“Are we taking this robot with us?” said Ford, looking with distaste at Marvin who was standing in an awkward hunched posture in the corner under a small palm tree.
Zaphod glanced away from the mirror screens which presented a panoramic view of the blighted landscape on which the Heart of Gold had now landed.
“Oh, the Paranoid Android,” he said. “Yeah, we'll take him.”
“But what are supposed to do with a manically depressed robot?”
“You think you've got problems,” said Marvin as if he was addressing a newly occupied coffin, “what are you supposed to do if you are a manically depressed robot? No, don't bother to answer that, I'm fifty thousand times more intelligent than you and even I don't know the answer. It gives me a headache just trying to think down to your level.”
Trillian burst in through the door from her cabin.
“My white mice have escaped!” she said.
An expression of deep worry and concern failed to cross either of Zaphod's faces.
“Nuts to your white mice,” he said.
Trillian glared an upset glare at him, and disappeared again.
It is possible that her remark would have commanded greater attention had it been generally realized that human beings were only the third most intelligent life form present on the planet Earth, instead of (as was generally thought by most independent observers) the second.
“Good afternoon boys.”
The voice was oddly familiar, but oddly different. It had a matriarchal twang. It announced itself to the crew as they arrived at the airlock hatchway that would let them out on the planet surface.
They looked at each other in puzzlement.
“It's the computer,” explained Zaphod. “I discovered it had an emergency back-up personality that I thought might work out better.”
“Now this is going to be your first day out on a strange new planet,” continued Eddie's new voice, “so I want you all wrapped up snug and warm, and no playing with any naughty bug-eyed monsters.”
Zaphod tapped impatiently on the hatch.
“I'm sorry,” he said, “I think we might be better off with a slide rule.”
“Right!” snapped the computer. “Who said that?”
“Will you open the exit hatch please, computer?” said Zaphod trying not to get angry.
“Not until whoever said that owns up,” urged the computer, stamping a few synapses closed. “Oh God,” muttered Ford, slumped against a bulkhead and started to count to ten. He was desperately worried that one day sentinent life forms would forget how to do this. Only by counting could humans demonstrate their independence of computers.
“Come on,” said Eddie sternly.
“Computer...” began Zaphod...
“I'm waiting,” interrupted Eddie. “I can wait all day if necessary...”
“Computer...” said Zaphod again, who had been trying to think of some subtle piece of reasoning to put the computer down with, and had decided not to bother competing with it on its own ground, “if you don't open that exit hatch this moment I shall zap straight off to your major data banks and reprogram you with a very large axe, got that?”
Eddie, shocked, paused and considered this.
Ford carried on counting quietly. This is about the most aggressive thing you can do to a computer, the equivalent of going up to a human being and saying Blood... blood... blood... blood...
Finally Eddie said quietly, “I can see this relationship is something we're all going to have to work at,” and the hatchway opened.
An icy wind ripped into them, they hugged themselves warmly and stepped down the ramp on to the barren dust of Magrathea.
“It'll all end in tears, I know it,” shouted Eddie after them and closed the hatchway again.
A few minutes later he opened and closed the hatchway again in response to a command that caught him entirely by surprise.
Five figures wandered slowly over the blighted land. Bits of it were dullish grey, bits of it dullish brown, the rest of it rather less interesting to look at. It was like a dried-out marsh, now barren of all vegetation and covered with a layer of dust about an inch thick. It was very cold.
Zaphod was clearly rather depressed about it. He stalked off by himself and was soon lost to sight behind a slight rise in the ground.
The wind stung Arthur's eyes and ears, and the stale thin air clasped his throat. However, the thing stung most was his mind.
“It's fantastic...” he said, and his own voice rattled his ears. Sound carried badly in this thin atmosphere. “Desolate hole if you ask me,” said Ford. “I could have more fun in a cat litter.” He felt a mounting irritation. Of all the planets in all the star systems of all the Galaxy — didn't he just have to turn up at a dump like this after fifteen years of being a castaway? Not even a hot dog stand in evidence. He stooped down and picked up a cold clot of earth, but there was nothing underneath it worth crossing thousands of light years to look at.
“No,” insisted Arthur, “don't you understand, this is the first time I've actually stood on the surface of another planet... a whole alien world...! Pity it's such a dump though.”
Trillian hugged herself, shivered and frowned. She could have sworn she saw a slight and unexpected movement out of the corner of her eye, but when she glanced in that direction all she could see was the ship, still and silent, a hundred yards or so behind them.
