ADAMS, Douglas - Mostly Harmless Read online

  to find. He would just have to busk it.

  They were there.

  The doors slid open.

  Ominous quiet.

  Empty corridor.

  There was the door to Harl's office, with a slight layer of

  dust around it. Ford knew that this dust consisted of billions of

  tiny molecular robots that had crawled out of the woodwork,

  built each other, rebuilt the door , disassembled each other and

  then crept back into the woodwork again and just waited for

  damage. Ford wondered what kind of life that was, but not for

  long because he was a lot more concerned about what his own

  life was like at that moment.

  He took a deep breath and started his run.

  9

  Arthur felt at a bit of a loss. There was a whole Galaxy of stuff

  out there for him, and he wondered if it was churlish of him to

  complain to himself that it lacked just two things: the world he

  was born on and the woman he loved.

  Damn it and blast it, he thought, and felt the need of some

  guidance and advice. He consulted the Hitch Hiker's Guide to

  the Galaxy. He looked up `guidance' and it said `See under

  ADVICE'. He looked up `advice' and it said `see under GUIDANCE'.

  It had been doing a lot of that kind of stuff recently and

  he wondered if it was all it was cracked up to be.

  He headed to the outer Eastern Rim of the Galaxy where, it

  was said, wisdom and truth were to be found, most particularly

  on the planet Hawalius, which was a planet of oracles and seers

  and soothsayers and also take-away pizza shops, because most

  mystics were completely incapable of cooking for themselves.

  However it appeared that some sort of calamity had befallen

  this planet. As Arthur wandered the streets of the village where

  the major prophets lived, it had something of a crestfallen air.

  He came across one prophet who was clearly shutting up shop

  in a despondent kind of way and asked him what was happening.

  `No call for us any more,' he said gruffly as he started to

  bang a nail into the plank he was holding across the window of

  his hovel.

  `Oh? Why's that?'

  `Hold on to the other end of this and I'll show you.'

  Arthur held up the unnailed end of the plank and the old

  prophet scuttled into the recesses of his hovel, returning a

  moment or two later with a small Sub-Etha radio. He turned it

  on, fiddled with the dial for a moment and put the thing on the

  small wooden bench that he usually sat and prophesied on. He

  then took hold of the plank again and resumed hammering.

  Arthur sat and listened to the radio.

  `...be confirmed,' said the radio.

  `Tomorrow,' it continued, `the Vice-President of Poffla Vigus,

  Roopy Ga Stip, will announce that he intends to run for Presi-

  dent. In a speech he will give tomorrow at...'

  `Find another channel,' said the prophet. Arthur pushed the

  preset button.

  `...refused to Comment,' said the radio. `Next week's jobless

  totals in the Zabush sector, it continued, `will be the worst since

  records began. A report published next month says...'

  `Find another,' barked the prophet, crossly. Arthur pushed

  the button again.

  `...denied it categorically,' said the radio. `Next month's

  Royal Wedding between Prince Gid of the Soofling Dynasty

  and Princess Hooli of Raui Alpha will be the most spectacular

  ceremony the Bjanjy Territories has ever witnessed. Our reporter

  Trillian Astra is there and sends us this report.'

  Arthur blinked.

  The sound of cheering crowds and a hubbub of brass bands

  erupted from the radio. A very familiar voice said, `Well Krart,

  the scene here in the middle of next month is absolutely incred-

  ible. Princess Hooli is looking radiant in a...'

  The prophet swiped the radio off the bench and on to the

  dusty ground, where it squawked like a badly tuned chicken.

  `See what we have to contend with?' grumbled the prophet.

  `Here, hold this. Not that, this. No, not like that. This way up.

  Other way round, you fool.'

  `I was listening to that,' complained Arthur, grappling help-

  lessly with the prophet's hammer.

  `So does everybody. That's why this place is like a ghost

  town.' He spat into the dust.

  `No, I mean, that sounded like someone I knew.'

  `Princess Hooli? If I had to stand around saying hello to

  everybody who's known Princess Hooli I'd need a new set of

  lungs.'

  `Not the Princess,' said Arthur. `The reporter. Her name's

  Trillian. I don't know where she got the Astra from. She's from

  the same planet as me. I wondered where she'd got to.'

  `Oh, she's all over the continuum these days. We can't get

  the tri-d TV stations out here of course, thank the Great Green

  Arkleseizure, but you hear her on the radio, gallivanting here

  and there through space/time. She wants to settle down and find

  herself a steady era that young lady does. It'll all end in tears.

