'What about the rest of us?'

'Mistress Dent included her parents and their chinless, dim-witted friend in her thoughts.'

Ford was wounded. 'Chinless? She thought that?'

'Oh, yes,' said the bird with obvious relish. 'Several times.'

Something occurred to Ford. 'Secondary master? Who is the primary?'

'You are not ent.i.tled to interrogate me,' snapped Mk II.

Ford borrowed a tactic from the Sesefras Magna gas dragons. 'I know that. Of course a wondrous being like yourself doesn't have to answer to a lowly Betelgeusean like myself. But it would be a lovely treat for me to understand the complexities of your plan.'

The bird c.o.c.ked its head. 'I know what you're doing.'

'Obviously.'

'I experience every moment simultaneously.'

'No point in arguing then, is there? You already know what you're going to do.'

'Good point. Very well. The Vogons created me so that I could cajole you back to Earth before the Grebulons destroyed it.'

'Which is happening now now.'

'Now, as you know it. Yes.'

'Will we be rescued?'

'Probably not.'

'So you gave us the lives we wanted?'

'No. I gave you free will and a construct. You followed your own paths under my supervision.'

Ford winked at the bird. 'I get it. I see now. You wanted to experience real time.'

Mk II dropped its beak slowly, crossing its wings across its breast. 'I lived your lives with you, never knowing what was coming next. It was exhilaratingly... random.'

'And now?'

'Now? Now I know exactly exactly what happens. A hundred years of maintaining four Universes has depleted my power source. I only lasted this long because I periodically combined two constructs for the past virtual twenty years. Perhaps I should have thought of that sooner, but linear time is so immediate. In five virtual minutes this room will disappear, and you will be left on Earth facing the planet-killer beams of the Grebulons.' what happens. A hundred years of maintaining four Universes has depleted my power source. I only lasted this long because I periodically combined two constructs for the past virtual twenty years. Perhaps I should have thought of that sooner, but linear time is so immediate. In five virtual minutes this room will disappear, and you will be left on Earth facing the planet-killer beams of the Grebulons.'

Ford's throat was suddenly too dry and his thoughts too cohesive. How he missed c.o.c.ktail hour.

'Five minutes?'

'And counting,' said Mk II, fading from view. In the places where the bird had been there appeared several digital readouts, which said 4.57, then 4.56. You get the picture.

'Humans think digital watches are pretty neat,' murmured Ford absently, then turned to face the three humans who were busy doing their utmost to avoid being the least bit civil to each other.

The old man wasn't as ancient as he had been barely a moment before. He could tell this by the tautness of the skin on his hands and the renewed sharpness of his hearing.

I can hear every word these two women shriek at me. Oh joy.

'Arthur!' yelled the elder of the two, actually yelled. He hadn't been yelled at in... decades. 'Are you even listening to me?'

Trying not to, thought Arthur, keeping his head down.

'I hate her,' screamed the teenager. 'She abandoned me and now she wants to control me. How does that make sense?'

'Arthur?'

'Daddy?

'I am speaking to you, Arthur Dent.'

Arthur Dent. It fit him. It was him.

'Arthur Dent,' mumbled Arthur Dent, and he wasn't happy to hear it.

'Is that all you have to say? After all these years.'

'I'm an old man,' said Arthur hopefully. 'Leave me alone.'

'Old?' said the woman. 'What are you talking about, old? You look exactly the same as you did the last time I saw you. Exactly Exactly. How did you do that?'

It was as Arthur feared. All those years alone on his beach and now he was back in the Universe with people shouting at him and no idea what was going on.

'How did I do what?'

'Stay so young. I'm younger younger than you and I look like a silicon implant after a night in the toaster. Oh, why did I bother with all these refits. I should have retired. Or brought Random along with me. Other parents do it.' than you and I look like a silicon implant after a night in the toaster. Oh, why did I bother with all these refits. I should have retired. Or brought Random along with me. Other parents do it.'

Arthur resigned himself to the fact that there was no wishing himself back to the beach and made eye contact. He saw a slim, darkish, young woman, with shoulder-length curling black hair and chocolate eyes, wearing a dark, shimmering trouser suit.

Memories poked through to his consciousness.

'Trillian. You look beautiful.'

The brown eyes blinked. 'Screw you, Arthur. I didn't come here to be patronized.'

'Sorry. You look beautiful, Miss.'

'Arthur. I chose Zaphod at the party, so live with it and drop that torch you're carrying. You need to see me as I am. My foot buzzes, for heaven's sake.'

'Does it really? I didn't notice, and I would would notice, because my hearing has become pretty sharp just recently.' notice, because my hearing has become pretty sharp just recently.'

