He had ducked, at one point, into a room leading off the corridor, and had discovered it to be a huge and, again, dimly lit chamber.
In fact, it was a museum with just one exhibit—the wreckage of a spacecraft. It was terribly burnt and mangled, and, now that he had caught up with some of the Galactic history he had missed through his failed attempts to have sex with the girl in the cybercubicle next to him at school, he was able to put in an intelligent guess that this was the wrecked spaceship which had drifted through the Dust Cloud all those billions of years ago and started the whole business off.
But, and this is where he had become confused, there was something not at all right about it.
It was genuinely wrecked. It was genuinely burnt, but a fairly brief inspection by an experienced eye revealed that it was not a genuine spacecraft. It was as if it was a full-scale model of one—a solid blueprint. In other words it was a very useful thing to have around if you suddenly decided to build a spaceship yourself and didn't know how to do it. It was not, however, anything that would ever fly anywhere itself.
He was still puzzling over this—in fact he'd only just started to puzzle over it—when he became aware that a door had slid open in another part of the chamber, and another couple of Krikkit robots had entered, looking a little glum.
Zaphod did not want to tangle with them and, deciding that just as discretion was the better part of valour so was cowardice the better part of discretion, he valiantly hid himself in a cupboard.
The cupboard in fact turned out to be the top part of a shaft which led down through an inspection hatch into a wide ventilation tunnel. He led himself down into it and started to crawl along it, which is where we found him.
He didn't like it. It was cold, dark and profoundly uncomfortable, and it frightened him. At the first opportunity—which was another shaft a hundred yards further along—he climbed back up out of it.
This time he emerged into a smaller chamber, which appeared to be a computer intelligence centre. He emerged in a dark narrow space between a large computer bank and the wall.
He quickly learned that he was not alone in the chamber and started to leave again, when he began to listen with interest to what the other occupants were saying.
“It's the robots, sir,” said one voice. “There's something wrong with them.”
“What, exactly?”
These were the voices of two War Command Krikkiters. All the War Commanders lived up in the sky in the Robot War Zones, and were largely immune to the whimsical doubts and uncertainties which were afflicting their fellows down on the surface of the planet.
“Well, sir I think it's just as well that they are being phased out of the war effort, and that we are now going to detonate the supernova bomb. In the very short time since we were released from the envelope—”
“Get to the point.”
“The robots aren't enjoying it, sir.”
“What?”
“The war, sir, it seems to be getting them down. There's a certain world-weariness about them, or perhaps I should say Universe-weariness.”
“Well, that's all right, they're meant to be helping to destroy it.”
“Yes, well they're finding it difficult, sir. They are afflicted with a certain lassitude. They're just finding it hard to get behind the job. They lack oomph.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Well, I think they're very depressed about something, sir.”
“What on Krikkit are you talking about?”
“Well, in the few skirmishes they've had recently, it seems that they go into battle, raise their weapons to fire and suddenly think, why bother? What, cosmically speaking, is it all about? And they just seem to get a little tired and a little grim.”
“And then what do they do?”
“Er, quadratic equations mostly, sir. Fiendishly difficult ones by all accounts. And then they sulk.”
“Sulk?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Whoever heard of a robot sulking?”
“I don't know, sir.”
“What was that noise?”
It was the noise of Zaphod leaving with his head spinning.
Chapter 31
In a deep well of darkness a crippled robot sat. It had been silent in its metallic darkness for some time. It was cold and damp, but being a robot it was supposed not to be able to notice these things. With an enormous effort of will, however, it did manage to notice them.
Its brain had been harnessed to the central intelligence core of the Krikkit War Computer. It wasn't enjoying the experience, and neither was the central intelligence core of the Krikkit War Computer.
The Krikkit robots which had salvaged this pathetic metal creature from the swamps of Squornshellous Zeta had recognized almost immediately its gigantic intelligence, and the use which this could be to them.
They hadn't reckoned with the attendant personality disorders, which the coldness, the darkness, the dampness, the crampedness and the loneliness were doing nothing to decrease.
It was not happy with its task.
Apart from anything else, the mere coordination of an entire planet's military strategy was taking up only a tiny part of its formidable mind, and the rest of it had become extremely bored. Having solved all the major mathematical, physical, chemical, biological, sociological, philosophical, etymological, meteorological and psychological problems of the Universe except his own, three times over, he was severely stuck for something to do, and had taken up composing short dolorous ditties of no tone, or indeed tune. The latest one was a lullaby.
Marvin droned,
Now the world has gone to bed,
Darkness won't engulf my head,
I can see by infra-red,
How I hate the night.
He paused to gather the artistic and emotional strength to tackle the next verse.
Now I lay me down to sleep,
Try to count electric sheep,
Sweet dream wishes you can keep,
How I hate the night.
“Marvin!” hissed a voice.
His head snapped up, almost dislodging the intricate network of electrodes which connected him to the central Krikkit War Computer.
An inspection hatch had opened and one of a pair of unruly heads was peering through whilst the other kept on jogging it by continually darting to look this way and that extremely nervously.
“Oh, it's you,” muttered the robot. “I might have known.”
“Hey, kid,” said Zaphod in astonishment, “was that you singing just then?”
“I am,” Marvin acknowledged bitterly, “in particularly scintillating form at the moment.”
Zaphod poked his head in through the hatchway and looked around.
“Are you alone?” he said.
“Yes,” said Marvin. “Wearily I sit here, pain and misery my only companions. And vast intelligence of course. And infinite sorrow. And…”
“Yeah,” said Zaphod. “Hey, what's your connection with all this?”
“This,” said Marvin, indicating with his less damaged arm all the electrodes which connected him with the Krikkit computer.
“Then,” said Zaphod awkwardly, “I guess you must have saved my life. Twice.”
“Three times,” said Marvin.
Zaphod's head snapped round (his other one was looking hawkishly in entirely the wrong direction) just in time to see the lethal killer robot directly behind him seize up and start to smoke. It staggered backwards and slumped against a wall. It slid down it. It slipped sideways, threw its head back and started to sob inconsolably.
Zaphod looked back at Marvin.
“You must have a terrific outlook on life,” he said.
“Just don't even ask,” said Marvin.
“I won't,” said Zaphod, and didn't. “Hey look,” he added, “you're doing a terrific job.”