Chapter 6

“Hello? Yes? Megadodo Publications, home of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, the most totally remarkable book in the whole of the known Universe, can I help you?” said the large pink-winged insect into one of the seventy phones lined up along the vast chrome expanse of the reception desk in the foyer of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy offices. It fluttered its wings and rolled its eyes. It glared at all the grubby people cluttering up the foyer, soiling the carpets and leaving dirty handmarks on the upholstery. It adored working for The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, it just wished there was some way of keeping all the hitch-hikers away. Weren’t they meant to be hanging round dirty spaceports or something? It was certain that it had read something somewhere in the book about the importance of hanging round dirty spaceports. Unfortunately most of them seemed to come and hang around in this nice clean shiny foyer after hanging around in extremely dirty spaceports. And all they ever did was complain. It shivered its wings.

“What?” it said into the phone. “Yes, I passed on your message to Mr. Zarniwoop, but I’m afraid he’s too cool to see you right now. He’s on an intergalactic cruise.”

It waved a petulant tentacle at one of the grubby people who was angrily trying to engage its attention. The petulant tentacle directed the angry person to look at the notice on the wall to its left and not to interrupt an important phone call.

“Yes,” said the insect, “he is in his office, but he’s on an intergalactic cruise. Thank you so much for calling.” It slammed down the phone.

“Read the notice,” it said to the angry man who was trying to complain about one of the more ludicrous and dangerous pieces of misinformation contained in the book.

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy is an indispensable companion to all those who are keen to make sense of life in an infinitely complex and confusing Universe, for though it cannot hope to be useful or informative on all matters, it does at least make the reassuring claim, that where it is inaccurate it is at least definitely inaccurate. In cases of major discrepancy it’s always reality that’s got it wrong.

This was the gist of the notice. It said “The Guide is definitive. Reality is frequently inaccurate.”

This has led to some interesting consequences. For instance, when the Editors of the Guide were sued by the families of those who had died as a result of taking the entry on the planet Traal literally (it said “Ravenous Bugblatter beasts often make a very good meal for visiting tourists” instead of “Ravenous Bugblatter beasts often make a very good meal of visiting tourists") they claimed that the first version of the sentence was the more aesthetically pleasing, summoned a qualified poet to testify under oath that beauty was truth, truth beauty and hoped thereby to prove that the guilty party was Life itself for failing to be either beautiful or true. The judges concurred, and in a moving speech held that Life itself was in contempt of court, and duly confiscated it from all those there present before going off to enjoy a pleasant evening’s ultragolf.

Zaphod Beeblebrox entered the foyer. He strode up to the insect receptionist.

“OK,” he said, “Where’s Zarniwoop? Get me Zarniwoop.”

“Excuse me, sir?” said the insect icily. It did not care to be addressed in this manner.

“Zarniwoop. Get him, right? Get him now.”

“Well, sir,” snapped the fragile little creature, “if you could be a little cool about it…”

Look,” said Zaphod, “I’m up to here with cool, OK? I’m so amazingly cool you could keep a side of meat inside me for a month. I am so hip I have difficulty seeing over my pelvis. Now will you move before you blow it?”

“Well, if you’d let me explain, sir,” said the insect tapping the most petulant of all the tentacles at its disposal, “I’m afraid that isn’t possible right now as Mr. Zarniwoop is on an intergalactic cruise.”

Hell, thought Zaphod.

“When he’s going to be back?” he said.

“Back sir? He’s in his office.”

Zaphod paused while he tried to sort this particular thought out in his mind. He didn’t succeed.

“This cat’s on an intergalactic cruise… in his office?” He leaned forward and gripped the tapping tentacle.

“Listen, three eyes,” he said, “don’t you try to outweird me. I get stranger things than you free with my breakfast cereal.”

“Well, just who do you think you are, honey?” flounced the insect quivering its wings in rage, “Zaphod Beeblebrox or something?”

“Count the heads,” said Zaphod in a low rasp.

The insect blinked at him. It blinked at him again.

“You are Zaphod Beeblebrox?” it squeaked.

“Yeah,” said Zaphod, “but don’t shout it out or they’ll all want one.”

“The Zaphod Beeblebrox?”

“No, just a Zaphod Beeblebrox, didn’t you hear I come in six packs?”

The insect rattled its tentacles together in agitation.

“But sir,” it squealed, “I just heard on the sub-ether radio report. It said that you were dead…”

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Zaphod, “I just haven’t stopped moving yet. Now. Where do I find Zarniwoop?”

“Well, sir, his office is on the fifteenth floor, but…”

“But he’s on an intergalactic cruise, yeah, yeah, how do I get to him.”

“The newly installed Sirius Cybernetics Corporation Vertical People Transporters are in the far corner sir. But sir…”

Zaphod was turning to go. He turned back.

“Yeah?” he said.

“Can I ask you why you want to see Mr. Zarniwoop?”

“Yeah,” said Zaphod, who was unclear on this point himself, “I told myself I had to.”

“Come again sir?”

Zaphod leaned forward, conspirationally.

“I just materialized out of thin air in one of your cafés,” he said, “as a result of an argument with the ghost of my great grandfather. No sooner had I got there that my former self, the one that operated on my brain, popped into my head and said ‘Go see Zarniwoop’. I have never heard of the cat. That is all I know. That and the fact that I’ve got to find the man who rules the Universe.”

He winked.

“Mr. Beeblebrox, sir,” said the insect in awed wonder, “you’re so weird you should be in movies.”

“Yeah,” said Zaphod patting the thing on a glittering pink wing, “and you, baby, should be in real life.”

The insect paused for a moment to recover from its agitation and then reached out a tentacle to answer a ringing phone.

A metal hand restrained it.

“Excuse me,” said the owner of the metal hand in a voice that would have made an insect of a more sentimental disposition collapse in tears.

This was not such an insect, and it couldn’t stand robots.

“Yes, sir,” it snapped, “can I help you?”

“I doubt it,” said Marvin.

“Well in that case, if you’ll just excuse me…” Six of the phones were now ringing. A million things awaited the insect’s attention.

“No one can help me,” intoned Marvin.

“Yes, sir, well…”

“Not that anyone tried of course.” The restraining metal hand fell limply by Marvin’s side. His head hung forward very slightly.

“Is that so,” said the insect tartly.

“Hardly worth anyone’s while to help a menial robot is it?”

“I’m sorry, sir, if…”

“I mean where’s the percentage in being kind or helpful to a robot if it doesn’t have any gratitude circuits?”

“And you don’t have any?” said the insect, who didn’t seem to be able to drag itself out of this conversation.

“I’ve never had occasion to find out,” Marvin informed it.

“Listen, you miserable heap of maladjusted metal…”

“Aren’t you going to ask me what I want?”

The insect paused. Its long thin tongue darted out and licked its eyes and darted back again.