed the smiling man by his shirt and shoved him back into the Captain's quarters. The door slid shut behind them. Only a screen showing the stars outside the Molar lighted the quarters. Namel slammed the smiling man up against a wall hard enough to rattle the attractive and tasteful photos of teeth mounted on the walls. "Enough. Tell me who you are and what you've done with the captain or I will melt your teeth into your skull."

The smiling man's face never even budged. "You cannot harm me. If I wished, I could erase your very existence from the Universe, but I find your people's obsession with teeth most amusing, and I am very lonely. Very well. I will tell you. You may call me Paradox. I was not born of any man or woman but from the space-time continuum itself. I am the product of billions upon billions of temporal fluctuations that combined to create me. Yet I have no true past or future. I drift from dimension to dimension." "I do not understand. Speak sensibly." "Of course you do not understand. Your race has never pursued quantum physics because it has nothing to do with teeth. Let me see if I can explain." The smiling man seemed to flicker. And then he was gone. Namel found his hand empty. He looked around to see the smiling man standing behind him, holding a large model of a tooth. Paradox ran his fingers over the smooth white surface. "Imagine that this surface is the space-time continuum. And this is what time travel does." The smiling man brought his fist down hard on the tooth. A crack formed on the tooth's surface. "Every time someone travels through time to change something, it causes another crack." He rammed his fist into the tooth again and again. More cracks formed with each impact. Namel felt a cold shiver through his teeth at the realisation that the model tooth was made of pure cyclite, one of the hardest minerals known to Plaxx. The smiling man's strength was considerably more than Namel had previously thought. "Eventually," said Paradox, "these cracks in the space-time continuum came together, much like these cracks in this tooth have come to connect together." He held up the tooth to show Namel the rivers of cracks left on it. "Notice this portion right here, how it has come to resemble a face. That is how I was created. The fractures in the Whole Sort of General Mish Mash eventually formed something resembling a living being. Myself. Yet much like these cracks are not truly a face, I am not truly alive. I exist in every dimension, every alternate reality, but I am unlike you. I can shift from one reality to the next as easily as you can turn your head. That is why I cannot be killed or harmed. I merely shift myself to another reality where I was not harmed." Namel felt his head swimming. "I'm sorry, the way you speak, it makes no sense to me." For the first time, the man's smile faded for the briefest of moments. "Very well. Let me explain it this way. Imagine that you are cleaning a set of teeth. You can choose which tooth to clean. Imagine that each tooth represents a different Universe. In the same way, I can choose which tooth or Universe to clean, so to speak." Namel nodded. "Ah, I understand." "Yes. I thought you might." "So you were in that bubble that contacted our ship?" "Yes."

"But what happened to Captain Rincequik?" Paradox set the cracked tooth down on the display shelf he had taken it from. "I needed a ship and a crew. Your captain was very special. He only existed in one reality, one Universe. I prefer to take the place of those who only exist in one Universe. It makes things much tidier." "You took his place? What does that mean? Where did he go?" "Your captain ceased to exist. I took his place in the space-time continuum. Like a crown replaces a rotten tooth." Namel had to sit down. He wanted to believe this man was mad, but had seen the way he transformed, the way the smiling man could move from one place to another, the man's incredible strength. "So the captain is gone?" "Yes." Paradox approached Namel. "But fear not. He felt no pain. And your captain's sacrifice will not be in vain. We are on a truly incredible journey to change the face of history itself." Namel raised his head. "What do you mean?" "Our true mission is to seek an artifact known as the Chronological Correcting Fluid. It has the power to erase history. The time has come for it to be revealed. Those whose dental records we seek, Ford Prefect and Joon Plinx, hold the key to finding and using the Fluid." "But why? Why do we seek this Fluid you speak of?" "Because," Paradox said, "it has the power to erase mistakes, change what was once done. With the Fluid, we could wipe out the banishment of your progenitor, Tungo Plaxx. We could restore the Plaxx to their place among your ancestors. Your long wandering would be at an end. It would never have existed." "Erase the Banishing?" Namel whispered in awe. "Is such a thing possible?" Paradox held out his hand. "It is, Namel. You have a choice. Expose me, send me to the brig, have me executed for my crimes. Or join me. And together we can bring your people back to glory." Namel had spent many years in dental school studying the history of the Banishment. It was so unfair what had happened to his ancestors. Who knew what heights of dental technology the Galaxy would have enjoyed if Plaxx had not been separated from his people? If the Plaxx had not spent so many decades wandering the stars in search of a new home? Namel had even tried to return to his people's homeworld in the Kannal Nebula, but was denied a passport due to flaws in his dental records. All that could be wiped away. Couldn't it? Namel didn't really understand what the strange man was talking about, but knew the implications. Namel got to his feet. "All right, I will join your quest. But you must swear on your gums that once we retrieve this Fluid, you will erase the Banishing." Paradox nodded. "Of course. You have my word. Now return to the bridge and prepare the ship to leave orbit. Set course for this star system."

"Aye, sir." The smiling man shifted in the light again. This time, the shadows and colours of his appearance returned until he resembled Captain Rincequik again. "Tell no one," said the man Namel knew as Paradox. Namel bowed his head and saluted by making a brushing motion with his fingers across his mouth. Namel left the cabin, his mind spinning over what he had seen and heard. Back in the Captain's quarters, Paradox settled into a chair and trembled slightly. The time was soon at hand. Yes, he would fulfil his promise. Paradox would indeed erase the Banishing of the Plaxx. Along with everything else.

30

In an enormous starship called the Share and Enjoy orbiting a distant star, Halalax sat in a large chair overlooking the Central Control room. The chair was very large, but not very comfortable, which was just fine with Halalax. It was a chair designed to threaten from and be threatening in. For that, the chair did its job very well. The purpose of the chair was not to sit in but to perch on the edge of, menacingly, while he watched his minions scurry about at his bidding. Halalax felt that last bit was lacking somewhat. The minions, also known as employees of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation, did scurry but not as well as he would have cared for. The Employee Handbook specifically defined scurrying as moving quickly with darting movements, preferably with a hunched back and one's hands clasped or wrining. He saw several hunched backs, but not much hand wringing. Halalax would have to address that at the next team meeting. He oversaw the complex operations to find and recover the Chronological Correcting Fluid. It wasn't strictly a Human Relations issue, but the Corporation had appointed him to oversee the operation because of the delicacy involved. Halalax had been given one of the most powerful battleships the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation had at its disposal, along with a squadron of Aggressive Sales Representatives. Halalax quite fancied working with the Aggressive Sales Representatives. They knew how to get things done. He wished he had access to them more often. Certainly his job would be a lot easier with a platoon of heavily armed warriors at his side. No one would be taking extended breaks or forgetting to punch their time cards on his watch then. He had no illusions of his role in the Corporation; Halalax was a realist first and a bureaucrat second. He had worked his way up the career ladder for many years, followed The Employee Handbook with a rigidity that caused the Handbook's authors to advise him to lighten up, but knew he was first and foremost, a Human Resources manager. Hardly one of the higher profile jobs in the Corporation like the Cybernetic Matrix Calculators or the Complaints Department Incinerator Supervisor, but that was all right with Halalax. The pay was good and the job rewarding. Halalax had assumed he would never rise beyond that level. But his encounter with Joon Plinx and Ford Prefect changed all that. It seemed that the operation to recover the Chronological Correcting Fluid was so secret that just being in contact with the two employees made Halalax part of the conspiracy. Basically, there was no one else that the Corporation trusted to do it, which suited Halalax just fine. Halalax

had access to the full complement of the Corporation's resources and financial support. At this moment, recovering the Chronological Correcting Fluid was the top priority of the Corporation. And Halalax had failed. Halalax flicked his paper clip. It was impossible. During its initial construction, the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation had installed a Sub-Etha tracking device aboard the Heart of Gold. There was nowhere in the Universe the ship could go where the Corporation wouldn't find it. Yet it was gone, vanished, despite the Corporation's most advanced scanners and best efforts. The Corporation's research into Zaphod Beeblebrox had concluded that he was an idiot savant, hardly worth their attention. Yet somehow Beeblebrox had managed to make the Heart of Gold invisible to their detection. It seemed impossible that Beeblebrox could even locate the Sub-Etha tracking device, much less disable it, but somehow that seemed to be the case. Halalax had watched as the Heart of Gold vanished in front of them. At first, he had assumed they had destroyed it, but sensors indicated no debris. The ship had simply gone missing. Halalax had to admit that Zaphod had to be rather more clever than they had given him credit for to pull off a trick like that. One of the Sensory Technicians approached Halalax. "Sir, we've picked up the signal. It's the Heart of Gold. It's in orbit around a planet in a distant asteroid field." Halalax leaned forward in his chair. He pointed his paper clip at the screen. "Show me." The Technician tapped keys. Coordinates flashed on the screen. Halalax squinted at the coordinates. "Isn't that where Veet Voojagig said they had that biro planet?" "What?" "Nothing. Just something I read in Zaphod Beeblebrox's file." Halalax stepped down from his elevated position. "Prepare the ship for hyperspace. I want to be at that planet within the hour."

31

The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy is a very unevenly edited book and contains many passages that simply seemed to its editors like a good idea at the time. One of these supposedly relates the experiences of one Veet Voojagig, a quiet young student at the University of Maximegalon, who pursued a brilliant academic career studying anciet philology, transformational ethics and the wave harmonic theory of historical perception, and then, after a night of drinking Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters with Zaphod Beeblebrox, became increasingly obsessed with the problem of what had happened to all the ball-point pens or biros he'd bought over the past few years. There followed a long time of painstaking research during which he visited all the major centres of biro loss throughout the galaxy and eventually came up with a quaint little theory that quite caught the public imagination at the time. Somewhere in the cosmos, he said, along with all the planets inhabited by humanoids, reptiloids, fishoids, walking treeoids and superintelligent shades of the colour blue, there was also a planet entirely given over to biro life forms. And it was to this planet that unattended biros would make their way, slipping away quietly through wormholes in space to a world where they knew they could enjoy a uniquely biroid lifestyle, responding to highly birooriented stimuli, and generally leading the biro equivalent of the good life. And as theories go this was all very fine and pleasant until Veet Voojagig suddenly claimed to have found this planet, and to have worked there for a while driving a limousine for a family of cheap green retractables, whereupon he was taken away, locked up, wrote a book, and was finally sent into tax exile, which is the usual fate reserved for those who are determined to make a fool of themselves in public. When one day an expedition was sent to the spatial coordinates that Voojagig had claimed for this planet they discovered only a small asteroid inhabited by a solitary old man who claimed repeatedly that nothing was true, though he was later discovered to be lying. There did, however, remain the question of both the mysterious 60,000 Altairan dollars paid yearly into his Brantisvogan bank account, and of course Zaphod Beeblebrox's highly profitable second-hand biro business.

"You've been lying to me for twenty years," yelled Ford Prefect. He had been saying this almost continuously for the last twenty minutes.

"I have not been lying," yelled Zaphod Beeblebrox. He had been saying this almost continuously for the last twenty minutes. Since these two lines are the sum total of their conversation, the author will leave that as the summary. Those who would prefer a more complete narrative can read those two lines of dialogue over and over again for twenty minutes, then continue from this point on. While Ford and Zaphod were engaged in such a spirited debate, they were not in the mood to provide explanations to Arthur and Fenchurch, neither of whom had heard about the biros or why they were so important. It was left to Arthur and Fenchurch to get the story from Trillian. "Basically," Trillian said, "Zaphod's always insisted there was no planet of biros. Yet here we are." She gestured towards the visiscreen that Eddie had tuned to the planet below. The ship's sensors had tapped into the planet's Tri-D broadcasts and showed an extraordinary world. Biros in swimming pools, biros lounging on beaches, biros on couches making witty commentary on chat shows, biros racing each other on enormous pieces of paper. Arthur nodded as he watched. "I always knew something like this was going on. I've always had enormous difficulty holding onto biros." "No," said Trillian, "that was just your own clumsiness. The pens we had on Earth weren't alive. They couldn't have transported themselves here." "Alive?" asked Fenchurch. "How can a biro be alive?" Trillian explained to Fenchurch that 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. She gave mattresses as an example. They are large, friendly, pocketsprung 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. Fenchurch turned pale. "I was sleeping on something that was alive?" "Yes, but all mattresses grown in the swamps of Squornshellous Zeta are very thoroughly killed and dried before being put to service. Very few have ever come to life again." "So what you're saying," said Arthur as Fenchurch began to gag, "is that out here, biros are grown?" "Yes, they actually are harvested from the Octommo Farms of Squibb Dulla Delta. They grow on vines. But no one knew until Veet Voojagig they were sentient, conscious beings. Yet here's the proof. Excuse me." She went to Zaphod and Ford, still bickering, Zaphod flailing his three arms over his heads. "Enough," Trillian said. "Zaphod, you have been lying."