She was relieved when a second or so later they caught sight of Zaphod standing on top of the ridge of ground and waving to them to come and join him.
He seemed to be excited, but they couldn't clearly hear what he was saying because of the thinnish atmosphere and the wind.
As they approached the ridge of higher ground they became aware that it seemed to be circular — a crater about a hundred and fifty yards wide.
Round the outside of the crater the sloping ground was spattered with black and red lumps. They stopped and looked at a piece. It was wet.
It was rubbery.
With horror they suddenly realized that it was fresh whalemeat.
At the top of the crater's lip they met Zaphod.
“Look,” he said, pointing into the crater.
In the centre lay the exploded carcass of a lonely sperm whale that hadn't lived long enough to be disappointed with its lot. The silence was only disturbed by the slight involuntary spasms of Trillian's throat.
“I suppose there's no point in trying to bury it?” murmured Arthur, and then wished he hadn't.
“Come,” said Zaphod and started back down into the crater.
“What, down there?” said Trillian with severe distaste.
“Yeah,” said Zaphod, “come on, I've got something to show you.”
“We can see it,” said Trillian.
“Not that,” said Zaphod, “something else. Come on.”
They all hesitated.
“Come on,” insisted Zaphod, “I've found a way in.”
“In?” said Arthur in horror.
“Into the interior of the planet! An underground passage. The force of the whale's impact cracked it open, and that's where we have to go.
Where no man has trod these five million years, into the very depths of time itself...”
Marvin started his ironical humming again.
Zaphod hit him and he shut up.
With little shudders of disgust they all followed Zaphod down the incline into the crater, trying very hard not to look at its unfortunate creator.
“Life,” said Marvin dolefully, “loathe it or ignore it, you can't like it.”
The ground had caved in where the whale had hit it revealing a network of galleries and passages, now largely obstructed by collapsed rubble and entrails. Zaphod had made a start clearing a way into one of them, but Marvin was able to do it rather faster. Dank air wafted out of its dark recesses, and as Zaphod shone a torch into it, little was visible in the dusty gloom.
“According to the legends,” he said, “the Magratheans lived most of their lives underground.”
“Why's that?” said Arthur. “Did the surface become too polluted or overpopulated?”
“No, I don't think so,” said Zaphod. “I think they just didn't like it very much.”
“Are you sure you know what you're doing?” said Trillian peering nervously into the darkness. “We've been attacked once already you know.”
“Look kid, I promise you the live population of this planet is nil plus the four of us, so come on, let's get on in there. Er, hey Earthman...”
“Arthur,” said Arthur.
“Yeah could you just sort of keep this robot with you and guard this end of the passageway. OK?”
“Guard?” said Arthur. “What from? You just said there's no one here.”
“Yeah, well, just for safety, OK?” said Zaphod.
“Whose? Yours or mine?”
“Good lad. OK, here we go.”
Zaphod scrambled down into the passage, followed by Trillian and Ford.
“Well I hope you all have a really miserable time,” complained Arthur.
“Don't worry,” Marvin assured him, “they will.”
In a few seconds they had disappeared from view.
Arthur stamped around in a huff, and then decided that a whale's graveyard is not on the whole a good place to stamp around in.
Marvin eyed him balefully for a moment, and then turned himself off.
Zaphod marched quickly down the passageway, nervous as hell, but trying to hide it by striding purposefully. He flung the torch beam around.
The walls were covered in dark tiles and were cold to the touch, the air thick with decay.
“There, what did I tell you?” he said. “An inhabited planet. Magrathea,” and he strode on through the dirt and debris that littered the tile floor.
Trillian was reminded unavoidably of the London Underground, though it was less thoroughly squalid.
At intervals along the walls the tiles gave way to large mosaics — simple angular patterns in bright colours. Trillian stopped and studied one of them but could not interpret any sense in them. She called to Zaphod.
“Hey, have you any idea what these strange symbols are?”
“I think they're just strange symbols of some kind,” said Zaphod, hardly glancing back.
Trillian shrugged and hurried after him.
>From time to time a doorway led either to the left or right into smallish chambers which Ford discovered to be full of derelict computer equipment. He dragged Zaphod into one to have a look. Trillian followed.
“Look,” said Ford, “you reckon this is Magrathea...”
“Yeah,” said Zaphod, “and we heard the voice, right?”
“OK, so I've bought the fact that it's Magrathea — for the moment. What you have so far said nothing about is how in the Galaxy you found it.
You didn't just look it up in a star atlas, that's for sure.”
“Research. Government archives. Detective work. Few lucky guesses.
