The computer beeped tunelessly to indicate that it had finished its calculations.
“Folfanga,” it said. It beeped.
“Fourth world of the Folfanga system,” it continued. It beeped again.
“Estimated journey time, three weeks,” it continued further. It beeped again.
“There to meet with a small slug,” it beeped, “of the genus A-Rth-Urp-Hil-Ipdenu.”
“I believe,” it added, after a slight pause during which it beeped, “that you had decided to call it a brainless prat.”
Wowbagger grunted. He watched the majesty of creation outside his window for a moment or two.
“I think I'll take a nap,” he said, and then added, “what network areas are we going to be passing through in the next few hours?”
The computer beeped.
“Cosmovid, Thinkpix and Home Brain Box,” it said, and beeped.
“Any movies I haven't seen thirty thousand times already?”
“No.”
“Uh.”
“There's Angst in Space. You've only seen that thirty-three thousand five hundred and seventeen times.”
“Wake me for the second reel.”
The computer beeped.
“Sleep well,” it said.
The ship fled on through the night.
Meanwhile, on Earth, it began to pour with rain and Arthur Dent sat in his cave and had one of the most truly rotten evenings of his entire life, thinking of things he could have said to the alien and swatting flies, who also had a rotten evening.
The next day he made himself a pouch out of rabbit skin because he thought it would be useful to keep things in.
Chapter 2
This morning, two years later than that, was sweet and fragrant as he emerged from the cave he called home until he could think of a better name for it or find a better cave.
Though his throat was sore again from his early morning yell of horror, he was suddenly in a terrifically good mood. He wrapped his dilapidated dressing gown tightly around him and beamed at the bright morning.
The air was clear and scented, the breeze flitted lightly through the tall grass around his cave, the birds were chirruping at each other, the butterflies were flitting about prettily, and the whole of nature seemed to be conspiring to be as pleasant as it possibly could.
It wasn't all the pastoral delights that were making Arthur feel so cheery, though. He had just had a wonderful idea about how to cope with the terrible lonely isolation, the nightmares, the failure of all his attempts at horticulture, and the sheer futurelessness and futility of his life here on prehistoric Earth, which was that he would go mad.
He beamed again and took a bite out of a rabbit leg left over from his supper. He chewed happily for a few moments and then decided formally to announce his decision.
He stood up straight and looked the world squarely in the fields and hills. To add weight to his words he stuck the rabbit bone in his hair. He spread his arms out wide.
“I will go mad!” he announced.
“Good idea,” said Ford Prefect, clambering down from the rock on which he had been sitting.
Arthur's brain somersaulted. His jaw did press-ups.
“I went mad for a while,” said Ford, “did me no end of good.”
“You see,” said Ford, “—…”
“Where have you been?” interrupted Arthur, now that his head had finished working out.
“Around,” said Ford, “around and about.” He grinned in what he accurately judged to be an infuriating manner. “I just took my mind off the hook for a bit. I reckoned that if the world wanted me badly enough it would call back. It did.”
He took out of his now terribly battered and dilapidated satchel his Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic.
“At least,” he said, “I think it did. This has been playing up a bit.” He shook it. “If it was a false alarm I shall go mad,” he said, “again.”
Arthur shook his head and sat down. He looked up.
“I thought you must be dead…” he said simply.
“So did I for a while,” said Ford, “and then I decided I was a lemon for a couple of weeks. I kept myself amused all that time jumping in and out of a gin and tonic.”
Arthur cleared his throat, and then did it again.
“Where,” he said, “did you…?”
“Find a gin and tonic?” said Ford brightly. “I found a small lake that thought it was a gin and tonic, and jumped in and out of that. At least, I think it thought it was a gin and tonic.”
“I may,” he added with a grin which would have sent sane men scampering into trees, “have been imagining it.”
He waited for a reaction from Arthur, but Arthur knew better than that.
“Carry on,” he said levelly.
“The point is, you see,” said Ford, “that there is no point in driving yourself mad trying to stop yourself going mad. You might just as well give in and save your sanity for later.”
“And this is you sane again, is it?” said Arthur. “I ask merely for information.”
“I went to Africa,” said Ford.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
“What was that like?”
“And this is your cave is it?” said Ford.
“Er, yes,” said Arthur. He felt very strange. After nearly four years of total isolation he was so pleased and relieved to see Ford that he could almost cry. Ford was, on the other hand, an almost immediately annoying person.
“Very nice,” said Ford, in reference to Arthur's cave. “You must hate it.”
Arthur didn't bother to reply.
“Africa was very interesting,” said Ford, “I behaved very oddly there.”
He gazed thoughtfully into the distance.
“I took up being cruel to animals,” he said airily. “But only,” he added, “as a hobby.”
“Oh yes,” said Arthur, warily.
“Yes,” Ford assured him. “I won't disturb you with the details because they would—”
“What?”
“Disturb you. But you may be interested to know that I am singlehandedly responsible for the evolved shape of the animal you came to know in later centuries as a giraffe. And I tried to learn to fly. Do you believe me?”
“Tell me,” said Arthur.
“I'll tell you later. I'll just mention that the Guide says…”
“The…?”
“Guide. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. You remember?”
“Yes. I remember throwing it in the river.”
“Yes,” said Ford, “but I fished it out.”
“You didn't tell me.”
“I didn't want you to throw it in again.”
“Fair enough,” admitted Arthur. “It says?”
“What?”
“The Guide says?”
“The Guide says there is an art to flying,” said Ford, “or rather a knack. The knack lies in learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss.” He smiled weakly. He pointed at the knees of his trousers and held his arms up to show the elbows. They were all torn and worn through.
“I haven't done very well so far,” he said. He stuck out his hand. “I'm very glad to see you again, Arthur,” he added.
Arthur shook his head in a sudden access of emotion and bewilderment.
“I haven't seen anyone for years,” he said, “not anyone. I can hardly even remember how to speak. I keep forgetting words. I practise you see. I practise by talking to… talking to… what are those things people think you're mad if you talk to? Like George the Third.”
“Kings?” suggested Ford.
“No, no,” said Arthur. “The things he used to talk to. We're surrounded by them for heaven's sake. I've planted hundreds myself. They all died. Trees! I practise by talking to trees. What's that for?”
Ford still had his hand stuck out. Arthur looked at it with incomprehension.
“Shake,” prompted Ford.
Arthur did, nervously at first, as if it might turn out to be a fish. Then he grasped it vigorously with both hands in an overwhelming flood of relief. He shook it and shook it.