You can’t just walk around without responding to a remark like that.

“Of course it stops raining,” said Arthur. It was hardly an elegant refutation, but it had to be said.

“It rains … all … the time,” raved the man, thumping the table again, in time to the words.

Arthur shook his head.

“Stupid to say it rains all the time,” he said.

The man’s eyebrows shot up, affronted.

“Stupid? Why’s it stupid? Why’s it stupid to say it rains all the time if it rains all the whole time?”

“Didn’t rain yesterday.”

“Did in Darlington.”

Arthur paused, warily.

“You going to ask me where I was then yesterday,” asked the man, “eh?”

“No,” said Arthur.

“But I expect you can guess.”

“Do you.”

“Begins with a D.”

“Does it.”

“And it was pissing down there, I can tell you.”

“You don’t want to sit there, mate,” said a passing stranger in overalls cheerily to Arthur, “that’s Thundercloud Corner, that is. Reserved special for old Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head here. There’s one reserved in every motorway caff between here and sunny Denmark. Steer clear is my advice. ’Swhat we all do. How’s it going, Rob? Keeping busy? Got your wet-weather tires on? Har-har.”

He breezed by and went to tell a joke about Britt Ekland to someone at a nearby table who roared with laughter.

“See, none of them bastards take me seriously,” said Rob McKenna, “but,” he added darkly, leaning forward and screwing up his eyes, “they all know it’s true!”

Arthur frowned.

“Like my wife,” hissed the sole owner and driver of McKenna’s All-Weather Haulage; “she says it’s nonsense and I make a fuss and complain about nothing, but”—he paused dramatically and darted out dangerous looks from his eyes—“she always brings the washing in when I phone to say I’m on me way home!” He brandished his coffee spoon. “What do you make of that?”

“Well …”

“I have a book,” he went on, “I have a book. A diary. Kept it for fifteen years. Shows every single place I’ve ever been. Every day. And also what the weather was like. And it was uniformly,” he snarled, “ ’orrible. All over England, Scotland, Wales, I been. All round the Continent, Italy, Germany, back and forth to Denmark, been to Yugoslavia. It’s all marked in and charted. Even when I went to visit my brother,” he added, “in Seattle.”

“Well,” said Arthur, getting up to leave at last, “perhaps you’d better show it to someone.”

“I will,” said Rob McKenna.

And he did.

Chapter 17

Misery. Dejection. More misery and more dejection. He needed a project and he gave himself one.

He would find where his cave had been.

On prehistoric Earth he had lived in a cave, not a nice cave, a lousy cave, but … There was no but. It had been a totally lousy cave and he had hated it. But he had lived in it for five years, which made it home of some kind, and a person likes to keep track of his homes. Arthur Dent was such a person and so he went to Exeter to buy a computer.

That was what he really wanted, of course, a computer. But he felt he ought to have some serious purpose in mind before he simply went and blew a lot of bread on what people might otherwise mistake as being just a thing to play with. So that was his serious purpose. To pinpoint the exact location of a cave on prehistoric Earth. He explained this to the man in the shop.

“Why?” said the man in the shop.

This was a tricky one.

“Okay, skip that,” said the man in the shop, “how?”

“Well, I was hoping you could help me with that.”

The man sighed and his shoulders dropped.

“Have you much experience of computers?”

Arthur wondered whether to mention Eddie the shipboard computer on the Heart of Gold, who could have done the job in a second, or Deep Thought, or — but decided he wouldn’t.

“No,” he said.

“Looks like a fun afternoon,” said the man in the shop, but he said it only to himself.

Arthur bought the Apple anyway. Over a few days he also acquired some astronomical software, plotted the movements of stars, drew rough little diagrams of how he seemed to remember the stars to have been in the sky when he looked up out of his cave at night, and worked away busily at it for weeks, cheerfully putting off the conclusion he knew he would inevitably have to come to, which was that the whole project was completely ludicrous.

Rough drawings from memory were futile. He didn’t even know how long ago it had been, beyond Ford Prefect’s rough guess at the time that it was “a couple of million years” and he simply didn’t have the math.

Still, in the end he worked out a method which would at least produce a result. He decided not to mind the fact that with the extraordinary jumble of rules of thumb, wild approximations, and arcane guesswork he was using he would be lucky to hit the right galaxy; he just went ahead and got a result.

He would call it the right result. Who would know?

As it happened, through the myriad and unfathomable chances of fate, he got it exactly right, though he of course would never know that. He just went up to London and knocked on the appropriate door.

“Oh. I thought you were going to phone me first.”

Arthur gaped in astonishment.

“You can only come in for a few minutes,” said Fenchurch. “I’m just going out.”

Chapter 18

A summer’s day in Islington, full of the mournful wail of antique-restoring machinery.

Fenchurch was unavoidably busy for the afternoon, so Arthur wandered in a blissed-out haze and looked at all the shops, which in Islington are quite a useful bunch, as anyone who regularly needs old woodworking tools, Boer War helmets, drag, office furniture, or fish will readily confirm.

The sun beat down over the roof gardens. It beat on architects and plumbers. It beat on barristers and burglars. It beat on pizzas. It beat on estate agent’s particulars.

It beat on Arthur as he went into a restored furniture shop.

“It’s an interesting building,” said the proprietor cheerfully. “There’s a cellar with a secret passage which connects with a nearby pub. It was built for the Prince Regent apparently, so he could make his escape when he needed to.”

“You mean, in case anybody might catch him buying stripped pine furniture,” said Arthur.

“No,” said the proprietor, “not for that reason.”

“You’ll have to excuse me,” said Arthur, “I’m terribly happy.”

“I see.”

He wandered hazily on and found himself outside the offices of Greenpeace. He remembered the contents of his file marked “Things To Do — Urgent!” which he hadn’t opened again in the meantime. He marched in with a cheery smile and said he’d come to give them some money to help free the dolphins.

“Very funny,” they told him, “go away.”

This wasn’t quite the response he had expected, so he tried again. This time they got quite angry with him, so he just left some money anyway and went back out into the sunshine.

Just after six he returned to Fenchurch’s house in the alleyway, clutching a bottle of champagne.

“Hold this,” she said, shoved a stout rope in his hand, and disappeared inside through the large white wooden doors from which dangled a fat padlock off a black iron bar.

The house was a small converted stable in a light industrial alleyway behind the derelict Royal Agricultural Hall of Islington. As well as its large stable doors it also had a normal-looking front door of smartly glazed paneled wood with a black dolphin door knocker. The one odd thing about this door was its doorstep, which was nine feet high, since the door was set into the upper of the two floors and presumably had been used originally to haul up hay for hungry horses.