Life, the Universe and Everything - Douglas Adams [7]
Ford looked at the ground for a moment as if steadying himself for something, then he straightened up and aimed a look at the policeman that hit him with the full force of every inch of the six light-years’ distance between Earth and Ford’s home near Betelgeuse.
“All right,” said Ford, very quietly, “I’ll tell you.”
“Yes, well, that won’t be necessary,” said the policeman hurriedly, “just don’t let whatever it was happen again.” The policeman turned around and wandered off in search of anyone who wasn’t from Betelgeuse. Fortunately, the cricket ground was full of them.
Arthur’s consciousness approached his body as from a great distance, and reluctantly. It had had some bad times in there. Slowly, nervously, it entered and settled down into its accustomed position.
Arthur sat up.
“Where am I?” he said.
“Lord’s Cricket Ground,” said Ford.
“Fine,” said Arthur, and his consciousness stepped out again for a quick breather. His body flopped back on the grass.
Ten minutes later, hunched over a cup of tea in the refreshment tent, the color started to come back to his haggard face.
“How you feeling?” asked Ford.
“I’m home,” said Arthur hoarsely. He closed his eyes and greedily inhaled the steam from his tea as if it were—well, as far as Arthur was concerned, as if it were tea, which it was.
“I’m home,” he repeated, “home. It’s England, it’s today, the nightmare is over.” He opened his eyes again and smiled serenly. “I’m where I belong,” he said in an emotional whisper.
“There are two things I feel I should tell you,” said Ford, tossing a copy of the Guardian over the table at him.
“I’m home,” said Arthur.
“Yes,” said Ford. “One is,” he said, pointing at the date at the top of the paper, “that the Earth will be demolished in two days’ time.”
“I’m home,” said Arthur, “tea,” he said, “cricket,” he added, with pleasure, “mown grass, wooden benches, white linen jackets, beer cans….”
Slowly he began to focus on the newspaper. He cocked his head on one side with a slight frown.
“I’ve seen that one before,” he said. His eyes wandered slowly up to the date, which Ford was idly tapping at. His face froze for a second or two and then began to do that terribly slow crashing trick that Arctic ice floes do so spectacularly in the spring.
“And the other thing,” said Ford, “is that you appear to have a bone in your beard.” He tossed back his tea.
Outside the refreshment tent, the sun was shining on a happy crowd. It shone on white hats and red faces. It shone on Popsicles and melted them. It shone on the tears of small children whose Popsicles had just melted and fallen off the stick. It shone on the trees, it flashed off whirling cricket bats, it gleamed off the utterly extraodinary object that was parked behind the sight screens and that nobody appeared to have noticed. It beamed on Ford and Arthur as they emerged blinking from the refreshment tent and surveyed the scene around them.
Arthur was shaking.
“Perhaps,” he said, “I should …”
“No,” said Ford, sharply.
“What?” said Arthur.
“Don’t try and phone yourself up at home.”
“How did you know …?”
Ford shrugged.
“But why not?” said Arthur.
“People who talk to themselves on the phone,” said Ford, “never learn anything to their advantage.”
“But …”
“Look,” said Ford. He picked up an imaginary phone and dialed an imaginary dial.
“Hello?” he said into the imaginary mouthpiece. “Is that Aurthur Dent? Ah, hello, yes. This is Arthur Dent speaking. Don’t hang up.”
He looked at the imaginary phone in disappointment.
“He hung up,” he said, shrugged and put the imaginary phone neatly back on its imaginary hook.
“This is not my first temporal anomaly,” he added.
A glummer look replaced the already glum look on Arthur Dent’s face.
“So we’re not home and dry,” he said.
“We could not even be said,” replied Ford, “to be home and vigorously toweling ourselves off.”
The cricket game continued. The bowler approached the wicket at a lope, a trot and then a run. He suddenly exploded