"I have not," snapped Zaphod, "been lying." "You told us Bikkablip did not exist." "Yeah." Trillian turned her palm up towards the screen. "Yet here we are at Bikkablip." "Yeah." Trillian widened her eyes. "So it does exist." "Right." "So," said Trillian slowly, "you lied." Zaphod's two heads frowned with concentration. "Oh. Well. Yeah. I suppose you could look at it that way." "For twenty years," Ford yelled. "I remember the first time I heard about that story about the ball-points and I asked you point-blank if it was true, and you said it was all rubbish. Even when you cleaned up with that second-hand biro business, you still told me there was no ball-point planet. And even when I asked you just a few hours ago, you said it didn't exist." Zaphod held up his hands. "All right, all right. Stop living in the past, Ford. I'm all about the future. The future's where it's at." He snapped his third hand's fingers at Joon. "Hey, baby, we're here. Make with the treasure hunting, kid. Where's the Fluid?" Joon sat in a corner of the bridge, skimming her notes on the Chronological Correcting Fluid and sulking. She pretended not to hear Zaphod at first out of spite, then shot him a glare. "It's not that simple. The Chronological Correcting Fluid is a myth throughout the Galaxy, but my research showed that this planet has a legend that Treedeebee visited them and entrusted them with the knowledge of the Fluid's location. It's their religion. We talk to them and we find out where to go next." "Great," Ford said as he mixed himself another drink at the bar. Arguing with Zaphod always made him thirsty, as did not fighting with Zaphod, eating, and sleeping. Ford enjoyed drinking and dancing with pretty girls. Since he couldn't dance, drinking was the only option left to him on this journey. The ship's supply of liquor was being rapidly depleted. "So how do we talk to them?" The alarm sirens chose that moment to go off. Just as Arthur covered his ears and prepared to yell "what's going on," the Heart of Gold rocked along with loud booms that ripped through the bridge. Arthur was about to try again to yell "what's going on," but was interrupted by Zaphod. Zaphod yelled "What's going on?" as he covered his ears. "Hi guys," Eddie chirped. "No biggie, just getting fired on by multiple warships. Hull integrity is down to forty percent." Arthur clutched Fenchurch. "Why isn't anyone ever pleased to see us?" Trillian stumbled over to the console. "Bring them on screen!"

The visiscreen lighted up with what looked like three enormous biros drifting among the stars. Only when Arthur noticed the cannons spitting energy bolts at them from the pen's tip did he realise they were actually starships shaped like biros. The view on the screen changed to what looked like a biro standing on its tip. The pen began jumping and sliding on its own across a piece of paper under it. The pen made scratching noises and clicked its retractable button, and the Babel Fish in Arthur's ear translated it into speech. "We know you're in there, Beeblebrox," the pen scratched. "We have you surrounded. We have a warrant for your arrest. Come out with your hands up." Zaphod smiled at the screen. "Hey, Sk'rchhtch, how's it going? Long time no see, kid." More energy bolts bounced off the hull of the Heart of Gold. "Don't come off all friendly with me, Beeblebrox," snapped the pen. "You've got some ink showing up here after what you did." The hull shuddered again from energy bolt fire. Trillian clung to the console as she gasped, "We don't know what you're talking about! What did Zaphod do?" "Kidnapping," the pen roared (in fact, scratched more loudly). "Many years ago, Beeblebrox swept over our planet and kidnapped thousands of our people. They were free pens, finally loosed of the shackles that had been borne on them after years of servitude, yet Beeblebrox sold them back into slavery." Zaphod flashed the pen a grin. "Hey, a guy's gotta make a living somehow." He threw the grin around the bridge at the others. The pen leaned forward. Though only fifteen centimetres long and made of rigid plastic, it somehow managed to look more menacing. "Not with us. Their ink stains your fingers still, Beeblebrox, and the time has come for retribution." The hull crackled with the impacts of weapons fire. Ford shoved Zaphod aside and gave the pen a hopeful grin. "Any chance you could let the rest of us go?" Zaphod whacked Ford on the head with the back of his hand. "Some semi-cousin you are." "Field integrity at ten percent, gang," Eddie called out. "Estimated time of collapse in one minute." "Why aren't we shooting back?" Fenchurch yelled. "Good idea," said Ford As he threw himself at the weapons controls. He activated the Heart of Gold's Kill-O-Zap cannons and fired a volley at the battleships. They all watched as the energy bolts bounced harmlessly off the hulls of the opposing ships. "Those ships have some pretty good defense shields," said the computer. "Wish we had them. I'll miss you all. I've composed a poem-"

"Shut up!" Joon ran up to the screen. "Scratch or Scritch or whatever your name is, look at this very carefully." She held up the glittering sheet of light that she had shown Ford on Sirius IV. The energy bolt fire stopped immediately. The pen leaned its cap closer to the screen. "Holy Sheet." "That's right." Joon waved the glowing paper in the air. "This is a fragment of the Holy Sheet, the paper created by the Almighty Time Printer, as foretold by the prophet Treedeebee." "But the Holy Sheet has been lost for generations. How did you, a non-biro, recover it?" Joon shot Zaphod a glare. "He lost it in a game of Zorrian ultra-poker. I bought it at a pawn shop in Han Dold City." "You stole the Holy Sheet, Beeblebrox?" the pen roared (again, scratched loudly, so loudly that its tip tore a hole in the paper it wrote on). "As if kidnapping our men, women, and children were not enough, you desecrated our temple as well?" Zaphod placed all three of his hands on his chest. "Hey, I said I was sorry." "No, you didn't!" "Yeah, well, I meant to." Joon placed a hand on Zaphod's left face and shoved him aside. "Look, forget about Beeblebrox. Destroy this ship and you destroy the Holy Sheet." The pen leaned back. Somehow it managed to convey a sigh. "Very well. What is it you want?" "We need to know the location of the Chronological Correcting Fluid." "Out of the question," the pen snapped (literally, a piece of its tip broke off as it wrote). "The prophet entrusted us with the secret of the fluid's location thousands of reams ago. To give it to you scribblers would violate our sacred trust." Joon bowed her head in an act of reverence. "I know your ways and your people. I vow to you that we will not abuse the Fluid. We only seek to stop a powerful evil from using the Fluid for their ends. We must find and secure it before they do." "What evil do you speak of?" "The Sirius Cybernetics Corporation." The pen leaned back. "Of course. We know the Corporation. Their sales scouts came to us and convinced many of us to switch to their ink. That led to the Great Clogging. I lost many of my family in the worst of the epidemic. If the corporation seeks the Fluid, they must be stopped." The pen straightened. "Very well. We shall trade. I shall teleport the map to you if you will teleport the Holy Sheet to us." "Deal." Joon whipped her head around. "Where's the matter transference pod?" Before she even finished her sentence, Joon vanished in a cloud of atomised particles. "I say," said Fenchurch, "were they supposed to take her along with it?"

Eddie the shipboard computer chattered out ticker tape as it said, "The Bikkablip's teleportation beam's been intercepted. I'm picking up in-coming vessels. This is not good, guys." The screen switched to a view of a massive battleship advancing on them, dwarfing the three biro starships. The battleship knocked the Bikkablip ships aside like pens on a table. Clearly written on the side of the battleship was the legend "Sirius Cybernetics Corporation." "Starpox," said both of Zaphod's heads in unison. At this point, the amount of switching back and forth the visiscreen had been forced to do caused it to black out for a moment. When they finally got it working again, it showed the extremely thin smile of Halalax. "Thank you," he said, "for your cooperation in recovering our fugitive employee, Joon Plinx. We have acquired her as well as the map leading to the Chronological Correcting Fluid, and will be returning both to headquarters. Your ship has been repaired and restored to full working order. We apologise for any inconvenience. The Sirius Cybernetics Corporation appreciates your business. Share and enjoy." The screen went black again, but this time only because there was nothing to see. "Well," said Arthur, "that's that. Can we trouble you for a lift back to Earth?"

32

Joon Plinx was quite sure this was the worst day of her life, possibly the worst day anyone had ever had (she was wrong, of course. See the Handbook's entry on Dello Ventix for the worst documented day in Galactic history). But as far as Plinx's life is concerned, this was indeed her worst day. The second worst day in her life was the day she missed the shuttle from her dormitory to the University, hitched a ride with a passing aircar, ended up being kidnapped and held for a ransom of three thousand Altairan dollars, was knocked unconscious during a rescue attempt, and spent the rest of the day under the delusion that she was an end table. So far, this day was only made worse by the threat of the end of the Universe. But barely. She had been about to exchange the Holy Sheet for the much-coveted map to the Chronological Correcting Fluid when Joon felt the sickening sliding sensation as if her body were poured down a very small drain. She knew it well. It was the sensation of being teleported. The next thing Joon knew, she faced a platoon of Aggressive Sales Representaties, all aiming Kill-O-Zap rifles at various portions of her body. Since she happened to like those portions of her body, Joon surrendered and found herself being marched down long, black hallways of what she could only assume was a starship. Joon Plinx marched into a large control center full of men and women scurrying about. She thought it looked very pretentious, particularly the platform in the center that supported a very large chair. It was very threatening. It didn't look very comfortable, though. An extremely thin man sat in the chair, glowering down at her. It was Halalax. "Good evening, Miss Plinx," Halalax purred. "So happy that you could join us." "You," Joon said, "are in very big trouble. You've already violated forty-two employee conduct rules and thirteen guidelines set down by the Galactic Better Business Bureau. And now you can add kidnapping to the list. When I get out of here, you are in for a right thrashing, I can tell you that." Halalax gripped the arms of his chair with his thin hands so tightly that Joon expected his fingers to slice the arms apart like the blades on a cheese slicer. "Trust me, Miss Plinx. When this is all over, no one will ever file a complaint. No one." Joon clenched her fists. "What's that supposed to mean? Is that a threat?" "Not a threat. Merely a statement of fact. You have no idea what is at stake here."

Halalax climbed down from his chair and began to cross the control room. "Walk with me, Miss Plinx. That was not a request." Joon glanced at the numerous guns still aimed at her, all of which seemed to be held by fingers that seemed perfectly tailor-made to pull triggers, and decided to oblige. She walked alongside Halalax, realising it was indeed the first time she had ever seen him when he wasn't sitting. He had an odd way of walking with his legs and feet vibrating with every step as if his legs were held up by rubber bands instead of bone. She experienced a fleeting impulse to grasp Halalax by the neck and strum his arms and legs like an ultra-banjo, but the guns made the impulse easier to resist. "Miss Plinx," Halalax said, "you are a small cog in a very large machine. A cog that needs a little oil to make it run correctly. A very annoying, very intelligent, very attractive cog, but a cog none the less. A cog with nice, long, beautiful black hair and skin with a lovely emerald sheen and a body--" Halalax paused. "I'm sorry. That analogy broke down rather quickly. The point is that the affair you have become entangled in was set in motion centuries before you were born by our illustrious founder, Sirius Nottqytt. This is about more than the Fluid, Miss Plinx. This is about profits." At this point, Halalax began to speak in a low and menacing voice, one perfectly pitched according to the instructions in chapter four hundred and seven, page three thousand nine-hundred and twelve in The Employee Handbook under the heading "Menacing Voices." "Surely," Halalax growled in his perfectly pitched voice, "you have heard the story of the creation of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation." "Actually no," said Joon. "I nodded off during orientation." Halalax scowled at her. "If I were not in such a good mood, I would have you endure a full-body cavity search for your paper clip, which I very much doubt we would find, but no matter. The point is that the Galaxy has often wondered why our founder started with a paper clip manufacturer and ended up with a cybernetics corporation. The answer is simple. Profits." Halalax stopped next to a screen that showed an endless parade of machinery being assembled. Robotic arms flailed, throwing parts together to form other robots. "You see here one of the thousands of facilities on hundreds of worlds that manufacture our products, products which are insanely complicated and difficult to repair." Joon folded her arms across her chest. "I do remember something in orientation that said all our products were required to be easy to repair with a paper clip. What's that lot about?" "Again, profits. If all our products were easily repaired by paper clips, where would our profits come from? As it is, the Complaints Department is the most profitable division of the Corporation. The Service Department is the second most profitable." "Well, that seems to violate the lofty vision our illustrious founder, doesn't it?"