  Probably already has.' He swung with his hammer and hit his

  thumb rather hard. He started to speak in tongues.

  The village of oracles wasn't much better.

  He had been told that when looking for a good oracle it

  was best to find the oracle that other oracles went to, but he

  was shut. There was a sign by the entrance saying, `I just don't

  know any more. Try next door, but that's just a suggestion, not

  formal oracular advice.'

  `Next door' was a cave a few hundred yards away and Arthur

  walked towards it. Smoke and steam were rising from, respec-

  tively, a small fire and a battered tin pot that was hanging over

  it. There was also a very nasty smell coming from the pot. At

  least Arthur thought it was coming from the pot. The distended

  bladders of some of the local goat-like things were hanging from

  a propped-up line drying in the sun, and the smell could have been

  coming from them. There was also, a worryingly small distance

  away, a pile of discarded bodies of the local goat-like things and

  the smell could have been coming from them.

  But the smell could just as easily have been coming from

  the old lady who was busy beating flies away from the pile

  of bodies. It was a hopeless task because each of the flies was

  about the size of a winged bottle top and all she had was a table

  tennis bat. Also she seemed half blind. Every now and then, by

  chance, her wild thrashing would connect with one of the flies

  with a richly satisfying thunk, and the fly would hurtle through

  the air and smack itself open against the rock face a few yards

  from the entrance to her cave.

  She gave every impression, by her demeanour, that these

  were the moments she lived for.

  Arthur watched this exotic performance for a while from

  a polite distance, and then at last tried giving a gentle cough

  to attract her attention. The gentle cough, courteously meant,

  unfortunately involved first inhaling rather more of the local

  atmosphere than he had so far been doing and as a result, he

  erupted into a fit of raucous ex
pectoration, and collapsed against

  the rock face, choking and streaming with tears. He struggled for

  breath, but each new breath made things worse. He vomited,

  half-choked again, rolled over his vomit, kept rolling for a few

  yards, and eventually made it up on to his hands and knees and

  crawled, panting, into slightly fresher air.

  `Excuse me,' he said. He got some breath back. `I really

  am most dreadfully sorry. I feel a complete idiot and...' He

  gestured helplessly towards the small pile of his own vomit lying

  spread around the entrance to her cave.

  `What can I say?' he said. `What can I possibly say?'

  This at least had gained her attention. She looked round

  at him suspiciously, but, being half blind, had difficulty finding

  him in the blurred and rocky landscape.

  He waved, helpfully. `Hello!' he called.

  At last she spotted him, grunted to herself and turned back

  to whacking flies.

  It was horribly apparent from the way that currents of air

  moved when she did, that the major source of the smell was

  in fact her. The drying bladders, the festering bodies and the

  noxious potage may all have been making violent contributions

  to the atmosphere, but the major olfactory presence was the

  woman herself.

  She got another good thwack at a fly. It smacked against

  the rock and dribbled its insides down it in what she clearly

  regarded, if she could see that far, as a satisfactory manner.

  Unsteadily, Arthur got to his feet and brushed himself down

  with a fistful of dried grass. He didn't know what else to do by

  way of announcing himself. He had half a mind just to wander

  off again, but felt awkward about leaving a pile of his vomit

  in front of the entrance to the woman's home. He wondered

  what to do about it. He started to pluck up more handsful

  of the scrubby dried grass that was to be found here and

  there. He was worried, though, that if he ventured nearer

  to the vomit he might simply add to it rather than clear it

  up.

  Just as he was debating with himself as to what the right

  course of action was he began to realise that she was at last

  saying something to him.

  `I beg your pardon?' he called out.

  `I said, can I help you?' she said, in a thin, scratchy voice.

  that he could only just hear.

  `Er, I came to ask your advice,' he called back, feeling

  a bit ridiculous.

  She turned to peer at him, myopically, then turned back,

  swiped at a fly and missed.

  `What about?' she said.

  `I beg your pardon?' he said.

  `I said, what about?' she almost screeched.

  `Well,' said Arthur. `Just sort of general advice, really. It

  said in the brochure -'

  `Ha! Brochure!' spat the old woman. She seemed to be

  waving her bat more or less at random now.

  Arthur fished the crumpled-up brochure from his pocket.

