Title: Escape Velocity
Author: The Dragoness
Notes: A bit longer this time I think… yaaay (See! I told you reviews make me remember to write ^^). So who remembers that bit in the first book about Zaphod, a megafreighter, and some conkers? And certain fun people who'll crop up soon enough. I seem to be yanking quite a few minor details into this story… which amuses me. Hopefully you guys'll know who I'm talking about though. ~_^
Extra reviewer notes: Shadow~ Gah, that would be interesting! Especially since, the way I see it, Betelguesan lifelines are a lot longer than Human ones (15 years stuck on a planet if you only live for 75 is an awful long time, don't you think?) Poor Arthur would be so phenomenally confused. And thanks to Neila and Overload for the new encouragement!
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Chapter Three: Connections
(Excerpt from The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Entry: Ursa Minor Beta)
"Ursa Minor Beta is, some say, one of the most appalling places in the known Universe. Although it is excruciatingly rich, horrifyingly sunny and more full of wonderfully exciting people than a pomegranate is of pips, it can hardly be insignificant that when a recent edition of Playbeing magazine headlined an article with the words 'When you are tired of Ursa Minor Beta you are tired of life', the suicide rate quadrupled overnight. Not that there are any nights on Ursa Minor Beta."
Zaphod and Ford's newly acquired ice cream ship descended through the clouds, continuing to happily blare chimed versions of popular pop tunes, and looking not a little bit like an Earthchild's deranged sugar-coated fantasy come true. And merely a few minutes later after nearly crashing into two ships, a toll meter, and pool of exotic sea creatures (Ford had always been rather bad at parallel parking), the two Betelguesians were anxiously kicking at the electronic door to make it open faster. Through all three of their heads span imaginative scenes of hip commercialism, suave leaders, hideously busy cities, and even more amazing towering buildings. It was rather unfortunate that the scene that greeted them was stuffed full of blinding sunshine, happy tourists at sparkling oceansides, and an unholy collection of relaxed surfers.
After a moment of staring, and a moment more of disappointment, they both managed to sum up their reactions with one clever and descriptive word: "boring."
Ford by this time had skipped the second moment of disappointment and had turned on his heal, intent on heading to a different planet all together, when Zaphod grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back into the still shining sunlight. Ford squinted irritably at him. "Don't tell me that you actually want this place to be the first one we set out on, do you?"
"Hey, come on, Ursa Minor's a pretty popular planet…" He shrugged his shoulders and waved his arms around a bit for emphasis. "I'm sure we could find something useful here. All this place really needs is some class."
"And some natural disasters."
"Sure, and some natural disasters."
"There should be a law against having so many beaches. It's probably bad for the environment."
"Most things tend to be anyway," Zaphod replied lazily, fishing around for and idly glancing through an Ursa Minor tourist pamphlet he'd picked up from inside the ship where they'd found the map.
"So are you going to apply for an internship? Stick your foot in and get it crunched up in the proverbial door?" Ford asked, remembering his semi-cousins natural liking for fame, fortune, and mostly political dictatorships.
"No way, that's for nobodies. The leaders you really hear about never start out that way. They typically skip ahead to save time, like bribing people with expensive continents or staging a coup with some well-placed rockets."
Ford had a sudden surreal vision of Zaphod stampeding through the galactic capital, firing rounds of dangerous sugar cones at his rivals. He promptly blamed it on his lack of sugar intake and reached for yet another serving of ice cream. "Well, last time I checked pink and yellow furniture wasn't in season, and ice cream doesn't explode. So I suggest you figure out something else before we're down to our last container of pistachio. I hate pistachio."
"They key," Zaphod continued, deciding to ignore anything that might or might not have come out of Ford's mouth, "is to find a connection and latch onto someone you know, someone high up on the chain."
"Like who?"
"Like Yooden Vranx."
Ford paused for a moment and took a thoughtful lick of chocolate. "Yooden Vranx? You mean that guy whose Arcuran megafreighter you broke into a while back? The guy with all the conkers and the food and the booze?"
"And who stuck us in the Beleguese maximum security prison for a day. Yep. Amazing guy." One of his heads smiled fondly, while the other leafed through his booklet, taking notes occasionally.
