'Thank you very much,' said a touched Ford, who had always been proud of his skill at the pormwrangling pits of Bhaboom Lane. 'But let's do compliments later.'

'Later?' said Arthur. 'What later? We don't have a later, thanks to your Mk II.'

'It's not mine,' objected the Betelgeusean.

'You stole it, Ford. You posted it to yourself, care of me. I think that makes it yours.'

'Ah, you see, I stole stole it. Therefore it's not mine. You're winning my argument for me.' it. Therefore it's not mine. You're winning my argument for me.'

2.37 said the digital readout.

2.36.

then 0.10...... 0.09...

'Hmm,' said Ford, scratching the plane in s.p.a.ce where his chin was obstinately refusing to be. 'That's a little strange.'

'I know,' agreed Arthur. 'Surely the numerical system hasn't changed? We've only been away a couple of seconds.'

'Well, if the numerical system's been changed, they might not even be seconds.'

The bird reappeared, its image striated with lines of interference. 'Sorry. All this arguing is draining my battery. Negative energy.'

And Mk II disappeared, taking with it the tranquil room of sky. Arthur, Trillian, Random and Ford found themselves deposited on the men's room stairs in Stravro Meuller's sw.a.n.ky (until very recently) Club Beta, their memories of virtual lives dissipating like mist in the sunlight.

This is real life, Arthur realized. How could I ever have been duped by that beach? How could it have been real when no one was trying to kill me? How could I ever have been duped by that beach? How could it have been real when no one was trying to kill me?

The air was alive with screaming, the cacophonous wrenching sounds of civilization collapsing, the thrum and buzz of Grebulon death rays and the chittering of a million rats fleeing the city, which the four arrivees could understand thanks to the Babel fish universal translators in their ear holes.

'I saw it in those dog intestines,' squeaked one lady rat named Audrey. 'I foretold the end for the two-footers by a big green s.p.a.ce light. No one would b.l.o.o.d.y listen. n.o.body.'

'Come on, Mum,' scoffed her eighteenth son, Cornelius. 'You said a dark stranger would cross our path.'

'Them're dark strangers, firing them death beams. What would you call 'em?'

Cornelius twitched a whisker, the rat equivalent of rolled eyeb.a.l.l.s. 'That's one interpretation. You need to be more specific, Mum. People are laughing.'

'Cheeky beggar,' said Audrey and scampered off down a drain.

The rest of the rats said things like: 'Oh, no!'

'Oh, Muroideam!' (Father of the rat G.o.ds.) 'Aaaargh! Dark stranger, my a.r.s.e!'

Arthur Dent sat on the stairs in the midst of the whole imbroglio feeling strangely peaceful. There was nothing to do but be happy for having loved someone once and having been loved in return. It was big, dying. BIG. But not as big as it had once seemed.

At the foot of the stairs, a sobbing Random was being comforted by both Trillian and Tricia McMillan.

Stupid b.l.o.o.d.y Plural zone, thought Arthur. You leave one Earth and come back to another. The Earth I left was destroyed and the one I returned to has a Tricia McMillan who never travelled through s.p.a.ce with Zaphod Beeblebrox. Ah, the infinite mult.i.tudinous possibilities of my home planet. The things I might have seen on another Earth, just down the probability axis. I might have made myself a nice cup of tea. You leave one Earth and come back to another. The Earth I left was destroyed and the one I returned to has a Tricia McMillan who never travelled through s.p.a.ce with Zaphod Beeblebrox. Ah, the infinite mult.i.tudinous possibilities of my home planet. The things I might have seen on another Earth, just down the probability axis. I might have made myself a nice cup of tea.

'Regrets,' he sang absently, 'I've had a few. Like all those days, spent in detention.'

Frankie Martin Jnr. What a crooner.

The green rays scythed closer now. Arthur could feel their heat burning one side of his face.

That's going to peel, he thought.

'Hey, look,' said Ford brightly. 'My blue suede shoes. Froody.'

3.

The Tricia McMillan who was native to this Earth, and who had never been artificially sustained in the H2G2-2's construct, had an idea.

'I will talk to them, dear,' she said to the girl who was possibly her unborn daughter from what was periodically another dimension. 'The Grebulons listen to me. I'm something of a pin-up for them.'

And she was gone down the hallway, seconds before the hallway itself was gone, frittered by the beams like confetti in the wind.

Arthur was too numb to be horrified. Instead, he experienced a strange, p.r.i.c.kling jealousy.

At least Tricia died with some sense of purpose. She found an answer to her question that was not b.l.o.o.d.y forty-two. All I can do is sit here and be helpless.

