Douglas Adams - So long, and thanks for all the fish

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Douglas Adams
So long, and thanks for all the fish
=================================================================
Douglas Adams The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy
Douglas Adams The Restaurant at the End of the Universe
Douglas Adams Life, the Universe, and Everything
Douglas Adams So long, and thanks for all the fish
Douglas Adams Mostly harmless
=================================================================
So long, and thanks for all the fish
for Jane
with thanks
to Rick and Heidi for the loan of their stable event
to Mogens and Andy and all at Huntsham Court for a number of
unstable events
and especially to Sonny Metha for being stable through all
events.
=================================================================
Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of
the western spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small unregarded
yellow sun.
Orbiting this at a distance of roughly ninety-two million miles
is an utterly insignificant little blue green planet whose ape-
descended life forms are so amazingly primitive that they still
think digital watches are a pretty neat idea.
This planet has - or rather had - a problem, which was this: most
of the people on it were unhappy for pretty much of the time.
Many solutions were suggested for this problem, but most of these
were largely concerned with the movements of small green pieces
of paper, which is odd because on the whole it wasn't the small
green pieces of paper that were unhappy.
And so the problem remained; lots of the people were mean, and
most of them were miserable, even the ones with digital watches.
Many were increasingly of the opinion that they'd all made a big
mistake in coming down from the trees in the first place. And
some said that even the trees had been a bad move, and that no
one should ever have left the oceans.
And then, one Thursday, nearly two thousand years after one man
had been nailed to a tree for saying how great it would be to be
nice to people for a change, one girl sitting on her own in a
small cafe in Rickmansworth suddenly realized what it was that
had been going wrong all this time, and she finally knew how the
world could be made a good and happy place. This time it was
right, it would work, and no one would have to get nailed to
anything.
Sadly, however, before she could get to a phone to tell anyone
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about it, a terribly stupid catastrophe occurred, and the idea
was lost forever.
This is her story.
=================================================================
Chapter 1
That evening it was dark early, which was normal for the time of
year. It was cold and windy, which was normal.
It started to rain, which was particularly normal.
A spacecraft landed, which was not.
There was nobody around to see it except some spectacularly
stupid quadrupeds who hadn't the faintest idea what to make of
it, or whether they were meant to make anything of it, or eat it,
or what. So they did what they did to everything which was to run
away from it and try to hide under each other, which never
worked.
It slipped down out of the clouds, seemingly balanced on a single
beam of light.
From a distance you would scarcely have noticed it through the
lightning and the storm clouds, but seen from close to it was
strangely beautiful - a grey craft of elegantly sculpted form:
quite small.
Of course, one never has the slightest notion what size or shape
different species are going to turn out to be, but if you were to
take the findings of the latest Mid-Galactic Census report as any
kind of accurate guide to statistical averages you would probably
guess that the craft would hold about six people, and you would
be right.
You'd probably guessed that anyway. The Census report, like most
such surveys, had cost an awful lot of money and didn't tell
anybody anything they didn't already know - except that every
single person in the Galaxy had 2.4 legs and owned a hyena. Since
this was clearly not true the whole thing had eventually to be
scrapped.
The craft slid quietly down through the rain, its dim operating
lights wrapping it in tasteful rainbows. It hummed very quietly,
a hum which became gradually louder and deeper as it approached
the ground, and which at an altitude of six inches became a heavy
throb.
At last it dropped and was quiet.
A hatchway opened. A short flight of steps unfolded itself.
A light appeared in the opening, a bright light streaming out
into the wet night, and shadows moved within.
A tall figure appeared in the light, looked around, flinched, and
hurried down the steps, carrying a large shopping bag under its
arm.
It turned and gave a single abrupt wave back at the ship. Already
the rain was streaming through its hair.
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"Thank you," he called out, "thank you very ..."
He was interrupted by a sharp crack of thunder. He glanced up
apprehensively, and in response to a sudden thought quickly
started to rummage through the large plastic shopping bag, which
he now discovered had a hole in the bottom.
It had large characters printed on the side which read (to anyone
who could decipher the Centaurian alphabet) Duty free Mega-
Market, Port Brasta, Alpha Centauri. Be Like the Twenty-Second
Elephant with Heated Value in Space - Bark!
"Hold on!" the figure called, waving at the ship.
