Mostly Harmless (6 page)

There was none of that now.
Somebody had been through the place doing some iniquitous kind of taste job on it.
Ford turned sharply into a small alcove, cupped his hand and yanked the flying robot in with him. He squatted down and peered at the burbling cybernaut.
`What's been happening here?' he demanded.
`Oh just the nicest things, sir, just the nicest possible things. Can I sit on your lap, please?'
`No,' said Ford, brushing the thing away. It was overjoyed to be spurned in this way and started to bob and burble and swoon. Ford grabbed it again and stuck it firmly in the air a foot in front of his face. It tried to stay where it was put but couldn't help quivering slightly.
`Something's changed, hasn't it?' Ford hissed.
`Oh yes,' squealed the little robot, `in the most fabulous and wonderful way. I feel so good about it.'
`Well what was it like before, then?'
`Scrumptious.'
`But you like the way it's changed?' demanded Ford.
`I like everything,' moaned the robot. `Especially when you shout at me like that. Do it again, please.'
`Just tell me what's happened!'
`Oh thank you, thank you!'
Ford sighed.
`OK, OK,' panted the robot. `The Guide has been taken over. There's a new management. It's all so gorgeous I could just melt. The old management was also fabulous of course, though I'm not sure if I thought so at the time.'
`That was before you had a bit of wire stuck in your head.'
`How true. How wonderfully true. How wonderfully, bub- blingly, frothingly, burstingly true. What a truly ecstasy-induc- ingly correct observation.'
`What's happened?' insisted Ford. `Who is this new man- agement? When did they take over? I... oh, never mind,' he added, as the little robot started to gibbet with uncontrollable joy and rub itself against his knee. `I'll go and find out for myself.'
Ford hurled himself at the door of the editor-in-chief's office, tucked himself into a tight ball as the frame splintered and gave way, rolled rapidly across the floor to where the drinks trolley laden with some of the Galaxy's most potent and expen- sive beverages habitually stood, seized hold of the trolley and, using it to give himself cover, trundled it and himself across the main exposed part of the office floor to where the valuable and extremely rude statue of Leda and the Octopus stood, and took shelter behind it. Meanwhile the little security robot, entering at chest height, was suicidally delighted to draw gunfire away from Ford.
That, at least, was the plan, and a necessary one. The curr ent editor-in-chief, Stagyar-zil-Doggo, was a dangerously unbalanced man who took a homicidal view of contributing staff turning up in his office without pages of fresh, proofed copy, and had a battery of laser guided guns linked to special scanning devices in the door frame to deter anybody who was merely bringing extremely good reasons why they hadn't written any. Thus was a high level of output maintained.
Unfortunately the drinks trolley wasn't there.
Ford hurled himself desperately sideways and somersaulted towards the statue of Leda and the Octopus, which also wasn't there. He rolled and hurtled around the room in a kind of random panic, tripped, span, hit the window, which fortunately was built to withstand rocket attacks, rebounded, and fell in a bruised and winded heap behind a smart grey crushed leather sofa, which hadn't been there before.
After a few seconds he slowly peeked up above the top of the sofa. As well as there being no drinks trolley and no Leda and the Octopus, there had also been a startling absence of gunfire. He frowned. This was all utterly wrong.
`Mr Prefect, I assume,' said a voice.
The voice came from a smooth-faced individual behind a large ceramo-teak-bonded desk. Stagyar-zil-Doggo may well have been a hell of an individual, but no one, for a whole variety of reasons, would ever have called him smooth-faced. This was not Stagyar-zil-Doggo.
`I assume from the manner of your entrance that you do not have new material for the, er, Guide, at the moment,' said the smooth-faced individual. He was sitting with his elbows resting on the table and holding his fingertips together in a manner which, inexplicably, has never been made a capital offence.
`I've been busy,' said Ford, rather weakly. He staggered to his feet, brushing himself down. Then he thought, what the hell was he saying things weakly for? He had to get on top of this situation. He had to find out who the hell this person was, and he suddenly thought of a way of doing it.
`Who the hell are you?, he demanded.
`I am your new editor-in-chief. That is, if we decide to retain your services. My name is Vann Harl.' He didn't put his hand out. He just added, `What have you done to that security robot?'
The little robot was rolling very, very slowly round the ceiling and moaning quietly to itself.
