“The Ultimate Question?”
“Yes!”
“Of Life, the Universe, and Everything?”
“Yes!”
Deep Thought pondered this for a moment.
“Tricky,” he said.
“But can you do it?” cried Loonquawl.
Deep Thought pondered this for another long moment.
Finally: “No,” he said firmly.
Both men collapsed on to their chairs in despair.
“But I'll tell you who can,” said Deep Thought.
They both looked up sharply.
“Who?”
“Tell us!”
Suddenly Arthur began to feel his apparently non-existent scalp begin to crawl as he found himself moving slowly but inexorably forward towards the console, but it was only a dramatic zoom on the part of whoever had made the recording he assumed.
“I speak of none other than the computer that is to come after me,” intoned Deep Thought, his voice regaining its accustomed declamatory tones. “A computer whose merest operational parameters I am not worthy to calculate — and yet I will design it for you. A computer which can calculate the Question to the Ultimate Answer, a computer of such infinite and subtle complexity that organic life itself shall form part of its operational matrix. And you yourselves shall take on new forms and go down into the computer to navigate its ten-million-year program! Yes!
I shall design this computer for you. And I shall name it also unto you.
And it shall be called... The Earth.”
Phouchg gaped at Deep Thought.
“What a dull name,” he said and great incisions appeared down the length of his body. Loonquawl too suddenly sustained horrific gashed from nowhere. The Computer console blotched and cracked, the walls flickered and crumbled and the room crashed upwards into its own ceiling...
Slartibartfast was standing in front of Arthur holding the two wires.
“End of the tape,” he explained.
“Zaphod! Wake up!”
“Mmmmmwwwwwerrrrr?”
“Hey come on, wake up.”
“Just let me stick to what I'm good at, yeah?” muttered Zaphod and rolled away from the voice back to sleep.
“Do you want me to kick you?” said Ford.
“Would it give you a lot of pleasure?” said Zaphod, blearily.
“No.”
“Nor me. So what's the point? Stop bugging me.” Zaphod curled himself up.
“He got a double dose of the gas,” said Trillian looking down at him, “two windpipes.”
“And stop talking,” said Zaphod, “it's hard enough trying to sleep anyway. What's the matter with the ground? It's all cold and hard.”
“It's gold,” said Ford.
With an amazingly balletic movement Zaphod was standing and scanning the horizon, because that was how far the gold ground stretched in every direction, perfectly smooth and solid. It gleamed like... it's impossible to say what it gleamed like because nothing in the Universe gleams in quite the same way that a planet of solid gold does. “Who put all that there?” yelped Zaphod, goggle-eyed.
“Don't get excited,” said Ford, “it's only a catalogue.”
“A who?”
“A catalogue,” said Trillian, “an illusion.”
“How can you say that?” cried Zaphod, falling to his hands and knees and staring at the ground. He poked it and prodded it with his fingernail.
It was very heavy and very slightly soft — he could mark it with his fingernail. It was very yellow and very shiny, and when he breathed on it his breath evaporated off it in that very peculiar and special way that breath evaporates off solid gold.
“Trillian and I came round a while ago,” said Ford. “We shouted and yelled till somebody came and then carried on shouting and yelling till they got fed up and put us in their planet catalogue to keep us busy till they were ready to deal with us. This is all Sens-O-Tape.”
Zaphod stared at him bitterly.
“Ah, shit,” he said, “you wake me up from my own perfectly good dream to show me somebody else's.” He sat down in a huff.
“What's that series of valleys over there?” he said.
“Hallmark,” said Ford. “We had a look.”
“We didn't wake you earlier,” said Trillian. “The last planet was knee deep in fish.”
“Fish?”
“Some people like the oddest things.”
“And before that,” said Ford, “we had platinum. Bit dull. We thought you'd like to see this one though.”
Seas of light glared at them in one solid blaze wherever they looked.
“Very pretty,” said Zaphod petulantly.
In the sky a huge green catalogue number appeared. It flickered and changed, and when they looked around again so had the land.
As with one voice they all went, “Yuch.”
The sea was purple. The beach they were on was composed of tiny yellow and green pebbles — presumably terribly precious stones. The mountains in the distance seemed soft and undulating with red peaks. Nearby stood a solid silver beach table with a frilly mauve parasol and silver tassles.