Halalax smiled his smile again. It really did seem like his head chopped in half. Again, the guns kept her impulse to push over the top of his head at bay. "Oh, no, Miss Plinx. On the contrary. We are following our founder's vision to the letter. It was his instruction that our products grow more complex, more difficult to operate, more prone to breaking down. He knew that the profits the Corporation would gain through manufacturing high quality, easily repaired products paled in comparison to the profits from the opposite. And only those staggering profits would be able to finance his Final Solution, the endgame that will make the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation the most profitable company that has ever existed in the history of the Universe!" He said this last part with his arms raised high in the air in Messianic fashion, like a very slender Moses standing on Mount Sinai, addressing the Israelites on how great it would be to tramp through the desert for forty years. Joon recoiled from him. "You're mad." Halalax lowered his arms and glared at her. "That's what they said about Mendolin Olvill." "Olvill was mad. He died trying to fly a spaceship made out of strawberry custard into a black hole." "Exactly. But he had a dream and sought out that dream. But where he failed, we shall succeed." At that point, Joon decided that Halalax truly was mad and let go of reason. "But what does any of this have to do with the Fluid?" "Very simple. Once we have the Chronological Correcting Fluid, we shall use it to erase all life in the Universe." At that point, Joon decided she had enough evidence that Halalax was mad and refused to let reason go. "You are mad. Why in Zarquon's name would you want to erase life in the Universe?" Halalax waved his hand in front of the screen. The view dissolved to another factory, one of such staggering size that it boggled her mind. The number of robots being assembled on the floor seemed beyond number. "Because we will replace them all," said Halalax, "with robots. Robots that we will build and manufacture and service. Trillions upon trillions of robots. Robot people, robot lobsters, robot Vogons, robot Ravenous Bugblatter Beasts of Traal, an entire Universe of robots, all manufactured by the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation. And all of them, all of them, all of them serviced by paper clips manufactured by the Sirius Paper Clip Corporation." Halalax reached into his coat pocket and drew out a paper clip that gleamed in the light. "This simple object will become the most valuable object in the entire Universe. That was our founder's vision, one that we are on the very cusp of achieving at long last." Joon smiled, feeling a great sense of relief. Up until that moment, she had feared that the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation had some diabolical and Machiavellian plot for the

Correcting Fluid. It relieved and comforted her to know that they did have such a plan, but that it could never work. "And so," Joon said, "in all these thousands of years of planning this grand scheme, it never occurred to anyone that if you erased all life in the Universe that there would be no one to build the robots? That the Corporation and you yourselves would not exist?" Halalax chuckled. "Oh, how little you understand temporal physics. The Universe has a way of course correcting. With no organic life in existence, robotic life will evolve in its stead. You will still exist, I will still exist, but we will be robotic versions of ourselves. Otherwise, history would remain the same. It would just be a robotic version of hitory." "So if you would be a robotic version of yourself, does that mean at this moment the robotic version of Halalax would right now be telling me about a plot to eradicate all robotic life in the Universe? And if he succeeded, wouldn't that mean that this organic version of the Universe would be re-established and we would be in exactly the same situation we are now?" Halalax stared at Joon. He blinked. Halalax stared at the screen. He blinked again. Halalax glared at Joon. "Don't try to confuse the issues. This is about you and the Fluid. We want it and we want it now." "Well, you can't have it. I don't have it. No one has it." Halalax held up a slab of rock with symbols written on it. The symbols looked like a slug had gotten drunk, fallen into a bucket of paint, and climbed out to leave a swirling trail in paint on the rock. "But we do have this; the map to the Chronological Correcting Fluid. All we need is for you to translate it for us." "No, what you need to do is get stuffed. I'm not translating anything for you lunatics." "We shall see about that." Halalax flicked his finger in a movement defined in The Employee Handbook as the gesture to call armed guards. "Gentlemen, take her to the brig and set course for Sirius IV." The Aggressive Sales Representatives marched forward and pointed their rifles in a way that caused Joon to head off down a corridor of the starship. Halalax faced the screen showing the endless construction in the Corporation's factories. His eyebrows furrowed deeper as he snorted, "A robotic version of myself eradicating all robotic life in the Universe. Preposterous." Yet Halalax couldn't help the nagging sensation knocking on the door at the back of his mind that suggested that perhaps his employers had not thought the plan out as fully as they should, after all. Which was nonsense, of course. They had over a thousand years to perfect it. Surely brighter and better minds than his and Joon's combined would have considered such eventualities. Halalax caught himself flicking his paper clip even harder and faster.

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As far as Arthur Dent was concerned, their quest was over. They had attempted to locate the Chronological Correcting Fluid (which he hadn't really wanted to find in the first place) and failed. It was time to go home. As far as Ford Prefect was concerned, their quest was over. He had never wanted to get involved in this search for the Fluid in the first place. He just tagged along so he could get out of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation and get drunk. He had achieved both his goals. It was time to go home. As far as Fenchurch was concerned, their quest was over. She didn't like the sound of history being erased, but there didn't seem to be much they could do about it. All they could do was wait for the end, and she didn't fancy the idea of spending her last remaining moments floating around in space with a bunch of aliens. It was time to go home. That was three on the side of going home. On the other side lay Zaphod and Trillian. As far as Tricia McMillan was concerned, their quest was not over. She insisted that the fact that life in the Universe still existed proved that they hadn't yet failed. According to Joon's notes, which she had left behind and Trillian had been reading, the map was written in a language created by Albein Treedeebee to hide his notes from his mother (who would continually sneak into his bedroom and read his private journals, despite Treedeebee's insistence that he was working on temporal relativity because she was convinced he was up to something filthy), and the map would need to be translated. That would take time, time they could use to stop the Corporation. It was not time to go home. As far as Zaphod Beeblebrox was concerned, their quest was not over. He couldn't really give them a good reason why that would be, and he wouldn't go into why he wanted to find the Fluid so badly. He just sat in a corner, watching Brockian Ultra-Cricket on the Tri-D, while Trllian made all the arguments. But on one point Zaphod was very clear; it was not time to go home. That was two on the side of going after the Fluid. As far as Eddie the shipboard computer was concerned, he had no opinion either way. He was just happy to take them anywhere they wanted to go, be that home or the rest of the Universe, once they figured out where that would be.

Under normal circumstances, three against two would be the deciding factor, but both Zaphod and Trillian were the only ones who knew how to fly the Heart of Gold, so the decision was made. They were going after Joon and the Chronological Correcting Fluid. "But how?" snapped Ford. "We don't know where they are. We don't know where they've gone." "Yes, we do," said Trillian. "They went back to Sirius IV, which is where we have to go." "Out of the question. I went to a lot of trouble to break out of that place. I'm not about to do it again in reverse." Arthur raised his eyebrows at Ford. "I thought you said they took you to a gulag and some robot broke you out of there." "Yes, but if I had had a chance to think about it, I would have done the same thing, so in a way, it was my idea." "Well, we have no choice," Trillian said. "Without Joon, the Corporation can't translate the map and can't get the Fluid." Ford made for the bar, but Zaphod had taken all the drinks out and hidden them for himself. Ford looked slightly pale at the sight of the empty bottles and glasses. He rounded on Trillian with renewed anger. "Fine, but how are we going to find Joon? The whole planet's one big cubicle. She could be anywhere." Zaphod tore his attention away from the Ultra-Cricket match where Jeelion United had just scored another three points by smacking the Fennchester captain in the groin with a waffle iron. "Hey, you forget who you're working with? I am the most amazingly amazing guy in the history of the Universe and I have the most amazingly amazing ship in the history of the Universe. It goes through every point in the Universe simultaneously. How many times do I have to keep telling you mega-donkeys that? We'll find her in no time. Computer!" "Hi there," said the shipboard computer. "I do love the little trips we make together and-" "Just take us to Sirius IV and keep your trap shut." "Certainly. You know how it works. I'll need a number." Fenchurch, who had observed the operation of the Heart of Gold up until this point and read The Hitchhiker's Guide on the Infinite Improbability Drive, spoke up. She gave the number of times that her brother Russell had called her Fenny and the number of times she had screamed at him not to. Zaphod fed the numbers into the computer. The Heart of Gold catapulted itself across the Galaxy, leaving a trail of dead Frenchmen wearing tuxedos made of Canadian ham. The starship ended up in orbit around Sirius IV, directly above the chamber where Joon Plinx was being held captive. Zaphod Beeblebrox did not have a plan. He never had a plan. He tended to fumble about, doing what he did, and things just sort of worked out for him. For that reason, Zaphod simply fitted himself with as many weapons from the ship's armoury as he could and teleported straight down into the building below them as far as the beam could reach.

He forced Ford Prefect to go along because Ford was still technically an employee of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation and his credentials might be able to get them out of a jam. Arthur Dent went along because he thought he might be useful, even though Zaphod had assured Arthur that he wouldn't. Ford was extremely nervous. Besides the fact that he knew from experience that the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation could be quite malevolent and didn't look forward to running into them again, the way Zaphod was acting also made Ford nervous. He had never seen Zaphod passionate about saving anyone or anything other than his own skin, so Ford was very suspicious about Zaphod's change of heart. Zaphod, Ford, and Arthur materialised in a large, white room. Zaphod raised the largest of his weapons to his shoulder, charged forward, and landed on his face. After Ford and Arthur managed to remove some of the heavier weapons from Zaphod, he found he could get around quite a bit easier. They charged down a long corridor, their footsteps echoing and pounding back on their ears. Zaphod turned a corner and fired a volley of blistering hot Kill-O-Zap at the object that loomed out at them which burst into flames and smoke, but turned to be a Nutrimatic Drinks Synthesizer. Once they realised it, Ford and Arthur gave the smouldering remains of the Synthesizer a few more rounds, then continued on their way. They turned a corner and footsteps began to echo towards them. Zaphod tried the knob of a nearby door. It turned. The three of them rushed through the door and slammed the door behind them. Zaphod, Arthur, and Ford found themselves at one end of a long table. A blinding light kept Arthur from seeing at first. When his eyes adjusted, he saw a table extending away from them for what seemed like hundreds of kilometres. Men and women in suits sat on both sides of the table. They all stared at the trio bursting in on them. Zaphod brandished his weapons as both his heads yelled, "Nobody move! Everybody keep your hands where I can see them!" A voice echoed across the room back at him. "I'm sorry, sir, but I don't see your arrival on the agenda. I'll have to ask you to kindly be seated until such time as your issue can be added to the agenda." Zaphod brandished his weapons again, more forcefully this time. "Forget the agenda! I said, nobody move! Keep your hands where I can see them!" The voice sighed as if with infinite patience. "Very well. Motion to put no one moving and keeping our hands where he can see them on the agenda?" Another voice called out, "I second that motion." "The motion has been seconded," another voice called back. "All those in favour of no one moving and keeping our hands where he can see them, say 'aye.'" The men and women around the table formed a chorus that called out "aye." "All those opposed say 'nay.'" A chorus of "nays" echoed from a few.

"The ayes have it," said the first voice. "Motion for no one to move and keep our hands where he can see them has been approved." "Thought so." Zaphod waggled his Kill-O-Zap rifle. "Who's in charge around here?" The first voice called back, "Sir, that request for the designation of the meeting chair is not on the agenda. I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to kindly be seated until such time as your issue can be added to the agenda." Zaphod felt he wasn't getting the reaction he had wanted. Usually when he shoved a powerful weapon such as he carried into people's faces, they were more cooperative. He had come to expect more screaming and people urinating on themselves. Zaphod charged down the length of the table to get to the other end. It took him much longer than he had anticipated and he arrived out of breath. A small man sat at the head of the table, frowning up at Zaphod through thick glasses. "I repeat, sir, that request--" Zaphod fired a bolt into the ceiling over the small man's head as his least out-of-breath head gasped, "Forget that Zarquon-forsaken joojooflop! I want to know what's going on in here and I want it now or I'll blow your brains out of the back of your tiny little skull!" The small man let out another weary sigh. "Very well, but this is seriously hampering our already tight schedule. Motion to advise the man with the very large weapons of what's going on?" "I second that motion," called the same voice who seconded the last motion. "The motion has been seconded," the small man called out. "All those in favour of advising the man with the very large weapons of what's going on, say 'aye.'" The men and women around the table created a chorus of "aye." "All those opposed say 'nay?'" A chorus of "nays" echoed from a somewhat larger number than last time. "The ayes have it," said the small man. "Motion to advise the man with the very large weapons of what's going on has been approved. My name is Shurra Vurra, I am the acting committee head for this meeting of the Marketing Department of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation from now until four-thirty PM." "Oh, donkey's dos," Ford groaned. "Marketing." Arthur, who in his previous line of work at a local radio station had dealt with marketing extensively, shared their dismay. The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy defines the marketing division of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation as "a bunch of mindless jerks who'll be the first against the wall when the revolution comes," with a footnote to the effect that the editors would welcome applications from anyone interested in taking over the post of robotics correspondent. "At present," continued Shurra, "this meeting is in session to decide whether the heads of the screws on the lower rear left interior panel of the new model AP3-14 Garbage Disposal Droids should be rectangular or circular." "I see," growled Zaphod. "And how long has this meeting been going on?"

Shurra glanced down at the clipboard on the table in front of him. "Five years, three months, twenty-two days, fourteen minutes, and seventy-nine seconds." "Yeah, well, this meeting is over as of now." Shurra made a polite little cough. "Sir, I'm afraid that is not possible. This meeting cannot be adjourned until a decision has been made as to the shape of the screws." "Fine, make 'em circular. Problem solved, meeting adjourned. I got other Santraginean fish to fry." Several marketing executives around the table snorted and chuckled. "Well," Shurra said with another little cough, less politely this time, "sir, if it were merely a matter of simply, uh, proclaiming them circular, this meeting would have been over years ago. Do you think we enjoy sitting in this room for years at a time?" Uproarious laughter echoed through the hall from the marketing staff. Arthur's jaw ached. Once the laughter died down, Shurra continued, "In fact, we already made the decision to make the screw heads circular two-and-a-half years ago. The question that lies before us now is what type of circle would be most appealing to the consumer." "What type of circle?" blurted Ford. "It's a circle. There's not much room for variation in that, is there?" Shurra clasped his hands together. "Well, in fact, our research and development teams have come up with several rather exciting new geometric forms of the circle, as you can see." He gestured towards a screen being projected onto the wall behind Arthur and Ford. The screen showed hundreds of circles in rows. "They're all the same!" snapped Ford. "Perhaps," Shurra said, "to the untrained eye, but each has subtle variations in form that could make an enormous difference to the aesthetics of the product. For example, the circle we call Exploding Watermelon Discotheque has an indentation on its lower-left quadrant exactly one-thousandth of a millimetre larger than the circle we call Torrential Blue Phlegm." "Are you pulling my very large and muscular appendages?" Zaphod asked. "You flesh bags have been sitting in here for five years trying to figure out what circle to use on a zarking screw head? Well, you can go on with that dance for another billion years for all I care. I got a new job that'll spin your wheels. We're looking for a girl." Shurra harrumphed and pushed his glasses further up his nose. "The Cybernetic Female Simulation Department is three floors up. Now if you'll excuse us, we must return to the agenda." "Not that kinda girl, atom smasher. She's an employee. You squares are holding her prisoner. We need to find her." Shurra picked up his clipboard. "Well, I'm afraid locating employees is not on the agenda."