The steps, which had started to fold themselves back through the
hatchway, stopped, re-unfolded, and allowed him back in.
He emerged again a few seconds later carrying a battered and
threadbare towel which he shoved into the bag.
He waved again, hoisted the bag under his arm, and started to run
for the shelter of some trees as, behind him, the spacecraft had
already begun its ascent.
Lightning flitted through the sky and made the figure pause for a
moment, and then hurry onwards, revising his path to give the
trees a wide berth. He moved swiftly across the ground, slipping
here and there, hunching himself against the rain which was
falling now with ever-increasing concentration, as if being
pulled from the sky.
His feet sloshed through the mud. Thunder grumbled over the
hills. He pointlessly wiped the rain off his face and stumbled
on.
More lights.
Not lightning this time, but more diffused and dimmer lights
which played slowly over the horizon and faded.
The figure paused again on seeing them, and then redoubled his
steps, making directly towards the point on the horizon at which
they had appeared.
And now the ground was becoming steeper, sloping upwards, and
after another two or three hundred yards it led at last to an
obstacle. The figure paused to examine the barrier and then
dropped the bag he was carrying over it before climbing over
himself.
Hardly had the figure touched the ground on the other side when
there came sweeping out of the rain towards him a machine, lights
streaming through the wall of water. The figure pressed back as
the machine streaked towards him. it was a low bulbous shape,
like a small whale surfing - sleek, grey and rounded and moving
at terrifying speed.
The figure instinctively threw up his hands to protect himself,
but was hit only by a sluice of water as the machine swept past
and off into the night.
It was illuminated briefly by another flicker of lightning
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crossing the sky, which allowed the soaked figure by the roadside
a split-second to read a small sign at the back of the machine
before it disappeared.
To the figure's apparent incredulous astonishment the sign read,
"My other car is also a Porsche."
=================================================================
Chapter 2
Rob McKeena was a miserable bastard and he knew it because he'd
had a lot of people point it out to him over the years and he saw
no reason to disagree with them except the obvious one which was
that he liked disagreeing with people, particularly people he
disliked, which included, at the last count, everyone.
He heaved a sigh and shoved down a gear.
The hill was beginning to steepen and his lorry was heavy with
Danish thermostatic radiator controls.
It wasn't that he was naturally predisposed to be so surly, at
least he hoped not. It was just the rain which got him down,
always the rain.
It was raining now, just for a change.
It was a particular type of rain he particularly disliked,
particularly when he was driving. He had a number for it. It was
rain type 17.
He had read somewhere that the Eskimos had over two hundred
different words for snow, without which their conversation would
probably have got very monotonous. So they would distinguish
between thin snow and thick snow, light snow and heavy snow,
sludgy snow, brittle snow, snow that came in flurries, snow that
came in drifts, snow that came in on the bottom of your
neighbour's boots all over your nice clean igloo floor, the snows
of winter, the snows of spring, the snows you remember from your
childhood that were so much better than any of your modern snow,
fine snow, feathery snow, hill snow, valley snow, snow that falls
in the morning, snow that falls at night, snow that falls all of
a sudden just when you were going out fishing, and snow that
despite all your efforts to train them, the huskies have pissed
on.
Rob McKeena had two hundred and thirty-one different types of
rain entered in his little book, and he didn't like any of them.
He shifted down another gear and the lorry heaved its revs up. It
grumbled in a comfortable sort of way about all the Danish
thermostatic radiator controls it was carrying.
Since he had left Denmark the previous afternoon, he had been
through types 33 (light pricking drizzle which made the roads
slippery), 39 ( heavy spotting), 47 to 51 (vertical light drizzle
through to sharply slanting light to moderate drizzle
freshening), 87 and 88 (two finely distinguished varieties of
vertical torrential downpour), 100 (post-downpour squalling,
cold), all the seastorm types between 192 and 213 at once, 123,
124, 126, 127 (mild and intermediate cold gusting, regular and
syncopated cab-drumming), 11 (breezy droplets), and now his least
favourite of all, 17.
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Rain type 17 was a dirty blatter battering against his windscreen
so hard that it didn't make much odds whether he had his wipers
on or off.
He tested this theory by turning them off briefly, but as it
turned out the visibility did get quite a lot worse. It just
failed to get better again when he turned them back on.
In fact one of the wiper blades began to flap off.