Easy.”
“And then you stole the Heart of Gold to come and look for it with?”
“I stole it to look for a lot of things.”
“A lot of things?” said Ford in surprise. “Like what?”
“I don't know.”
“What?”
“I don't know what I'm looking for.”
“Why not?”
“Because... because... I think it might be because if I knew I wouldn't be able to look for them.”
“What, are you crazy?”
“It's a possibility I haven't ruled out yet,” said Zaphod quietly. “I only know as much about myself as my mind can work out under its current conditions. And its current conditions are not good.”
For a long time nobody said anything as Ford gazed at Zaphod with a mind suddenly full of worry.
“Listen old friend, if you want to...” started Ford eventually.
“No, wait... I'll tell you something,” said Zaphod. “I freewheel a lot.
I get an idea to do something, and, hey, why not, I do it. I reckon I'll become President of the Galaxy, and it just happens, it's easy. I decide to steal this ship. I decide to look for Magrathea, and it all just happens.
Yeah, I work out how it can best be done, right, but it always works out. It's like having a Galacticredit card which keeps on working though you never send off the cheques. And then whenever I stop and think — why did I want to do something? — how did I work out how to do it? — I get a very strong desire just to stop thinking about it. Like I have now.
It's a big effort to talk about it.”
Zaphod paused for a while. For a while there was silence. Then he frowned and said, “Last night I was worrying about this again. About the fact that part of my mind just didn't seem to work properly. Then it occurred to me that the way it seemed was that someone else was using my mind to have good ideas with, without telling me about it. I put the two ideas together and decided that maybe that somebody had locked off part of my mind for that purpose, which was why I couldn't use it.
I wondered if there was a way I could check.
“I went to the ship's medical bay and plugged myself into the encephelographic screen. I went through every major screening test on both my heads — all the tests I had to go through under government medical officers before my nomination for Presidency could be properly ratified.
They showed up nothing. Nothing unexpected at least. They showed that I was clever, imaginative, irresponsible, untrustworthy, extrovert, nothing you couldn't have guessed. And no other anomalies. So I started inventing further tests, completely at random. Nothing. Then I tried superimposing the results from one head on top of the results from the other head. Still nothing. Finally I got silly, because I'd given it all up as nothing more than an attack of paranoia. Last thing I did before I packed it in was take the superimposed picture and look at it through a green filter. You remember I was always superstitious about the color green when I was a kid? I always wanted to be a pilot on one of the trading scouts?”
Ford nodded.
“And there it was,” said Zaphod, “clear as day. A whole section in the middle of both brains that related only to each other and not to anything else around them. Some bastard had cauterized all the synapses and electronically traumatised those two lumps of cerebellum.”
Ford stared at him, aghast. Trillian had turned white.
“Somebody did that to you?” whispered Ford.
“Yeah.”
“But have you any idea who? Or why?”
“Why? I can only guess. But I do know who the bastard was.”
“You know? How do you know?”
“Because they left their initials burnt into the cauterized synapses. They left them there for me to see.”
Ford stared at him in horror and felt his skin begin to crawl.
“Initials? Burnt into your brain?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, what were they, for God's sake?”
Zaphod looked at him in silence again for a moment. Then he looked away.
“Z.B.,” he said.
At that moment a steel shutter slammed down behind them and gas started to pour into the chamber.
“I'll tell you about it later,” choked Zaphod as all three passed out.
On the surface of Magrathea Arthur wandered about moodily.
Ford had thoughtfully left him his copy of The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy to while away the time with. He pushed a few buttons at random.
The Hitch Hiker's 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 (the one Arthur now came across) supposedly relates the experiences of one Veet Voojagig, a quiet young student at the University of Maximegalon, who pursued a brilliant academic career studying ancient 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 biros he'd bought over the past few years.
There followed a long period 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 which 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 biro-oriented 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.
Arthur read this, and put the book down.
The robot still sat there, completely inert.
Arthur got up and walked to the top of the crater. He walked around the crater. He watched two suns set magnificently over Magrathea.
He went back down into the crater. He woke the robot up because even a manically depressed robot is better to talk to than nobody.
“Night's falling,” he said. “Look robot, the stars are coming out.” >From the heart of a dark nebula it is possible to see very few stars, and only very faintly, but they were there to be seen.
The robot obediently looked at them, then looked back.
“I know,” he said. “Wretched isn't it?”
“But that sunset! I've never seen anything like it in my wildest dreams... the two suns! It was like mountains of fire boiling into space.”
“I've seen it,” said Marvin. “It's rubbish.”
