'And a tip for the singer.'

'Why, how much did you tip him?'

Ford named a figure again.

'I don't know how much that is,' said Arthur. 'What's it worth in pounds sterling? What would it buy you?'

'It would probably buy you, roughly . . . er . . .' Ford screwed his eyes up as he did some calculations in his head. 'Switzerland,' he said at last. He picked up his Hitch Hiker's Guide and started to type.

Arthur nodded intelligently. There were times when he wished he understood what on earth Ford was talking about, and other times, like now, when he felt it was probably safer not even to try. He looked over Ford's shoulder. 'This isn't going to take long, is it?' he said.

'Nah,' said Ford. 'Piece of piss. Just mention that the rolls were quite good, the beer good and cold, local wildlife nicely eccentric, the bar singer the best in the known universe, and that's about it. Doesn't need much. Just a validation.'

He touched an area on the screen marked ENTER and the message vanished into the Sub-Etha.

'You thought the singer was pretty good then?'

'Yeah,' said Ford. The barman was returning with a piece of paper, which seemed to be trembling in his hand.

He pushed it over to Ford with a kind of nervous, reverential twitch.

'Funny thing,' said the barman. 'The system rejected it first couple times. Can't say it surprised me.' Beads of sweat were standing on his brow. 'Then suddenly it's, oh yeah, that's OK, and the system . . . er, validates it. Just like that. You wanna . . . sign it'?'

Ford scanned the form quickly. He sucked his teeth. 'This is going to hurt InfiniDim a lot,' he said, with an appearance of concern. 'Oh well,' he added softly, 'screw 'em.'

He signed with a flourish and handed it back to the barman.

'More money,' he said, 'than the Colonel made for him in an entire career of doing crap movies and casino gigs. Just for doing what he does best. Standing up and singing in a bar. And he negotiated it himself. I think this is a good moment for him. Tell him I said thanks and buy him a drink.' He tossed a few coins on the bar. The barman pushed them away.

'I don't think that's necessary,' he said, slightly hoarsely.

'Tis to me,' said Ford. 'OK, we are outa here.'

They stood out in the heat and the dust and looked at the big pink and chrome thing with amazement and admiration. Or at least, Ford looked at it with amazement and admiration.

Arthur just looked at it. 'You don't think it's a bit overdone, do you?'

He said it again when they climbed inside it. The seats and quite a lot of the controls were covered in fine fur skin or suede. There was a big gold monogram on the main control panel which just read 'EP'.

'You know,' said Ford as he fired up the ship's engines, 'I asked him if it was true that he had been abducted by aliens, and you know what he said?'

'Who?' said Arthur.

'The King.'

'Which King? Oh, we've had this conversation, haven't we?'

'Never mind,' said Ford. 'For what it's worth, he said, no. He went of his own accord.'

'I'm still not sure who we're talking about,' said Arthur.

Ford shook his head. 'Look,' he said, 'there are some tapes over in the compartment to your left. Why don't you choose some music and put it on?'

'OK,' said Arthur, and flipped through the cartons. 'Do you like Elvis Presley?' he said.

'Yeah I do as a matter of fact,' said Ford. 'Now. I hope this machine can leap like it looks like it can.' He engaged the main drive.

'Yeeehaah!' shouted Ford as they shot upwards at face-tearing speed.

It could.

Chapter 23

The news networks don't like this kind of thing. They regard it as a waste. An incontrovertible spaceship arrives out of nowhere in the middle of London and it is sensational news of the highest magnitude. Another completely different one arrives three and a half hours later and somehow it isn't.

'ANOTHER SPACECRAFT!' said the headlines and news stand billboards. 'THIS ONE'S PINK.' A couple of months later they could have made a lot more of it. The third spacecraft, half an hour after that, the little four berth Hrundi runabout, only made it on to the local news.

Ford and Arthur had come screaming down out of the strato– sphere and parked neatly on Portland Place. It was just after six-thirty in the evening and there were spaces free. They min– gled briefly with the crowd that gathered round to ogle, then said loudly that if no one else was going to call the police they would, and made good their escape.

'Home …' said Arthur, a husky tone creeping into his voice as he gazed, misty-eyed around him. 'Oh don't get all maudlin on me,' snapped Ford. 'We have to find your daughter and we have to find that bird thing.'

'How?' said Arthur. 'This is a planet of five and a half billion people, and . . .'

'Yes,' said Ford. 'But only one of them has just arrived from outer space in a large silver spaceship accompanied by a mechanical bird. I suggest we just find a television and some– thing to drink while we watch it. We need some serious room service '

They checked into a large two-bedroomed suite at the Langham. Mysteriously, Ford's Dine-O-Charge card, issued on a planet over five thousand light years away, seemed to present the hotel's computer with no problems.

Ford hit the phones straight away while Arthur attempted to locate the television.

'OK,' said Ford. 'I want to order up some margaritas please. Couple of pitchers. Couple of Chef's Salads. And as much foie gras as you've got. And also London Zoo.'

'She's on the news!' shouted Arthur from the next room.

'That's what I said,' said Ford into the phone. 'London Zoo. Just charge it to the room.'

'She's . . . Good God!' shouted Arthur. 'Do you know who she's being interviewed by?'

'Are you having difficulty understanding the English lan– guage?' continued Ford. 'It's the zoo just up the road from here. I don't care if it's closed this evening. I don't want to buy a ticket, I just want to buy the zoo. I don't care if you're busy. This is room service, I'm in a room and I want some service. Got a piece of paper? OK. Here's what I want you to do. All the animals that can be safely returned to the wild, return them. Set up some good teams of people to monitor their progress in the wild, see that they're doing OK.'

'It's Trillian!' shouted Arthur. 'Or is it . . . er . . . God, I can't stand all this parallel universe stuff. It's so bloody confusing. it seems to be a different Trillian. It's Tricia McMillan which is what Trillian used to be called before . . . er . . . Why don't you come and watch, see if you can figure it out?'

'Just a second,' Ford shouted, and returned to his negotia– tions with room service. 'Then we'll need some natural reserves for the animals that can't hack it in the wild,' he said. 'Set up a team to work out the best places to do that. We might need to buy somewhere like Zaire and maybe some islands. Madagascar. Baffin. Sumatra. Those kind of places. We'll need a wide variety of habitats. Look, I don't see why you're seeing this as a problem. Learn to delegate. Hire whoever you want. Get on to it. I think you'll find my credit is good. And blue cheese dressing on the salad. Thank you.'

He put the phone down and went through to Arthur, who was sitting on the edge of his bed watching television.

'I ordered us some foie gras,' said Ford.

'What?' said Arthur, whose attention was entirely focused on the television.

'I said I ordered us some foie gras.'

'Oh,' said Arthur, vaguely. 'Um, I always feel a bit bad about foie gras. Bit cruel to the geese, isn't it?'

'Fuck 'em,' said Ford, slumping on the bed. 'You can't care about every damn thing.'

'Well, that's all very well for you to say, but . . .'