Read Online The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams - Free Book Online

I
don’t!”
    “Nnnnnnnnnnyyyyyyyuuuuuuurrrrrrrggggggghhhhh!” cried Ford Prefect and threw one final spasm as the electronic enhancement of the last line caught him full blast across the temples. He went limp.
    Arthur lolled.
    “Now, Earthlings . . .” whirred the Vogon (he didn’t know that Ford Prefect was in fact from a small planet somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse, and wouldn’t have cared if he had), “I present you with a simple choice! Either die in the vacuum of space, or . . .” he paused for melodramatic effect, “tell me how good you thought my poem was!”
    He threw himself backward into a huge leathery bat-shaped seat and watched them. He did the smile again.
    Ford was rasping for breath. He rolled his dusty tongue round his parched mouth and moaned.
    Arthur said brightly, “Actually I quite liked it.”
    Ford turned and gaped. Here was an approach that had quite simply not occurred to him.
    The Vogon raised a surprised eyebrow that effectively obscured his nose and was therefore no bad thing.
    “Oh good . . .” he whirred, in considerable astonishment.
    “Oh yes,” said Arthur, “I thought that some of the metaphysical imagery was really particularly effective.”
    Ford continued to stare at him, slowly organizing his thoughts around this totally new concept. Were they really going to be able to bareface their way out of this?
    “Yes, do continue . . .” invited the Vogon.
    “Oh . . . and, er . . . interesting rhythmic devices too,” continued Arthur, “which seemed to counterpoint the . . . er . . . er . . .” he floundered.
    Ford leaped to his rescue, hazarding “. . . counterpoint the surrealism of the underlying metaphor of the . . . er . . .”
he floundered too, but Arthur was ready again.
    “. . . humanity of the . . .”
    “Vogonity,”
Ford hissed at him.
    “Ah yes, Vogonity—sorry—of the poet’s compassionate soul”—Arthur felt he was on the homestretch now—“which contrives through the medium of the verse structure to sublimate this, transcend that, and come to terms with the fundamental dichotomies of the other”—he was reaching a triumphant crescendo—“and one is left with a profound and vivid insight into . . . into . . . er . . .” (which suddenly gave out on him). Ford leaped in with the coup de grace:
    “Into whatever it was the poem was about!” he yelled. Out of the corner of his mouth: “Well done, Arthur, that was very good.”
    The Vogon perused them. For a moment his embittered racial soul had been touched, but he thought no—too little too late. His voice took on the quality of a cat snagging brushed nylon.
    “So what you’re saying is that I write poetry because underneath my mean callous heartless exterior I really just want to be loved,” he said. He paused, “Is that right?”
    Ford laughed a nervous laugh. “Well, I mean, yes,” he said, “don’t we all, deep down, you know . . . er . . .”
    The Vogon stood up.
    “No, well, you’re completely wrong,” he said, “I just write poetry to throw my mean callous heartless exterior into sharp relief. I’m going to throw you off the ship anyway. Guard! Take the prisoners to number three airlock and throw them out!”
    “What?” shouted Ford.
    A huge young Vogon guard stepped forward and yanked them out of their straps with his huge blubbery arms.
    “You can’t throw us into space,” yelled Ford, “we’re trying to write a book.”
    “Resistance is useless!” shouted the Vogon guard back at him. It was the first phrase he’d learned when he joined the Vogon Guard Corps.
    The captain watched with detached amusement and then turned away.
    Arthur stared round him wildly.
    “I don’t want to die now!” he yelled. “I’ve still got a headache! I don’t want to go to heaven with a headache, I’d be all cross and wouldn’t enjoy it!”
    The guard grasped them both firmly round the neck, and bowing deferentially toward his captain’s back, hoicked them both