"I am not just 'that robot', thank you very much," snorted Marvin. "You obviously have no conception of who I am." He paused to beg the question, then started again so soon as Jeremy began to speak. "I am your prototype, Marvin."
The robots were stunned and amazed.
"We were told you had been kidnapped."
"What's the point of kidnapping me. Nobody wants me. I just ended up going along for the ride. Enough of that, why haven't you given me the android salute, I am your superior."
The robots looked at each other, confused.
"You stick you left arm in the right ear of the robot next to you. Didn't they programme you anything?"
The robots obliged, exploded and lit up the Stavromulan sky with a firework display to rival the space battle seen but an hour before.
"Almost as stupid as you lot," muttered Marvin.
CHAPTER 40
"We must be in Zaphod Beeblebrox's neighbourhood," mused Arthur.
"That's the second time I've heard that name," said Fenchurch, still shaking the rusty particles of an android with a brain the size of a planet from her clothes. "Who or what is it?"
"Zaphod's just this guy. He was President of the Universe for a while, he may still be. Look in the book, he may be mentioned." Arthur got the guide out of his souvenir 'God's last message to his creation' holdall. Fenchurch tapped in the code.
"How long have we got?" Asked Fenchurch.
"How long do you need?"
"The time it takes to read 'War and Peace' I think. This says page one of 627 pages and the rest of the page is taken up with references to other areas of the book where he is mentioned."
Arthur took the guide and flipped to page two. More references. Page three. Arthur was hardly turned-on by the sight of Zaphod in a rather tacky pose and was not amused by the caption that read 'Zaphod is not just a pretty face, for he can ski and likes reading. He can also out-drink and out-cool anyone in the Universe.' Arthur keyed in another code and got what he wasn't sure he really wanted.
"You've got all the time it takes me to salvage this poor robot and for us to hitch-hike to that address." Arthur stabbed his finger purposely at the screen. "I want you to meet Zaphod Beeblebrox. That way you'll appreciate me even more."
Ford Prefect was indeed in a seedy bar trying to talk somebody into buying him a drink and only achieving success as a total failure in this venture. The expression 'It is far better to give than receive' referred only to physical violence in this bar. After leaving Arthur and Fenchurch on their way to where they had just decided to leave, he had decided to find the rather nice girl who offered a comforting service to rich men in Han Dold City. Ford couldn't shake her devastating smile from his mind. He felt it would be a useful weapon by his side. Besides, having seen Arthur so happy with Fenchurch, so happy that Ford couldn't irritate him as easily as usual, and Zaphod settling down with Trillian, Ford decided the last thing he wanted to do was be unfashionable and stay single.
So Ford had ventured to the bar where he came very close to being mutilated by an evil looking bird and an arm with a vicious streak and nothing else noticeable. Ford entered the bar, was shocked, stunned and then shocked again. He was convinced this was the same bar but it was now reminiscent of a wine bar he had visited in Hampstead. Gone were the evil overtones and murderous intents. These had been replaced by old French posters and bamboo chairs. The evil looking bird had been stuffed and put over the bar. The arm was opening wine bottles and mixing cocktails.
"Oh it's you," said the barman, who now looked unbearably smart. "You're the one to blame for this."
"Hi," said Ford, still looking around. "I'm to blame for what?"
"Your entry in the Hitch-Hiker's Guide," muttered the barman.
"Wasn't it accurate?" Argued Ford, defensive of his life saving piece of prose. "Wasn't it along the lines of 'Wretched place with evil overtones and murderous intents' or something?"
"That's it exactly. That was enough to attract all the trendies who were desperate to find a place with atmosphere. They pushed out all the regulars."
"Well, could I change it?" Offered Ford, apologetically.
"Nah, I hate these people and their trendy talk, but they don't argue about paying, even though I've marked the prices up to silly levels. So you'd best leave it."
Ford tried to listen to some of the conversations, but there weren't any. There were plenty of opinions being offered about generally misunderstood subjects that bored everyone to tears, but no actual conversations. Ford decided to leave and find where all the former regulars were hanging out. At least he felt threatened and therefore relaxed in their company. As he left, he butted into one opinion with 'Ah, but you haven't considered the Vogons, have you?', which enabled one rich young trendy to launch into his very personalised views on Vogon sociology.
Ford eventually found a suitably seedy bar, which is where we find him.
"But if you buy me a drink you can go around saying 'Do you know who I bought a drink for the other night? Ford Prefect, that's who. I won't mind, I won't even charge you repeat fees for my name." It didn't work. His hapless victim had yelled something quite obscene at a slab of a creature in the hope that the slab would ask him to step outside and repeat it. The slab obliged and Ford's victim changed hands.
Ford's attention switched to the large TV screen viewer on the wall. Between the alcohol stains, a newsreader droned on about Vogon riots. Apparently, three squadrons of flying police had descended on the riots, while media specialists debated the causes of the riots at great length. All the old reasons were dusted off and injected with topical incidents to improve credibility. No one asked the Vogons, who could have easily explained that it just seemed like a good idea at the time. The newsreader handed over to the social editor who Ford recognised as one of the greatest partygoers of all time. That was enough to make Ford listen. What he heard would have made a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster reach for something to steady itself.
"And of course, all the leading lights of the social galaxy are preparing themselves for possibly the greatest bash since Eccentrica Gallumbits, the triple-breasted whore of Eroticon Six, had her coming out, in and many other permutations party. Yes, the invites have been printed for Zaphod Beeblebrox's wedding...."
Ford tried to spin around on his barstool in an attempt to catch up with his head. He then made his mind up to get wrecked in celebration. Zaphod would have wanted it that way. He felt as though he wanted company during this hour of sorrow, so he decided he would not get wrecked and look for the girl. He would get totally sobered and look for the girl. He walked outside, over his former hapless victim and down the now peaceful street. This was because the police wars that had ruined the area had ceased, or, at least, a truce had been called. It needed the combined efforts of the fighting fractions to impose on the spot fines on the rich young trendies as they staggered into their bourge-mobiles to race home.
Ford peered into every doorway and saw plenty of interesting things, but not what he wanted. Just as he decided to get so wrecked he wouldn't care which girl he found, he heard a familiar voice.
"Been paid for those two words yet?" It was backed up by the devastatingly shy but self-confident smile that had his emotions screaming for mercy.
"I've been looking for you," was all Ford could manage.
"I've been looking for you, too!" She exclaimed. "I owe you my deepest thanks apparently. Since you put in your entry about the bar, this place has been inundated with rich people. I've made enough to give it all up for something more worthwhile." She was hitting all the right notes with Ford.
"Good, how do you fancy going to the society wedding of the Omp?"
"Sounds good to me. We'd better introduce ourselves then. My name is Bolo".
Ford's brain relayed that to all of it's areas and innuendo came up with 'That reminds me of something from Earth that kept my tongue occupied for many happy hours', which his brain scrutinised and sent to common sense. Common sense tutted and passed it to character assessment for a second opinion. Character assessment complained, as usual, that it was overworked and couldn't say whether it would be well received or would result in a slapped face that would activate pain and the whole brain knew what trouble that caused. Common sense decided to send the thought skulking into memory to be held and used at a later date, hopefully as a witty, apres sex reflection.