`I've made it very happy,' snapped Ford. `It's a kind of mission I have. Where's Stagyar? More to the point, where's his drinks trolley?'
`Mr zil-Doggo is no longer with this organisation. His drinks trolley is, I imagine, helping to console him for this fact.'
`Organisation?' yelled Ford. `Organisation? What a bloody stupid word for a set-up like this!'
`Precisely our sentiments. Under-structured, over-resourced, under-managed, over-inebriated. And that,' said Harl, `was just the editor.'
`I'll do the jokes,' snarled Ford.
`No,' said Harl. `You will do the restaurant column.'
He tossed a piece of plastic on to the desk in front of him. Ford did not move to pick it up.
`You what?' said Ford.
`No. Me Harl. You Prefect. You do restaurant column. Me editor. Me sit here tell you you do restaurant column. You get?'
`Restaurant column?' said Ford, too bewildered to be really angry yet.
`Siddown, Prefect,' said Harl. He swung round in his swivel chair, got to his feet, and stood staring out at the tiny specks enjoying the carnival twenty-three stories below.
`Time to get this business on its feet, Prefect,' he snapped.
`We at InfiniDim Enterprises are...'
`You at what?'
`InfiniDim Enterprises. We have bought out the Guide.'
`InfiniDim?'
`We spent millions on that name, Prefect. Start liking it or start packing.'
Ford shrugged. He had nothing to pack.
`The Galaxy is changing,' said Harl. `We've got to change with it. Go with the market. The market is moving up. New aspirations. New technology. The future is...'
`Don't tell me about the future,' said Ford. `I've been all over the future. Spend half my time there. It' s the same as anywhere else. Anywhen else. Whatever. Just the same old stuff in faster cars and smellier air.'
`That's one future,' said Harl. `That's your future, if you accept it. you've got to learn to think multi-dimensionally. There are limitless futures stretching out in every direction from this moment - and from this moment and from this. Billions of them, bifurcating every instant! Every possible position of every possible electron balloons out into billions of probabilities! Bil- lions and billions of shining, gleaming futures! you know what that means?'
`You're dribbling down your chin.'
`Billions and billions of markets!'
`I see,' said Ford. `So you sell billions and billions of Guides.'
`No,' said Harl, reaching for his handkerchief and not finding one. `Excuse me,' he said, `but this gets me so excited.' Ford handed him his towel.
`The reason we don't sell billions and billions of Guides,' continued Harl, after wiping his mouth, `is the expense. What we do is we sell one Guide billions and billions of times. We exploit the multidimensional nature of the Universe to cut down on manufacturing costs. And we don't sell to penniless hitch hikers. What a stupid notion that was! Find the one section of the market that, more or less by definition, doesn't have any money, and try and sell to it. No. We sell to the affluent business traveller and his vacationing wife in a billion, billion different futures . This is the most radical, dynamic and thrusting business venture in the entire multidimensional infinity of space/time/probability ever.'
`And you want me to be its restaurant critic,' said Ford.
`We would value your input.'
`Kill!' shouted Ford. He shouted it at his towel.
The towel leapt up out of Harl's hands.
This was not because it had any motive force of its own, but because Harl was so startled at the idea that it might. The next thing that startled him was the sight of Ford Prefect hurtling across the desk at him fists first. In fact Ford was just lunging for the credit card, but you don't get to occupy the sort of position that Harl occupied in the sort of organisation in which Harl occupied it without developing a healthily paranoid view of life. He took the sensible precaution of hurling himself backwards, and striking his head a sharp blow on the rocket-proof glass, then subsided into a series of worrying and highly personal dreams.
Ford lay on the desk, surprised at how swimmingly every- thing had gone. He glanced quickly at the piece of plastic he now held in his hand - it was a Dine-O-Charge credit card with his name already embossed on it, and an expiry date two years from now, and was possibly the single most exciting thing Ford had ever seen in his life - then he clambered over the desk to see to Harl.
He was breathing fairly easily. It occurred to Ford that he might breathe more easily yet without the weight of his wallet bearing down on his chest, so he slipped it out of Harl's breast pocket and flipped through it. Fair amount of cash. Credit tokens. Ultragolf club membership. Other club memberships. Photos of someone's wife and family - presumably Harl's, but it was hard to be sure these days. Busy executives often didn't have time for a full-time wife and family and would just rent them for weekends.