In the sky a huge sign appeared, replacing the catalogue number. It said, Whatever your tastes, Magrathea can cater for you. We are not proud.
And five hundred entirely naked women dropped out of the sky on parachutes.
In a moment the scene vanished and left them in a springtime meadow full of cows.
“Ow!” said Zaphod. “My brains!”
“You want to talk about it?” said Ford.
“Yeah, OK,” said Zaphod, and all three sat down and ignored the scenes that came and went around them.
“I figure this,” said Zaphod. “Whatever happened to my mind, I did it.
And I did it in such a way that it wouldn't be detected by the government screening tests. And I wasn't to know anything about it myself. Pretty crazy, right?”
The other two nodded in agreement.
“So I reckon, what's so secret that I can't let anybody know I know it, not the Galactic Government, not even myself? And the answer is I don't know. Obviously. But I put a few things together and I can begin to guess. When did I decide to run for President? Shortly after the death of President Yooden Vranx. You remember Yooden, Ford?”
“Yeah,” said Ford, “he was that guy we met when we were kids, the Arcturan captain. He was a gas. He gave us conkers when you bust your way into his megafreighter. Said you were the most amazing kid he'd ever met.”
“What's all this?” said Trillian.
“Ancient history,” said Ford, “when we were kids together on Betelgeuse. The Arcturan megafreighters used to carry most of the bulky trade between the Galactic Centre and the outlying regions The Betelgeuse trading scouts used to find the markets and the Arcturans would supply them. There was a lot of trouble with space pirates before they were wiped out in the Dordellis wars, and the megafreighters had to be equipped with the most fantastic defence shields known to Galactic science. They were real brutes of ships, and huge. In orbit round a planet they would eclipse the sun.
“One day, young Zaphod here decides to raid one. On a tri-jet scooter designed for stratosphere work, a mere kid. I mean forget it, it was crazier than a mad monkey. I went along for the ride because I'd got some very safe money on him not doing it, and didn't want him coming back with fake evidence. So what happens? We got in his tri-jet which he had souped up into something totally other, crossed three parsecs in a matter of weeks, bust our way into a megafreighter I still don't know how, marched on to the bridge waving toy pistols and demanded conkers. A wilder thing I have not known. Lost me a year's pocket money.
For what? Conkers.”
“The captain was this really amazing guy, Yooden Vranx,” said Zaphod. “He gave us food, booze — stuff from really weird parts of the Galaxy — lots of conkers of course, and we had just the most incredible time. Then he teleported us back. Into the maximum security wing of Betelgeuse state prison. He was a cool guy. Went on to become President of the Galaxy.”
Zaphod paused.
The scene around them was currently plunged into gloom. Dark mists swirled round them and elephantine shapes lurked indistinctly in the shadows. The air was occasionally rent with the sounds of illusory beings murdering other illusory beings. Presumably enough people must have liked this sort of thing to make it a paying proposition.
“Ford,” said Zaphod quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Just before Yooden died he came to see me.”
“What? You never told me.”
“No.”
“What did he say? What did he come to see you about?”
“He told me about the Heart of Gold. It was his idea that I should steal it.”
“His idea?”
“Yeah,” said Zaphod, “and the only possible way of stealing it was to be at the launching ceremony.”
Ford gaped at him in astonishment for a moment, and then roared with laughter.
“Are you telling me,” he said, “that you set yourself up to become President of the Galaxy just to steal that ship?”
“That's it,” said Zaphod with the sort of grin that would get most people locked away in a room with soft walls.
“But why?” said Ford. “What's so important about having it?”
“Dunno,” said Zaphod, “I think if I'd consciously known what was so important about it and what I would need it for it would have showed up on the brain screening tests and I would never have passed. I think Yooden told me a lot of things that are still locked away.”
“So you think you went and mucked about inside your own brain as a result of Yooden talking to you?”
“He was a hell of a talker.”
“Yeah, but Zaphod old mate, you want to look after yourself you know.”
Zaphod shrugged.
“I mean, don't you have any inkling of the reasons for all this?” asked Ford.
Zaphod thought hard about this and doubts seemed to cross his minds.
