Part 1 (2/2)

The bird was unperturbed.

'An unperturbed bird,' said the old man softly, enjoying the sound of it. He closed the bad eye that hadn't worked properly since he'd fallen out of a tree as a giddy boy, and examined the creature.

The bird hovered, its metallic feathers s.h.i.+mmering crimson in the sun's rays, its wings beating up tiny maelstroms.

'Battery,' it said in a voice that reminded the old man of an actor he had once seen playing Oth.e.l.lo at London's Globe Theatre. Amazing what you can get from a single word.

'You did say ”battery”?' asked the man, just to confirm. It could possibly have been 'flattery', or even 'hattery'. His hearing was not what it used to be, especially on initial consonants.

'Battery,' said the bird again and suddenly reality cracked and fell to pieces like a shattered mirror. The beach disappeared, the waves froze, crackled and evaporated. The last thing to go was the Rich Tea.

'b.u.g.g.e.r,' muttered the old man as the final crumbs dissipated on his fingertips, then he sat back on a cus.h.i.+on in the room of sky that suddenly surrounded him. Someone would be coming soon, he was sure of it. From the dim caverns of his old memories, the names Ford and Prefect emerged like grey bats to a.s.sociate themselves with the impending disaster.

Whenever the Universe fell apart, Ford Prefect was never far behind. Him and that accursed book of his. What was it called? Oh, yes. The Pitchforker's Pride is a Fallacy. The Pitchforker's Pride is a Fallacy.

That, or something very close to it.

The old man knew exactly what Ford Prefect would say.

Look on the bright side, old mate. At least you're not lying down in front of a bulldozer, eh? At least we're not being flushed out of a Vogon airlock. A room of sky is not too shabby, as it happens. It could be worse, a lot worse.

'It will be a lot worse,' said the old man with gloomy certainty. In his experience, things generally got worse, and on the rare occasion when things actually seemed to get better, it was only as a dramatic prelude to a cataclysmic worsening.

Oh, this room of sky seemed seemed harmless enough, but what terrors lurked beyond its rippling walls? None that were not terrible, of that the old man was sure. harmless enough, but what terrors lurked beyond its rippling walls? None that were not terrible, of that the old man was sure.

He poked a finger into one of the wall's yielding surfaces and was reminded of tapioca pudding, which almost made the old man smile until he remembered that he had hated tapioca ever since a bullying head boy had filled his slippers with the stuff back in Eaton House Prep.

'Blisters Smyth, you sneaky s.h.i.+t,' he whispered.

His fingertip left a momentary hole in the clouds and through it the old man caught a glimpse of a double-height sash window beyond and, outside the window, could that be a death ray?

The old man rather feared that it was.

All this time, he thought. All this time and nothing has happened. All this time and nothing has happened.

Ford Prefect was living the dream, providing the dream the dream included residence in one of Han Wavel's ultra-luxury, five-supergiant-rated, naturally eroded hedonistic resorts, filling one's waking hours with included residence in one of Han Wavel's ultra-luxury, five-supergiant-rated, naturally eroded hedonistic resorts, filling one's waking hours with permanent damage permanent damage amounts of exotic c.o.c.ktails and liaisons with exotic females of various species. amounts of exotic c.o.c.ktails and liaisons with exotic females of various species.

And the best bit: the expense of this whole self-indulgent and possibly life-shortening package would be taken care of by his Dine-O-Charge card, which had no credit limit thanks to a little creative computer tinkering on his last visit to The Hitchhiker's Guide The Hitchhiker's Guide offices. offices.

If a younger Ford Prefect had been handed a blank page and asked, in his own time, to write a short paragraph detailing his dearest wishes for his own future, the only word he might have amended in the above was the adverb 'possibly'. Probably Probably.

The resorts of Han Wavel were so obscenely luxurious that it was said a Brequindan male would sell his mother for a night in the Sandcastle Hotel's infamous vibro-suite. This is not as shocking as it sounds, as parents are accepted currency on Brequinda and a nicely moisturized septuagenarian with a good set of teeth can be traded for a mid-range family moto-carriage.

Ford would perhaps not have sold either parent to finance his sojourn at the Sandcastle, but there was a bi-cranial cousin who was often more trouble than he was worth.

Every night, Ford rode the fleshevator to his penthouse, croaked at the door to grant himself entry, then made time to look himself in the bloodshot eyes before pa.s.sing out face down in the basin.

This is the last night, he swore nightly. Surely my body will revolt and collapse in on itself? Surely my body will revolt and collapse in on itself?

What would his obituary say in The Hitchhiker's Guide? The Hitchhiker's Guide? Ford wondered. It would be brief, that was for sure. A couple of words. Perhaps the same two words he had used to describe Earth all those years ago. Ford wondered. It would be brief, that was for sure. A couple of words. Perhaps the same two words he had used to describe Earth all those years ago.

Mostly harmless.

Earth. Hadn't something rather sad happened on Earth that he should be thinking about? Why were there some things he could remember, and others that were about as clear as a hazy morning on the permanently fogbound Misty Plains of Nephologia?

It was generally at about this maudlin stage that the third Gargle Blaster squeezed the last drop of consciousness from Ford's over-juiced brain and he would giggle twice, squawk like a rodeo chicken and execute a near perfect forward tumble into the nearest bathroom receptacle.

And yet, every morning when he lifted his head from the en suite basin (if he was lucky), Ford found himself miraculously revitalized. No hangover, no dragon breath, not even a burst blood vessel in either sclera to bear witness to the previous night's excesses.

'You are a froody dude, Ford Prefect,' he invariably told himself. 'Yes, you are.'

There is something fishy going on here, his rarely heard from subconscious insisted.

Fishy?

So long and thanks for all the...

Wasn't there something about dolphins? Not fish, true, but they inhabited the same... habitat.

Think, you idiot! Think! You should be dead a hundred times over. You have consumed enough c.o.c.ktails to pickle not only yourself but several alternate versions of yourself. How are you still alive?

'Alive and froody,' Ford would say, often winking at himself in the mirror, marvelling at how l.u.s.trous his red hair had become, how p.r.o.nounced his cheekbones. And he seemed to be growing a chin. An actual chiselled chin.

'This place is doing me good,' he told his reflection. 'All the photo-leech wraps and the irradiated colono-lemming treatments are really boosting my system. I think I owe it to Ford Prefect to stay another while.'

And so he did.

On the last day, Ford charged an underwater ma.s.sage to his credit card. The ma.s.seur was a Damogranian Pom Pom Squid with eleven tentacles and a thousand suckers which pummelled Ford's back and cleaned out his pores with a series of whiplash tapotement moves. Pom Pom Squids were generally hugely overqualified for their work in the spa industry, but were tempted away from their umpteenth doctorates by the lure of high salaries, plankton-rich pools and the chance of ma.s.saging a talent scout for the music industry and maybe getting themselves a record deal.

'Have you done any talent-scouting, friend?' asked the squid, though he didn't sound hopeful.

'Nope,' replied Ford, bubbles streaming from his plexigla.s.s helmet, face s.h.i.+ning orange in the pleasant glow of rock phosph.o.r.escence. 'Though I once owned a pair of blue suede shoes, which should count for something. I still own one the other is closer to mauve, due to it being a copy.'

The squid nipped at pa.s.sing plankton as he spoke, which made conversation a little disjointed.

'I don't know if...'

'If what?'

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