“We only ever had the one sun at home,” persevered Arthur, “I came from a planet called Earth you know.”
“I know,” said Marvin, “you keep going on about it. It sounds awful.”
“Ah no, it was a beautiful place.”
“Did it have oceans?”
“Oh yes,” said Arthur with a sigh, “great wide rolling blue oceans...”
“Can't bear oceans,” said Marvin.
“Tell me,” inquired Arthur, “do you get on well with other robots?”
“Hate them,” said Marvin. “Where are you going?”
Arthur couldn't bear any more. He had got up again.
“I think I'll just take another walk,” he said.
“Don't blame you,” said Marvin and counted five hundred and ninetyseven thousand million sheep before falling asleep again a second later.
Arthur slapped his arms about himself to try and get his circulation a little more enthusiastic about its job. He trudged back up the wall of the crater.
Because the atmosphere was so thin and because there was no moon, nightfall was very rapid and it was by now very dark. Because of this, Arthur practically walked into the old man before he noticed him.
He was standing with his back to Arthur watching the very last glimmers of light sink into blackness behind the horizon. He was tallish, elderly and dressed in a single long grey robe. When he turned his face was thin and distinguished, careworn but not unkind, the sort of face you would happily bank with. But he didn't turn yet, not even to react to Arthur's yelp of surprise.
Eventually the last rays of the sun had vanished completely, and he turned. His face was still illuminated from somewhere, and when Arthur looked for the source of the light he saw that a few yards away stood a small craft of some kind — a small hovercraft, Arthur guessed. It shed a dim pool of light around it.
The man looked at Arthur, sadly it seemed.
“You choose a cold night to visit our dead planet,” he said.
“Who... who are you?” stammered Arthur.
The man looked away. Again a kind of sadness seemed to cross his face.
“My name is not important,” he said.
He seemed to have something on his mind. Conversation was clearly something he felt he didn't have to rush at. Arthur felt awkward.
“I... er... you startled me...” he said, lamely.
The man looked round to him again and slightly raised his eyebrows.
“Hmmmm?” he said.
“I said you startled me.”
“Do not be alarmed, I will not harm you.”
Arthur frowned at him. “But you shot at us! There were missiles...” he said.
The man chuckled slightly.
“An automatic system,” he said and gave a small sigh. “Ancient computers ranged in the bowels of the planet tick away the dark millennia, and the ages hang heavy on their dusty data banks. I think they take the occasional pot shot to relieve the monotony.”
He looked gravely at Arthur and said, “I'm a great fan of science you know.”
“Oh... er, really?” said Arthur, who was beginning to find the man's curious, kindly manner disconcerting.
“Oh, yes,” said the old man, and simply stopped talking again.
“Ah,” said Arthur, “er...” He had an odd felling of being like a man in the act of adultery who is surprised when the woman's husband wanders into the room, changes his trousers, passes a few idle remarks about the weather and leaves again.
“You seem ill at ease,” said the old man with polite concern.
“Er, no... well, yes. Actually you see, we weren't really expecting to find anybody about in fact. I sort of gathered that you were all dead or something...”
“Dead?” said the old man. “Good gracious no, we have but slept.”
“Slept?” said Arthur incredulously.
“Yes, through the economic recession you see,” said the old man, apparently unconcerned about whether Arthur understood a word he was talking about or not.
“Er, economic recession?”
“Well you see, five million years ago the Galactic economy collapsed, and seeing that custom-made planets are something of a luxury commodity you see...”
He paused and looked at Arthur.
“You know we built planets do you?” he asked solemnly.
“Well yes,” said Arthur, “I'd sort of gathered...”
“Fascinating trade,” said the old man, and a wistful look came into his eyes, “doing the coastlines was always my favourite. Used to have endless fun doing the little bits in fjords... so anyway,” he said trying to find his thread again, “the recession came and we decided it would save us a lot of bother if we just slept through it. So we programmed the computers to revive us when it was all over.”
The man stifled a very slight yawn and continued.
“The computers were index linked to the Galactic stock market prices you see, so that we'd all be revived when everybody else had rebuilt the economy enough to afford our rather expensive services.”
Arthur, a regular Guardian reader, was deeply shocked at this.
“That's a pretty unpleasant way to behave isn't it?”
“Is it?” asked the old man mildly. “I'm sorry, I'm a bit out of touch.”
He pointed down into the crater.
“Is that robot yours?” he said.
“No,” came a thin metallic voice from the crater, “I'm mine.”
“If you'd call it a robot,” muttered Arthur. “It's more a sort of electronic sulking machine.”