“No,” he said at last, “I don't seem to be letting myself into any of my secrets. Still,” he added on further reflection, “I can understand that. I wouldn't trust myself further than I could spit a rat.”
A moment later, the last planet in the catalogue vanished from beneath them and the solid world resolved itself again.
They were sitting in a plush waiting room full of glass-top tables and design awards.
A tall Magrathean man was standing in front of them.
“The mice will see you now,” he said.
“So there you have it,” said Slartibartfast, making a feeble and perfunctory attempt to clear away some of the appalling mess of his study. He picked up a paper from the top of a pile, but then couldn't think of anywhere else to put it, so he but it back on top of the original pile which promptly fell over. “Deep Thought designed the Earth, we built it and you lived on it.”
“And the Vogons came and destroyed it five minutes before the program was completed,” added Arthur, not unbitterly.
“Yes,” said the old man, pausing to gaze hopelessly round the room.
“Ten million years of planning and work gone just like that. Ten million years, Earthman... can you conceive of that kind of time span? A galactic civilization could grow from a single worm five times over in that time.
Gone.” He paused.
“Well that's bureaucracy for you,” he added.
“You know,” said Arthur thoughtfully, “all this explains a lot of things.
All through my life I've had this strange unaccountable feeling that something was going on in the world, something big, even sinister, and no one would tell me what it was.”
“No,” said the old man, “that's just perfectly normal paranoia. Everyone in the Universe has that.”
“Everyone?” said Arthur. “Well, if everyone has that perhaps it means something! Perhaps somewhere outside the Universe we know...”
“Maybe.
Who cares?” said Slartibartfast before Arthur got too excited. “Perhaps I'm old and tired,” he continued, “but I always think that the chances of finding out what really is going on are so absurdly remote that the only thing to do is to say hang the sense of it and just keep yourself occupied. Look at me: I design coastlines. I got an award for Norway.”
He rummaged around in a pile of debris and pulled out a large perspex block with his name on it and a model of Norway moulded into it.
“Where's the sense in that?” he said. “None that I've been able to make out. I've been doing fjords in all my life. For a fleeting moment they become fashionable and I get a major award.”
He turned it over in his hands with a shrug and tossed it aside carelessly, but not so carelessly that it didn't land on something soft.
“In this replacement Earth we're building they've given me Africa to do and of course I'm doing it with all fjords again because I happen to like them, and I'm old fashioned enough to think that they give a lovely baroque feel to a continent. And they tell me it's not equatorial enough.
Equatorial!” He gave a hollow laugh. “What does it matter? Science has achieved some wonderful things of course, but I'd far rather be happy than right any day.”
“And are you?”
“No. That's where it all falls down of course.”
“Pity,” said Arthur with sympathy. “It sounded like quite a good lifestyle otherwise.”
Somewhere on the wall a small white light flashed.
“Come,” said Slartibartfast, “you are to meet the mice. Your arrival on the planet has caused considerable excitement. It has already been hailed, so I gather, as the third most improbable event in the history of the Universe.”
“What were the first two?”
“Oh, probably just coincidences,” said Slartibartfast carelessly. He opened the door and stood waiting for Arthur to follow.
Arthur glanced around him once more, and then down at himself, at the sweaty dishevelled clothes he had been lying in the mud in on Thursday morning.
“I seem to be having tremendous difficulty with my lifestyle,” he muttered to himself.
“I beg your pardon?” said the old man mildly.
“Oh nothing,” said Arthur, “only joking."
It is of course well known that careless talk costs lives, but the full scale of the problem is not always appreciated.
For instance, at the very moment that Arthur said “I seem to be having tremendous difficulty with my lifestyle,” a freak wormhole opened up in the fabric of the space-time continuum and carried his words far far back in time across almost infinite reaches of space to a distant Galaxy where strange and warlike beings were poised on the brink of frightful interstellar battle.
The two opposing leaders were meeting for the last time.
A dreadful silence fell across the conference table as the commander of the Vl'hurgs, resplendent in his black jewelled battle shorts, gazed levelly at the G'Gugvuntt leader squatting opposite him in a cloud of green sweet-smelling steam, and, with a million sleek and horribly beweaponed star cruisers poised to unleash electric death at his single word of command, challenged the vile creature to take back what it had said about his mother.
