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Authors: Douglas Adams
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time the Vogon captain didn’t shout because it was the door from the galley quarters where the Dentrassis prepared his meals. A meal would be most welcome.
A huge furry creature bounded through the door with his lunch tray. It was grinning like a maniac.
Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz was delighted. He knew that when a Dentrassi looked that pleased with itself there was something going on somewhere on the ship that he could get very angry indeed about.
Ford and Arthur stared around them.
“Well, what do you think?” said Ford.
“It’s a bit squalid, isn’t it?”
Ford frowned at the grubby mattresses, unwashed cups and unidentifiable bits of smelly alien underwear that lay around the cramped cabin.
“Well, this is a working ship, you see,” said Ford. “These are the Dentrassis’ sleeping quarters.”
“I thought you said they were called Vogons or something.”
“Yes,” said Ford, “the Vogons run the ship, the Dentrassis are the cooks; they let us on board.”
“I’m confused,” said Arthur.
“Here, have a look at this,” said Ford. He sat down on one of the mattresses and rummaged about in his satchel. Arthur prodded the mattress nervously and then sat on it himself: in fact he had very little to be nervous about, because all mattresses grown in the swamps of Sqornshellous Zeta are very thoroughly killed and dried before being put to service. Very few have ever come to life again.
Ford handed the book to Arthur.
“What is it?” asked Arthur.
“The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
. It’s a sort of electronic book. It tells you everything you need to know about anything. That’s its job.”
Arthur turned it over nervously in his hands.
“I like the cover,” he said. “ ‘Don’t Panic’ It’s the first helpful or intelligible thing anybody’s said to me all day.”
“I’ll show you how it works,” said Ford. He snatched it from Arthur, who was still holding it as if it were a two-week-dead lark, and pulled it out of its cover.
“You press this button here, you see, and the screen lights up, giving you the index.”
A screen, about three inches by four, lit up and characters began to flicker across the surface.
“You want to know about Vogons, so I entered that name so.” His fingers tapped some more keys. “And there we are.”
The words
Vogon Constructor Fleets
flared in green across the screen.
Ford pressed a large red button at the bottom of the screen and words began to undulate across it. At the same time, the book began to speak the entry as well in a still, quiet, measured voice. This is what the book said:
“Vogon Constructor Fleets. Here is what to do if you want to get a lift from a Vogon: forget it. They are one of the most unpleasant races in the Galaxy—not actually evil, but bad-tempered, bureaucratic, officious and callous. They wouldn’t even lift a finger to save their own grandmothers from the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal without orders signed in triplicate, sent in, sent back, queried, lost, found, subjected to public inquiry, lost again, and finally buried in soft peat for three months and recycled as firelighters
.
“The best way to get a drink out of a Vogon is to stick your finger down his throat, and the best way to irritate him is to feed his grandmother to the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal
.
“On no account allow a Vogon to read poetry at you.”
Arthur blinked at it.
“What a strange book. How did we get a lift then?”
“That’s the point, it’s out of date now,” said Ford, sliding the book back into its cover. “I’m doing the field research for the new revised edition, and one of the things I’ll have to do is include a bit about how the Vogons now employ Dentrassi cooks, which gives us a rather useful little loophole.”
A pained expression crossed Arthur’s face. “But who are the Dentrassis?” he said.
“Great guys,” said Ford. “They’re
the
best cooks and the best drink mixers and they don’t
A huge furry creature bounded through the door with his lunch tray. It was grinning like a maniac.
Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz was delighted. He knew that when a Dentrassi looked that pleased with itself there was something going on somewhere on the ship that he could get very angry indeed about.
Ford and Arthur stared around them.
“Well, what do you think?” said Ford.
“It’s a bit squalid, isn’t it?”
Ford frowned at the grubby mattresses, unwashed cups and unidentifiable bits of smelly alien underwear that lay around the cramped cabin.
“Well, this is a working ship, you see,” said Ford. “These are the Dentrassis’ sleeping quarters.”
“I thought you said they were called Vogons or something.”
“Yes,” said Ford, “the Vogons run the ship, the Dentrassis are the cooks; they let us on board.”
“I’m confused,” said Arthur.
“Here, have a look at this,” said Ford. He sat down on one of the mattresses and rummaged about in his satchel. Arthur prodded the mattress nervously and then sat on it himself: in fact he had very little to be nervous about, because all mattresses grown in the swamps of Sqornshellous Zeta are very thoroughly killed and dried before being put to service. Very few have ever come to life again.
Ford handed the book to Arthur.
“What is it?” asked Arthur.
“The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
. It’s a sort of electronic book. It tells you everything you need to know about anything. That’s its job.”
Arthur turned it over nervously in his hands.
“I like the cover,” he said. “ ‘Don’t Panic’ It’s the first helpful or intelligible thing anybody’s said to me all day.”
“I’ll show you how it works,” said Ford. He snatched it from Arthur, who was still holding it as if it were a two-week-dead lark, and pulled it out of its cover.
“You press this button here, you see, and the screen lights up, giving you the index.”
A screen, about three inches by four, lit up and characters began to flicker across the surface.
“You want to know about Vogons, so I entered that name so.” His fingers tapped some more keys. “And there we are.”
The words
Vogon Constructor Fleets
flared in green across the screen.
Ford pressed a large red button at the bottom of the screen and words began to undulate across it. At the same time, the book began to speak the entry as well in a still, quiet, measured voice. This is what the book said:
“Vogon Constructor Fleets. Here is what to do if you want to get a lift from a Vogon: forget it. They are one of the most unpleasant races in the Galaxy—not actually evil, but bad-tempered, bureaucratic, officious and callous. They wouldn’t even lift a finger to save their own grandmothers from the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal without orders signed in triplicate, sent in, sent back, queried, lost, found, subjected to public inquiry, lost again, and finally buried in soft peat for three months and recycled as firelighters
.
“The best way to get a drink out of a Vogon is to stick your finger down his throat, and the best way to irritate him is to feed his grandmother to the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal
.
“On no account allow a Vogon to read poetry at you.”
Arthur blinked at it.
“What a strange book. How did we get a lift then?”
“That’s the point, it’s out of date now,” said Ford, sliding the book back into its cover. “I’m doing the field research for the new revised edition, and one of the things I’ll have to do is include a bit about how the Vogons now employ Dentrassi cooks, which gives us a rather useful little loophole.”
A pained expression crossed Arthur’s face. “But who are the Dentrassis?” he said.
“Great guys,” said Ford. “They’re
the
best cooks and the best drink mixers and they don’t
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