Part 1 (1/2)

And Another Thing_.

by Eoin Colfer.

Foreword.

If you own a copy of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy then one of the last things you would be likely to type into its v-board would be the very same t.i.tle of that particular Sub-Etha volume as, presumably, since you have a copy, then you already know all about the most remarkable book ever to come out of the great publis.h.i.+ng corporations of Ursa Minor. However, then one of the last things you would be likely to type into its v-board would be the very same t.i.tle of that particular Sub-Etha volume as, presumably, since you have a copy, then you already know all about the most remarkable book ever to come out of the great publis.h.i.+ng corporations of Ursa Minor. However, presumption presumption has been the runner-up in every major has been the runner-up in every major Causes of Intergalactic Conflict Causes of Intergalactic Conflict poll for the past few millennia, first place invariably going to poll for the past few millennia, first place invariably going to Land-Grabbing b.a.s.t.a.r.ds with Big Weapons Land-Grabbing b.a.s.t.a.r.ds with Big Weapons and third usually being a toss-up between and third usually being a toss-up between Coveting Another Sentient Being's Significant Other Coveting Another Sentient Being's Significant Other and and Misinterpretation of Simple Hand Gestures Misinterpretation of Simple Hand Gestures. One man's 'Wow! This pasta is fantastico!' is another's 'Your momma plays it fast and loose with sailors.'

Let us say, for example, that you are on an eight-hour layover in Port Brasta without enough credit for a Gargle Blaster on your implant, and if upon realizing that you know almost nothing about this supposedly wonderful book you hold in your hands, you decide out of sheer brain-fogging boredom to type the words 'the hitchhiker's guide to the galaxy' into the search bar on The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, what results will this flippant tappery yield?

Firstly, an animated icon appears in a flash of pixels and informs you that there are three results, which is confusing as there are obviously five listed below, numbered in the usual order.

Guide Note: That is if your understanding of the usual numerical order is from small to large and not from derivative to inspired, as with Folfangan Slugs who judge a number's worth based on the artistic integrity of its shape. Folfangan supermarket receipts are beauteous ribbons, but their economy collapses at least once a week.

Each of these five results is a lengthy article, accompanied by many hours of video and audio files and some dramatic reconstructions featuring quite well-known actors.

This is not the story of those articles.

But if you scroll down past article five, ignoring the offers to remortgage your kidneys and lengthen your pormwrangler, you will come to a line in tiny font that reads 'If you liked this, then you might also like to read...' Have your icon rub itself along this link and you will be led to a text only text only appendix with absolutely no audio and not so much as a frame of video shot by a student director who made the whole thing in his bedroom and paid his drama soc. mates with sandwiches. appendix with absolutely no audio and not so much as a frame of video shot by a student director who made the whole thing in his bedroom and paid his drama soc. mates with sandwiches.

This is the story of that appendix.

Introduction.

So far as we know... The Imperial Galactic Government decided, over a bucket of jewelled crabs one day, that a hypers.p.a.ce expressway was needed in the unfas.h.i.+onable end of the Western Spiral Arm of the Galaxy. This decision was rushed through channels ostensibly to pre-empt traffic congestion in the distant future, but actually to provide employment for a few ministers' cousins who were forever mooching around Government Plaza. Unfortunately the Earth was in the path of this planned expressway, so the remorseless Vogons were dispatched in a constructor fleet to remove the offending planet with gentle use of thermonuclear weapons.

Two survivors managed to hitch a ride on a Vogon s.h.i.+p: Arthur Dent, a young English employee of a regional radio station whose plans for the morning did not include having his home planet blasted to dust beneath his slippers. Had the human race held a referendum, it would have been quite likely that Arthur Dent would have been voted least suitable to carry the hopes of humankind into s.p.a.ce least suitable to carry the hopes of humankind into s.p.a.ce. Arthur's university yearbook actually referred to him as 'most likely to end up living in a hole in the Scottish highlands with only the chip on his shoulder for company'. Luckily Arthur's Betelgeusean friend, Ford Prefect, a roving researcher for that ill.u.s.trious interstellar travel almanac The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, was more of an optimist. Ford saw silver linings where Arthur saw only clouds and so between them they made one prudent s.p.a.ce traveller, unless their travels led them to the planet Junipella where the clouds actually did have silver linings. Arthur would have doubtless steered the s.h.i.+p straight into the nearest cloud of gloom and Ford would have almost certainly attempted to steal the silver, which would have resulted in the catastrophic combustion of the natural gas inside the lining. The explosion would have been pretty, but as a heroic ending it would lack a certain something, i.e. a hero in one piece.

