The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

Marvin regarded it with cold loathing whilst his logic circuits chattered with disgust and tinkered with the concept of directing physical violence against it. Further circuits cut in saying, Why bother? What’s the point? Nothing is worth getting involved in. Further circuits amused themselves by analysing the molecular components of the door, and of the humanoids’ brain cells. For a quick encore they measured the level of hydrogen emissions in the surrounding cubic parsec of space and then shut down again in boredom. A spasm of despair shook the robot’s body as he turned.

“Come on,” he droned, “I’ve been ordered to take you down to the bridge. Here I am, brain the size of a planet and they ask me to take you down to the bridge. Call that job satisfaction? ‘Cos I don’t.”

He turned and walked back to the hated door.

“Er, excuse me,” said Ford following after him, “which government owns this ship?”

Marvin ignored him.

“You watch this door,” he muttered, “it’s about to open again. I can tell by the intolerable air of smugness it suddenly generates.”

With an ingratiating little whine the door slit open again and Marvin stomped through.

“Come on,” he said.

The others followed quickly and the door slit back into place with pleased little clicks and whirrs.

“Thank you the marketing division of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation,” said Marvin and trudged desolately up the gleaming curved corridor that stretched out before them. “Let’s build robots with Genuine People Personalities,” they said. So they tried it out with me. I’m a personality prototype. You can tell can’t you?”

Ford and Arthur muttered embarrassed little disclaimers.

“I hate that door,” continued Marvin. “I’m not getting you down at all am I?”

“Which government…” started Ford again.

“No government owns it,” snapped the robot, “it’s been stolen.”

“Stolen?”

“Stolen?” mimicked Marvin.

“Who by?” asked Ford.

“Zaphod Beeblebrox.”

Something extraordinary happened to Ford’s face. At least five entirely separate and distinct expressions of shock and amazement piled up on it in a jumbled mess. His left leg, which was in mid stride, seemed to have difficulty in finding the floor again. He stared at the robot and tried to entangle some dartoid muscles.

“Zaphod Beeblebrox…?” he said weakly.

“Sorry, did I say something wrong?” said Marvin, dragging himself on regardless. “Pardon me for breathing, which I never do anyway so I don’t know why I bother to say it, oh God I’m so depressed. Here’s another of those self-satisfied door. Life! Don’t talk to me about life.”

“No one ever mentioned it,” muttered Arthur irritably. “Ford, are you alright?”

Ford stared at him. “Did that robot say Zaphod Beeblebrox?” he said.

Chapter 12

A loud clatter of gunk music flooded through the Heart of Gold cabin as Zaphod searched the sub-etha radio wavebands for news of himself. The machine was rather difficult to operate. For years radios had been operated by means of pressing buttons and turning dials; then as the technology became more sophisticated the controls were made touch-sensitive—you merely had to brush the panels with your fingers; now all you had to do was wave your hand in the general direction of the components and hope. It saved a lot of muscular expenditure of course, but meant that you had to sit infuriatingly still if you wanted to keep listening to the same programme.

Zaphod waved a hand and the channel switched again. More gunk music, but this time it was a background to a news announcement. The news was always heavily edited to fit the rhythms of the music.

“… and news brought to you here on the sub-etha wave band, broadcasting around the galaxy around the clock,” squawked a voice, “and we’ll be saying a big hello to all intelligent life forms everywhere… and to everyone else out there, the secret is to bang the rocks together, guys. And of course, the big news story tonight is the sensational theft of the new Improbability Drive prototype ship by none other than Galactic President Zaphod Beeblebrox. And the question everyone’s asking is… has the big Z finally flipped? Beeblebrox, the man who invented the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster, ex-confidence trickster, once described by Eccentrica Gallumbits as the Best Bang since the Big One, and recently voted the Worst Dressed Sentinent Being in the Known Universe for the seventh time… has he got an answer this time? We asked his private brain care specialist Gag Halfrunt…”

The music swirled and dived for a moment. Another voice broke in, presumably Halfrunt. He said: “Well, Zaphod’s jist zis guy you know?” but got no further because an electric pencil flew across the cabin and through the radio’s on/off sensitive airspace. Zaphod turned and glared at Trillian—she had thrown the pencil.

“Hey,” he said, what do you do that for?”

Trillian was tapping her fingers on a screenful of figures.

“I’ve just thought of something,” she said.

“Yeah? Worth interrupting a news bulletin about me for?”

“You hear enough about yourself as it is.”