Swish swish swish flop swish flop swish swish flop swish flop
swish flop flop flop scrape.
He pounded his steering wheel, kicked the floor, thumped his
cassette player till it suddenly started playing Barry Manilow,
thumped it again till it stopped, and swore and swore and swore
and swore and swore.
It was at the very moment that his fury was peaking that there
loomed swimmingly in his headlights, hardly visible through the
blatter, a figure by the roadside.
A poor bedraggled figure, strangely attired, wetter than an otter
in a washing machine, and hitching.
"Poor miserable sod," thought Rob McKeena to himself, realizing
that here was somebody with a better right to feel hard done by
than himself, "must be chilled to the bone. Stupid to be out
hitching on a filthy night like this. All you get is cold, wet,
and lorries driving through puddles at you."
He shook his head grimly, heaved another sigh, gave the wheel a
turn and hit a large sheet of water square on.
"See what I mean?" he thought to himself as he ploughed swiftly
through it. "You get some right bastards on the road."
Splattered in his rear mirror a couple of seconds later was the
reflection of the hitch-hiker, drenched by the roadside.
For a moment he felt good about this. A moment or two later he
felt bad about feeling good about it. Then he felt good about
feeling bad about feeling good about it and, satisfied, drove on
into the night.
At least it made up for having been finally overtaken by that
Porsche he had been diligently blocking for the last twenty
miles.
And as he drove on, the rainclouds dragged down the sky after
him, for, though he did not know it, Rob McKeena was a Rain God.
All he knew was that his working days were miserable and he had a
succession of lousy holidays. All the clouds knew was that they
loved him and wanted to be near him, to cherish him, and to water
him.
=================================================================
Chapter 3
The next two lorries were not driven by Rain Gods, but they did
exactly the same thing.
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The figure trudged, or rather sloshed, onwards till the hill
resumed and the treacherous sheet of water was left behind.
After a while the rain began to ease and the moon put in a brief
appearance from behind the clouds.
A Renault drove by, and its driver made frantic and complex
signals to the trudging figure to indicate that he would have
been delighted to give the figure a lift, only he couldn't this
time because he wasn't going in the direction that the figure
wanted to go, whatever direction that might be, and he was sure
the figure would understand. He concluded the signalling with a
cheery thumbs-up sign, as if to say that he hoped the figure felt
really fine about being cold and almost terminally wet, and he
would catch him the next time around.
The figure trudged on. A Fiat passed and did exactly the same as
the Renault.
A Maxi passed on the other side of the road and flashed its
lights at the slowly plodding figure, though whether this was
meant to convey a "Hello" or a "Sorry we're going the other way"
or a "Hey look, there's someone in the rain, what a jerk" was
entirely unclear. A green strip across the top of the windscreen
indicated that whatever the message was, it came from Steve and
Carola.
The storm had now definitely abated, and what thunder there was
now grumbled over more distant hills, like a man saying "And
another thing ..." twenty minutes after admitting he's lost the
argument.
The air was clearer now, the night cold. Sound travelled rather
well. The lost figure, shivering desperately, presently reached a
junction, where a side road turned off to the left. Opposite the
turning stood a signpost which the figure suddenly hurried to and
studied with feverish curiosity, only twisting away from it as
another car passed suddenly.
And another.
The first whisked by with complete disregard, the second flashed
meaninglessly. A Ford Cortina passed and put on its brakes.
Lurching with surprise, the figure bundled his bag to his chest
and hurried forward towards the car, but at the last moment the
Cortina span its wheels in the wet and carreered off up the road
rather amusingly.
The figure slowed to a stop and stood there, lost and dejected.
As it chanced, the following day the driver of the Cortina went
into hospital to have his appendix out, only due to a rather
amusing mix up the surgeon removed his leg in error, and before
the appendectomy could be rescheduled, the appendicitis
complicated into an entertainingly serious case of peritonitis
and justice, in its way, was served.
The figure trudged on.
A Saab drew to a halt beside him.
Its window wound down and a friendly voice said, "Have you come
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far?"
The figure turned toward it. He stopped and grasped the handle of
the door.
The figure, the car and its door handle were all on a planet
called the Earth, a world whose entire entry in the Hitch Hiker's
Guide to the Galaxy comprised the two words "Mostly harmless".
The man who wrote this entry was called Ford Prefect, and he was
at this precise moment on a far from harmless world, sitting in a
far from harmless bar, recklessly causing trouble.