The creature stirred in his sickly broiling vapour, and at that very moment the words I seem to be having tremendous difficulty with my lifestyle drifted across the conference table.
Unfortunately, in the Vl'hurg tongue this was the most dreadful insult imaginable, and there was nothing for it but to wage terrible war for centuries.
Eventually of course, after their Galaxy had been decimated over a few thousand years, it was realized that the whole thing had been a ghastly mistake, and so the two opposing battle fleets settled their few remaining differences in order to launch a joint attack on our own Galaxy — now positively identified as the source of the offending remark.
For thousands more years the mighty ships tore across the empty wastes of space and finally dived screaming on to the first planet they came across — which happened to be the Earth — where due to a terrible miscalculation of scale the entire battle fleet was accidentally swallowed by a small dog.
Those who study the complex interplay of cause and effect in the history of the Universe say that this sort of thing is going on all the time, but that we are powerless to prevent it.
“It's just life,” they say.
A short aircar trip brought Arthur and the old Magrathean to a doorway.
They left the car and went through the door into a waiting room full of glass-topped tables and perspex awards. Almost immediately, a light flashed above the door at the other side of the room and they entered.
“Arthur! You're safe!” a voice cried.
“Am I?” said Arthur, rather startled. “Oh good.”
The lighting was rather subdued and it took him a moment or so to see Ford, Trillian and Zaphod sitting round a large table beautifully decked out with exotic dishes, strange sweetmeats and bizarre fruits. They were stuffing their faces.
“What happened to you?” demanded Arthur.
“Well,” said Zaphod, attacking a boneful of grilled muscle, “our guests here have been gassing us and zapping our minds and being generally weird and have now given us a rather nice meal to make it up to us.
Here,” he said hoiking out a lump of evil smelling meat from a bowl, “have some Vegan Rhino's cutlet. It's delicious if you happen to like that sort of thing.”
“Hosts?” said Arthur. “What hosts? I don't see any...”
A small voice said, “Welcome to lunch, Earth creature.”
Arthur glanced around and suddenly yelped.
“Ugh!” he said. “There are mice on the table!”
There was an awkward silence as everyone looked pointedly at Arthur.
He was busy staring at two white mice sitting in what looked like whisky glasses on the table. He heard the silence and glanced around at everyone.
“Oh!” he said, with sudden realization. “Oh, I'm sorry, I wasn't quite prepared for...”
“Let me introduce you,” said Trillian. “Arthur this is Benji mouse.”
“Hi,” said one of the mice. His whiskers stroked what must have been a touch sensitive panel on the inside of the whisky-glass like affair, and it moved forward slightly.
“And this is Frankie mouse.”
The other mouse said, “Pleased to meet you,” and did likewise.
Arthur gaped.
“But aren't they...”
“Yes,” said Trillian, “they are the mice I brought with me from the Earth.”
She looked him in the eye and Arthur thought he detected the tiniest resigned shrug.
“Could you pass me that bowl of grated Arcturan Megadonkey?” she said.
Slartibartfast coughed politely.
“Er, excuse me,” he said. “Yes, thank you Slartibartfast,” said Benji mouse sharply, “you may go.”
“What? Oh... er, very well,” said the old man, slightly taken aback, “I'll just go and get on with some of my fjords then.”
“Ah, well in fact that won't be necessary,” said Frankie mouse. “It looks very much as if we won't be needing the new Earth any longer.” He swivelled his pink little eyes. “Not now that we have found a native of the planet who was there seconds before it was destroyed.”
“What?” cried Slartibartfast, aghast. “You can't mean that! I've got a thousand glaciers poised and ready to roll over Africa!”
“Well perhaps you can take a quick skiing holiday before you dismantle them,” said Frankie, acidly.
“Skiing holiday!” cried the old man. “Those glaciers are works of art!
Elegantly sculptured contours, soaring pinnacles of ice, deep majestic ravines! It would be sacrilege to go skiing on high art!”
“Thank you Slartibartfast,” said Benji firmly. “That will be all.”
“Yes sir,” said the old man coldly, “thank you very much. Well, goodbye Earthman,” he said to Arthur, “hope the lifestyle comes together.”