  He wasn't quite certain why. He had already read it and she,

  he expected, wouldn't want to. He unfolded it anyway in order

  to have something to frown thoughtfully at for a moment or

  two. The copy in the brochure wittered on about the ancient

  mystical arts of the seers and sages of Hawalius, and wild-

  ly over-represented the level of accommodation available in

  Hawalion. Arthur still carried a copy of The Hitch Hiker's

  Guide to the Galaxy with him but found, when he consulted

  it, that the entries were becoming more abstruse and paranoid

  and had lots of x's and j's and {'s in them. Something was wrong

  somewhere. Whether it was in his own personal unit, or whether

  it was something or someone going terribly amiss, or perhaps just

  hallucinating, at the heart of the Guide organisation itself, he

  didn't know. But one way or another he was even less inclined

  to trust it than usual, which meant that he trusted it not one

  bit, and mostly used it for eating his sandwiches off when he

  was sitting on a rock staring at something.

  The woman had turned and was walking slowly towards him

  now. Arthur tried, without making it too obvious, to judge the

  wind direction, and bobbed about a bit as she approached.

  `Advice,' she said. `Advice, eh?'

  `Er, yes,' said Arthur. `Yes, that is -'

  He frowned again at the brochure, as if to be certain that

  he hadn't misread it and stupidly turned up on the wrong planet

  or something. The brochure said `The friendly local inhabitants

  will be glad to share with you the knowledge and wisdom of

  the ancients. Peer with them into the swirling mysteries of past

  and future time!' There were some coupons as well, but Arthur

  had been far too embarrassed actually to cut them out or try to

  present them to anybody.

  `Advice, eh,' said the old woman again. `Just sort of general

  advice, you say. On what? What to do with your life, that sort

  of thing?'

  `Yes,' said Arthur. `That sort of thing. Bit of a problem I

  sometimes find if I'm being perfectly honest.' He was trying

  desperately, with tiny darting movements, to stay upwind of

  her. She surprised him by suddenly turning sharply away from

  him and heading off towards her cave.

  `You'll have to help me with the photocopier, then,' she said.

  `What?' said Arthur.

  `The photocopier,' she repeated, patiently. `You'll have to

  help me drag it out. It's solar-powered. I have to keep it in

  the cave, though, so the birds don't shit on it.'

  `I see,' said Arthur.

  `I'd take a few deep breaths if I were you,' muttered the

  old woman, as she stomped into the gloom of the cave mouth.

  Arthur did as she advised. He almost hyperventilated in fact.

  When he felt he was ready, he held his breath and followed her

  in.

  The photocopier was a big old thing on a rickety trolley.

  It stood just inside the dim shadows of the cave. The wheels

  were stuck obstinately in different directions and the ground

  was rough and stony.

  `Go ahead and take a breath outside,' said the old woman.

  Arthur was going red in the face trying to help her move the

  thing.

  He nodded in relief. If she wasn't going to be embarrassed

  about it then neither, he was determined, would he. He stepped

  outside and took a few breaths, then came back in to do more

  heaving and pushing. He had to do this quite a few times till at

  last the machine was outside.

  The sun beat down on it. The old woman disappeared back

  into her cave again and brought with her some mottled metal

  panels, which she connected to the machine to collect the sun's

  energy.

  She squinted up into the sky. The sun was quite bright,

  but the day was hazy and vague.

  `It'll take a while,' she said.

  Arthur said he was happy to wait.

  The old woman shrugged and stomped across to the fire.

  Above it, the contents of the tin can were bubbling away. She

  poked about at them with a stick.

  `You won't be wanting any lunch?' she enquired of Arthur.

  `I've eaten, thanks,' said Arthur. `
No, really. I've eaten.'

  `I'm sure you have,' said the old lady. She stirred with

  the stick. After a few minutes she fished a lump of some-

  thing out, blew on it to cool it a little, and then put it in

  her mouth.

  She chewed on it thoughtfully for a bit.

  Then she hobbled slowly across to the pile of dead goat-like

  things. She spat the lump out on to the pile. She hobbled slowly

  back to the can. She tried to unhook it from the sort of tripod-like

  thing that it was hanging from.

  `Can I help you?' said Arthur, jumping up politely. He hurried

  over.

  Together they disengaged the tin from the tripod and carried

  it awkwardly down the slight slope that led downwards from her

  cave and towards a line of scrubby and gnarled trees, which

  marked the edge of a steep but quite shallow gully, from, which

  a whole new range of offensive smells was emanating.

  `Ready?' said the old Lady.

  `Yes...' said Arthur, though he didn't know for what.

  `One,' said the old lady.

  `Two,' she said.

  `Three,' she added.

  Arthur realised just in time what she intended. Together

  they tossed the contents of the tin into the gully.

  After an hour or two of uncommunicative silence, the old