“Bring it,” said the old man. Arthur was quite surprised to hear a note of decision suddenly present in the old man's voice. He called to Marvin who crawled up the slope making a big show of being lame, which he wasn't. “On second thoughts,” said the old man, “leave it here. You must come with me. Great things are afoot.” He turned towards his craft which, though no apparent signal had been given, now drifted quietly towards them through the dark.
Arthur looked down at Marvin, who now made an equally big show of turning round laboriously and trudging off down into the crater again muttering sour nothings to himself.
“Come,” called the old man, “come now or you will be late.”
“Late?” said Arthur. “What for?”
“What is your name, human?”
“Dent. Arthur Dent,” said Arthur.
“Late, as in the late Dentarthurdent,” said the old man, sternly. “It's a sort of threat you see.” Another wistful look came into his tired old eyes. “I've never been very good at them myself, but I'm told they can be very effective.”
Arthur blinked at him.
“What an extraordinary person,” he muttered to himself.
“I beg your pardon?” said the old man.
“Oh nothing, I'm sorry,” said Arthur in embarrassment. “Alright, where do we go?”
“In my aircar,” said the old man motioning Arthur to get into the craft which had settled silently next to them. “We are going deep into the bowels of the planet where even now our race is being revived from its five-million-year slumber. Magrathea awakes.”
Arthur shivered involuntarily as he seated himself next to the old man.
The strangeness of it, the silent bobbing movement of the craft as it soared into the night sky quite unsettled him.
He looked at the old man, his face illuminated by the dull glow of tiny lights on the instrument panel.
“Excuse me,” he said to him, “what is your name by the way?”
“My name?” said the old man, and the same distant sadness came into his face again. He paused. “My name,” he said, ”... is Slartibartfast.”
Arthur practically choked.
“I beg your pardon?” he spluttered.
“Slartibartfast,” repeated the old man quietly.
“Slartibartfast?”
The old man looked at him gravely. “I said it wasn't important,” he said.
The aircar sailed through the night.
It is an important and popular fact that things are not always what they seem. For instance, on the planet Earth, man had always assumed that he was more intelligent than dolphins because he had achieved so much — the wheel, New York, wars and so on — whilst all the dolphins had ever done was muck about in the water having a good time. But conversely, the dolphins had always believed that they were far more intelligent than man — for precisely the same reasons.
Curiously enough, the dolphins had long known of the impending destruction of the planet Earth and had made many attempts to alert mankind of the danger; but most of their communications were misinterpreted as amusing attempts to punch footballs or whistle for tidbits, so they eventually gave up and left the Earth by their own means shortly before the Vogons arrived.
The last ever dolphin message was misinterpreted as a surprisingly sophisticated attempt to do a double-backwardssomersault through a hoop whilst whistling the “Star Sprangled Banner”, but in fact the message was this: So long and thanks for all the fish.
In fact there was only one species on the planet more intelligent than dolphins, and they spent a lot of their time in behavioural research laboratories running round inside wheels and conducting frighteningly elegant and subtle experiments on man.
The fact that once again man completely misinterpreted this relationship was entirely according to these creatures' plans.
Silently the aircar coasted through the cold darkness, a single soft glow of light that was utterly alone in the deep Magrathean night. It sped swiftly. Arthur's companion seemed sunk in his own thoughts, and when Arthur tried on a couple of occasions to engage him in conversation again he would simply reply by asking if he was comfortable enough, and then left it at that.
Arthur tried to gauge the speed at which they were travelling, but the blackness outside was absolute and he was denied any reference points.
The sense of motion was so soft and slight he could almost believe they were hardly moving at all.
Then a tiny glow of light appeared in the far distance and within seconds had grown so much in size that Arthur realized it was travelling towards them at a colossal speed, and he tried to make out what sort of craft it might be. He peered at it, but was unable to discern any clear shape, and suddenly gasped in alarm as the aircraft dipped sharply and headed downwards in what seemed certain to be a collision course. Their relative velocity seemed unbelievable, and Arthur had hardly time to draw breath before it was all over. The next thing he was aware of was an insane silver blur that seemed to surround him. He twisted his head sharply round and saw a small black point dwindling rapidly in the distance behind them, and it took him several seconds to realize what had happened.
They had plunged into a tunnel in the ground. The colossal speed had been their own relative to the glow of light which was a stationary hole in the ground, the mouth of the tunnel. The insane blur of silver was the circular wall of the tunnel down which they were shooting, apparently at several hundred miles an hour.