With a brief nod to the rest of the company he turned and walked sadly out of the room.
Arthur stared after him not knowing what to say.
“Now,” said Benji mouse, “to business.”
Ford and Zaphod clinked their glasses together.
“To business!” they said.
“I beg your pardon?” said Benji.
Ford looked round.
“Sorry, I thought you were proposing a toast,” he said.
The two mice scuttled impatiently around in their glass transports. Finally they composed themselves, and Benji moved forward to address Arthur.
“Now, Earth creature,” he said, “the situation we have in effect is this.
We have, as you know, been more or less running your planet for the last ten million years in order to find this wretched thing called the Ultimate Question.”
“Why?” said Arthur, sharply.
“No — we already thought of that one,” said Frankie interrupting, “but it doesn't fit the answer. Why? — Forty-Two... you see, it doesn't work.”
“No,” said Arthur, “I mean why have you been doing it?”
“Oh, I see,” said Frankie. “Well, eventually just habit I think, to be brutally honest. And this is more or less the point — we're sick to the teeth with the whole thing, and the prospect of doing it all over again on account of those whinnet-ridden Vogons quite frankly gives me the screaming heeby jeebies, you know what I mean? It was by the merest lucky chance that Benji and I finished our particular job and left the planet early for a quick holiday, and have since manipulated our way back to Magrathea by the good offices of your friends.”
“Magrathea is a gateway back to our own dimension,” put in Benji.
“Since when,” continued his murine colleague, “we have had an offer of a quite enormously fat contract to do the 5D chat show and lecture circuit back in our own dimensional neck of the woods, and we're very much inclined to take it.”
“I would, wouldn't you Ford?” said Zaphod promptingly.
“Oh yes,” said Ford, “jump at it, like a shot.”
Arthur glanced at them, wondering what all this was leading up to.
“But we've got to have a product you see,” said Frankie, “I mean ideally we still need the Ultimate Question in some form or other.”
Zaphod leaned forward to Arthur.
“You see,” he said, “if they're just sitting there in the studio looking very relaxed and, you know, just mentioning that they happen to know the Answer to Life, the Universe and Everything, and then eventually have to admit that in fact it's Forty-two, then the show's probably quite short. No follow-up, you see.”
“We have to have something that sounds good,” said Benji.
“Something that sounds good?” exclaimed Arthur. “An Ultimate Question that sounds good? From a couple of mice?”
The mice bristled.
“Well, I mean, yes idealism, yes the dignity of pure research, yes the pursuit of truth in all its forms, but there comes a point I'm afraid where you begin to suspect that if there's any real truth, it's that the entire multi-dimensional infinity of the Universe is almost certainly being run by a bunch of maniacs. And if it comes to a choice between spending yet another ten million years finding that out, and on the other hand just taking the money and running, then I for one could do with the exercise,” said Frankie.
“But...” started Arthur, hopelessly. “Hey, will you get this, Earthman,” interrupted Zaphod. “You are a last generation product of that computer matrix, right, and you were there right up to the moment your planet got the finger, yeah?”
“Er...”
“So your brain was an organic part of the penultimate configuration of the computer programme,” said Ford, rather lucidly he thought.
“Right?” said Zaphod.
“Well,” said Arthur doubtfully. He wasn't aware of ever having felt an organic part of anything. He had always seen this as one of his problems.
“In other words,” said Benji, steering his curious little vehicle right over to Arthur, “there's a good chance that the structure of the question is encoded in the structure of your brain — so we want to buy it off you.”
“What, the question?” said Arthur.
“Yes,” said Ford and Trillian.
“For lots of money,” said Zaphod.
“No, no,” said Frankie, “it's the brain we want to buy.”
“What!”
“I thought you said you could just read his brain electronically,” protested Ford.
“Oh yes,” said Frankie, “but we'd have to get it out first. It's got to be prepared.”
“Treated,” said Benji.
“Diced.”
“Thank you,” shouted Arthur, tipping up his chair and backing away from the table in horror.
“It could always be replaced,” said Benji reasonably, “if you think it's important.”
“Yes, an electronic brain,” said Frankie, “a simple one would suffice.”