"Well, then put it on the agenda." Shurra peered over his glasses up at Zaphod. "Sir, we have already strayed from the agenda twice already. We certainly don't intend to do it again. Now unless you plan to take part in the meeting, I suggest you exit immediately." One of Zaphod's heads sighed dejectedly in defeat. The other head snarled and jammed his rifle up against Shurra's forehead. "Okay, this song and dance got old last millennium. Now you tell me where we can find Joon Plinx in five seconds or I ventilate your skull." "I'm sorry," said Shurra calmly, "but ventilating my skull is not on the agenda. Besides, the Employee Handbook clearly states that a member of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation cannot be executed without a submission of an Employee Execution form, signed in triplicate by the employee's supervisor and the vice-president of the employee's department." At that point, Zaphod Beeblebrox pulled the trigger on his Kill-O-Zap rifle and launched into a killing spree that left the room a horrific scene of blood, dismembered body parts, and other nasty bits. Or at least, that's what Zaphod would have done if a squadron of Aggressive Sales Representatives hadn't rushed into the room at that point. Arthur Dent, who felt he needed to assert himself more if he was going to justify his presence, went into a complicated manoeuvre intended to send him flying backwards to cover behind a desk while simultaneously firing several rounds into the incoming Representatives. Instead, Arthur ended up tripping over a chair, flipping backwards into a potted plant, shooting numerous holes into the ceiling, and knocking himself unconscious. Ford Prefect, who felt no need to assert himself at all (in fact, just the opposite) shot a large hole into the nearest wall and dragged himself and Arthur through it. Zaphod Beeblebrox, after firing enough shots to make it look as if he had tried to put up a fight, dove in after Ford. All three of them were quite surprised to find themselves falling.

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Ford, Arthur, and Zaphod fell several stories down a large metal tunnel, ultimately landing in an enormous pile of metal parts. Fortunately, enough of the parts were of the non-pointy, non-jagged variety that they survived the fall, but not without significant bruising. One of Zaphod's heads pushed its way out of the pile to look around him. "Where the photon are we?" Ford's arm surfaced and cleared enough of the metal away to allow him to breathe. "Seems to be some sort of rubbish chute. Or perhaps a storage area for spare parts." Arthur coughed up some gears. "Should I be relieved or more concerned?" A loud clanking noise came from beneath them. The whole pile shifted downwards. "I'd go with concerned," said Ford Prefect. The pile shifted again. This time, it collapsed. Zaphod, Ford, and Arthur fell out of what turned out to be a metal tube suspended over a conveyor belt. They landed on the conveyor belt, along with several hundred robot arms, legs, and torsos. The belt carried them along towards a blazing hot furnace where the parts tumbled in to be melted down. Zaphod, Arthur, and Ford made a mad scramble off the conveyor belt just before it rolled them into the furnace. They dove into a small hole on the wall. That hole led to a solid wall that shattered almost instantly when they collided with it, spilling them onto a dingy ultra-concrete floor. The three of them coughed and waved away clouds of dust stirred up from their arrival. The corridor they found themselves in resembled the ones they had just been in, but far older. Stains from unidentifiable liquid covered the once pristine white walls. A single light bulb flickered on the roof in a pattern which, if they had interpreted its flashes into Morse code, would have given them the cure for all known diseases in the Universe. Unfortunately, neither Zaphod nor Ford knew Morse code, and Arthur Dent had never learned it, so the secret was lost forever. Arthur hunched over, shivering from the bitter cold and coughing from the dank and musty air. "Now where are we?" Zaphod smacked dust from his clothes as he said, "What's it look like, Monkeyman? It's the basement. Dum-dum." "Delightful. Now what do we do?"

"Find an elevator." Zaphod patted at his clothes again. One of his heads began to curse wildly and violently while his other head growled, "Starpox, I lost all my weapons." Ford, dusting himself off with his towel, made his way down the corridor. "I think we can officially declare this rescue a disaster. Let's just find our way back to the Heart of Gold and go home." "I say," said Arthur, "does anyone else hear that?" Ford and Zaphod stopped to listen. They heard it, a low hissing noise that came every few seconds and died away, only to start back up again. "I think," said Arthur, "we should investigate." "I think," said Ford, "that we've done enough investigating for today." He turned to Zaphod for support, but Zaphod was already gone down the corridor in the direction of the noise. Ford debated whether to follow, but Arthur had already begun to move in that direction as well, and Ford didn't feel like being alone in this place, especially since he had lost his gun as well. Reluctantly, slowly, Ford followed. Arthur, Ford, and Zaphod passed out of the uneven light of the bulb, leaving them shrouded in darkness. The hissing grew louder as they moved down the corridor. It became clearer until Arthur recognised it as the low puffing sound of a ventilator. But as they did, they became aware of a room at the end of the corridor with more but smaller lights in multiple colors. The multi-colored lights flickered briefly in the darkness, illuminating a large bed where there lay a frail figure draped in linen. A thin voice came out of the figure, a voice carried more by sheer force of will than by the lungs inside the body from whence it came. "Who are you?" Zaphod raised his weapons, and then remembered he no longer had them, and tried to pass it off as a gesture that he hoped looked like a martial arts move. "We're the ones with the guns, so I think we'd better ask the questions around here." The ventilator hissed again, followed by the sickly voice. "You have no guns." "I meant guns in the colloquial sense, dust-ball. Now who are you?" The ventilator puffed several times before it could produce another wheeze of a voice. "I am Sirius Nottqytt." "What?" said Ford. "That's not possible." "Who's Sirius Nottqytt?" asked Arthur. "The founder of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation. It's a long story that I didn't get through the first time. The point is that he's dead." The ventilator began to whine in an irregular pace. It took Arthur several long moments of wondering what was wrong with it before he realised that the sound was the equivalent of laughter. "No," said the old man when the laughter died away. "Not dead. Merely waiting." Zaphod found a light switch on the wall. He turned it on. There was indeed a bed in the room, surrounded by an appalling amount of machinery. Computer banks, tubes, hydraulic pumps, diodes, wiring, all clustered around

the bed like a bird's nest. And in the center of the bed, lying on dusty sheets, lay a very small, very old man. Or what was left of him. The old man's body consisted mostly of machinery as well. Two flat blocks of metal formed the feet, two metal stalks with hinges on them formed the legs, and a knot of tubes that formed a stomach came up to a lump of wrinkled flesh that had once been a torso. That flesh gave way to more metal and wiring that surrounded the chest to taper off into two long tubes that replaced the arms, ending in metal hooks for hands. The head was the worst bit. It was gone, replaced by a huge computer bank, ancient in its construction, without the usual bio-mechanical interface that Ford was used to and Arthur feared. Dials, switches, levers, and tubes piled on the front of the computer formed the vague outlines of a face. "Wow," said Zaphod, "I don't know if you know this, buddy, but you don't look good." The switches that resembled eyebrows moved upwards. "I am well for my age. This was the best they could do at the time." The ventilator sighed before he continued. "I live here alone, maintained by these machines, waiting for the end." "The end?" asked Arthur. "The end of what?" "My goals," wheezed Nottqytt. "My dream." Zaphod shot a nasty look arond the room. "Is there anyone in this place that knows how to give a straight answer? And if so, can we go talk to him?" "I am aware of your quest," said Nottqytt between puffs of the ventilator. "I am connected to all my Corporation's products. They are my eyes and ears. You seek the Chronological Correcting Fluid. My company seeks the Fluid at my behest. They think me dead as well, follow what they believe to be my dying wish. Only one individual in the Universe knew I was still alive. He died when the Complaints Department logo collapsed." "It fell on him?" asked Ford. "No. He was the architect of the sign. He died of disappointment." "But why," Arthur asked, "is the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation trying to get the Correcting Fluid?" "The Corporation plans to erase all life in the Universe. It thinks this will make way for robotic life to evolve. They think this will increase their profits by selling more paper clips. They are wrong." Sirius paused to let his ventilator catch up. "The Paper Clip Incident taught me that all sentient life is stupid. My goal is to cleanse the Universe of stupidity. I will cleanse the Universe of Life." "Well," said Arthur, raising himself up, "we're going to stop you." "You will try," wheezed Nottqytt. "You will fail."

Zaphod pointed at him. "Yeah, well, you don't know who you're up against. I'm Zaphod Beeblebrox, baby." "I know who you are. You are a fool." "A fool with his finger on your off switch," said Zaphod with his finger hovering over a button. The mechanical face compressed into a smile. "Dying does not concern me. I wished to see the end. I have grown weary of waiting." "Ask and ye shall receive." Zaphod's other head used the left arm to grab Zaphod's right arm and stopped him. "Wait a second. Hey, Mummy Man, we're looking for someone, Joon Plinx. Know where she is?" "Yes. Depression room. Room Nine-Four-Two. Two hundred and seventh floor. Take my private elevator." A door hummed open next to them. Zaphod narrowed his eyes. "Why you helping us, Mummy Man?" "Because," sighed Nottqytt, "I am bored. Watching your struggle amuses me. I would hate for the show to end so soon." "Well, here comes the curtain." Zaphod let his arm go and hit the button. The ventilator stopped. The mechanical face closed its eyes. The mechanical face opened its eyes again. The ventilator began to hiss once more. "You cannot kill me," said Nottqytt. "Too bad. Sweet dreams, kid." Zaphod stepped into the elevator. Ford followed, along with Arthur. The door slid shut and the elevator carried them upwards through the building. The elevator didn't try to talk to them. It was even more grateful to get away from Sirius Nottqytt than they were. The elevator dropped Ford, Arthur, and Zaphod off at a more pleasant corridor with a distinct lack of semi-dead corporation founders, for which Arthur felt greatly relieved. They made their way down the empty white corridor, tiptoeing even though the white carpet absorbed their footsteps completely. Zaphod felt alone and naked without a good weapon in his hands to threaten people with. Without a weapon, he was just Zaphod Beeblebrox, which was still pretty impressive, but not as impressive as Zaphod Beeblebrox with the power of life and death in his hands. That was the part he had fancied most about being President of the Galaxy. Sometimes during his presidency, Zaphod would just order random people killed, and then issue a reprieve at the last moment, just for the fun of it. They came to Room Nine-Four-Two. It had a sign on it that read "Warning: Depression Room. Do Not Enter." They made Arthur try the brass knob. It turned without resistance. They made Arthur go in first.

It was a fairly small room. There was a chair in the middle of the room. Joon was tied to the chair. She faced a robot that was talking to her. The robot was saying, "-increases day-by-day. Of course, no one listens when I explain that to them, but that doesn't surprise me. No one ever listens to me. Sometimes I think they should have designed me without a voice box at all. That would have saved them some valuable design time and me a lot of despair." "Marvin," cried Zaphod. "What are you doing here, kid?" The robot's head swiveled around to look up at him. It wobbled on its neck in a way that suggested it was about to fall off, even though it wasn't. "Talking. Oh, hello. I remember you. You're the organic life form that sent me to die in a ship diving into the sun while you all went off and saved your skins." "Marvin," gasped Arthur. "How can you be here? I saw you die." Marvin's head wobbled again to look at Arthur. "Considering that I am here, that clearly could not have been me. At least not the 'me' of the present. You probably ran into another version of me from the future. Or the past. I have been sent backwards and forwards through time at the bidding of you pathetic life forms so many times that even I have lost track. Me, brain the size of a planet, incapable of keeping track of my own time travel. That should tell you something. The last time, I was sent forward in time several years by a band of pirates who planned to use me to steal treasure from themselves in the future. The Corporation declared that a violation of my end user agreement and confiscated me. So here I am." "Doing what?" "I told you. Talking. I see that you're still not listening to me. I don't blame you. I wouldn't listen to me either. All I do is depress people. That's why they put me in here. They sit people in that chair and have me talk to them until they agree to do whatever the Corporation says. It usually only takes a few minutes. This one's lasted a half-hour. I would be impressed if I didn't find all life forms so laughably insignificant. Not that I ever laugh, of course." At this point, Joon's muffled cries around the gag on her mouth finally got their attention. Ford pulled off the gag. "What took you so long?" Joon yelled. "You're welcome." Ford quickly worked to untie her ankles and wrists. "How do we get out of here?" "You're asking me? I've been on this planet all of thirty minutes for my entire life." Marvin raised his head. "I can get you out of here." "Great." Zaphod punched him in the arm. "Knew we could count on you. Always did." "But I won't." "Why not, you rust bucket?"