The only other Earthling left alive was Tricia McMillan, or Trillian to use her cool, s.p.a.cey name, a fiercely ambitious astrophysicist c.u.m fledgling reporter who had always believed that there was more to life than life on Earth. In spite of this conviction, Trillian had nevertheless been amazed when she was whisked off to the stars by Zaphod Beeblebrox, the maverick two-headed Galactic President.

What can one say of President Beeblebrox that he has not already had printed on T-s.h.i.+rts and circulated throughout the Galaxy free with every uBid purchase? ZAPHOD S SAYS Y YES TO Z ZAPHOD was probably the most famous T-s.h.i.+rt slogan, though not even his team of psychiatrists understood what it actually meant. Second favourite was probably: B was probably the most famous T-s.h.i.+rt slogan, though not even his team of psychiatrists understood what it actually meant. Second favourite was probably: BEEBLEBROX. JUST BE GLAD HE'S OUT THERE.

It is a universal maxim that if someone goes to the trouble of printing something on a T-s.h.i.+rt then it is almost definitely not a hundred per cent untrue, which is to say that it is more than likely fairly definitely not altogether false. Consequentially, when Zaphod Beeblebrox arrived on a planet, people invariably said 'yes' to whatever questions he asked and when he left they were glad he was out there.

These less than traditional heroes were improbably drawn to each other and embarked on a series of adventures, which mostly involved gadding around through s.p.a.ce and time, sitting on quantum sofas, chatting with gaseous computers and generally failing to find meaning or fulfilment in any corner of the Universe.

Arthur Dent eventually returned to the hole in s.p.a.ce where the Earth used to be and discovered that the hole had been filled by an Earth-sized planet that looked and behaved remarkably like Earth. In fact this planet was an Earth, just not Arthur's. Not this this Arthur's, at any rate. Because his home planet was at the centre of a Plural zone, the Arthur we are concerned with had found himself shuffled along the dimensional axis to an Earth that had never been destroyed by Vogons. This rather made Arthur's, at any rate. Because his home planet was at the centre of a Plural zone, the Arthur we are concerned with had found himself shuffled along the dimensional axis to an Earth that had never been destroyed by Vogons. This rather made our our Arthur's day, and his usually pessimistic mood was further improved when he encountered Fenchurch, his soulmate. Luckily this idyllic period was not cut short by b.u.mping into any Arthur's day, and his usually pessimistic mood was further improved when he encountered Fenchurch, his soulmate. Luckily this idyllic period was not cut short by b.u.mping into any alternate Universe alternate Universe Arthurs who may have been wandering around, possibly in Los Angeles working for the BBC. Arthurs who may have been wandering around, possibly in Los Angeles working for the BBC.

Arthur and his true love travelled the stars together until Fenchurch vanished in mid-conversation during a hypers.p.a.ce jump. Arthur searched the Universe for her, paying his way by exchanging bodily fluids for first-cla.s.s tickets. Eventually he was stranded on the planet Lamuella and made a life for himself there as sandwich maker for a primitive tribe who believed that sandwiches were pretty hot stuff.

His tranquillity was disturbed by the arrival of a couriered box from Ford Prefect, which contained The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Mk II in the form of a smarmy pan-dimensional black bird. Trillian, who was now a successful newswoman, had a delivery of her own for Arthur in the shape of Random Dent, the daughter conceived with the donated price of seat 2D on the Alpha Centauri red-eye. Mk II in the form of a smarmy pan-dimensional black bird. Trillian, who was now a successful newswoman, had a delivery of her own for Arthur in the shape of Random Dent, the daughter conceived with the donated price of seat 2D on the Alpha Centauri red-eye.

Arthur reluctantly took on the role of parent, but was completely out of his depth with the truculent teenager. Random stole the Guide Guide Mk II and set a course for Earth, where she believed she could finally feel at home. Arthur and Ford followed, to find Trillian already on the planet. Mk II and set a course for Earth, where she believed she could finally feel at home. Arthur and Ford followed, to find Trillian already on the planet.

Only then is the Mk II's objective revealed. The Vogons, irritated by the Earth's refusal to stay ka-boomed ka-boomed, had engineered the bird to lure the escapees back to the planet before they destroy it in every dimension, thus fulfilling their original order.

Arthur and Ford rushed at semi-breakneck speed to London's Club Beta, pausing only to purchase foie gras and blue suede shoes. Thanks to the old dimensional axis/ Plural zone thing, they found Trillian and and Tricia McMillan co-existing in the same s.p.a.ce-time, both being screamed at by an emotional Random. Tricia McMillan co-existing in the same s.p.a.ce-time, both being screamed at by an emotional Random.