Ha!
He couldn't believe what he'd just found.
He slowly drew out from the wallet a single and insanely exciting piece of plastic that was nestling amongst a bunch of receipts.
It wasn't insanely exciting to look at. It was rather dull in fact. It was smaller and a little thicker than a credit card and semi-transparent. If you held it up to the light you could see a lot of holographically encoded information and images buried pseudo-inches deep beneath its surface .
It was an Ident-i-Eeze, and was a very naughty and silly thing for Harl to have lying around in his wallet, though it was perfectly understandable. There were so many different ways in which you were required to provide absolute proof of your iden- tity these days that life could easily become extremely tiresome just from that factor alone, never mind the deeper existential problems of trying to function as a coherent consciousness in an epistemologically ambiguous physical universe. Just look at cash point machines, for instance. Queues of people standing around waiting to have their fingerprints read, their retinas scanned, bits of skin scraped from the nape of the neck and undergoing instant (or nearly instant - a good six or seven seconds in tedious reality) genetic analysis, then having to answer trick questions about members of their family they didn't even remember they had, and about their recorded preferences for tablecloth colours. And that was just to get a bit of spare cash for the weekend. If you were trying to raise a loan for a jetcar, sign a missile treaty or pay an entire restaurant bill things could get really trying.
Hence the Ident-i-Eeze. This encoded every single piece of information about you, your body and your life into one all- purpose machine-readable card that you could then carry around in your wallet, and therefore represented technology's greatest triumph to date over both itself and plain common sense.
Ford pocketed it. A remarkably good idea had just occurred to him. He wondered how long Harl would remain unconscious.
`Hey!' he shouted to the little melon-sized robot still slobbering with euphoria up on the ceiling. `You want to stay happy?'
The robot gurgled that it did.
`Then stick with me and do everything I tell you without fail.'
The robot said that it was quite happy where it was up on the ceiling thank you very much. It had never realised before how much sheer titillation there was to be got from a good ceiling and it wanted to explore its feelings about ceilings in greater depth.
`You stay there,' said Ford, `and you'll soon be recaptured and have your conditional chip replaced. You want to stay happy, come now.'
The robot let out a long heartfelt sigh of impassioned tristesse and sank reluctantly away from the ceiling.
`Listen,' said Ford, `can you keep the rest of the security system happy for a few minutes?'
`One of the joys of true happiness,' trilled the robot, `is sharing. I brim, I froth, I overflow with...'
`OK,' said Ford. `Just spread a little happiness around the security network. Don't give it any information. Just make it feel good so it doesn't feel the need to ask for any.'
He picked up his towel and ran cheerfully for the door. Life had been a little dull of late. It showed every sign now of becoming extremely froody.
7
Arthur Dent had been in some hell-holes in his life, but he had never before seen a spaceport which had a sign saying, `Even travelling despondently is better than arriving here.' To welcome visitors the arrivals hall featured a picture of the President of NowWhat, smiling. It was the only picture anybody could find of him, and it had been taken shortly after he had shot himself so although the photo had been retouched as well as could be managed the smile it wore was rather a ghastly one. The side of his head had been drawn back in in crayon. No replacement had been found for the photograph because no replacement had been found for the President. There was only one ambition which anyone on the planet ever had, and that was to leave.
Arthur checked himself into a small motel on the outskirts of town, and sat glumly on the bed, which was damp, and flipped through the little information brochure, which was also damp. It said that the planet of NowWhat had been named after the open- ing words of the first settlers to arrive there after struggling across light years of space to reach the furthest unexplored outreaches of the Galaxy. The main town was called OhWell. There weren't any other towns to speak of. Settlement on NowWhat had not been a success and the sort of people who actually wanted to live on NowWhat were not the sort of people you would want to spend time with.
Trading was mentioned in the brochure. The main trade that was carried out was in the skins of the NowWhattian boghog but it wasn't a very successful one because no one in their right minds would want to buy a NowWhattian boghog skin. The trade only hung on by its fingernails because there was always a significant number of people in the Galaxy who were not in their right minds. Arthur had felt very uncomfortable looking around at some of the other occupants of the small passenger compartment of the ship.