Trillian placed two fingers on her left tibia, searching for the vibration that generally thrummed along her shinbone, keeping her awake at night.

'No buzzing.'

'Mother,' said Random behind her. 'Mum.'

Trillian noticed her fingernails were all her own. No acrylic falsies.

I am young. Young-ish. How can this be? Time is running backwards.

'Mum!'

'Just a minute, Random. Tickle your b.l.o.o.d.y yo-yo or something.'

'Fertle is gone, Mum. I'm no one again.'

Trillian realized the enormity of what had happened and rushed to comfort her daughter.

'It's okay, darling. We have our lives to live over.'

Random clenched her fingers into tiny fists. 'I don't want this life. I want to be President of the Galaxy. Is that too much to ask?'

The President was gone, and in her place a tearful teenage Goth.

Guide Note: The 'Goth' phenomena is not confined to the planet Earth. Many species choose to define their adolescent periods with sustained truculent silences and the heartfelt belief that their parents took the wrong baby home from the hospital because their natural parents could not possibly be so mind-warpingly dense and b-o-o-o-ring. While the adolescents of Earth advertise their feelings of isolation by wearing black clothing and listening to rock bands with names like Blood-shock and Sputum, the Hooloovoo (a super-intelligent shade of blue) demonstrate their dissatisfaction with the Universe by holding their breath until they turn deep purple, while the Tubular Zingatularians (deep-sea crustaceans) drive their parents demented by literally talking out of their a.r.s.es.

Trillian realized that her daughter was a child once more and she hugged the girl with something close to ferocity.

'We have each other again. Daddy's here too.' Trillian's rush of enthusiasm was enough to make her dizzy. 'All the things we can do together. Camping and getting earrings and stuff. So many protests to march in. You'll love those. Down with international conglomerates and all that. The future is yours. You will will be Galactic President again. I promise.' be Galactic President again. I promise.'

Ford Prefect stepped into the conversation, waving his towel like a peace flag.

'I hate to be the one leaving a bag of Sooflinian poo on your dream doorstep, but there may not be time to mount an election campaign for this particular planet. There might not even be time to secure the party nomination.'

Trillian asked Ford a question she had historically posed at least once per conversation. 'What the h.e.l.l are you talking about, Ford?'

Ford raised his hands high, like a preacher. 'All of this, it's a construct.'

Guide Note: Throughout recorded history people have used constructs to avoid reality. The cheapest way to escape despair is to take refuge in one's imagination. During the day, a person might be forced to work in a quimp slattery, but in the evening that same person can be transformed by sheer force of will and imagination into a rumper of feltsparks.

Of course, billions of people have no imaginations and for these people there are Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters. After two of those babies, the dullest, most by-the-book Vogon will be up on the bar in stilettos, yodelling mountain shankies and swearing he's the king of the Grey Binding Fiefdoms of Saxaquine.

Unfortunately this method of escape from reality only lasts for a couple of weekends, by which time the escapee will be quite dead, cause of death usually being a rebellious liver packing its bag and exiting the host torso via the nearest viable exit.

Because liver desertion is not a nice way to go, most species have invented some form of construct to escape their daily lives. The most primitive constructs are cave paintings, unless you are a gilled creature, then it is difficult to get the paint to stick; and if you try it on dry land, then the paint will be sticky but so will your gills. Cave paintings lead to more sophisticated works, lead to books, first with pictures, then without. Back to pictures with television. Onwards to 3-D experiences and finally interactive, multi-sensory, holographic constructs. Better than the real thing. In the case of the Flargathon Gas Swamps, much better than the real thing.

The Gaseans of Flargathon were so peeved by their name and by the constant stink of spirogyra invading their nostrils that they hired the hyper-intelligent Magratheans to build an idyllic construct that would be permanently occupied by every Gasean, except for a rotating staff awakened to service the virtual reality and keep the gas mines pumping. The construct was designed by the Magrathean A-team of Doctors Brewtlewine, Zestyfang and LaSane, who had won a Golden Lobe for their work on New Asgard. After fifteen years the construct was ready to be plugged in and was named DB-DZ-DLS in the team's honour. would be permanently occupied by every Gasean, except for a rotating staff awakened to service the virtual reality and keep the gas mines pumping. The construct was designed by the Magrathean A-team of Doctors Brewtlewine, Zestyfang and LaSane, who had won a Golden Lobe for their work on New Asgard. After fifteen years the construct was ready to be plugged in and was named DB-DZ-DLS in the team's honour.

For years things were rosy, all happy snores and money in the bank, until the computer happened to randomly wake up five people who did not have the population's best interests at heart. These people, let's call them a.s.sholes, realized that while the cats were indulging themselves in their favourite virtual fantasies, the mice could strip the planet bare and live like les grands fromages les grands fromages in the real Universe. in the real Universe.

