Damn it and blast it, he thought, and felt the need of some guidance and advice. He consulted The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. He looked up “guidance” and it said, “See under ADVICE.” He looked up “advice” and it said, “See under GUIDANCE.” It had been doing a lot of that kind of stuff recently and he wondered if it was all it was cracked up to be.

He headed to the outer Eastern rim of the Galaxy, where, it was said, wisdom and truth were to be found, most particularly on the planet Hawalius, which was a planet of oracles and seers and soothsayers and also take-out pizza parlors, because most mystics were completely incapable of cooking for themselves.

However, it appeared that some sort of calamity had befallen this planet. As Arthur wandered the streets of the village where the major prophets lived, it had something of a crestfallen air. He came across one prophet who was clearly shutting up shop in a despondent kind of way and asked him what was happening.

“No call for us anymore,” he said gruffly as he started to bang a nail into the plank he was holding across the window of his hovel.

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“Hold on to the other end of this and I’ll show you.”

Arthur held up the unnailed end of the plank and the old prophet scuttled into the recesses of his hovel, returning a moment or two later with a small Sub-Etha radio. He turned it on, fiddled with the dial for a moment and put the thing on the small wooden bench that he usually sat and prophesied on. He then took hold of the plank again and resumed hammering.

Arthur sat and listened to the radio.

“ … be confirmed,” said the radio.

“Tomorrow,” it continued, “the vice president of Poffla Vigus, Roopy Ga Stip, will announce that he intends to run for president. In a speech he will give tomorrow at …”

“Find another channel,” said the prophet. Arthur pushed the preset button.

“ … refused to comment,” said the radio. “Next week’s jobless totals in the Zabush sector,” it continued, “will be the worst since records began. A report published next month says …”

“Find another,” barked the prophet, crossly. Arthur pushed the button again.

“ … denied it categorically,” said the radio. “Next month’s royal wedding between Prince Gid of the Soofling dynasty and Princess Hooli of Raui Alpha will be the most spectacular ceremony the Bjanjy Territories has ever witnessed. Our reporter Trillian Astra is there and sends us this report.”

Arthur blinked.

The sound of cheering crowds and a hubbub of brass bands erupted from the radio. A very familiar voice said, “Well, Krart, the scene here in the middle of next month is absolutely incredible. Princess Hooli is looking radiant in a …”

The prophet swiped the radio off the bench and onto the dusty ground, where it squawked like a badly tuned chicken.

“See what we have to contend with?” grumbled the prophet. “Here, hold this. Not that, this. No, not like that. This way up. Other way ’round, you fool.”

“I was listening to that,” complained Arthur, grappling helplessly with the prophet’s hammer.

“So does everybody. That’s why this place is like a ghost town.” He spat into the dust.

“No, I mean, that sounded like someone I knew.”

“Princess Hooli? If I had to stand around saying hello to everybody who’s known Princess Hooli, I’d need a new set of lungs.”

“Not the Princess,” said Arthur. “The reporter. Her name’s Trillian. I don’t know where she got the Astra from. She’s from the same planet as me. I wondered where she’d got to.”

“Oh, she’s all over the continuum these days. We can’t get the tri-d TV stations out here of course, thank the Great Green Arkleseizure, but you hear her on the radio, gallivanting here and there through space-time. She wants to settle down and find herself a steady era, that young lady does. It’ll all end in tears. Probably already has.” He swung with his hammer and hit his thumb rather hard. He started to speak in tongues.

The village of oracles wasn’t much better.

He had been told that when looking for a good oracle it was best to find the oracle that other oracles went to, but he was shut. There was a sign by the entrance saying, “I just don’t know anymore. Try next door →, but that’s just a suggestion, not formal oracular advice.”

“Next door” was a cave a few hundred yards away and Arthur walked toward it. Smoke and steam were rising from, respectively, a small fire and a battered tin pot that was hanging over it. There was also a very nasty smell coming from the pot. At least, Arthur thought it was coming from the pot. The distended bladders of some of the local goatlike things were hanging from a propped-up line drying in the sun, and the smell could have been coming from them. There was also, a worryingly small distance away, a pile of discarded bodies of the local goatlike things and the smell could have been coming from them.

But the smell could just as easily have been coming from the old lady who was busy beating flies away from the pile of bodies. It was a hopeless task because each of the flies was about the size of a winged bottle top and all she had was a table tennis bat. Also she seemed half-blind. Every now and then, by chance, her wild thrashing would connect with one of the flies with a richly satisfying thunk, and the fly would hurtle through the air and smack itself open against the rock face a few yards from the entrance to her cave.

She gave every impression, by her demeanor, that these were the moments she lived for.

Arthur watched this exotic performance for a while from a polite distance, and then at last tried giving a gentle cough to attract her attention. The gentle cough, courteously meant, unfortunately involved first inhaling rather more of the local atmosphere than he had so far been doing and, as a result, he erupted into a fit of raucous expectoration and collapsed against the rock face, choking and streaming with tears. He struggled for breath, but each new breath made things worse. He vomited, half-choked again, rolled over his vomit, kept rolling for a few yards and eventually made it up on to his hands and knees and crawled, panting, into slightly fresher air.

“Excuse me,” he said. He got some breath back. “I really am most dreadfully sorry. I feel a complete idiot and …” He gestured helplessly toward the small pile of his own vomit lying spread around the entrance to her cave.

“What can I say?” he said. “What can I possibly say?”

This at least had gained her attention. She looked around at him suspiciously, but, being half-blind, had difficulty finding him in the blurred and rocky landscape.

He waved, helpfully. “Hello!” he called.

At last she spotted him, grunted to herself and turned back to whacking flies.

It was horribly apparent from the way that currents of air moved when she did, that the major source of the smell was in fact her. The drying bladders, the festering bodies and the noxious potage may all have been making valiant contributions to the atmosphere, but the major olfactory presence was the woman herself.

She got another good thwack at a fly. It smacked against the rock and dribbled its insides down it in what she clearly regarded, if she could see that far, as a satisfactory manner.

Unsteadily, Arthur got to his feet and brushed himself down with a fistful of dried grass. He didn’t know what else to do by way of announcing himself. He had half a mind just to wander off again, but felt awkward about leaving a pile of his vomit in front of the entrance to the woman’s home. He wondered what to do about it. He started to pluck up more handfuls of the scrubby dried grass that was to be found here and there. He was worried, though, that if he ventured nearer to the vomit he might simply add to it rather than clear it up.

Just as he was debating with himself as to what the right course of action was, he began to realize that she was at last saying something to him.