"Okay, okay. I had an estimate but let's see how it differs from the present tense expense."
"What?"
"Shee, the bill. You know, the paper with all the big numbers all over it?"
"Oh, yes, right." The mechanic took out a sheet of paper, accidentally on purpose smudging his greasy fingers across the sundries column, which contained the tip for the waiter at an incredibly expensive restaurant he had taken his girlfriend and the Heart of Gold to on a test drive, the replacement solar tiling (the original tiling didn't need replacing but the tiling on his star buggy did) and the money he lost playing Eddie the shipboard computer at electronic halma.
Zaphod signed his name twice against his Editor's expense account number on the bill as the second signature would be worth a bit in years to come and was cheaper than a tip.
"Thanks sir," humbled the mechanic. "And you won't forget the mention in the guide, will you sir?"
"We'll see after I've taken her for a spin. I'll be in touch." Zaphod shut the door. "I'm sure I get ripped off more than bog roll."
Arthur was feeding all his details into the latest gizmo from the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation, the Tailormatic. The principle was very good. By feeding in all bodily details, such as height, weight, number of limbs, etc., the Tailormatic would link up to the fashion mainframes around the Universe to consult what the latest fashions were and then synthetically create an ideal outfit. Unfortunately, it was programmed by the same man who programmed the Nutri-Matic machine and didn't always produce the goods, so to speak.
Arthur hit the enter button and the Tailormatic shook into action. Eventually, a cellophane wrapped package popped out. Once Arthur had spent five minutes removing pins and cardboard, he tried it on.
"And this is fashionable?" He asked the machine rhetorically.
"Upon my life, I've never seen anyone wear it so well," chirped the machine.
"It's not too bright?"
"Bright is in, my boy. You want to be noticed, don't you?"
"Yes, but not to be ridiculed."
"Don't be silly, I wish I could get away with wearing something like that."
"I'm more worried about being put away. And I suppose the motto Share and Enjoy applies to the clothes as well. How many people am I supposed to share this with at one time?"
"It's meant to be loose, it flows."
"So does wine, but I wouldn't go out in it."
"Well I can take it in a touch, but it would ruin the line."
''Don't bother, I'll get a second opinion.
Fenchurch was trying on one of Trillian's dresses for the wedding. Arthur charged in, muttered an embarrassed apology and walked out.
"Arthur!" She shouted. He sheepishly put his head around the door. "Come in."
"I just wanted your opinion on this." He held his arms out and turned around. What the Tailormatic had produced was a gold lame track suit-like outfit, which hung on Arthur like snow on a weeping willow. Fabulous embroidery covered the outfit and reflective prism strips had been sown in all over.
"Well you'd look better hanging from the ceiling of the night-club than on the dancefloor. No, it's really quite different." Fenchurch had trouble suppressing a laugh.
"It's supposed to be fashionable in the better places in the Universe."
"When in Rome, do...."
"I think I'll wear my jacket over it, that way I wont feel like a walking laser light show."
Fenchurch went over to him and put her arms around his waist.
"Promise me you'll behave tonight."
"I promise, we'll probably just have a few drinks," lied Arthur. He knew Ford and Zaphod had been undergoing strenuous body conditioning all day in preparation for a full frontal assault on as much alcohol as they could lay their lips on. "Will you be alright here?"
"I'll be fine, the three of us haven't stopped nattering."
There was a knock at the door. Ford popped his head around the door.
"Thought I'd find you in here," he grinned. "We're off."
"I'll see you later," said Arthur, hoping that Ford would disappear so he could kiss Fenchurch goodbye, but he had no chance.
"Enjoy yourself, but not too much." Fenchurch kissed him on the cheek and patted his behind.
Arthur followed Ford down the stairs where Zaphod was waiting. His outfit made Arthur's seem like funeral attire. The suit shimmered and changed colour in splashes like a cinema screen before the film starts, but without the nauseating effect. Bolts of harmless laser burst from the suit at random and the matching headband glowed luminously.
"It's on random at the moment, buy I'll turn it to synchro in the night club to keep time with the music," said Zaphod. "Then watch out, 'cos my suit will do the dancing for me."
"That's good, when you dance people clear a space in sympathy and for safety," said Ford.
"Hey, cool it with the jibes, I'm out for good vibes," said Zaphod. "Remember this is my night, I'm gonna do it just right."
"Are we going to get going or just talk about it?" Asked Arthur.
"Now there's someone straining at the leash," said Zaphod. "Obviously a love hungry man. We'll get going soon, monkey man. We won't use improbability drive, no point in getting there too early. We want to make a big entrance."
CHAPTER 47
Eccentrica Gallumbits' night-club planet looked no different from any other Magrathean planet on approach. Only on closer inspection could you make out the glittering surface. Zaphod put the Heart of Gold into orbit around the planet to get a better look. A huge complex covered a quarter of the planet, with ship parks covering the remainder. Zaphod tuned the Sub-Etha radio into the planet and a bass line, which sounded like it had been carved out of granite, pounded the speakers.
"Now that's what I call a groove," said Zaphod, tapping his heads together in time.
The planet suddenly burst into light as it was switched to sound to light. The surface pulsated with the beat.
"Beats the hell out of a neon sign," said Arthur.
Zaphod parked the Heart of Gold in a predominant position as usual. They stepped out into the ship park. A robot transporter pulled up and they climbed aboard.
"The electricity bill must be phenomenal," said Arthur, as the transporter weaved through the myriad of flashing lights.
"All done with fibre optics, no doubt," said Ford. "Probably all runs off one light bulb."
And the beat went on. The transporter had Quadraphonic speakers to confirm that the lights weren't going off at a tangent. Arthur could feel his heart trying to keep time with the music. The transporter pulled up at the main entrance.
Flash bulbs flashed. Cameras whirred. Reporters jostled with each other to get a good position.
"Are you still going through with it, Zaphod?"
"Are you really giving up the wild life?"
"Do you think marriage will interrupt your quest for ultimate coolness, Mr Beeblebrox?"
"Hey guys," said Zaphod, lapping up the attention. My future wife will hear about anything I say to you, and you know how you take things I say out of context." He stopped and posed briefly for photographers. "So I guess I ought to remain silent."
After several throwaway poses, he went through the crowd to the door. Ford and Arthur fought their way through to join him. Zaphod put his arms around them and grinned for the cameras. "One for the album. My last night of freedom!"
CHAPTER 48
Eccentrica Gallumbits, the triple breasted whore of Eroticon 6, is universally famous as one of the best good times known to males. Part of her fame is due to a coffee cup being placed on a genetic engineer's plan prior to her birth. Gallumbits, an old inferno of Zaphod Beeblebrox, has been the centre of many wild rumours, such as her erogenous zones starting four miles from her body where, in fact, it has been statistically proven that even when she is in the mood, the distance is at most two miles. Another rumour, inaccurate again, is that fortunate males, whom we shall accurately call joyriders, accompanying Gallumbits on what we shall call an excursion, experience a feeling akin to the planet/moon/starship/waterbed moving. Professional observers, positioned at a safe distance, have observed that no such movement is apparent. However, as joyriders considerably outnumber professional observers, this has yet to be proven. Any professional observers who have joined the growing ranks of joyriders in an attempt to measure any movement first hand usually drop all their necessary equipment in a frenzy at the appropriate moment.