Arthur felt a sense of disbelief that he had come to know well in his Galaxy-traveller phase. He had often secretly suspected that he was insane. There was no Heart of Gold Heart of Gold, no Zaphod Beeblebrox and certainly not a Deep Thought. As for the planet-building Magratheans patently ridiculous. More ridiculous even than the talking mice who were supposed to rule the planet.

'S'cuse me, guv'nor,' said a rat, skirting Arthur's foot.

'Sorry, mate,' muttered Arthur, automatically raising his shoe.

It was all insanity. And he was being observed somewhere by a cl.u.s.ter of undergraduates who were doubtless hung-over from the previous night's rugger celebrations and couldn't give a toss about Patient Dent's delusions.

If they don't give a toss, why should I?

Behind him, the Gent's door splintered and flew over his head. Moments later, very suspect water began seeping through the seat of his trousers.

Ford chuckled. 'It's true what they say. It does does always flow downhill.' always flow downhill.'

'Do you think we should make a run for it?'

'Run where? The whole planet's going up, my friend. Our running days are over. And those guys are out of hitchhiking range.' Ford rummaged in the satchel around his neck and pulled out what looked like a roll-up cigarette. 'Ahhhh,' he sighed happily. 'I've been saving this.'

Arthur was delighted to have something to be interested in. 'What is that?'

Ford squinted at him. 'That's more sarcasm sarcasm, is it?'

'No. It's a genuine question born of ignorance.'

'Well, in that case, happy to enlighten you, buddy. It's a cigarette.'

'Oh.' Arthur felt his interest waning.

'But not just any cigarette,' continued Ford, holding the roll-up as though it were a grail of the rather holy kind.

'Got a wide-bore death ray inside it?'

'Course not.'

'How about a matter transporter?'

'You know, that would be useful. But no.'

'So, it's just strands of tobacco wrapped in paper, then?'

'Tobacco? Paper? Honestly, Arthur, you humans only use ten per cent of your brains, and you fill that fraction with tea-related information. This is a Falian albino marsh worm. Deceased obviously. Spends its life absorbing hallucinogenic gas from the vents. Then dies and turns stiff-ish.'

Arthur glanced upwards. A death ray had just sliced off the top floor, without even slowing down. A rather large airplane pinwheeled through the patch of sky above and Arthur fancied he could hear someone singing 'k.u.mbaya'.

'Is this a long story? Only I imagine our minutes are numbered. And the number is a single number. Between one and three maybe.'

'No, nearly at the good bit. Hitchhikers call these joysticks. One puff and you feel blissfully happy. Love everybody, forgive your enemies, all that stuff. Two puffs make you curious about just about everything, including the horrible death that is probably coming your way for you to have lit this baby in the first place. This is going to be great, you tell yourself. I am about to experience an energy shift to a new plane of existence. What will it be like? Will I make new friends? Do they have beer?'

'Third puff?' asked Arthur, fulfilling his role in the storytelling partnership.

Ford rummaged in his satchel for a light. 'After the third puff, your brain explodes and you feel a little peckish.'

'Ah,' said Arthur, wondering how many hitchhikers had expired before they figured out the third puff thing.

'Here we go,' said Ford, pulling out a plastic lighter with the legend THE D DOMAIN OF THE K KING in blinking lights on the shaft. 'One puff or two?' in blinking lights on the shaft. 'One puff or two?'

Arthur had never been much of a smoker. Whenever he tried a cigarette, he felt so guilty about what he was doing to the lungs his parents gave him that it made him feel quite ill. Once, at a teenage party, Arthur did attempt to lounge about on the patio toying with a Silk Cut Blue, but ended throwing up on the hostess in an effort to not throw up on her chihuahua. He still shuddered at the memory and looked around to see if anyone from that party was pointing at him.

'Not for me, thanks. d.i.c.ky tummy.'

'Okay, pal,' said Ford, sparking the lighter. 'Blissful happiness, here I come.'

'I'll say so long now then, Ford. I wouldn't have missed a minute.'

'Really?'

'No. Not really. There were a few minutes I could have done without.'

The minute when Fenchurch disappeared, for example.

Ford had taken a single puff from the joystick when a giant jelly cactus popped into existence in the centre of the lobby. It wobbled for a moment, then turned into a huge bloodshot eye. The eye cast itself wildly about the room, then rolled back and became a quartet of Pom Pom Squids, playing thousands of kazoos in perfect harmony.

'Beautiful,' said Ford, wiping a tear from his eye. 'That makes me so... There aren't the words.'

The squids. .h.i.t a high note then disappeared in a flurry of rainbow-gilded bubbles, which popped musically to become a white s.p.a.ceship, a glittering teardrop with a few celery stalk fins.