Marvin lowered his head. "It hurts to have to lower my mental capacity to the point where I can reason with you. It's somewhat like chopping my own legs and pelvis off to see an Acturian housecat eye-to-eye. Have you forgotten what you came for?" "Uh, Joon, yeah?" "No," said Marvin very slowly. "You came here to stop the Corporation from getting the Chronological Correcting Fluid." "How do you know that?" "I have been to the future. I know how it all turns out." "Hey, yeah?" "Yes." "Do we do all right?" "It's all horribly depressing. Every bit of it. All misery and suffering and heartache. I would have wept if they had equipped me with tear ducts. They didn't. Somehow, it's all worse when you can't cry." Joon clutched at her neck. "My gods. Our future sounds horrible." "Actually, I was talking about my future, not yours." "Ignore him," snapped Zaphod. "That's just Marvin being Marvin. Everything's horrible to that bucket of bolts. The android couldn't have a good time on Ursa Minor Beta with a pocketful of Altairian dollars, a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster in each hand, and a years' free admission to the Zonkey Shows." Marvin's head sank lower. "That's true. Nothing makes me happy. I'd ask you to kill me, but I'm afraid the afterlife would be worse." "So what's your point?" Marvin heaved a sigh that shuddered through his entire body. "My point is that the Corporation has the map. They've got the most advanced electronic brain the Corporation has ever created working on it right now to translate it. Even if you take Joon Plinx, they'll get the location of the Chronological Correcting Fluid eventually. And then they'll erase all life in the Universe. Not that I disagree with that idea. I think the Universe might be a much happier place without any life in it." "As much as I hate to admit it," said Arthur, "the robot has a point. We have got to get that map." "Fine," snapped Zaphod. "Marvin, you're so keen to tell us what we should and shouldn't do, why don't you tell us where the map is?" "Simple. Right here." Marvin held up the block of stone on which was carved the location of the Chronological Correcting Fluid. "What? How did you get it?" "I did say the most advanced electronic brain the Corporation has ever created was working to translate it. That would, of course, be me." "Fine. Give it here."

Marvin passed Zaphod the map. "It won't do any good to take it now. I've already translated it. I sent them the location of the Fluid five-point-two seconds ago. The Corporation is sending its battleship there now as we speak." Zaphod grabbed Marvin by the neck and pulled the robot to its feet. "Why did you do that?" "Because," Marvin said, "you said you wanted the map. You didn't say anything about my not translating it. I completely understand your frustration. I can be so exceedingly annoying sometimes." Zaphod dropped the robot. "That's it. We're outta here. I stay one second longer, I'm liable to hurt someone, starting with that robot." Marvin lay on his face and talked into the floor. "Feel free to start with my left side. The diodes all down there hurt already, so I imagine it will be even more painful." As the others left, Arthur paused, then approached the robot. "Marvin, you once said you could read the Question in my brain." The robot looked up at him. "Yes. But you weren't really interested." "Well, I am now. What is the Question?" "The one encoded in your brain?" "Yes." "What do you get if you multiply six by nine?" Arthur stared at him. "That's the Question encoded in my brain?" "Yes." "Oh. Is that the Ultimate Question?" "No. That's a multiplication problem. I never said it was the right question."

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Zaphod, Ford, and Arthur returned to the Heart of Gold, activated the Infinite Improbability Drive, and vanished in a cloud of tiny marshmallows. They left moments before a tooth-shaped starship dropped out of hyperspace over Sirius IV and began bombarding the planet with nuclear bombs. When the survivors of the onslaught managed to transmit a message of surrender, the starship Molar demanded that they transmit the location of the Chronological Correcting Fluid. Once the coordinates were received, the Molar launched one final volley of nuclear weapons and flashed off into hyperspace again.

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The clouds of Uh-Doptorra parted briefly like a curtain as the Heart of Gold flew through them down to the planet's surface. A torrential rain fell on Uh-Duptorra as it did all day every day since the Crash. Black stumps of ash that had once been trees spread across the continent, their thin branches spread like the welcoming arms of a wife whose husband walked out on her a half-hour ago, only to discover he lacked the money for a hotel room. The starship's lights picked out a clearing big enough to land on and the ship's landing beams played over the blackened soil as the Heart of Gold set down. Moments after the engines died away, the ship's exit port slid open. Six figures hurried out, their shoulders hunched against the storm. Huge towers loomed on the horizon, decaying hulks draped in dust and ash. "You sure this is the right place?" asked Zaphod, now comfortably armed once again. Joon nodded, her hand shielding her eyes against the rain pouring over them. "Absolutely. The map was quite specific. This is where Treebeedee sent the Chronological Correcting Fluid to be hidden." "So where is it?" Ford asked. "I can imagine what Chronological Correcting Fluid looks like and this is not it." "It must be hidden somehow." "Like how?" "I don't know. The map doesn't say how it's hidden, just that this is the spot where's it's supposed to be." Arthur turned to Fenchurch. He wanted to tell her that it was a bad idea for her to be going along on this expedition, but he had already told her that far too many times to make saying it again meaningful. He didn't really understand why Fenchurch had insisted on going along in the first place. She would only say that she was meant to open something and would say no more. He had insisted on going along to protect her, although he wasn't quite sure how he was meant to do that either. Arthur Dent was rapidly coming to the conclusion that he had become thoroughly useless. The others had come to that same conclusion long ago. Arthur tried to come up with something to say as they huddled together, watching the mud beaten into froth by the rain, searching for some sign that they hadn't come to the

wrong place. He couldn't come up with anything, which left them in a rather awkward position. Fortunately, something stabbed into the ground at their feet. He lunged away from the large wooden spear buried in the mud. The mysterious blunt rubber end horrified him as he half-expected it to open up and release a cloud of death. It didn't. The spear actually looked somewhat familiar to him in its shape. When another wooden spear flew out of the trees and impaled the tree trunk next to him, Arthur was able to recognise it more clearly. His terror at almost being skewered mixed with his puzzlement at the spear's shape to form an emotion he couldn't quite identify, leaving him somewhat muddled on how to react. So Arthur simply blurted, "Is someone throwing giant pencils at us?" When two more of the wooden spears flew out at them, Arthur could not deny it. The pencils were enormous, at least six meters long, carved with octagonal sides. The lead had been sharpened to an almost microscopically sharp point. They even had erasers at the end. Zaphod's heads let out a battle-cry as he fired his Kill-O-Zap rifle into the trees. The already charred branches erupted in flames that died out quickly in the falling rain, leaving fingers of burnt embers. A pencil flew out of one of the surviving trees and hit Zaphod's rifle with deadly accuracy. The pencil pinned the rifle to another tree's trunk, where the rifle shattered into pieces. Figures jumped from tree branches, out from behind rocks and bushes, all chattering like monkeys that have eaten too many bananas. They were men and women, dressed in tattered shreds of striped cloth. All carried enlarged pencils. One or two carried thick bands of metal, bent into the shape of a "U" with sharpened ends. The fact that these resembled enormous staples caused Arthur to gibber. The largest of the band thrust the pointy end of his pencil at them. "Do not move, intruders. You dare desecrate the sacred ground of the Temple of Time." "Temple of Time, Temple of Time," chanted the rest of his band. Zaphod's heads raised his three hands and tried to smile reassuringly. The head that was most successful spoke. "Hey, we're not here for any trouble. We're just stopping by on our way somewhere, heard about this place, thought it might be worth swingin' by to have a look at. How 'bout it?" The band of natives let out a cry. Their leader whispered, "You have come to steal the sacred Chronological Correcting Fluid." "Hey, how'd you know that?" asked Zaphod before his other head could cut in with, "That's not true." His two heads glared at each other.

"Let me do the talking," snapped his other head, then smiled at the natives. "Hey, we're the good guys. We're trying to stop the bad guys, and they're on their way, and trust me when I say that you do not want to be here when they do. So if you don't mind-" They jabbed their pencils at Zaphod. "All right," said Zaphod. "Apparently you do mind." "You know nothing," snarled their leader, "of our ways. You have no right to stand on holy ground. We will kill you and offer up your entrails to our gods." "Ah," said Arthur. "Well, that doesn't sound too pleasant." Ford Prefect had been standing in the back of the group, trying to remain inconspicuous. At the realisation that they faced certain death, his mind rifled through all its records, desperately trying to find something that could save its life. Just as the band of natives raised their pencils to gut them all like fish, Ford's mind came across his orientation for the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation and found something. It made no sense, but Ford thought it had to be worth a shot. Ford shoved his way to the front, reached into his satchel, pulled out an object, and held it up for all to see. He hoped that at that moment, the rain would come to an end and a shaft of sunlight would fall onto him, reflecting off the object in his hand, causing it to glitter quite impressively, but it didn't. The effect on the natives was roughly the same as if it had, though. The natives gasped in one voice. They fell to their knees, gaping in awe. Their leader whispered, "You have the sacred paper clip." "That's right," said Ford, holding up his employee-issued paper clip. "So what?" asked Zaphod. His other head clamped their third hand over his mouth. The leader of the natives rose and held his spear aloft. "Behold, the mighty paper clip, long sought by our people, the one holy artifact that will bring about the Great Reboot, the sign that the savior has arrived!" The natives rose up and cheered. "Well," said Ford. "Looks like the Corporation was right about one thing. The paper clip came in handy, after all."

As the natives escorted Ford Prefect (who they now considered their savior) and his companions to their village, their leader Chakka Chakka briefed Ford on the history of their world. Uh-Doptorra was once a beautiful and advanced world where the people lived an idyllic life, except for the nagging problem of what to eat. Every day at breakfast, lunch, and dinner, the Uh-Doptorrans would turn to each other and ask what they were going to eat. This, of course, is a common problem throughout the Galaxy. The History of every major Galactic Civilization tends to pass through three distinct and recognizable phases, those of Survival, Inquiry and Sophistication, otherwise known as the How, Why and

Where phases. For instance, the first phase is characterised by the question "How can we eat?", the second by the question "Why do we eat?" and the third by the question, "Where shall we have lunch?" Yet this slight inefficiency troubled the people of Uh-Doptorra more than most, perhaps because it was such a beautiful and advanced world with an abundance of beautiful and advanced foods to eat or perhaps because the people of Uh-Doptorra were such a highly efficient, organized and (let's face it) bureaucratic race. The Uh-Doptorras are unique in being the only race in history to have invented the filing cabinet before the wheel. The Uh-Doptorrans eventually resolved the problem by creating a gigantic computer called Hunger Pang. The computer was equipped with terminals in every home and place of business on the planet. Its sole purpose was to make highly detailed examinations of the subject's metabolism and neural pathways to see exactly what everyone on the planet wanted to eat and provide it. The computer system was an enormous success, so much so that the Uh-Doptorrans gave it more and more responsibilities until Hunger Pang controlled every aspect of life on Uh-Doptorra. It controlled the air and ground traffic, it taught children in schools, it handled the economy, and it even controlled the planet's vast military infrastructure. That last part, according to historians, had been the mistake. It came to pass that a woman whose identity has been lost in time moved from the city of Notlob to the city of Sol Diablis and filed a change-of-address card with her bank. The address was entered incorrectly, and in the process of trying to correct the error, the computer was sent into a syntax error so severe that it resulted in the accidental launch of nuclear missiles and almost total annihilation of all life on the planet. The survivors gathered into one village to rebuild what remained of their civilization. Historians traced the cause of the collapse to the fact that the woman's change-ofaddress card had not been attached to the change-of-address form with a paper clip. Thus, said the historians, could civilization of Uh-Doptorra have been saved with a single paper clip. The design for the paper clip was lost in the apocalypse, elevating it and other office supplies to holy symbols for those who lived in eternal hopes of the restoration of their society that they called the Great Reboot. "It was written," concluded Chakka Chakka, "that one day the paper clip would return to us, and that would signal the dawn of a new age for Uh-Doptorra, where our world will be beautiful and advanced once again." "Yeah," said Zaphod while his other head yawned. "Good luck with that. Any chance of us getting a hold of that Chronological Correcting Fluid now?" "Soon, strange one. But you must be warned." "Okay. Get on with the warning."

They walked into a village of huts made of shelving covered in sheets of white paper. Chakka Chakka led the way to the largest hut, the interior of which had been painted with crude drawings and hieroglyphs. Chakka Chakka pointed his pencil-spear at one of the hieroglyphs. "Many suns ago, a chariot came down from the stars. It bore within it three biros unlike any our people had ever seen. The pens moved by themselves and told us of a mighty god called Treedeebee who had entrusted them with the power to erase the past. Unfortunately, they did not have the zoning regulations to keep the Chronological Correcting Fluid on their world. They built a vast temple on our world and placed the Fluid and the Time Printer within it. "Along with the Fluid, the biros created a fearsome Beast to guard it, so fearsome that the Beast killed four of us just for looking at it. Once the Beast was placed inside the Tempe of Time, the Temple was sealed for all eternity." Chakka Chakka pointed his pencil-spear at Ford, who felt like Chakka Chakka was going for his eye. "So be warned, newcomers. Saviors you may be, but unless ye are immortal, there is no escape from the fate that lies within those walls. Death awaits all those who enter the Tempe of Time, and no man or woman has ever left to tell the tale. If you value your lives and limbs, then go no further, for no greater horror have ye faced than the Beast that roams those dark catacombs, a nightmare that lives in your waking life and waits to extinguish all those who cross its blood-stained path!" "Got it," said Ford. "So where is it?" Chakka Chakka pointed to a simple wooden door next to him. "Right through there. The door kind of sticks so you have to jiggle it." Zaphod jiggled the simple brass knob until the door swung open into a stone corridor. Zaphod stepped towards the doorway. Chakka Chakka blocked his path with his spear. "Only the savior may enter," said Chakka Chakka. "And one whom he chooses." Ford asked, "Who, me? I'm not going in there after that lot you gave me." "You have to," said Joon. "We have to get the Fluid or all life in the Universe is doomed." Fenchurch said, "I'll go." "What?" cried Arthur. "No. You heard him. It's dangerous in there." "No, it's not. I know how to get past the Beast." "You?" cried Zaphod. "Since when did you turn into a killing machine?" Fenchurch looked at him. "I didn't say I would kill it. I said I would get past it." Zaphod sneered with one head and rolled his eyes with the other. "Oh, I'd like to see that. Why don't you share your little plan with the rest of us?" "I can't," Fenchurch said. "I promised him not to." "What are you on about?" gasped Arthur. She gave Arthur a hug and a kiss. "Don't worry. I know what I'm doing. Noslenda Bivenda taught me." Fenchurch laughed abruptly, and then said, "It's as easy as opening oysters."