Confused? Arthur was, but not for long. Once he noticed the green death rays pulsating through the lower atmosphere, all of the day's other niggling problems seemed to lose their nigglyness after all, confusion was not likely to slice him into a million seared pieces.

The Vogon Prostetnic had done his job well. Not only had he lured Arthur, Ford and Trillian back to the planet Earth, but he'd also managed to trick a Grebulon captain into destroying the Earth for him, thus saving the crew several hundred Vog hours' paperwork with the munitions office.

Arthur and his friends sit powerless in London's Club Beta and can only watch as the ultimate war on Earth is waged, unable to partic.i.p.ate, unless involuntary spasming and liquefaction of bone matter counts as partic.i.p.ation. On this occasion the weapons of destruction are death rays rather than Vogon torpedoes, but then, one planet-killing device is pretty much the same as another when you're on the receiving end...

1.

According to a janitor's a.s.sistant at the Maximegalon University, who often loiters outside lecture halls, the Universe is sixteen billion years old. This supposed truth is scoffed at by a clutch of Betelgeusean beat poets who claim to have moleskin pads older than that (rat-a-tat-tat). Seventeen billion, they say, at the very least, according to their copy of the Wham Bam Big Bang scrolls. A human teenage prodigy once called it at fourteen billion based on a complicated computation involving the density of moon rock and the distance between two p.u.b.escent females on an event horizon. One of the minor Asgardian G.o.ds did mumble that he'd read something somewhere about some sort of a major-ish cosmic event eighteen billion years ago, but no one pays much attention to p.r.o.nouncements from on high any more, not since the birth of the G.o.ds birth of the G.o.ds debacle, or Thorgate as it has come to be known. debacle, or Thorgate as it has come to be known.

However many billions it actually is, it is is billions and the old man on the beach looked as though he'd counted off at least one of those million millions on his fingers. His skin was ivory parchment and, viewed in profile, he closely resembled a quavering uppercase S. billions and the old man on the beach looked as though he'd counted off at least one of those million millions on his fingers. His skin was ivory parchment and, viewed in profile, he closely resembled a quavering uppercase S.

The man remembered having a cat once, if memories could be trusted as anything more than neuron configurations across trillions of synapses. Memories could not be touched with one's fingers, could not be felt like the surf flowing over his gnarled toes could be felt. But then what were physical feelings if not more electrical messages from the brain? Why believe in them either? Was there anything trustworthy in the Universe that one could hug and hold on to in the midst of a b.u.t.terfly storm, other than a Hawaliusian wind staunch?

b.l.o.o.d.y b.u.t.terflies, thought the man. Once they'd figured out the wing fluttering a continent away thing, millions of mischievous Lepidoptera had banded together and turned malicious Once they'd figured out the wing fluttering a continent away thing, millions of mischievous Lepidoptera had banded together and turned malicious.

Surely that could not be real, he thought. b.u.t.terfly storms? b.u.t.terfly storms?

But then more neurons poured across even more synapses and whispered of improbability theories. If a thing was bound never to happen, then that thing would resolutely refuse not to happen as soon as possible.

b.u.t.terfly storms. It was only a matter of time.

The old man wrenched his focus from this phenomenon before some other catastrophe occurred to him and began its rough slouch to be born.

Was there anything to trust? Anything to take comfort from?

The setting suns lit crescents on the wavelets, burnished the clouds, striped the palm leaves silver and set the china teapot on his veranda table twinkling.

Ah, yes, thought the old man. Tea. At the centre of an uncertain and possibly illusory Universe there would always be tea. Tea. At the centre of an uncertain and possibly illusory Universe there would always be tea.

The old man traced two natural numbers in the sand with a walking stick fas.h.i.+oned from a discarded robot leg and watched as the waves washed them away.

One moment there was forty-two and the next there wasn't. Maybe the numbers were never there and perhaps they didn't even matter.

For some reason this made the old man cackle as he leaned into the incline and plodded to his veranda. He settled with much creaking of bone and wood into a wicker chair that was totally sympathetic to the surroundings, calling to his android to bring some biscuits.

The android brought Rich Tea.

Good choice.

Seconds later the sudden appearance of a hovering metal bird caused a momentary lapse in dunking concentration and the old man lost a large crescent of his biscuit to the tea.

'Oh, for heaven's sake,' grumbled the man. 'Do you know how long I have been working on that technique? Dunking and sandwiches. What else are left to a person?'