'The Heart of Gold Heart of Gold,' breathed Arthur. 'You have got to be joking.'

Guide Note: This s.p.a.ceship was so essentially cool that one look at its brochure could skip a teenage male a couple of decades into the future, straight into the middle of his own mid-life crisis. The Heart of Gold Heart of Gold was powered both by conventional engines and the revolutionary Infinite Improbability Drive, which allowed the ship to be was powered both by conventional engines and the revolutionary Infinite Improbability Drive, which allowed the ship to be everywhere at once until it decided which where it wanted to be. Coincidences, deja vu and increased amounts of junk mail were all side effects of the everywhere at once until it decided which where it wanted to be. Coincidences, deja vu and increased amounts of junk mail were all side effects of the Heart of Gold Heart of Gold's unconventional drive field.

Ford ground the tip of the joystick on the sole of his shoe, then popped the cigarette into his satchel. He jumped to his feet. 'Let's go, Arthur. Don't look so surprised. The Earth gets destroyed and we get rescued by Zaphod. That's the way it always goes, give or take a few details and half a dozen light years. What a trip. A cosmic trip.'

'So why the joystick?'

'One puff only, my man. Blissfully happy. I find it helps before a reunion with Zaphod.'

Arthur stumbled down the steps. 'But what about Tricia? Isn't she supposed to come with us?'

'Hey, Trillian is the same person. Fate can only take one of everyone. Be happy for Tricia, she's on another plane. Pure energy. Can't you see the colours?'

Arthur scowled. 'The green death-ray colours? Yes, I can see those. I would prefer to see them from a great distance, so can we please get out of here?'

'Absolutely, Arthur. If we don't go soon, my froody shoes will be ruined. Although the blue one might turn a nice shade of purple, which would make me enormously happy.'

Arthur gently shepherded Random towards the glowing white ship. 'Come on. We need to leave now.'

'Fertle,' mumbled the girl. 'I want my Fertle.'

'I want my Fertle!' chuckled Ford, playfully tickling Trillian. 'Catchy, isn't it?'

The white s.p.a.ceship shuddered and a door opened smoothly, telescoping to the ground. Zaphod Beeblebrox, Galactic President, interplanetary fugitive and committed self-serving entrepreneur, appeared in the doorway, planetsized ego shining through his bright eyes, golden hair bouncing in shoulder-length curls. Very outer-ring, but he carried it off well.

'Okay, let me get this straight,' Zaphod said, tapping his temples. 'h.e.l.lo, Earthlings. I have once again come to save you.' Then he seemed to notice the on-going planet destruction unfolding before him. 'Hold on just a minute. This isn't Ireland!'

Ford ran up the gangplank to embrace his semi-cousin.

'Zaphod! I am so happy to see you.'

Zaphod blinked. 'Happy to see me? You must be smoking something.'

They piled into the Heart of Gold Heart of Gold and zipped up to a couple of hundred feet, employing the ship's Dodge-O-Matic program to evade the death beams until the Infinite Improbability Drive was powered up, to blast them wherever it was they expected never to be. and zipped up to a couple of hundred feet, employing the ship's Dodge-O-Matic program to evade the death beams until the Infinite Improbability Drive was powered up, to blast them wherever it was they expected never to be.

Ford Prefect was the only one of the ship's occupants who had thought to look down, and he saw a forlorn-looking H2G2-2 hovering beside Club Beta's single remaining chandelier. It casually dodged a buzzing death ray and then, with a why bother why bother shrug, collapsed in on itself like an origami bird being folded by invisible hands until all that was left was a diamond of blackness that zipped around the roofless hall, decapitated a rat out of sheer badness, then winked out of all existences in all times. shrug, collapsed in on itself like an origami bird being folded by invisible hands until all that was left was a diamond of blackness that zipped around the roofless hall, decapitated a rat out of sheer badness, then winked out of all existences in all times.

Good riddance, thought Ford, and went in search of a drink.

Had Ford not gone in search of a drink, he might have seen a tall, thirty-ish man, wearing a dressing gown and slippers, stumble into Club Beta, clutching his towel. The man barely had time to glance skywards in confused wonderment before an emerald death ray blasted him and his ginger companion to atoms.

Guide Note: This was one of the many deaths of Arthur Dent, now that one Arthur had managed to break the cosmic pattern and skip dimensions to be rescued. The pattern unravelled for the rest and they were picked off one by one, by improbable accidents hurriedly cobbled together by a ticked-off Fate.

One Arthur was electrocuted by malfunctioning headphones as he produced a local radio show discussing recent UFO sightings in the area (cosmic black humour).