“Who in the Galaxy would want to bomb a publishing company?” asked Zaphod, but never heard Marvin’s reply because at that moment the building shook with another bomb attack. He tried to stagger back to the elevator—a pointless manoeuvre he realized, but the only one he could think of.

Suddenly, at the end of the corridor leading at right angles from this one, he caught sight of a figure as it lunged into view, a man. The man saw him.

“Beeblebrox, over here!” he shouted.

Zaphod eyed him with distrust as another bomb blast rocked the building.

“No,” called Zaphod, “Beeblebrox over here! Who are you?”

“A friend!” shouted back the man. He ran towards Zaphod.

“Oh yeah?” said Zaphod, “Anyone’s friend in particular, or just generally well disposed of people?”

The man raced along the corridor, the floor bucking beneath his feet like an excited blanket. He was short, stocky and weatherbeaten and his clothes looked as if they’d been twice round the Galaxy and back with him in them.

“Do you know,” Zaphod shouted in his ear when he arrived, “your building’s being bombed?”

The man indicated his awareness.

It suddenly stopped being light. Glancing round at the window to see why, Zaphod gaped as a huge sluglike, gunmetal-green spacecraft crept through the air past the building. Two more followed it.

“The government you deserted is out to get you, Zaphod,” hissed the man, “they’ve sent a squadron of Frogstar Fighters.”

“Frogstar Fighters!” muttered Zaphod, “Zarquon!”

“You get the picture?”

“What are Frogstar Fighters?” Zaphod was sure he’d heard someone talk about them when he was President, but he never paid much attention to official matters.

The man was pulling him back through a door. He went with him. With a searing whine a small black spider-like object shot through the air and disappeared down the corridor.

“What was that?” hissed Zaphod.

“Frogstar Scout robot class A out looking for you,” said the man.

“Hey yeah?”

“Get down!”

From the opposite direction came a larger black spider-like object. It zapped past them.

“And that was…?”

“A Frogstar Scout robot class B out looking for you.”

“And that?” said Zaphod, as a third one seared through the air.

“A Frogstar Scout robot class C out looking for you.”

“Hey,” chuckled Zaphod to himself, “pretty stupid robots eh?”

From over the bridge came a massive rumbling hum. A gigantic black shape was moving over it from the opposite tower, the size and shape of a tank.

“Holy photon, what’s that?”

“A tank,” said the man, “Frogstar Scout robot class D come to get you.”

“Should we leave?”

“I think we should.”

“Marvin!” called Zaphod.

“What do you want?”

Marvin rose from a pile of rubble further down the corridor and looked at them.

“You see that robot coming towards us?”

Marvin looked at the gigantic black shape edging forward towards them over the bridge. He looked down at his own small metal body. He looked back up at the tank.

“I suppose you want me to stop it,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Whilst you save your skins.”

“Yeah,” said Zaphod, “get in there!”

“Just so long,” said Marvin, “as I know where I stand.”

The man tugged at Zaphod’s arm, and Zaphod followed him off down the corridor.

A point occurred to him about this.

“Where are we going?” he said.

“Zarniwoop’s office.”

“Is this any time to keep an appointment?”

“Come on.”

Chapter 7

Marvin stood at the end of the bridge corridor. He was not in fact a particularly small robot. His silver body gleamed in the dusty sunbeams and shook with the continual barrage which the building was still undergoing.

He did, however, look pitifully small as the gigantic black tank rolled to a halt in front of him. The tank examined him with a probe. The probe withdrew.

Marvin stood there.

“Out of my way little robot,” growled the tank.

“I’m afraid,” said Marvin, “that I’ve been left here to stop you.”

The probe extended again for a quick recheck. It withdrew again.

“You? Stop me?” roared the tank. “Go on!”

“No, really I have,” said Marvin simply.

“What are you armed with?” roared the tank in disbelief.

“Guess,” said Marvin.

The tank’s engines rumbled, its gears ground. Molecule-sized electronic relays deep in its micro-brain flipped backwards and forwards in consternation.

“Guess?” said the tank.

Zaphod and the as yet unnamed man lurched up one corridor, down a second and along a third. The building continued to rock and judder and this puzzled Zaphod. If they wanted to blow the building up, why was it taking so long?

With difficulty they reached one of a number of totally anonymous unmarked doors and heaved at it. With a sudden jolt it opened and they fell inside.

All this way, thought Zaphod, all this trouble, all this not-lying-on-the-beach-having-a-wonderful-time, and for what? A single chair, a single desk and a single dirty ashtray in an undecorated office. The desk, apart from a bit of dancing dust and single, revolutionary form of paper clip, was empty.

“Where,” said Zaphod, “is Zarniwoop?” feeling that his already tenuous grasp of the point of this whole exercise was beginning to slip.

“He’s on an intergalactic cruise,” said the man.

Zaphod tried to size the man up. Earnest type, he thought, not a barrel of laughs. He probably apportioned a fair whack of his time to running up and down heaving corridors, breaking down doors and making cryptic remarks in empty offices.

“Let me introduce myself,” the man said, “My name is Roosta, and this is my towel.”

“Hello Roosta,” said Zaphod.

“Hello, towel,” he added as Roosta held out to him a rather nasty old flowery towel. Not knowing what to do with it, he shook it by the corner.

Outside the window, one of the huge slug-like, gunmetal-green spaceships growled past.

“Yes, go on,” said Marvin to the huge battle machine, “you’ll never guess.”

“Errmmm…” said the machine, vibrating with unaccustomed thought, “laser beams?”

Marvin shook his head solemnly.

“No,” muttered the machine in its deep guttural rumble, “Too obvious. Anti-matter ray?” it hazarded.

“Far too obvious,” admonished Marvin.

“Yes,” grumbled the machine, somewhat abashed, “Er… how about an electron ram?”

This was new to Marvin.

“What’s that?” he said.

“One of these,” said the machine with enthusiasm.

From its turret emerged a sharp prong which spat a single lethal blaze of light. Behind Marvin a wall roared and collapsed as a heap of dust. The dust billowed briefly, then settled.

“No,” said Marvin, “not one of those.”

“Good though, isn’t it?”

“Very good,” agreed Marvin.

“I know,” said the Frogstar battle machine, after another moment’s consideration, “you must have one of those new Xanthic Re-Structron Destabilized Zenon Emitters!”

“Nice, aren’t they?” said Marvin.

“That’s what you’ve got?” said the machine in considerable awe.

“No,” said Marvin.

“Oh,” said the machine, disappointed, “then it must be…”

“You’re thinking along the wrong lines,” said Marvin, “You’re failing to take into account something fairly basic in the relationship between men and robots.”

“Er, I know,” said the battle machine, “is it…” it tailed off into thought again.

“Just think,” urged Marvin, “they left me, an ordinary, menial robot, to stop you, a gigantic heavy-duty battle machine, whilst they ran off to save themselves. What do you think they would leave me with?”