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Authors: Douglas Adams
Tags: Fiction
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conclusion of his argument, “you think you’ve got problems.”
Arthur rather thought he had. Apart from the unpleasant business with his home planet the Vogon guard had half-throttled him already and he didn’t like the sound of being thrown into space very much.
“Try and understand
his
problem,” insisted Ford. “Here he is, poor lad, his entire life’s work is stamping around, throwing people off spaceships . . .”
“And shouting,” added the guard.
“And shouting, sure,” said Ford, patting the blubbery arm clamped round his neck in friendly condescension, “and he doesn’t even know why he’s doing it!”
Arthur agreed this was very sad. He did this with a small feeble gesture, because he was too asphyxiated to speak.
Deep rumblings of bemusement came from the guard.
“Well. Now you put it like that I suppose . . .”
“Good lad!” encouraged Ford.
“But all right,” went on the rumblings, “so what’s the alternative?”
“Well,” said Ford, brightly but slowly, “stop doing it, of course! Tell them,” he went on, “you’re not going to do it any more.” He felt he ought to add something to that, but for the moment the guard seemed to have his mind occupied pondering that much.
“Eerrrrrmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm . . .” said the guard, “erm, well, that doesn’t sound that great to me.”
Ford suddenly felt the moment slipping away.
“Now wait a minute,” he said, “that’s just the start, you see, there’s more to it than that, you see . . . .”
But at that moment the guard renewed his grip and continued his original purpose of lugging his prisoners to the airlock. He was obviously quite touched.
“No, I think if it’s all the same to you,” he said, “I’d better get you both shoved into this airlock and then go and get on with some other bits of shouting I’ve got to do.”
It wasn’t all the same to Ford Prefect at all.
“Come on now . . . but look!” he said, less slowly, less brightly.
“Huhhhhggggggnnnnnnn . . .” said Arthur without any clear inflection.
“But hang on,” pursued Ford, “there’s music and art and things to tell you about yet! Arrggghhh!”
“Resistance is useless,” bellowed the guard, and then added, “You see, if I keep it up I can eventually get promoted to Senior Shouting Officer, and there aren’t usually many vacancies for nonshouting and nonpushing-people-about officers, so I think I’d better stick to what I know.”
They had now reached the airlock—a large circular steel hatchway of massive strength and weight let into the inner skin of the craft. The guard operated a control and the hatchway swung smoothly open.
“But thanks for taking an interest,” said the Vogon guard. “Bye now.” He flung Ford and Arthur through the hatchway into the small chamber within. Arthur lay panting for breath. Ford scrambled round and flung his shoulder uselessly against the reclosing hatchway.
“But listen,” he shouted to the guard, “there’s a whole world you don’t know anything about . . . here, how about this?” Desperately he grabbed for the only bit of culture he knew offhand— he hummed the first bar of Beethoven’s “Fifth.”
“
Da da da dum!
Doesn’t that stir anything in you?”
“No,” said the guard, “not really. But I’ll mention it to my aunt.”
If he said anything further after that it was lost. The hatchway sealed itself tight, and all sound was lost except the faint distant hum of the ship’s engines.
They were in a brightly polished cylindrical chamber about six feet in diameter and ten feet long.
Ford looked round it, panting.
“Potentially bright lad I thought,” he said, and slumped against the curved wall.
Arthur was still lying in the curve of the floor where he had fallen. He didn’t look up. He just lay panting.
“We’re trapped now, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” said Ford, “we’re trapped.”
“Well, didn’t you think of anything? I thought you said you were
Arthur rather thought he had. Apart from the unpleasant business with his home planet the Vogon guard had half-throttled him already and he didn’t like the sound of being thrown into space very much.
“Try and understand
his
problem,” insisted Ford. “Here he is, poor lad, his entire life’s work is stamping around, throwing people off spaceships . . .”
“And shouting,” added the guard.
“And shouting, sure,” said Ford, patting the blubbery arm clamped round his neck in friendly condescension, “and he doesn’t even know why he’s doing it!”
Arthur agreed this was very sad. He did this with a small feeble gesture, because he was too asphyxiated to speak.
Deep rumblings of bemusement came from the guard.
“Well. Now you put it like that I suppose . . .”
“Good lad!” encouraged Ford.
“But all right,” went on the rumblings, “so what’s the alternative?”
“Well,” said Ford, brightly but slowly, “stop doing it, of course! Tell them,” he went on, “you’re not going to do it any more.” He felt he ought to add something to that, but for the moment the guard seemed to have his mind occupied pondering that much.
“Eerrrrrmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm . . .” said the guard, “erm, well, that doesn’t sound that great to me.”
Ford suddenly felt the moment slipping away.
“Now wait a minute,” he said, “that’s just the start, you see, there’s more to it than that, you see . . . .”
But at that moment the guard renewed his grip and continued his original purpose of lugging his prisoners to the airlock. He was obviously quite touched.
“No, I think if it’s all the same to you,” he said, “I’d better get you both shoved into this airlock and then go and get on with some other bits of shouting I’ve got to do.”
It wasn’t all the same to Ford Prefect at all.
“Come on now . . . but look!” he said, less slowly, less brightly.
“Huhhhhggggggnnnnnnn . . .” said Arthur without any clear inflection.
“But hang on,” pursued Ford, “there’s music and art and things to tell you about yet! Arrggghhh!”
“Resistance is useless,” bellowed the guard, and then added, “You see, if I keep it up I can eventually get promoted to Senior Shouting Officer, and there aren’t usually many vacancies for nonshouting and nonpushing-people-about officers, so I think I’d better stick to what I know.”
They had now reached the airlock—a large circular steel hatchway of massive strength and weight let into the inner skin of the craft. The guard operated a control and the hatchway swung smoothly open.
“But thanks for taking an interest,” said the Vogon guard. “Bye now.” He flung Ford and Arthur through the hatchway into the small chamber within. Arthur lay panting for breath. Ford scrambled round and flung his shoulder uselessly against the reclosing hatchway.
“But listen,” he shouted to the guard, “there’s a whole world you don’t know anything about . . . here, how about this?” Desperately he grabbed for the only bit of culture he knew offhand— he hummed the first bar of Beethoven’s “Fifth.”
“
Da da da dum!
Doesn’t that stir anything in you?”
“No,” said the guard, “not really. But I’ll mention it to my aunt.”
If he said anything further after that it was lost. The hatchway sealed itself tight, and all sound was lost except the faint distant hum of the ship’s engines.
They were in a brightly polished cylindrical chamber about six feet in diameter and ten feet long.
Ford looked round it, panting.
“Potentially bright lad I thought,” he said, and slumped against the curved wall.
Arthur was still lying in the curve of the floor where he had fallen. He didn’t look up. He just lay panting.
“We’re trapped now, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” said Ford, “we’re trapped.”
“Well, didn’t you think of anything? I thought you said you were
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