=================================================================
Chapter 4
Whether it was because he was drunk, ill or suicidally insane
would not have been apparent to a casual observer, and indeed
there were no casual observers in the Old Pink Dog Bar on the
lower South Side of Han Dold City because it wasn't the sort of
place you could afford to do things casually in if you wanted to
stay alive. Any observers in the place would have been mean
hawklike observers, heavily armed, with painful throbbings in
their heads which caused them to do crazy things when they
observed things they didn't like.
One of those nasty hushes had descended on the place, a sort of
missile crisis sort of hush.
Even the evil-looking bird perched on a rod in the bar had
stopped screeching out the names and addresses of local contract
killers, which was a service it provided for free.
All eyes were on Ford Prefect. Some of them were on stalks.
The particular way in which he was choosing to dice recklessly
with death today was by trying to pay for a drinks bill the size
of a small defence budget with an American Express Card, which
was not acceptable anywhere in the known Universe.
"What are you worried about?" he asked in a cheery kind of voice.
"The expiration date? Have you guys never heard of Neo-Relativity
out here? There's whole new areas of physics which can take care
of this sort of thing. Time dilation effects, temporal
relastatics ..."
"We are not worried about the expiration date," said the man to
whom he addressed these remarks, who was a dangerous barman in a
dangerous city. His voice was a low soft purr, like the low soft
purr made by the opening of an ICBM silo. A hand like a side of
meat tapped on the bar top, lightly denting it.
"Well, that's good then," said Ford, packing his satchel and
preparing to leave.
The tapping finger reached out and rested lightly on the shoulder
of Ford Prefect. It prevented him from leaving.
Although the finger was attached to a slablike hand, and the hand
was attached to a clublike forearm, the forearm wasn't attached
to anything at all, except in the metaphorical sense that it was
attached by a fierce doglike loyalty to the bar which was its
home. It had previously been more conventionally attached to the
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original owner of the bar, who on his deathbed had unexpectedly
bequeathed it to medical science. Medical science had decided
they didn't like the look of it and had bequeathed it right back
to the Old Pink Dog Bar.
The new barman didn't believe in the supernatural or poltergeists
or anything kooky like that, he just knew an useful ally when he
saw one. The hand sat on the bar. It took orders, it served
drinks, it dealt murderously with people who behaved as if they
wanted to be murdered. Ford Prefect sat still.
"We are not worried about the expiration date," repeated the
barman, satisfied that he now had Ford Prefect's full attention.
"We are worried about the entire piece of plastic."
"What?" said Ford. He seemed a little taken aback.
"This," said the barman, holding out the card as if it was a
small fish whose soul had three weeks earlier winged its way to
the Land Where Fish are Eternally Blessed, "we don't accept it."
Ford wondered briefly whether to raise the fact that he didn't
have any other means of payment on him, but decided for the
moment to soldier on. The disembodied hand was now grasping his
shoulder lightly but firmly between its finger and thumb.
"But you don't understand," said Ford, his expression slowly
ripening from a little taken abackness into rank incredulity.
"This is the American Express Card. It is the finest way of
settling bills known to man. Haven't you read their junk mail?"
The cheery quality of Ford's voice was beginning to grate on the
barman's ears. It sounded like someone relentlessly playing the
kazoo during one of the more sombre passages of a War Requiem.
One of the bones in Ford's shoulder began to grate against
another one of the bones in his shoulder in a way which suggested
that the hand had learnt the principles of pain from a highly
skilled chiropracter. He hoped he could get this business settled
before the hand started to grate one of the bones in his shoulder
against any of the bones in different parts of his body. Luckily,
the shoulder it was holding was not the one he had his satchel
slung over.
The barman slid the card back across the bar at Ford.
"We have never," he said with muted savagery, "heard of this
thing."
This was hardly surprising.
Ford had only acquired it through a serious computer error
towards the end of the fifteen years' sojourn he had spent on the
planet Earth. Exactly how serious, the American Express Company
had got to know very rapidly, and the increasingly strident and
panic-stricken demands of its debt collection department were
only silenced by the unexpected demolition of the entire planet
by the Vogons to make way for a new hyperspace bypass.
He had kept it ever since because he found it useful to carry a
form of currency that no one would accept.
"Credit?" he said. "Aaaargggh ..."
