Mostly Harmless - Douglas Adams [83]
“You thought the singer was pretty good, then?”
“Yeah,” said Ford. The barman was returning with a piece of paper, which seemed to be trembling in his hand.
He pushed it over to Ford with a kind of nervous, reverential twitch.
“Funny thing,” said the barman. “The system rejected it first couple times. Can’t say it surprised me.” Beads of sweat were standing on his brow. “Then suddenly it’s, Oh yeah, that’s okay, and the system … er, validates it. Just like that. You wanna … sign it?”
Ford scanned the form quickly. He sucked his teeth. “This is going to hurt InfiniDim a lot,” he said, with an appearance of concern. “Oh well” he added softly, “screw ’em.”
He signed with a flourish and handed it back to the barman.
“More money,” he said, “than the Colonel made for him in an entire career of doing crap movies and casino gigs. Just for doing what he does best. Standing up and singing in a bar. And he negotiated it himself. I think this is a good moment for him. Tell him I said thanks and buy him a drink.” He tossed a few coins on the bar. The barman pushed them away.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” he said, slightly hoarsely.
“’Tis to me,” said Ford. “Okay, we are outta here.”
They stood out in the heat and the dust and looked at the big pink and chrome thing with amazement and admiration. Or at least Ford looked at it with amazement and admiration.
Arthur just looked at it. “You don’t think it’s a bit overdone, do you?”
He said it again when they climbed inside it. The seats and quite a lot of the controls were covered in fine fur skin or suede. There was a big gold monogram on the main control panel which just read “EP.”
“You know,” said Ford as he fired up the ship’s engines, “I asked him if it was true that he had been abducted by aliens, and you know what he said?”
“Who?” said Arthur.
“The King.”
“Which King? Oh, we’ve had this conversation haven’t we?”
“Never mind,” said Ford. “For what it’s worth, he said no. He went of his own accord.”
“I’m still not sure who we’re talking about,” said Arthur.
Ford shook his head. “Look,” he said, “there are some tapes over in the compartment to your left. Why don’t you choose some music and put it on?”
“Okay,” said Arthur, and flipped through the cartons. “Do you like Elvis Presley?” he said.
“Yeah, I do as a matter of fact,” said Ford. “Now. I hope this machine can leap like it looks like it can.” He engaged the main drive.
“Yeeehaah!” shouted Ford as they shot upward at face-tearing speed.
It could.
Chapter 23
The news networks don’t like this kind of thing. They regard it as a waste. An incontrovertible spaceship arrives out of nowhere in the middle of London and it is sensational news of the highest magnitude. Another completely different one arrives three and a half hours later and somehow it isn’t.
ANOTHER SPACECRAFT! said the headlines and newsstand billboards, THIS ONE’S PINK. A couple of months later they could have made a lot more of it. The third spacecraft, half an hour after that, the little four-berth Hrundi runabout, only made it onto the local news.
Ford and Arthur had come screaming down out of the stratosphere and parked neatly on Portland Place. It was just after six-thirty in the evening and there were spaces free. They mingled briefly with the crowd that gathered around to ogle, then said loudly that if no one else was going to call the police, they would, and made good their escape.
“Home …” said Arthur, a husky tone creeping into his voice as he gazed, misty-eyed, around him.
“Oh, don’t get all maudlin on me,” snapped Ford. “We have to find your daughter and we have to find that bird thing.”
“How?” said Arthur. “This is a planet of five and a half billion people, and …”
“Yes,” said Ford. “But only one of them has just arrived from outer space in a large silver spaceship accompanied by a mechanical bird. I suggest we just find a television and something to drink while we watch it. We need some serious room service.”
They checked into a large two-bedroom suite at the Langham. Mysteriously, Ford’s Dine-O-Charge