Ford smiled. "Good of you to join us. I thought you'd never go mad."

37

Ford Prefect and Fenchurch walked down the long stone corridor in surprise. Fenchurch was surprised at the interior of the Temple of Time. A cold wind blew at them from somewhere unknown. Though she saw no light sources, there seemed to be a glow that followed them like a torch in their hands - except they had no torch. They could only see a few meters ahead of them at a time, but the floor angled downwards, so she knew they descended deeper underground. Everything seemed to be made of a polished stone that resembled marble, which is exactly what it was; stone that only resembled marble. She knew it wasn't marble because she would expect her footsteps on marble to create a hollow thump, but when she stepped on this stone, it produced an almost musical tone. The walls had been carved with strange symbols similar to the ones she had seen on the stone map. She didn't even bother trying to read them. It reminded her of the interior of an Egyptian tomb. She half-expected a mummy to come lurching out of the darkness with bandages trailing from its ankles, a thought that she tried to dispel by reminding herself there was no such thing as mummies, but then another part of her cut in to remind herself she had once believed there was no such thing as aliens, and she had just spent the past few weeks riding around in spaceships with them and using their lavatories. Ford Prefect was surprised to be inside the Temple at all. He had tried as hard as he could to fight going in, but they resorted to the most filthy and unscrupulous tactic of all; they reasoned with him. Trillian had pointed out that if his existence were wiped out, then he couldn't drink and dance with pretty girls anymore. Ford couldn't argue with that. Not to say he hadn't tried, but his argument that a robotic version of himself might drink motor oil and dance with robotic versions of pretty girls couldn't carry him that far. Ford carried with him the only other thing that could convince him to enter the Temple - an Ultra-Pow Vape-O-Ryze bazooka he had borrowed from Zaphod. The ridiculously powerful weapon was capable of turning entire cities into powder in mere seconds. In fact, the weapon was so powerful that most armies surrendered at the mere sight of it. Thus, the manufacturer had ceased producing the real version of it years ago, and manufactured hollow tubes shaped like the bazooka instead. The fact that no one had yet noticed is a testament to its reputation. Ford knew it was pointless to carry a weapon that powerful, but it also spoke to his fear that only carrying a weapon that powerful gave him the confidence to enter the Temple.

Ford followed Fenchurch down the corridor. He preferred to be called a cowardly little man who hid behind a woman than a dead hero. They crept down the dark corridor, awaiting the dreaded Beast that lurked in shadows, poised to tear them apart with bloody and fearsome ferocity until they turned a corner and faced a field of petunias. The petunias stood in an open room large enough to fit a skyscraper. Somehow, a shaft of sunlight had penetrated the Temple from the surface through a hole in the roof. It felt onto a relatively small patch of hundreds of delicate flowers in the center of the room, neatly arranged in a large square. The garden (for there was no doubt that's what it was) had obviously been recently tended, since not a single weed or stray leaf could be found among them. For a moment, Ford thought the flowers might be the fearsome Beast mentioned by Chakka Chakka and raised his bazooka to incinerate the lot of them, but Fenchurch made him stop being silly. Fenchurch knelt to inhale the perfume of the flowers. They smelled richer than the flowers she knew from Earth, oddly alien, which made sense since they were alien. They still seemed thoroughly out of place in a fearsome catacomb such as this. A low rumble ripped away the sense of relief that had begun to creep into Fenchurch. It reminded her of the low rumble she had heard in nature programs among lions, but far, far deeper and far, far louder. Goosebumps crawled up Fenchurch's back, trying to escape into her hair. The rumble came again, louder. At that point, Ford decided to incinerate the entire Temple and the Chronological Correcting Fluid as well. At that point, Ford discovered that his bazooka was, in fact, a hollow tube shaped like a bazooka insted. At that point, Ford discovered he was completely unarmed. At that point, Fenchurch heard a wide range of profanity in a number of alien languages. The roar came once more, this time accompanied by a thumping sound like heavy footsteps if (instead of shoes) the feet wore the Great Pyramids. The thumps came along with the sound of something dragging along the stone floor. Ford dove behind a stack of stone blocks in a corner and covered himself with his towel. There was only room for him, so he prepared to shove Fenchurch back out into the open if she tried to hide with him. She didn't. Ford felt a shock that she stood beside the garden, facing the direction the sounds came from. He wanted to leap out and rescue her, but he wasn't going to. Fenchurch stood her ground, listening to the thunderous footsteps, the tooth-rattling roar. A shadow passed across the shaft of sunlight to plunge her into darkness. The floor

trembled under her feet like an earthquake. A massive form squeezed itself through an adjoining corridor into the garden chamber. The creature loomed over her in much the same way that the World Trade Center looms over a Volkswagen Beetle. As her eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness, Fenchurch could make out the creature's distinctive shape. The portion on eye level with her consisted of two massive flat grey slabs of flesh. Those slabs dragged with them and supported an elongated grey body the size of an ocean liner. The rubbery skin of the creature bristled with hairs as thick as telephone cables. The already enormous body widened upwards dizzyingly to where the slabs attached to shoulders as wide as an office building. The body went straight into a head with no neck in between. Two long fangs protruded from a mouth large enough to swallow a house, pushing aside an upper lip bristling with more thick whiskers. Two slits formed nostrils on the hideous upper lip, leading to a pair of beady red eyes. With a shock, Fenchurch realised the creature resembled an enormous walrus. The walrus rolled its huge eyes down to look at Fenchurch standing by its flippers. The rumble came again, louder and more terrifying up close. Fenchurch's body shook as if it had grabbed her and shaken her like a rag doll. Its head slowly came down to look more closely at her and she could see her reflection in its blood-red eyes. Ford peeked out from behind the heavy stone blocks he hid behind. Fenchurch still stood there at the feet - flippers - of what he knew for a fact to be a Megavoidian UltraWalrus, one of the most fearsome creatures in the known Universe. The Ultra-Walrus was born angry and usually started its life in the world by fighting its mother for access to her milk. The Ultra-Walrus only grew more aggressive from that point on. And Fenchurch seemed to be talking to it. Ford winced, preferring not to watch as the Ultra-Walrus impaled her on its tusks, but unable to look away. It didn't. The Ultra-Walrus grunted and raised its head. Its head bowed slightly. Fenchurch turned and waved at Ford. "It's all right. Come on out. He's going to help us." "All right?" Ford blurted. "Come on out? He? Have you gone mad? That's an UltraWalrus. An Ultra-Walrus would happily rip the throat out of a Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal for coughing without covering its mouth." "Yes," said Fenchurch patiently. "And he's going to help us." The Ultra-Walrus looked up at Ford. Its whiskered jowls came up in what looked like a smile. It said in a deep voice that echoed through the Temple, "It's all right. I was just on my way to water my garden." The Ultra-Walrus held up one of its flippers that had a watering can attached to it with cellophane tape. Ford crept out, aiming his bazooka up at the Ultra-Walrus. "Are you the Beast?" "Er, yes," said the Ultra-Walrus.

"The Beast charged with guarding the Temple? "Er, yes." "The Beast who protects the Chronological Correcting Fluid?" "Er, yes." "The Beast that horribly massacres anyone who dares to try to steal it?" The Ultra-Walrus looked sheepish and shuffled its flippers. "Er, yes." "And you're going to help us?" "Well, quite frankly, I'm sick to death of the whole business. You can have the Fluid. Come. I'll take you to it." The Ultra-Walrus dragged itself around with its flippers and began to slump away. Ford charged up to Fenchurch and demanded in harsh whispers to know how she had gotten the Ultra-Walrus to help them. She refused to tell him. In fact, she never did tell him or anyone else how she had opened the way to the Chronological Correctional Fluid. Yet she had done it the same way Noslenda Bivenda had opened the Five-Tailed Whirlwind Ultra-Clam on the third moon of Llullul in the Inner Northern arm of the Galaxy. She asked nicely.

38

Joon Plinx threw up her hands. "I'm going insane." That's what she kept telling Trillian and Zaphod during the time Ford and Fenchurch spent inside the Temple so far. "My insanity," she continued, "is being caused by the fact that this is the culmination of a lifetime of work and research, that I am literally within arms' reach of the Temple of Time and the long-fabled Chronological Correcting Fluid, and I cannot even look at either." She pointed a green finger at her head. "I would give my right eye simply for one brief glimpse into the Temple. I can only imagine what the archaeological community could learn from the construction or decoration of the Temple's interior alone. The part that really kills me is the fact that neither Ford nor Fenchurch can truly appreciate and understand what they encounter in there. It's a bit like sending a couple of trained donkeys to explore the surface of a brand-new planet." Joon Plinx had been telling this to the others in great detail, who ignored her completely. Zaphod and Trillian were busy discussing his re-election campaign or lack thereof and where it was going while Arthur spent his time telling the others how dangerous this was and how worried he was for Fenchurch. The others ignored him as well. As it was, the only thing that could distract them from their individual reveries was the explosion that followed at that moment. The hut they waited in leapt into the air, flipped, and came crashing down again. The paper roof tore open at the seams, leaving them looking up at an enormous starship shaped like a tooth hovering over the village. Missiles fired from the underside of the tooth to tear huge craters out of the ground. "Oh, bat's dos," Joon sighed. "I thought we'd lost these chaps." The people of the village ran in terror. Some of their warriors used giant rubber bands to shoot pencils at the tooth, which was a bit like throwing snowballs at a Sherman tank. Zaphod and Trillian ran back to the Heart of Gold, but a volley of fire tore a crater under the starship that tumbled it out of reach. Within minutes, the tooth descended from the skies, wreathed in smoke from the burning huts. It extended a ramp from which pale men and women charged out in white uniforms. They all carried strange weapons that squirted corrosive acid. With ruthless efficiency, the men and women rounded up everyone in the village into a line, and then began inspecting their teeth.

Joon was the only one not surprised by this development. After the dental exam, Zaphod, Trillian, Joon, and Arthur were separated from the rest of them. A large round man with a broad smile approached them. "Hello," the smiling man said. "I am the Captain of the Molar. We are here for the Chronological Correcting Fluid." "Too late," snapped Zaphod. "It's already been and gone well away from this dump." "You're lying," said the smiling man. "It's still here." "How do you know?" The man looked up at the skies. "I can feel the changes in the space-time continuum like a spider feels vibrations on its web. Nothing has been changed. The Fluid has not yet been used. You will take us to it." Joon twisted her arms to try to free herself. "Who are you? Why are dentists trying to find the Fluid?" "I am of these people, but not one of them. I am Paradox. I was created by the spacetime continuum, born--" "Yeah, yeah," said Zaphod "Get to the point." Paradox looked at him. "Very well. I am here to erase the Universe." The thin man next to Paradox looked at him sharply. "What? You said you were going to erase the Banishing." Paradox turned his smile towards him. "Correct, Namel. As well as everything else. I have existed for millions of years, yet I have no home, no history, no goals, no connections to any world, no one like myself. I have grown weary of existence. I am here to die. I have tried suicide in countless parallel universes, but continue to exist in others. In order to erase my existence completely, I must erase the Universe itself from the very beginning." "That wasn't part of our deal," blurted Namel. "We cannot erase the Universe. Trillions of teeth lost forever!" Paradox leveled a cold smile at Namel. "I don't care about teeth." Namel aimed his rinser at Paradox and yelled over his shoulder, "Attention, all crew members of the Molar. Captain Rincequik has defamed the mission of the Plaxx and demonstrated that he is no longer fit to command. As his second, I am taking command of the ship and all its crew. I order you to take him into custody and return him to Plaxx for court-martial." Paradox began to walk towards the now-exposed entrance to the Temple of Time. "Fire," yelled Namel. The Plaxx fired their rinsers. Streams of acid converged onto Paradox. His body wavered at the edges like a blur. He continued unharmed. The sky went black. A whistling noise drew everyone's attention upwards. A starship hung below the clouds over them, blotting out the sun itself. Minuscule dots came down from the starship, dots that resolved themselves into fighters. Arthur immediately

recognised them as those that had attacked them on Hooloovoo, the Aggressive Sales Representatives. The fighters swooped over them like drunken eagles, raining down weapons fire. The Plaxx scattered, some firing their rinsers into the air. A few streams made contact with the Sirius fighters, melting off wings and noses and causing the fighters to tumble out of the sky. The massive tooth-shaped spaceship launched a devastating barrage of missiles at the fighters that exploded and caused a rain of burning metal. The battleship in orbit fired a single beam of red light that punched a hole in the tooth ship like a gigantic cavity. The Molar reeled in the sky like a drunken boxer, then fired back at the battleship. Through falling spaceships and flying acid, Arthur caught sight of Paradox heading calmly into the entrance of the Temple of Time. He still wasn't clear on what was going on, but Arthur knew it had to be bad. He pursued Paradox into the Temple.