“A simple one!” wailed Arthur.
“Yeah,” said Zaphod with a sudden evil grin, “you'd just have to program it to say What? and I don't understand and Where's the tea? — who'd know the difference?”
“What?” cried Arthur, backing away still further. “See what I mean?” said Zaphod and howled with pain because of something that Trillian did at that moment.
“I'd notice the difference,” said Arthur.
“No you wouldn't,” said Frankie mouse, “you'd be programmed not to.”
Ford made for the door.
“Look, I'm sorry, mice old lads,” he said. “I don't think we've got a deal.”
“I rather think we have to have a deal,” said the mice in chorus, all the charm vanishing fro their piping little voices in an instant. With a tiny whining shriek their two glass transports lifted themselves off the table, and swung through the air towards Arthur, who stumbled further backwards into a blind corner, utterly unable to cope or think of anything.
Trillian grabbed him desperately by the arm and tried to drag him towards the door, which Ford and Zaphod were struggling to open, but Arthur was dead weight — he seemed hypnotized by the airborne rodents swooping towards him.
She screamed at him, but he just gaped.
With one more yank, Ford and Zaphod got the door open. On the other side of it was a small pack of rather ugly men who they could only assume were the heavy mob of Magrathea. Not only were they ugly themselves, but the medical equipment they carried with them was also far from pretty. They charged.
So — Arthur was about to have his head cut open, Trillian was unable to help him, and Ford and Zaphod were about to be set upon by several thugs a great deal heavier and more sharply armed than they were.
All in all it was extremely fortunate that at that moment every alarm on the planet burst into an earsplitting din.
“Emergency! Emergency!” blared the klaxons throughout Magrathea.
“Hostile ship has landed on planet. Armed intruders in section 8A. Defence stations, defence stations!”
The two mice sniffed irritably round the fragments of their glass transports where they lay shattered on the floor.
“Damnation,” muttered Frankie mouse, “all that fuss over two pounds of Earthling brain.” He scuttled round and about, his pink eyes flashing, his fine white coat bristling with static.
“The only thing we can do now,” said Benji, crouching and stroking his whiskers in thought, “is to try and fake a question, invent one that will sound plausible.”
“Difficult,” said Frankie. He thought. “How about What's yellow and dangerous?”
Benji considered this for a moment.
“No, no good,” he said. “Doesn't fit the answer.”
They sank into silence for a few seconds.
“Alright,” said Benji. “What do you get if you multiply six by seven?”
“No, no, too literal, too factual,” said Frankie, “wouldn't sustain the punters' interest.”
Again they thought.
Then Frankie said: “Here's a thought. How many roads must a man walk down?”
“Ah,” said Benji. “Aha, now that does sound promising!” He rolled the phrase around a little. “Yes,” he said, “that's excellent! Sounds very significant without actually tying you down to meaning anything at all.
How many roads must a man walk down? Forty-two. Excellent, excellent, that'll fox 'em. Frankie baby, we are made!”
They performed a scampering dance in their excitement.
Near them on the floor lay several rather ugly men who had been hit about the head with some heavy design awards.
Half a mile away, four figures pounded up a corridor looking for a way out. They emerged into a wide open-plan computer bay. They glanced about wildly.
“Which way do you reckon Zaphod?” said Ford.
“At a wild guess, I'd say down here,” said Zaphod, running off down to the right between a computer bank and the wall. As the others started after him he was brought up short by a Kill-O-Zap energy bolt that cracked through the air inches in front of him and fried a small section of adjacent wall.
A voice on a loud hailer said, “OK Beeblebrox, hold it right there. We've got you covered.”
“Cops!” hissed Zaphod, and span around in a crouch. “You want to try a guess at all, Ford?”
“OK, this way,” said Ford, and the four of them ran down a gangway between two computer banks.
At the end of the gangway appeared a heavily armoured and spacesuited figure waving a vicious Kill-O-Zap gun.
“We don't want to shoot you, Beeblebrox!” shouted the figure. “Suits me fine!” shouted Zaphod back and dived down a wide gap between two data process units.
The others swerved in behind him.
“There are two of them,” said Trillian. “We're cornered.”
They squeezed themselves down in an angle between a large computer data bank and the wall.