So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish - Douglas Adams [9]
He twisted round in his seat.
“Are you sure she’s all right?” he said again.
Beyond the fact that she was, to him, heart-thumpingly beautiful, he could make out very little, how tall she was, how old she was, the exact shading of her hair. And he couldn’t ask her anything about herself because, sadly, she was completely unconscious.
“She’s just drugged,” said her brother, shrugging, not moving his eyes from the road ahead.
“And that’s all right, is it?” said Arthur, in alarm.
“Suits me,” he said.
“Ah,” said Arthur. “Er,” he added after a moment’s thought.
The conversation so far had been going astoundingly badly.
After an initial flurry of opening hellos, he and Russell—the wonderful girl’s brother’s name was Russell, a name which to Arthur’s mind always suggested burly men with blond mustaches and blow-dried hair who would at the slightest provocation start wearing velvet tuxedos and frilly shirt fronts and would then have to be forcibly restrained from commentating on billiards matches—had quickly discovered they didn’t like each other at all.
Russell was a burly man. He had a blond mustache. His hair was fine and blow-dried. To be fair to him—though Arthur didn’t see any necessity for this beyond the sheer mental exercise of it—he, Arthur, was himself looking pretty grim. A man can’t cross a hundred thousand light-years, mostly in other people’s baggage compartments, without beginning to fray a little, and Arthur had frayed a lot.
“She’s not a junkie,” said Russell suddenly, as if he clearly thought that someone else in the car might be, “she’s under sedation.”
“But that’s terrible,” said Arthur, twisting round to look at her again. She seemed to stir slightly and her head slipped sideways on her shoulder. Her dark hair fell across her face, obscuring it.
“What’s the matter with her, is she ill?”
“No,” said Russell, “merely barking mad.”
“What?” said Arthur, horrified.
“Loopy, completely bananas. I’m taking her back to the hospital and telling them to have another go. They let her out while she still thought she was a hedgehog.”
“A hedgehog?”
Russell hooted his horn fiercely at a car that came round the corner toward them halfway across on to their side of the road, making them swerve. The anger seemed to make him feel better.
“Well, maybe not a hedgehog,” he said after he’d settled down again, “though it would probably be simpler to deal with if she did. If somebody thinks they’re a hedgehog, presumably you just give ’em a mirror and a few pictures of hedgehogs and tell them to sort it out for themselves, come down again when they feel better. At least medical science could deal with it, that’s the point. Seems that’s not good enough for Fenny, though.”
“Fenny …?”
“You know what I got her for Christmas?”
“Well, no.”
“Black’s Medical Dictionary.”
“Nice present.”
“I thought so. Thousands of diseases in it, all in alphabetical order.”
“You say her name is Fenny?”
“Yeah. Take your pick, I said. Anything in here can be dealt with. The proper drugs can be prescribed. But no, she has to have something different. Just to make life difficult. She was like that at school, you know.”
“Was she?”
“She was. Fell over playing hockey and broke a bone nobody had ever heard of.”
“I can see how that would be irritating,” said Arthur doubtfully. He was rather disappointed to discover her name was Fenny. It was a rather silly, dispiriting name, such as an unlovely maiden aunt might vote herself if she couldn’t sustain the name Fenella properly.
“Not that I wasn’t sympathetic,” continued Russell, “but it did get a bit irritating. She was limping for months.”
He slowed down.
“This is your exit, isn