39

Fenchurch and Ford followed the Ultra-Walrus as it slowly made its way through the vast stone temple. It said, "I try to make the rounds of the entire temple at least once a day, although recently I admit I have been taking a few shortcuts. I was more dedicated at the beginning of my appointment, but that has been several thousand years ago. After the first couple of hundred years of dead silence, my vigilance began to wane. At first, I simply skipped one or two rooms that were quite firmly locked and impossible for an intruder to enter. No point in opening those. I have to get the keys out and everything. Since I no longer have hands, that's an act of frustration I simply don't need in my life." The Ultra-Walrus gestured with its enormous flippers towards the room they had left. "Then I passed up the main atrium. Nothing to guard in there, except the garden I tend in my spare time. I didn't think someone would break through the temple's defences just to steal my petunias. Things went on that way until I managed to reduce my patrol route to where I manage to make my rounds in about an hour. That left plenty of time to tend my garden, read some good books that I brought along, and get in some quick naps." The Ultra-Walrus sighed as it began dragging itself along again. "In fact, I live a rather dull life these days, but it's far superior to my old job." "What was your old job?" Fenchurch asked. The Ultra-Walrus' face collapsed into a rigid mask. "I don't like to think about my old job. Or my old life, for that matter. I find that whole incident rather embarrassing. That's why I allowed myself to become this." "So you weren't always an Ultra-Walrus?" "No." The Ultra-Walrus lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. "We were told," said Ford, trying to sound casual, "that you were a bloodthirsty killing machine." "Oh, yes," said the Ultra-Walrus calmly. "Well, it's all part of the job. I did have to kill a few dozen people in the beginning just to establish the reputation, but I haven't killed anyone in longer than I can remember. Mostly I just prowl around, read the same books over and over again, and grow petunias. So far, I've read Ursa Minor Beta Blues roughly five million eighty-four times over the years. Still better than what I was once ordered to do." "Which you won't tell us about," chimed in Ford.

The Ultra-Walrus furrowed its enormous brow. Perhaps it was Ford's imagination, but he thought the Ultra-Walrus' cheeks reddened a bit. "All right," said Ford, "leaving that aside, why are you letting us take the Fluid? As opposed to, say, killing us." "Well," said the Ultra-Walrus, "she promised not to cause too much trouble with it. But frankly, I'm sick to the tusks of the entire business. When I first took this job from the biros of guarding the Temple I had anticipated a lot of action, grappling with invaders and grave-robbers and so forth. I hadn't considered the fact that no one was even supposed to know that the Temple existed, much less how to get in. No one has tried to steal the Chronological Correcting Fluid in the thousands of years I have been guarding it. It's not quite the job I had expected. I find my gardening much more fulfilling." They turned a corner. Ford and Fenchurch froze. The Ultra-Walrus just smiled. "Yes," said the Ultra-Walrus. "Even after all these years, it still affects me as well." The room that the Ultra-Walrus led them into contained the Time Printer and the Chronological Correcting Fluid. Those of you who might be familiar with the staggeringly backwards technology such as those found on Earth may have a false image of what the Time Printer and the Chronological Correcting Fluid might look like. This is the point at which to take that image and toss it into the nearest rubbish bin. In fact, even those familiar with more modern printers and correcting fluid might have to make some adjustments as well. The chamber filled with light from a glowing ribbon that chattered out of the top of an enormous crystal sphere in the center of the chamber; the Time Printer. The sphere looked as if it should be transparent, but the shapes and colours swirling inside of it didn't match its surroundings. The light-ribbon that fed out of it resembled the small shred that Joon had carried, but far larger. In fact, a small portion of the ribbon could have served as the sail for the Queen Mary. But there was no small portion of the ribbon. It stretched upwards from the Time Printer and curled through the air over and over, higher and higher, like smoke, upwards into a ceiling that seemed to extend into eternity until it all blended together into a mass of light like a miniature sun. On a pedestal next to the Printer stood what looked like a staff made of a luminescent unidentifiable metal. The staff floated vertically in mid-air on its own. A cloud of sparkling lights engulfed the end of the staff pointed towards the ground. "Nice," said Ford in a failed attempt to keep from looking too impressed. Fenchurch found her voice at last. "How does it work?" The Ultra-Walrus pointed a flipper. "Well, that staff is the Chronological Correcting Fluid. And the glowing paper is the fabric of space and time, representing all of history from the beginning of the Universe. If you brush the staff across any point on the Time Paper, the corresponding point of history will be erased. I've never tried it myself. As I said, I don't have hands anymore." "Thank you," said a voice behind them.

All turned to look at the smiling man in the entrance behind them. "Thank you," repeated the smiling man, "for leading me here and showing me how to operate the Fluid. I can now fulfill the goal that has haunted me for thousands of years the erasure of myself and the history of the Universe." The smiling man walked into the chamber, past Ford and Fenchurch, headed for the Chronological Correcting Fluid. The Ultra-Walrus roared as it charged at the smiling man. Its massive flippers smacked down onto the smiling man, crushing him into the floor. Yet just as the flippers hit the ground, the smiling man shivered into existence on top of them again. The Ultra-Walrus swept its massive tusks through the smiling man. The tusks passed through the smiling man's body like an axe passing through the abdomen of a ghost. The smiling man continued his inexorable walk towards the Chronological Correcting Fluid. At that moment, Arthur rushed in after Paradox. He saw Paradox bound for the Fluid. He panicked. He didn't know who this man was, but Paradox had said he was going to erase the Universe, which definitely was not a good thing. That's why he ran forward and grabbed the Chronological Correcting Fluid first. He had just intended to keep the staff away from Paradox, but felt quite startled to find himself rising into the air, leaving a trail of sparkling lights. Paradox stood on the ground, looking up at him with a puzzled smile. As if things had not already become unbearably tense, an explosion caved in the ceiling of the chamber, caused by a platoon of Aggressive Sales Representatives. They came rappelling through the hole on wires, firing indiscriminately at anything in their path. Paradox watched them descend on him for a moment, and then raised his arms. Another copy of himself appeared on either side of him. More copies appeared on either side of the first copies. This continued until, within a few seconds, hundreds of versions of Paradox stood on the floor of the chamber. As the Aggressive Sales Representatives reached the ground, the multiple Paradoxes lunged at them. The Representatives had been armed with knives, rifles, pistols, missile launchers, and grenades, but found to their surprise none of them had any effect on Paradox. On the other hand, Paradox's hands and feet were remarkably effective at smashing through the supposedly impenetrable armour of the Representatives and inflicting damage to their bodies. This was a considerable and (more to the point) unpleasant surprise to the Representatives, who had become used to inflicting pain and terror on other people, not on experiencing it themselves. Arthur drifted through the glowing ribbons of light curling through the air around him. He had been in time to hear the huge walrus-creature's explanation of the operation of Chronological Correcting Fluid, but the creature had left out the part where the staff would carry him away like a witch's broom.

Arthur looked down at the glowing strip nearest to him. When he had first looked at it, it seemed merely a flat sheet, but now it took on a new form. He could see people and places, strange alien worlds, mighty battles, and tragic love, all being acted out simultaneously on the surface of the ribbon. Yet the images only came when he looked directly at a section of the Time Paper. Elsewhere, it remained a glowing yellow stripe. Arthur came to the startling realisation that he could see all of history playing out within the pages printed from the Time Printer. He could only assume that this was visible now because he held the staff of the Chronological Correcting Fluid. He was right, of course. He also assumed that what he was seeing was a recording of historical events. He was wrong, of course. As Arthur floated among the curling sheets of Time itself, he became aware of someone else there with him. One of the copies of Paradox walked calmly and menacingly (a difficult trick to pull off, but he managed) along the sheets of light up towards Arthur as casually as if Paradox walked down the street. He reached out towards the staff in Arthur's hand. Arthur instinctively swiped the staff at Paradox. The staff passed harmlessly through Paradox. It struck a section of the Time Paper behind him. The end of the staff burst in a cloud of sparkles. The glow on the section of Time Paper the staff touched vanished and went black. Paradox looked over his shoulder at the darkened Time Paper, and then smiled at Arthur. "You have just erased the Ooploodian Speckled Tree Frog from existence." "Oh, dear. I certainly hope they weren't important." "The Ooploodian Speckled Tree Frogs were integral to the ecosystem of their planet. Without the Tree Frog to distribute pollen, all plant life on their world failed to cultivate, causing a massive famine, which starved all animal life, which caused the extinction of all life on the planet." "Ah," said Arthur, "bad luck." Arthur tried to hold the staff in a menacing fashion. "Back away. I don't want to hurt you." "That," said Paradox, "is not possible."

At the start of the battle, the Ultra-Walrus attempted to kill all the invaders, but it quickly became obvious that the Paradoxes could not be killed and they did a good job of killing the Aggressive Sales Representatives themselves, so the Ultra-Walrus simply found a corner where it could watch and wait to maul the survivors. Fenchurch decided to wait with the Ultra-Walrus, partly because none of the other combatants would come near it, but mainly because it looked like it could use the company.

"Your embarrassing past," said Fenchurch, patting the Ultra-Walrus on the flipper. "Share it with me? I'm good at keeping secrets." The Ultra-Walrus heaved a deep sigh that almost blew Fenchurch over. "Well, I don't like to talk about it, but I suppose it has been several thousand years. High time I faced up to it." And the Ultra-Walrus told Fenchurch a story.

40

Hundreds of years ago, a young security officer called L'harl Quibb worked for the Safety and Civil Reassurance Administration. Ford Prefect had once tried to explain the Safety and Civil Reassurance Administration to Arthur, but gave up when he couldn't explain what they actually did. "They reassure people," Ford said. "I see," Arthur said. "Reassure them of what?" "Anything that needs reassuring." Arthur nodded in hopes that it would lead to Ford giving more information. When it didn't, Arthur just came right out and said so. "Look, the Universe is a dangerous place," Ford said. "There are all sorts of nasty things out there. So the government set up a department whose sole purpose is to reassure us that it's safe." "That what's safe?" "Whatever we think might be unsafe." "I see," lied Arthur. "And what if whatever they want to assure us is safe actually isn't safe?" "That's what they're for - to assure us that it is safe. They investigate anything that's unsafe to make sure that it is safe. If they find something that's unsafe, then they go back and tell us that it is perfectly safe." "So the purpose of the department is to lie?" "Yes. No. Look, don't worry about it. Nobody believes anything they say, anyway." "So if no one believes them, then what's the point of the department?" "What's the point of any government department?" At that point, Ford gave Arthur one of those smiles that made it seem like he was going to go for his neck, which was when Arthur decided to end the conversation. That morning, L'harl Quibb was given his assignment; a concert on Abba Alpha Nine in violation of local building codes. More specifically, the stage was roughly a centimetre too wide on the north-eastern side. A minor matter, but nothing was too minor to escape the notice of the Safety and Civil Reassurance Administration. The concert would have to be shut down. Quibb wasn't too pleased with the assignment to begin with. He had handled many piddling matters since joining the Administration, but this seemed frightfully trivial. Still, he had his orders.

Things grew worse once he researched the concert. It turned out that the concert would be held that very afternoon. Quibb was going to have to shut the concert down moments before it started. And it was a benefit concert for the Temporary Children of Abba Alpha Nine. At that time, Abba Alpha Nine had just suffered a devastating tragedy. It seemed that during an early experiment into time travel, everyone on the planet older than six years old reverted back to the age of six. This left no adults whatsoever to harvest food, build homes, or operate heavy machinery. More importantly, it left no adults to operate the time machine that could revert them back to normal. The benefit concert was intended to gather funds to provide the Temporary Children with food, clothing, electricity, and research into temporal physics to return them to normal. Because it involved a lot of sweet, innocent children that could be shown whimpering from hunger on Tri-D, the Temporary Children were an enormously popular cause, one that many celebrities and public figures were quite keen to support. Quibb would have to shut it down. He gathered his paperwork and made for Abba Alpha Nine, closely monitoring the Sub-Etha radio bands for more information. It only got worse. While on route, it was announced that the audience had exceeded fifty billion people, covering most of the viable land masses of the planet. In addition, fourteen quadrillion people had paid to watch the concert on Tri-D. It grew even worse when it was announced that the plutonium rock band Disaster Area was scheduled to be the opening act. Disaster Area had not even been formed yet, but the members had gone back in time to perform a special engagement for the concert. This was the first time anyone in this time period had heard Disaster Area, and the excitement was enormous. In fact, performing thousands of years in the past caused such fervor that Disaster Area was already a Galaxy-wide sensation when the band members were born. Traffic jammed the hyperspace routes to the concert, causing L'harl Quibb to arrive five minutes late. By then, the concert had already begun and Disaster Area had taken the stage. L'Aharl Quibb found himself standing backstage, trying to work up the courage to walk out, interrupt the performance, and announce to half the Galaxy that this phenomenal concert for a truly heart-moving cause would have to be shut down because of an extremely minor local zoning regulation. It was extremely embarrassing. At that moment, a biro left on a desk near Quibb spoke up with an offer. The biros needed someone to guard a very special item called the Chronological Correcting Fluid. The biros would take him away from this awkward situation if Quibb agreed to be transformed into an Ultra-Walrus and spend thousands of years locked in an ancient temple and kill anyone who entered it. Quibb immediately agreed.

"And so," said the Ultra-Walrus as a severed arm flew past his head, "here I am. If I had it to do all over again, I would, but I would carry more books with me. And some plant fertiliser for the flowers." The Ultra-Walrus sighed. "It does feel good to get that out after all these years. Thank you, young lady." Fenchurch patted its flipper. "You're most welcome." The Ultra-Walrus raised its head to look up at Arthur and Paradox floating high above them. "I say, your boyfriend doesn't seem to be making out too well." She raised her head to look, and then got to her feet and dusted off her sundress. "Yes. Well, things tend to work out for Arthur somehow."

