Mostly Harmless [86]
"Show me," he said.
The shadowy shape of a bird spread its wings and rose into the air near him. Darkness engulfed the bridge. Dim lights danced briefly in the black eyes of the bird as, deep in its instructional address space, bracket after bracket was finally closing, if clauses were finally ending, repeat loops halting, recursive functions calling themselves for the last few times.
A brilliant vision lit up in the darkness, a watery blue and green vision, a tube flowing through the air, shaped like a chopped up string of sausages.
With a flatulent noise of satisfaction, the Vogon Captain sat back to watch.
Chapter 25
"Just there, number forty-two," shouted Ford Prefect to the taxi-driver. "Right here!"
The taxi lurched to a halt, and Ford and Arthur jumped out. They had stopped at quite a number of cash-dispensers on the way, and Ford chucked a fistful of money through the window at the driver.
The entrance to the club was dark, smart and severe. Only the smallest little plaque bore its name. Members knew where it was, and if you weren't a member then knowing where it was wasn't any help to you.
Ford Prefect was not a member of Stavro's though he had once been to Stavro's other club in New York. He had a very simple method of dealing with establishments of which he was not a member. He simply swept in as soon as the door was opened, pointed back at Arthur and said, "It's OK, he's with me.'
He bounded down the dark glossy stairs, feeling very froody in his new shoes. They were suede and they were blue, and he was very pleased that in spite of everything else going on he had been sharp-eyed enough to spot them in a shop window from the back of a speeding taxi.
"I thought I told you not to come here."
"What?" said Ford.
A thin, ill-looking man wearing something baggy and Italian was walking up the stairs past them, lighting a cigarette, and had stopped, suddenly.
"Not you," he said. "Him."
He looked straight at Arthur, then seemed to become a little confused.
"Excuse me," he said. "I think I must have mistaken you for someone else." He started on up the stairs again , but almost immediately turned round once more, even more puzzled. He stared at Arthur.
"Now what?" said Ford.
"What did you say?"
"I said, now what?" repeated Ford irritably.
"Yes, I think so," said the man and swayed slightly and dropped the book of matches he'd been carrying. His mouth moved weakly. Then he put his hand to his forehead.
"Excuse me," he said, "I'm trying desperately to remember which drug I've just taken, but it must be one of those ones which mean you can't remember.'
He shook his head and turned away again, and went up towards the men's room.
"Come on," said Ford. He hurried on downstairs, with Arthur following nervously in his wake. The encounter had shaken him badly and he didn't know why.
He didn't like places like this. For all of the dreams of Earth and home he had had for years, he now badly missed his hut on Lamuella with his knives and his sandwiches. He even missed Old Thrashbarg.
"Arthur!"
It was the most astounding effect. His name was being shouted in stereo.
He twisted to look one way. Up the stairs behind him he saw Trillian hurrying down towards him in her wonderfully rumpled Rymplon TM. She was looking suddenly aghast.
He twisted the other way to see what she was looking suddenly aghast at.
At the bottom of the stairs was Trillian, wearing... No — this was Tricia. Tricia that he had just seen, hysterical with confusion, on television. And behind her was Random, looking more wild-eyed than ever. Behind her in the recesses of the smart, dimly lit club, the other clientele of the evening formed a frozen tableau, staring anxiously up at the confrontation on the stairs.
For a few seconds everyone