Part 8 (2/2)

Whoosh on the way in, rattle on the way out.

The familiar noises came from below and to the left of his bed. Exactly as they should. The pootle-tink birds were beginning their morning show-off antics, clapping broad wings and singing their slightly risque songs, hoping to attract the attention of a rainbow-plumed female.

I am home in my beach house. All that other stuff, with the Earth exploding and the green aliens, was all a nightmare. It was nice to see everybody, but why does there always have to be genocide?

Arthur felt a sense of relief and he breathed it in, inflating his lungs, relis.h.i.+ng his daily decisions.

Rich Tea or Digestives? Maybe Earl Grey today. Why not.

Arthur lay still, letting his bones warm up. No sudden moves at his age, whatever his age was.

Come to think of it, maybe the dream hadn't been all bad. He'd fairly raced up the ramp to Zaphod's s.h.i.+p. Not a single ball joint had popped out of its socket. And the nose hair, he hadn't missed that.

Maybe I should get a trimmer. Nothing fancy.

No! It starts with nose hair trimmers and the next thing you know there's a Zylatburger bar on your doorstep. No commerce. No contact.

Arthur opened his eyes and was momentarily relieved to see the interior of his wooden hut, but then he noticed something on the corner of the ceiling. A digital countdown, with words before it. He closed his bad eye, and read the words, which amazingly enough were in English.

Seconds to reality read the words. Then a countdown. Five seconds to reality apparently. read the words. Then a countdown. Five seconds to reality apparently.

Five... four...

More reality, thought Arthur. b.u.g.g.e.r b.u.g.g.e.r.

At zero the beach was switched off and Fenchurch appeared on Arthur's ceiling, smiling that off-kilter smile of hers, those arched eyebrows like slashes of oil pastels, blue eyes twinkling.

I can see you, darling. This is real.

But, of course, it was not.

'h.e.l.lo,' said Fenchurch. 'Welcome to consciousness. If you enjoyed your tailor-made easy-wake experience, please leave the program a feedback star. Would you like to leave a star at this time?'

'What?' said Arthur.

'Would you like to leave a feedback star at this time?' said the computer, upping the volume a notch.

'Um... Yes. Have a star. Have two, why not.'

Fenchurch smiled and it was painful to watch. So beautiful.

'Thank you, Arthur Dent. It has been my pleasure to monitor your dreams.'

And, just like that, she was gone.

Again.

No less painful than the first time.

Reality was a small room on Wowbagger's longs.h.i.+p with grey, interactive walls and a cubicle in the corner. Arthur decided that a hot shower would be extremely nice, but not too long, or he might relax and start thinking about Fenchurch.

Not thinking about Fenchurch was going to be difficult, Arthur realized, as her face appeared on the shower door. thinking about Fenchurch was going to be difficult, Arthur realized, as her face appeared on the shower door.

'I am your chamber's Body Optimizer,' said the computer's interpretation of his dreams. 'Tell me what you want. Please start your sentence with: I want...'

Simple enough. 'I want a nice shower,' said Arthur. 'And a shave. I want to feel good.'

'Shower, shave and feel good. Are these the things you want?'

'Affirmative,' said Arthur, getting into the spirit of it.

'Please enter the cubicle, Arthur Dent.'

Arthur unb.u.t.toned his s.h.i.+rt, then had a thought. 'Fenchurch... Ahmm, computer, could I have a little privacy?'

'I am the computer. There is no privacy.'

It was ridiculous, Arthur knew. This was not Fenchurch, this was a still shot plucked from his memory.

'Nevertheless, could you shut your eyes?'

'I don't have eyes.'

'Turn off your cameras then and take the face away.'

'While you are in the Optimizer only. After that I will resume monitoring.'

'Knock yourself out,' said Arthur, dropping his clothes into a hamper, which made a sneezing noise.

'Holy s.h.i.+t!' said the computer.

'What kind of language is that for a computer?'

'I got this phrase from your your memory. Apparently you used it all the time at the BBC.' memory. Apparently you used it all the time at the BBC.'

'I had good reason,' muttered Arthur. 'b.l.o.o.d.y producers.'

'These clothes have a stink-o-factor of twelve and are carrying several viruses, not to mention the twelve million dust mites, which I just mentioned. Your speech patterns are very strange. At any rate, these garments really have to go.'

'Wait!'

'No waiting, Arthur Dent. Those mites could get into my circuits and then where would we be? Floating dead in s.p.a.ce, that's where. Kiss your shorts goodbye.'

The hamper growled and shook slightly as Arthur's clothes were incinerated.

'Now, into the cubicle with you. Five minutes and then my cameras are back on.'

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