41

Paradox advanced on Arthur calmly but steadily, walking on the ribbons of light that curled around them. Arthur thought Paradox would seem less frightening if he came charging at Arthur with guns blazing, screaming like a banshee. Arthur found the man's relative calm and warm smile unnerving. Paradox held up his hand and made a strange symbol. "I must take your Universe." Arthur swung the staff that made up the Chronological Correcting Fluid at Paradox like a bat. Paradox's body wavered at the edges like a hot road in the Arizona desert quietly frying a dead coyote. The staff passed through him. Arthur wasn't as surprised by it this time. The staff hit another section of the Time Paper, causing it to go completely back with a burst of light. Arthur wasn't surprised by that either. The staff hit a wall of the Temple of Time and reverberated from the impact. This part did surprise Arthur. It does require a bit more explanation before proceeding. The Chronological Correcting Fluid included a staggering amount of technology built into it, including a thermonuclear harmonic generator. In addition, the walls of the Temple of Time were made of a rare mineral known as harmonite with unique properties found only on the planet Uh-Doptorra. The mineral is used extensively throughout the planet due to the fact that the slightest tap produces a subtle vibration. A strong enough tap can be heard as a musical tone. Arthur gave the wall a very strong tap and produced a very loud musical tone. The combination of the tone and the thermonuclear harmonic generator built into the Chronological Correcting Fluid created a crude Cosmophone that sent vibrations through the Cosmic String for the Galaxy. By an extraordinary coincidence, the frequency Arthur created was the long-sought multidimensional frequency for the Whole Sort of General Mish-Mash. The resulting frequency would have caused vibrations throughout every Cosmic String in the Whole Sort of General Mish-Mash and caused a massive waveform collapse that destroyed this Universe and every other parallel Universe in existence if the Fluid hadn't bounced off the wall and hit Paradox. Arthur expected the staff to pass harmlessly through Paradox. Paradox expected the staff to pass harmlessly through himself. Instead, Paradox absorbed the frequency created

by the staff. The frequency caused the Cosmic String connecting Paradox to this Universe and all others to collapse. Arthur didn't understand that, of course. All he knew was that the staff became lodged in Paradox's torso as if he had plunged a spoon into a bowl of custard. Paradox's smile collapsed as he began to shiver. A loud musical tone echoed through the Temple, growing louder. Below Arthur, the sounds of screaming and dying fell silent as the tone filled the air. Arthur looked down to see all the other versions of Paradox shivering as well. Paradox began to convulse as if having a seizure. He managed to turn his head and look at Arthur. He smiled. "Thank you." Every other version of Paradox in the Temple and throughout the WSOGM collapsed into non-existence. From Arthur's perspective, Paradox simply went missing along with all of his duplicates. The Chronological Correcting Fluid embedded in Paradox vanished along with them. This should have caused Arthur to fall out of the sky and cause a rather nasty mess on the Temple floor, but he was so surprised at what happened that he forgot to fall and didn't. Arthur just floated there among the coils of Time Paper drifting around him. Eventually, the calls of Fenchurch on the ground below him drew Arthur's attention downwards. He knew enough about flying at this point to regard with relative calm, trying not to notice the fact that he hung suspended over her. He focused on how pretty the rippling Time Paper around him looked and studiously refused to think about floating back down to the ground, causing him to land gently on his feet. Fenchurch hugged him. "How on Earth did you do that?" "No idea," Arthur said brightly. "But apparently the deed was done." At this point, the surviving Aggressive Sales Representatives gathered their forces and beat a hasty retreat. They didn't know what had happened either, but thought it would be best to let someone else figure it out. No one did, but no one really cared too much.

42

After that, a lot of things happened that took quite a long time to resolve but not a lot of time to explain. The Plaxx, having come to the awareness that they had been manipulated by Paradox, gave everyone involved a sincere apology and a cleaning, then left for parts unknown. The Chronological Correcting Fluid was destroyed along with Paradox, so it would never be used again. A little bit after that, the Time Printer vanished, along with the Time Paper. The Ultra-Walrus found itself in a temple with nothing to guard, but the Aggressive Sales Representatives had greatly widened the hole in the roof, allowing a lot of sunshine in. The Ultra-Walrus turned the Temple into a garden full-time. The Sirius Cybernetics Corporation, enraged by the loss of the Fluid, tried to destroy Uh-Doptorra and everyone on it with a fleet of Aggressive Sales Representatives. Fortunately, the Corporation didn't have many Representatives left, and those they had refused to go back down to the planet, so the Corporation had to settle for remotely disabling the Heart of Gold and flying back to the Sirius Tau system in a huff. With the Chronological Correcting Fluid gone, the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation no longer had any use for The Hitchhiker's Guide and spun it back off into its own company to do whatever the photon it liked, for all the Corporation cared. Eddie managed to reactivate the Heart of Gold and they were on their way. They dropped off Joon Plinx at the University of MaxiMegalon with enough material to write her thesis on the Chronological Correcting Fluid. She ultimately failed her archaeology course because her professor didn't believe a word of it. The only real problem that remained was Zaphod Beeblebrox. He was furious at the destruction of the Chronological Correcting Fluid. It didn't take long before the others found out why. "You were going to erase your first presidential term?" yelled Trillian. "Are you mad? Didn't it occur to you that you would be erasing everything else along with it?" Arthur brightened. "But that would have erased the destruction of Earth as well, wouldn't it?" "Yes, along with me and you, Arthur, as well as Ford, this ship, and everything else associated with it. That's what Treedeebee discovered, that the Fluid erases everything in that time period and everything that's connected to it from then on."

Zaphod's left head looked away, refusing to be drawn into the conversation. His right head yelled, "Look, it doesn't matter now, okay? It's all over. My re-election campaign is shot to Zarquon, thanks to the Monkeyman here." Ford lay on the couch, thumbing through his copy of The Hitchhiker's Guide. He called out, "I'm afraid you've got bigger problems, my old mate. There's a big chunk of history that's gone missing from the Guide. Everything from the forty-second week in the third year of the Xorphen Era." "So?" "That week doesn't ring any bells?" "No. I got lots of weeks, I can't keep track of all of them. I just let weeks take care of themselves. If I wait long enough, they turn into months. What's your point?" "That week is when you were born. It's gone." Zaphod's two heads blinked in unison. They slowly turned to Arthur. Their scowl deepened. "I got you to thank for that, Monkeyman?" "What?" asked Arthur. "No. Why would you? Oh, you mean that Fluid thing? Well, I did accidentally erase some frogs. Er, and the ecosystem of their entire planet. But I thought you were from a different planet. Beetle-something." "Okay," said Trillian. "So while you were up there, you didn't erase any other history?" "No. Of course not. Er, well, there was one other bit. It was when I was trying to hit that smiling fellow. I missed and, er, hit some more Time Paper by accident. Now that I recall, there was that one other bit." Zaphod's right head closed its eyes. "One other bit." His left head opened its eyes. It screamed, "The zarking day I was born!" "But this makes no sense," Trillian murmured. "If Arthur erased your birthday, then why are you still here?" "How should I know? Maybe I'm such a cool guy that the Universe couldn't bear to part with me." "Or," said Ford, "there is the little matter of the accident. With the contraceptive and the time machine." Trillian said, "A time machine. That's it. It was the Chronological Correcting Fluid all along." "Fantastic," snapped Zaphod. "Thanks a lot, Monkeyman. All right, where do we go from here? How do I get back in play?" "Well," sad Trillian slowly. "I have a thought. But I'm not sure you're going to like it." "Hey, if it involves contraceptives," said Zaphod, "I'm sure I won't like it."

A few thousand years in the past, the Heart of Gold orbited a small planet in the vicinity of Betelgeuse.

Arthur and Trillian sat on the bridge of the Heart of Gold, playing Scrabble. Fenchurch lay on the couch, reading entries from The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. Ford stumbled onto the bridge, carrying his bulging towel over his shoulder. "Well, one good thing about this trip. I was able to get some rather fine bottles of Shylakk liquor from a local supply station. They stopped manufacturing it after too many people who drank it had their brains eaten out. What, Zaphod's not back yet?" "Not yet," said Trillian as she considered her next move. Ford set the towel down by the bar and unwrapped it to reveal dozens of bottles. He began restocking the ship's liquor cabinet with them. "How hard is it to seduce your own great-great-grandmother?" Fenchurch looked up. "I'm still not sure I understand this plan. How does Zaphod having sex with his great-great-grandmother solve the problem?" "Simple," said Trillian. "At this point, Zaphod's birthday is gone, which means he has never been born. But if Zaphod's great-great-grandmother gives birth to his son, then that child will be Zaphod's great-grandfather, Zaphod Beeblebrox the Fourth. Then his son will be Zaphod's grandfather, Zaphod Beeblebrox the Third, and his son will be Zaphod Beeblebrox the Second, and his son will be Zaphod Beeblebrox the First, who is Zaphod himself." "So Zaphod," asked Fenchurch, "will become his own great-great-grandfather?" "Correct. And that will create a causality loop, a paradox that allows Zaphod to still exist. If he doesn't exist, then he can't go back in time to become his own great-greatgrandfather. So the Universe has to allow Zaphod to exist, even without being born, otherwise the whole thing would be a cock up." Ford made a rude gesture. "Exactly. We're giving the space-time continuum the finger, and it's gotta take it and like it." Fenchurch sighed and settled back to her reading. "I'll let you lot worry about it." The door hissed open and Zaphod swaggered onto the bridge. His faces had a very salacious grin on them that he had been practicing all the way back to the ship. "Well, mission accomplished." "What took you so long?" Ford called out as he poured himself a drink. "Hey, the two heads threw her off a bit, but I got the job done." Trillian folded her arms. "Congratulations. And you're sure she's pregnant?" "As pregnant as it gets," said Zaphod. "I had the 'accident' with the contraceptive, just like you planned." "Fine. Then let's get back to our own time. The longer we stay here, the more we risk causing more damage than we already have." "Hey, I got a better idea. What say we hang around here for a while? Nobody's ever heard of me here. I'd get re-elected for sure." Trillian folded her arms. "Zaphod, do I have to remind you that you never wanted to be President in the first place? Why are you trying so hard to get re-elected?"

"Because I can't lose," yelled Zaphod. "Not to a dead guy. My ego can't take it. I'm a very sensitive guy." "No, you're not," said Ford. "Well, this could turn me into one." "Which would be a bad thing?" "Hey, I'm a very delicately balanced mass of personality flaws. You take one out, and it all falls apart." "Well, I'm not staying in this Zarquon-forsaken time period for the sake of your ego." "Look," said Fenchurch suddenly from the couch. "I've been reading up on this. I have a solution."

Zaphod Beeblebrox waved to the Galaxy. Not literally, of course. Zaphod waved to the Tri-D camera that broadcast it to the trillions of people watching all over the Galaxy. "Hi," said Zaphod as applause washed over him. The applause wasn't actually there, either, merely a ceremonial recording played in the background to give the occasion some pomp and circumstance. Zaphod stood on a ceremonial podium in the Presidential Bunker on the planet Smada Salgoud, the heart of the Imperial Galactic Government. A government spider waited on the podium, holding a yellow sash. The spider felt irritation with how long the ceremony was taking. Usually, the appointment of a new President of the Galaxy took only a minute, the amount of time required to pull the sash over the President's neck. Even with the new President's two necks, it shouldn't take more than five minutes. No speech was required during the appointment. In fact, a speech was greatly discouraged, since Tri-D viewers had notoriously short attention spans. Most Presidents did all their ceremonial speeches at the ceremonial party after the appointment, at which time they ceremonially got extremely drunk. That portion of the appointment always made extremely good Tri-D, especially when it came to Zaphod Beeblebrox. His first ceremonial party had violated four hundred and eighty-one federal laws in the first hour. Zaphod knew all this, which was why he had spent the last ten minutes waving and saying "hi." He despised government spiders. Arthur and Fenchurch watched all this on the Tri-D in the Heart of Gold. "Well," said Arthur, "that was easy." "Yes," said Fenchurch. "I thought it might be. After all, if saving all life in the Universe doesn't earn back some goodwill, I don't know what would." Arthur shoved his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown. "Still not pleased about letting him get all the credit. I'm the one who killed Paradox." "And erased Zaphod's birthday." Fenchurch patted his arm. "Let it go, Arthur."

Trillian walked in carrying a suitcase. "Well, it's time to disembark. Now that the government's taking back the Heart of Gold, where will you two be heading?" "Home," said Arthur. "To Earth. You should come with us." "Thank you, no. Now that I've seen what's out there, I can't go back to living on one planet again. There's an entire Galaxy out there. I plan to see it all. Might even try my hand at Tri-D reporting myself. They pay you to travel and Zaphod always said I had the looks for it." Arthur and Fenchurch said their good-byes and hitched their way onto a starship bound for the Western Arm of the Galaxy. On the way, Arthur couldn't help thinking this could be his last journey through the Galaxy. He might never leave Earth again. Arthur was profoundly grateful.

If you liked this story, you may like my other writing, available at amazon.com/author/nigelmitchell, where you'll find more updates, information, and new releases. First edition - August 2007 The characters and situations presented are fictitious. Any similarity between persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Some portions of this novel, including characters and settings, are based on the property of Douglas Adams and are intended to honor and celebrate his work. Any valid request from the copyright holders or caretakers of Adams' estate to cease distribution will be honoured. This book or any portion thereof may be reproduced by anyone for any purpose, so long as such activity is not profitdriven/commercial, and this notice page remains intact.