Life, the Universe and Everything - Douglas Adams [26]
Moving his hand along the wall he came across something he was glad to find. He moved on a little farther, quietly.
“Computer?” he hissed.
“Mmmm?” said the computer terminal nearest him, equally quietly.
“Is there someone on this ship?”
“Mmmm,” said the computer.
“Who is it?”
“Mmmm mmm mmmmm,” said the computer.
“What?”
“Mmmmm mmmm mm mmmmmmmm.”
Zaphod buried one of his faces in two of his hands.
“Oh, Zarquon,” he muttered to himself. Then he stared up the corridor toward the entrance to the bridge in the dim distance from which more and purposeful noises were coming, and in which the gagged terminals were situated.
“Computer,” he hissed again.
“Mmmmm?”
“When I ungag you …”
“Mmmmm.”
“Remind me to punch myself in the mouth.”
“Mmmmm mmm?”
“Either one. Now just tell me this. One for yes, two for no. Is it dangerous?”
“Mmmm.”
“It is?”
“Mmmm.”
“You didn’t just go ‘mmmm’ twice?”
“Mmmm mmm.”
“Hmmmm.”
He inched his way up the corridor as if he would rather be yarding his way down it, which was true.
He was within two yards of the door to the bridge when he suddenly realized to his horror that it was going to be nice to him, and he stopped dead. He hadn’t been able to turn off the door’s courtesy voice circuits.
This doorway to the bridge was concealed from view within it because of the excitingly chunky way in which the bridge had been designed to curve round, and he had been hoping to enter unobserved.
He leaned despondently back against the wall again and said some words that his other head was quite shocked to hear.
He peered at the dim pink outline of the door, and discovered that in the darkness of the corridor he could just about make out the Sensor Field that extended out into the corridor and told the door when there was someone there for whom it must open and to whom it must make a cheery and pleasant remark.
He pressed himself hard back against the wall and edged himself toward the door, flattening his chest as much as he possibly could to avoid brushing against the very, very dim perimeter of the field. He held his breath, and congratulated himself on having lain in bed sulking for the last few days rather than trying to work out his feelings on chest expanders in the ship’s gym.
He then realized he was going to have to speak at this point.
He took a series of very shallow breaths, and then said as quickly and as quietly as he could, “Door, if you can hear me, say so very, very quietly.”
Very, very quietly, the door murmured, “I can hear you.”
“Good. Now, in a moment, I’m going to ask you to open. When you open I do not want you to say that you enjoyed it, okay?”
“Okay.”
“And I don’t want you to say to me that I have made a simple door very happy, or that it is your pleasure to open for me and your satisfaction to close again with the knowledge of a job well done, okay?”
“Okay.”
“And I do not want you to ask me to have a nice day, understand?”
“I understand.”
“Okay,” said Zaphod, tensing himself, “open now.”
The door slid open quietly. Zaphod slipped quietly through. The door closed quietly behind him.
“Is that the way you like it, Mr. Beeblebrox?” said the door out loud.
“I want you to imagine,” said Zaphod to the group of white robots who swung round to stare at him at that point, “that I have an extremely powerful Kill-O-Zap blaster pistol in my hand.”
There was an immensely cold and savage silence. The robots regarded him with hideously dead eyes. They stood very still. There was something intensely macabre about their appearance, especially to Zaphod, who had never seen one before or even known anything about them. The Krikkit Wars belonged to the ancient past of the Galaxy, and Zaphod had spent most of his early history lessons plotting how he was going to have sex with the girl in the cybercubicle next to him, and since his teaching computer