“Exciting, isn't it?” said an apparition. The apparition wobbled in front of Arthur's eyes, though the truth of the matter is probably that Arthur's eyes were wobbling in front of the apparition. His mouth wobbled as well.
“W… w… w… w…” his mouth said.
“I think your team have just won,” said the apparition.
“W… w… w… w…” repeated Arthur, and punctuated each wobble with a prod at Ford Prefect's back. Ford was staring at the tumult in trepidation.
“You are English, aren't you?” said the apparition.
“W… w… w… w… yes” said Arthur.
“Well, your team, as I say, have just won. The match. It means they retain the Ashes. You must be very pleased. I must say, I'm rather fond of cricket, though I wouldn't like anyone outside this planet to hear me saying that. Oh dear no.”
The apparition gave what looked as if it might have been a mischievous grin, but it was hard to tell because the sun was directly behind him, creating a blinding halo round his head and illuminating his silver hair and beard in a way which was awesome, dramatic and hard to reconcile with mischievous grins.
“Still,” he said, “it'll all be over in a couple of days, won't it? Though as I said to you when we last met, I was very sorry about that. Still, whatever will have been, will have been.”
Arthur tried to speak, but gave up the unequal struggle. He prodded Ford again.
“I thought something terrible had happened,” said Ford, “but it's just the end of the game. We ought to get out. Oh, hello, Slartibartfast, what are you doing here?”
“Oh, pottering, pottering,” said the old man gravely.
“That your ship? Can you give us a lift anywhere?”
“Patience, patience,” the old man admonished.
“OK,” said Ford. “It's just that this planet's going to be demolished pretty soon.”
“I know that,” said Slartibartfast.
“And, well, I just wanted to make that point,” said Ford.
“The point is taken.”
And if you feel that you really want to hang around a cricket pitch at this point…”
“I do.”
“Then it's your ship.”
“It is.”
“I suppose.” Ford turned away sharply at this point.
“Hello, Slartibartfast,” said Arthur at last.
“Hello, Earthman,” said Slartibartfast.
“After all,” said Ford, “we can only die once.”
The old man ignored this and stared keenly on to the pitch, with eyes that seemed alive with expressions that had no apparent bearing on what was happening out there. What was happening was that the crowd was gathering itself into a wide circle round the centre of the pitch. What Slartibartfast saw in it, he alone knew.
Ford was humming something. It was just one note repeated at intervals. He was hoping that somebody would ask him what he was humming, but nobody did. If anybody had asked him he would have said he was humming the first line of a Nöel Coward song called “Mad About the Boy” over and over again. It would then have been pointed out to him that he was only singing one note, to which he would have replied that for reasons which he hoped would be apparent, he was omitting the “about the boy” bit. He was annoyed that nobody asked.
“It's just,” he burst out at last, “that if we don't go soon, we might get caught in the middle of it all again. And there's nothing that depresses me more than seeing a planet being destroyed. Except possibly still being on it when it happens. Or,” he added in an undertone, “hanging around cricket matches.”
“Patience,” said Slartibartfast again. “Great things are afoot.”
“That's what you said last time we met,” said Arthur.
“They were,” said Slartibartfast.
“Yes, that's true,” admitted Arthur.
All, however, that seemed to be afoot was a ceremony of some kind. It was being specially staged for the benefit of tv rather than the spectators, and all they could gather about it from where they were standing was what they heard from a nearby radio. Ford was aggressively uninterested.
He fretted as he heard it explained that the Ashes were about to be presented to the Captain of the English team out there on the pitch, fumed when told that this was because they had now won them for the nth time, positively barked with annoyance at the information that the Ashes were the remains of a cricket stump, and when, further to this, he was asked to contend with the fact that the cricket stump in question had been burnt in Melbourne, Australia, in 1882, to signify the “death of English cricket”, he rounded on Slartibartfast, took a deep breath, but didn't have a chance to say anything because the old man wasn't there. He was marching out on to the pitch with terrible purpose in his gait, his hair, beard and robes swept behind him, looking very much as Moses would have looked if Sinai had been a well-cut lawn instead of, as it is more usually represented, a fiery smoking mountain.
“He said to meet him at his ship,” said Arthur.
“What in the name of zarking fardwarks is the old fool doing?” exploded Ford.
“Meeting us at his ship in two minutes,” said Arthur with a shrug which indicated total abdication of thought. They started off towards it. Strange sounds reached their ears. They tried not to listen, but could not help noticing that Slartibartfast was querulously demanding that he be given the silver urn containing the Ashes, as they were, he said, “vitally important for the past, present and future safety of the Galaxy”, and that this was causing wild hilarity. They resolved to ignore it.
What happened next they could not ignore. With a noise like a hundred thousand people saying “wop”, a steely white spaceship suddenly seemed to create itself out of nothing in the air directly above the cricket pitch and hung there with infinite menace and a slight hum.
Then for a while it did nothing, as if it expected everybody to go about their normal business and not mind it just hanging there.
Then it did something quite extraordinary. Or rather, it opened up and let something quite extraordinary come out of it, eleven quite extraordinary things.
They were robots, white robots.
What was most extraordinary about them was that they appeared to have come dressed for the occasion. Not only were they white, but they carried what appeared to be cricket bats, and not only that, but they also carried what appeared to be cricket balls, and not only that but they wore white ribbing pads round the lower parts of their legs. These last were extraordinary because they appeared to contain jets which allowed these curiously civilized robots to fly down from their hovering spaceship and start to kill people, which is what they did
“Hello,” said Arthur, “something seems to be happening.”
“Get to the ship,” shouted Ford. “I don't want to know, I don't want to see, I don't want to hear,” he yelled as he ran, “this is not my planet, I didn't choose to be here, I don't want to get involved, just get me out of here, and get me to a party, with people I can relate to!”
Smoke and flame billowed from the pitch.
“Well, the supernatural brigade certainly seems to be out in force here today…” burbled a radio happily to itself.
“What I need,” shouted Ford, by way of clarifying his previous remarks, “is a strong drink and a peer-group.” He continued to run, pausing only for a moment to grab Arthur's arm and drag him along with him. Arthur had adopted his normal crisis role, which was to stand with his mouth hanging open and let it all wash over him.
“They're playing cricket,” muttered Arthur, stumbling along after Ford. “I swear they are playing cricket. I do not know why they are doing this, but that is what they are doing. They're not just killing people, they're sending them up,” he shouted, “Ford, they're sending us up!”