Part 37 (1/2)

'Right away, Daddy,' said Mown, stas.h.i.+ng the mirror and strapping the foot crimper across his toes. 'I'm on my way.'

'That's my good little Utter b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' said Jeltz, and hung up.

Not yet I'm not, thought Mown, hobbling to the door. Not just yet Not just yet.

Nano Arthur Dent was beginning to understand his daughter's feelings of isolation.

'I see now what you were talking about,' he told her one morning before work. 'We don't fully belong anywhere. Earth was our planet, but it's gone now. And even though we called it home, Earth hadn't been our home for decades. We both lived full lives away from its surface. Me on my island, you in Megabrantis. We are cosmic nomads, which would be a great name for a band, by the way, interstellar drifters with no one to cling to in this eternity of displacement but each other.'

And Random said, 'What will you put on my sandwiches today, Daddy? Bearing in mind that I'm trying to be a vegetarian now and beef is not vegetarian.'

'That beef snuck on to the sandwich,' said Arthur lamely, and he realized that Random was not as unrelentlessly unhappy as she had been. Perhaps the daily attrition in Hillman Hunter's office was giving his daughter a focus for her ire and maybe Arthur should be grateful for the relatively pleasant teenager who presented herself at the breakfast table most mornings, instead of trying to drag her down into the ichor of his wounded psyche.

'Coleslaw?'

Random kissed his cheek. 'Lovely. No crusts.'

'Crusts? Of course not. What are we, barbarians? How could I call myself a sandwich maker?'

And so on and so forth. By the time Arthur had finished his protestations and moved on to listing his sandwich-maker credentials, Random had stuffed her lunch into the satchel lent to her by Ford and left for work.

Arthur stuck to a couple of weeks of stay-at-home Daddy and then began looking for excuses to go on a trip.

'Just you and me,' he told Ford. 'It'll be like the old days but without the exploding planets and the other people who were with us in the old days.'

'No can do, mate,' Ford had responded, trying his best to seem regretful, which was difficult for him with a volcanic mud mask covering his features and two delightful ma.s.seuses tw.a.n.ging his hamstrings. 'There are an inordinate amount of spas on this little planet and I need to sample them all. I owe it to the hitchhikers out there.'

Arthur glanced at the price list. 'Aren't you supposed to be surviving on thirty Altarian dollars a day?'

'The Altarian stock market fluctuates quite a bit,' said Ford, perhaps blus.h.i.+ng a little under the mud. 'One day thirty dollars can buy you a house in the suburbs with a two-child garage and three point four wives. The next you'd be lucky to have enough for a tube of anti-hangover leeches. I'm covering high- and low-end tourism, just to be safe.'

And so Arthur was forced to explore alone.

Alone. That was the dreaded word. He, Arthur Dent, was a lone man, alone and lonely. On loan from another dimension. A low no one with no one to lean on.

All of which sounded a little pessimistic and self-absorbed, even to someone who had recently received a package addressed to: Self-Absorbed Pessimist, Nano. So Arthur decided to dress up his trip as paternal duty.

'I am travelling to Cruxwan to vet this university for you,' he told Random. She would argue, but he intended to knock down her points pre-emptively. 'Now I know what you're going to say, but what kind of father would I be if I let my only daughter loose in the Universe without checking it out first. Your mother and Wowbagger will be back from their cruise in a few days. Also, Ford will stay with you until I get back. It's only a dozen jumps, so it shouldn't take more than a week. Two at the most. Anyway, in virtual terms you're a hundred years old, so a couple of weeks without me shouldn't trouble you. I'm leaving you all my contact numbers and a supply of frozen sandwiches, so everything should be fine. Any questions?'

Random had thought for a moment then asked: 'What kind of sandwiches?'

So now Arthur was seated in a lovely wraparound gel seat in business cla.s.s of a hypers.p.a.ce liner, which looked alarmingly like a set of male genitalia from the outside, but was quite pleasant inside once one banished the memory of the two hypers.p.a.ce boosters and pa.s.senger tube. His seat had been purchased with s.p.a.ce points from an account he'd opened in his pre-Lamuella days.

The Fenchurch days.

This is good, he told himself. I am doing something positive instead of moping around at home interfering with Random's career. Now I can interfere with her education instead. I am doing something positive instead of moping around at home interfering with Random's career. Now I can interfere with her education instead.

Arthur allowed himself to be stripped to his flightard, oiled and slid into the chair. The gel seat folded around him and he selected The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy from the touch menu. Arthur had the little icon rub itself along a link to Cruxwan. There were three thousand articles. from the touch menu. Arthur had the little icon rub itself along a link to Cruxwan. There were three thousand articles.

Plenty to keep me going for the entire journey, he thought.

Once all the pa.s.sengers were on board, the pneumatic doors hissed closed and Arthur was relieved to find that he was the only one in his row. He would not consider himself a flight sn.o.b, but sometimes an oiled man in a flightard likes to climb out of his seat un.o.bserved.

They took off and Arthur watched Nano recede into s.p.a.ce through the s.h.i.+p-O-Cam box in his seat. Soon the entire nebula was little more than a shawl of cosmic gauze thrown over a network of stars.

Shawl of cosmic gauze, thought Arthur. If Ford could write like that, he might actually make some money. If Ford could write like that, he might actually make some money.

A little blue engine icon appeared in the corner of his cus.h.i.+on and Arthur sucked deep on the sedastraw.

Hypers.p.a.ce. I have missed you.

The jump was smoother than he remembered.

Must be these new seats.

The sensation reminded him a little of the softness of cras.h.i.+ng into snowdrifts on a sledge that he had enjoyed as a boy, but without the shock of cold. This sensation was warm and welcoming. Arthur felt a tinge of loss at the corner of his good mood. Hypers.p.a.ce could take things away too, especially if you were from a Plural zone.

Arthur Dent relaxed and watched the Universe folding around him. Outside the coc.o.o.n of his chair swam asteroids, s.p.a.ce creatures and the faces of a million other travellers. The Hitchhiker's Guide The Hitchhiker's Guide identified them all with little colour-coded v-labels, but the travellers were gone and replaced by new ones before Arthur could read a single word. identified them all with little colour-coded v-labels, but the travellers were gone and replaced by new ones before Arthur could read a single word.

After a dreamlike first jump, the s.h.i.+p swung out of hypers.p.a.ce, jittering to one side like a stone skimming on a lake. Seatbelt lights flashed for a few seconds, then winked out.

I think I'll just go to the loo, thought Arthur. Before the next jump Before the next jump.

Obviously the seat could have recycled his recyclings, but Arthur felt that there were some things that should not be done in public into a glorified plastic bag.

He deflated the chair a little and sat up woozily, and was mildly surprised to find the chair beside him occupied. The newcomer was chatting to him with some familiarity as though they had met before. Arthur's eyes had not yet cleared but the voice was one he knew, and so was the tilt of the head and the sheaf of hair tucked behind one ear.

Fenchurch?

Arthur rubbed his eyes free of hyperdoze and looked again. It was Fenchurch, chatting animatedly as though they had never been apart.

This cannot be true. I am dreaming.

But he was not. It was Fenchurch, returned to him. She was exactly the same except for the blue mottling on her upper brow and the sloping ridge of bone in the centre of her forehead.

Almost the same. Maybe two dimensions down. Her Arthur is gone and so is my Fenchurch.

Fenchurch finished her story and laughed her tinkling laugh with the distinctive inhale at the end that always reminded Arthur of his mum's hoover.