There had been a small number of significant letters in the piles of junk – some documents from the council, dated three years earlier, relating to the proposed demolition of his house, and some other letters about the setting up of a public inquiry into the whole bypass scheme in the area; there was also an old letter from Greenpeace, the ecological pressure group to which he occasionally made contributions, asking for help with their scheme to release dolphins and orcas from captivity, and some postcards from friends, vaguely complaining that he never got in touch these days.

He collected these together and put them in a cardboard file which he marked “Things To Do”. Since he was feeling so vigorous and dynamic that morning, he even added the word “Urgent!”

He unpacked his towel and another few odd bits and pieces from the plastic bag he had acquired at the Port Brasta Mega-Market. The slogan on the side was a clever and elaborate pun in Lingua Centauri which was completely incomprehensible in any other language and therefore entirely pointless for a Duty Free Shop at a spaceport. The bag also had a hole in it so he threw it away.

He realized with a sudden twinge that something else must have dropped out in the small spacecraft that had brought him to Earth, kindly going out of its way to drop him right beside the A303. He had lost his battered and spaceworn copy of the thing which had helped him find his way across the unbelievable wastes of space he had traversed. He had lost The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

Well, he told himself, this time I really won’t be needing it again.

He had some calls to make.

He had decided how to deal with the mass of contradictions his return journey precipitated, which was that he would simply brazen it out.

He phoned the BBC and asked to be put through to his department head.

“Oh, hello, Arthur Dent here. Look, sorry I haven’t been in for six months but I’ve gone mad.”

“Oh, not to worry. Thought it was probably something like that. Happens here all the time. How soon can we expect you?”

“When do hedgehogs stop hibernating?”

“Sometime in spring I think.”

“I’ll be in shortly after that.”

“Rightyho.”

He flipped through the Yellow Pages and made a short list of numbers to try.

“Oh hello, is that the Old Elms Hospital? Yes, I was just phoning to see if I could have a word with Fenella, er… Fenella – Good Lord, silly me, I’ll forget my own name next, er, Fenella – isn’t this ridiculous? Patient of yours, dark haired girl, came in last night…”

“I’m afraid we don’t have any patients called Fenella.”

“Oh, don’t you? I mean Fiona of course, we just call her Fen…”

“I’m sorry, goodbye.”

Click.

Six conversations along these lines began to take their toll on his mood of vigorous, dynamic optimism, and he decided that before it deserted him entirely he would take it down to the pub and parade it a little.

He had had the perfect idea for explaining away every inexplicable weirdness about himself at a stroke, and he whistled to himself as he pushed open the door which had so daunted him last night.

“Arthur!!!!”

He grinned cheerfully at the boggling eyes that stared at him from all corners of the pub, and told them all what a wonderful time he’d had in Southern California.

Chapter 9

He accepted another pint and took a pull at it.

“Of course, I had my own personal alchemist too.”

“You what?”

He was getting silly and he knew it. Exuberance and Hall and Woodhouse best bitter was a mixture to be wary of, but one of the first effects it had is to stop you being wary of things, and the point at which Arthur should have stopped and explained no more was the point at which he started instead to get inventive.

“Oh yes,” he insisted with a happy glazed smile. “It’s why I’ve lost so much weight.”

“What?” said his audience.

“Oh yes,” he said again. “The Californians have rediscovered alchemy. Oh yes.”

He smiled again.

“Only,” he said, “it’s in a much more useful form than that which in…” He paused thoughtfully to let a little grammar assemble in his head. “In which the ancients used to practise it. Or at least,” he added, “failed to practise it. They couldn’t get it to work you know. Nostradamus and that lot. Couldn’t cut it.”

“Nostradamus?” said one of his audience.

“I didn’t think he was an alchemist,” said another.

“I thought,” said a third, “he was a seer.”

“He became a seer,” said Arthur to his audience, the component parts of which were beginning to bob and blur a little, “because he was such a lousy alchemist. You should know that.”

He took another pull at his beer. It was something he had not tasted for eight years. He tasted it and tasted it.

“What has alchemy got to do,” asked a bit of the audience, “with losing weight?”

“I’m glad you asked that,” said Arthur. “Very glad. And I will now tell you what the connection is between…” He paused. “Between those two things. The things you mentioned. I’ll tell you.”

He paused and manoeuvred his thoughts. It was like watching oil tankers doing three-point turns in the English Channel.

“They’ve discovered how to turn excess body fat into gold,” he said, in a sudden blur of coherence.

“You’re kidding.”

“Oh yes,” he said, “no,” he corrected himself, “they have.”

He rounded on the doubting part of his audience, which was all of it, and so it took a little while to round on it completely.

“Have you been to California?” he demanded. “Do you know the sort of stuff they do there?”

Three members of his audience said they had and that he was talking nonsense.

“You haven’t seen anything,” insisted Arthur. “Oh yes,” he added, because someone was offering to buy another round.

“The evidence,” he said, pointing at himself, and not missing by more than a couple of inches, “is before your eyes. Fourteen hours in a trance,” he said, “in a tank. In a trance. I was in a tank. I think,” he added after a thoughtful pause, “I already said that.”

He waited patiently while the next round was duly distributed. He composed the next bit of his story in his mind, which was going to be something about the tank needing to be orientated along a line dropped perpendicularly from the Pole Star to a baseline drawn between Mars and Venus, and was about to start trying to say it when he decided to give it a miss.

“Long time,” he said instead, “in a tank. In a trance.” He looked round severely at his audience, to make sure it was all following attentively.

He resumed.

“Where was I?” he said.

“In a trance,” said one.

“In a tank,” said another.

“Oh yes,” said Arthur. “Thank you. And slowly,” he said, pressing onwards, “slowly, slowly, all your excess body fat… turns… to…” he paused for effect, “subcoo… subyoo… subtoocay…” – he paused for breath – “subcutaneous gold, which you can have surgically removed. Getting out of the tank is hell. What did you say?”

“I was just clearing my throat.”

“I think you doubt me.”

“I was clearing my throat.”

“She was clearing her throat,” confirmed a significant part of the audience in a low rumble.

“Oh yes,” said Arthur, “all right. And you then split the proceeds…” he paused again for a maths break, “fifty-fifty with the alchemist. Make a lot of money!”

He looked swayingly around at his audience, and could not help but be aware of an air of scepticism about their jumbled faces.

He felt very affronted by this.

“How else,” he demanded, “could I afford to have my face dropped?”

Friendly arms began to help him home. “Listen,” he protested, as the cold February breeze brushed his face, “looking lived-in is all the rage in California at the moment. You’ve got to look as if you’ve seen the Galaxy. Life, I mean. You’ve got to look as if you’ve seen life. That’s what I got. A face drop. Give me eight years, I said. I hope being thirty doesn’t come back into fashion or I’ve wasted a lot of money.”