It took them ten years, but the a.s.sholes managed to gut the old planet while the Magratheans were simultaneously building them a brand new one. A nice, Neptune-sized, terrestrial world (hold the swamps), slingshot into orbit in the Alpha Centauri system. They named the planet Incognitus and immediately enforced a worldwide 'no extradition' rule. Five years later the Gaseans awoke to find their suspended animation diaper bags overflowing and their planet smelling worse than ever.

And the moral of the story is? There are a few actually: some people are b.a.s.t.a.r.ds and should never be left in charge. And, a Magrathean will always take the money, no questions asked. Finally, always fit composting diaper bags just in case. Because you really never know. No one really ever knows.

'Four minutes, Ford,' said Arthur Dent seconds later, feeling confusion and powerlessness appear at his shoulders like two mates from secondary school who were great fun at the time but now refused to move on like everyone else and still thought fart cushions were hilarious hilarious. 'That is so b.l.o.o.d.y typical of this Galaxy. I finally get my daughter back and now you tell me we're all about to be blown to pieces in four minutes.'

Ford punched his shoulder jovially. 'No, no, we go back to reality in four minutes. It will take the Grebulons at least thirty minutes to carve up the whole planet with death beams. It would be a lot quicker and more cost effective with nukes. Ask the Vogons you wouldn't catch them using death beams.'

'You are wrong, Ford,' said Trillian, pale with worry and anger. 'I remember Club Beta. We survived that. Our Babel fish transported us to Milliways. I remember it clearly.'

'Clearly? Do you really?'

'Maybe not clearly,' admitted Trillian. 'It was a long time ago.'

'No,' blurted Random. 'It wasn't Babel fish, it was unicorns.'

'Unicorns,' breathed Arthur and he knew then that Ford was right, the Guide Guide Mk II had let them supply their own method of escape. His own had involved uniting all of the Earth's superpowers. Clearly impossible. Mk II had let them supply their own method of escape. His own had involved uniting all of the Earth's superpowers. Clearly impossible.

'Yes, Arthur Arthur. A squadron of s.p.a.ce unicorn rangers came to save us. I remember Sparkle Gem True Hoof, we were pen pals.'

Arthur hurriedly changed the subject before anyone could get started on the unicorn theory.

'In four minutes this room will disappear, Ford, we'll be left facing Grebulon death beams and you you thought it would be a thought it would be a great great idea to waste half of that time with your election campaign imagery?' idea to waste half of that time with your election campaign imagery?'

'I didn't think it was a great great idea,' said Ford, who didn't get sarcasm unless he really concentrated, which he only did about once a year, usually when he had one last chance to press the correct b.u.t.ton or the ship exploded. 'I thought it was an idea,' said Ford, who didn't get sarcasm unless he really concentrated, which he only did about once a year, usually when he had one last chance to press the correct b.u.t.ton or the ship exploded. 'I thought it was an okay okay idea. On a scale of one to ten, maybe four point five.' idea. On a scale of one to ten, maybe four point five.'

'Ford!'

'Yes, Arthur, old mate?'

'You're doing it again. Wasting time. Shouldn't we be coming up with a plan?'

Random wiped her tears on a sleeve. She would swallow down the world of hurt and bear up, just as she had always done as President. Hadn't she persevered when the celebrity chefs of Earth had downed spatulas because of the influx of cheap and flashy Dentra.s.sis labour?

Guide Note: Dentra.s.sis chefs are extremely foul-mouthed and launch into long tirades even when things are going right, and so make excellent TV chefs. Also, because of their time-hop pods, they do not have to 'prepare one earlier' until the end of the show.

Had she not forged ahead when the Blagulon Kappans had parachuted twelve million cows into mainland Europe in an attempt to increase the methane content of the atmosphere?

Luckily there were not many vegetarians on that continent and the cows did not last long, especially since they were Ameglian Major cows who literally begged to be eaten. Most of them didn't have to ask twice. Many of them never got to ask once. And quite a few were being flambeed before their parachutes. .h.i.t the ground.

I will take control, thought Random, with a determination that actually was beyond her years.

She shrugged her mother off.

'Listen to me, everyone. I've been in tighter spots than this. What we need to do is hook your Hitchhiker's Guide Hitchhiker's Guide up to the Grebulon communications system and I will negotiate with them, as future President of the Galaxy.' up to the Grebulon communications system and I will negotiate with them, as future President of the Galaxy.'

Ford patted Random on the head. 'Hush now, dearie. Grown-ups talking.'

'You pormwrangler!' swore Random, most un-presidentially.