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These two words were usually coupled together in the Old Pink Dog
Bar.
"I thought," gasped Ford, "that this was meant to be a class
establishment ..."
He glanced around at the motley collection of thugs, pimps and
record company executives that skulked on the edges of the dim
pools of light with which the dark shadows of the bar's inner
recesses were pitted. They were all very deliberately looking in
any direction but his now, carefully picking up the threads of
their former conversations about murders, drug rings and music
publishing deals. They knew what would happen now and didn't want
to watch in case it put them off their drinks.
"You gonna die, boy," the barman murmured quietly at Ford
Prefect, and the evidence was on his side. The bar used to have
one of those signs hanging up which said, "Please don't ask for
credit as a punch in the mouth often offends", but in the
interest of strict accuracy this was altered to, "Please don't
ask for credit because having your throat torn out by a savage
bird while a disembodied hand smashes your head against the bar
often offends". However, this made an unreadable mess of the
notice, and anyway didn't have the same ring to it, so it was
taken down again. It was felt that the story would get about of
its own accord, and it had.
"Lemme look at the bill again," said Ford. He picked it up and
studied it thoughtfully under the malevolent gaze of the barman,
and the equally malevolent gaze of the bird, which was currently
gouging great furrows in the bar top with its talons.
It was a rather lengthy piece of paper.
At the bottom of it was a number which looked like one of those
serial numbers you find on the underside of stereo sets which
always takes so long to copy on to the registration form. He had,
after all, been in the bar all day, he had been drinking a lot of
stuff with bubbles in it, and he had bought an awful lot of
rounds for all the pimps, thugs and record executives who
suddenly couldn't remember who he was.
He cleared his throat rather quietly and patted his pockets.
There was, as he knew, nothing in them. He rested his left hand
lightly but firmly on the half-opened flap of his satchel. The
disembodied hand renewed its pressure on his right shoulder.
"You see," said the barman, and his face seemed to wobble evilly
in front of Ford's, "I have a reputation to think of. You see
that, don't you?"
This is it, thought Ford. There was nothing else for it. He had
obeyed the rules, he had made a bona fide attempt to pay his
bill, it had been rejected. He was now in danger of his life.
"Well," he said quietly, "if it's your reputation ..."
With a sudden flash of speed he opened his satchel and slapped
down on the bar top his copy of the Hitch Hiker's Guide to the
Galaxy and the official card which said that he was a field
researcher for the Guide and absolutely not allowed to do what he
was now doing.
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"Want a write-up?"
The barman's face stopped in mid-wobble. The bird's talons
stopped in mid-furrow. The hand slowly released its grip.
"That," said the barman in a barely audible whisper, from between
dry lips, "will do nicely, sir."
=================================================================
Chapter 5
The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy is a powerful organ.
Indeed, its influence is so prodigious that strict rules have had
to be drawn up by its editorial staff to prevent its misuse. So
none of its field researchers are allowed to accept any kind of
services, discounts or preferential treatment of any kind in
return for editorial favours unless:
a) they have made a bona fide attempt to pay for a service in the
normal way;
b) their lives would be otherwise in danger;
c) they really want to.
Since invoking the third rule always involved giving the editor a
cut, Ford always preferred to much about with the first two.
He stepped out along the street, walking briskly.
The air was stifling, but he liked it because it was stifling
city air, full of excitingly unpleasant smells, dangerous music
and the sound of warring police tribes.
He carried his satchel with an easy swaying motion so that he
could get a good swing at anybody who tried to take it from him
without asking. It contained everything he owned, which at the
moment wasn't much.
A limousine careered down the street, dodging between the piles
of burning garbage, and frightening an old pack animal which
lurched, screeching, out of its way, stumbled against the window
of a herbal remedies shop, set off a wailing alarm, blundered off
down the street, and then pretended to fall down the steps of a
small pasta restaurant where it knew it would get photographed
and fed.
Ford was walking north. He thought he was probably on his way to
the spaceport, but he had thought that before. He knew he was
going through that part of the city where people's plans often
changed quite abruptly.
"Do you want to have a good time?" said a voice from a doorway.
"As far as I can tell," said Ford, "I'm having one. Thanks."
"Are you rich?" said another.
This made Ford laugh.
He turned and opened his arms in a wide gesture. "Do I look
rich?" he said.
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