"I'm still mad at losing all that betting money, you know. And at you for losing a decent tri-jet off the planet just because you decided that you had nothing better to do on a Saturday than to raid a megafreighter." Another lick. "Wild good time though, I'll give you that. Although why couldn't you have saved some of those skills for when we were trying to break into that other ship?"
"Because I listened to you, that's why. But yeah, great times. Great guy. He's president of the Galaxy now, you know?"
"No kidding? And I take it that you're going to see if he'll just up and offer you, a kid fresh from Betelguese 5 with absolutely no political experience whatsoever, a job."
"Yep."
"Oh, good then. Just so that we're on the same track."
Some small piece of Ford's mind quietly began to annoy the rest of it by considering that this in theory was actually not such a bad idea. After all, Zaphod was one of the cleverest individuals he had ever met, despite the stupidity vibes he tended to give off just to annoy people. And more importantly, Zaphod was one of the cleverest individuals Yooden Vranx had ever met. Or so the now-president had claimed after the two of them had burst onto the main bridge of their megafreighter, brandishing toy guns with a list of highly tasty demands.
"Well," Zaphod interrupted his thoughts as he closed the pamphlet with a small thunk and a large grin. "I've thought of a job, and now am off to make them give it to me. You can go do… whatever it is you do. Meet you back at the ship for dinner, okay?" And with the grace of Jack Russel Terrier at a dinner party, he skipped into the nearby crowd.
Left to his own devices, Ford decided that he might as well follow Zaphod's path in search of something more interesting than pools; they could always go for a swim later. But halfway down the ramp he suddenly remembered his Uncle Finnae's advice: never go anywhere without your towel; you never know what you might need it for. He quickly darted into the ship, emerged a moment later towel in hand, and finally set off in what, according to Zaphod's pamphlet, he hoped to be the more commercially inclined portion of the local area. He had wandered aimlessly through most of the afternoon (at least he assumed it was the afternoon; the sun was still trying its best to happily beam down on him) before he'd realized that he'd found it. Granted, there were a few less pools and a few more shops and restaurants here, but the lack of busy streets and architectural wonders was still mildly depressing.
Ford sighed and allowed his eyes to drift past a colorful pair of tentacled tourists and over to an equally colorful short plaster building labeled "Surf's Up Bar and Grill." Well, at least there was food and alcohol. He quickly threw his newest resolution of the moment into the pile with the others. I will buy some – no, wait – I will make Zaphod buy some drinks once he finds some money. Alcohol, he'd decided many years ago, was a good thing; at least the minute amount of it he'd had was. Granted, Zaphod claimed that the stuff he swiped from his favorite mother's liquor cabinet was better than the stuff that Ford swiped from his favorite mother's cabinet, and that according to popular rumor since no one as of yet had been able to go so far as smell it yet alone taste it, the stuff found in their mutual mother Agnes's cabinet could beat that belonging to Mrs. Alice Beeblebrox and Mrs. Vivetta Prefect with one hand tied up behind its back and one foot tied up in a Vogon lawsuit. So engrossed was he in thinking about "the good cabinet stuff" and in wondering what it would be like to actually get honest-to-goodness flat out drunk one day, he didn't even notice the stranger waving to get his attention until he had crossed the street and was practically right in front of him.
"Excuse me, but can I borrow your towel for a minute?" Ford glanced up with a start and knitted down his eyebrows at the biped alien speaking to him, a medium-set, robust, and tanned-looking individual perhaps a few years older than himself. Although by the same token it was completely possible that he was a few years younger, decades older, or precisely the same age; you could never tell with other species. While his right hand was raised in a greeting, his left seemed to be clamped onto a bulging suitcase, as well as a sub-ether radio, a map, as well as a plastic cup full of some liquid or another. A traveler. The gears inside his head began to rid themselves of dust and slowly turn.
"Sure." With a smile, the alien accepted the offered towel, popped open a panel on his radio, and proceeded to rub the two vigorously together. Ford was about to mention that that method tended to work only with two sticks and perhaps a blow torch, but within moments the radio flared to life and began commenting on Bill Ror Rocket's latest smash hit "O Where Have All the Smashkavorts Gone?"
"Thanks a lot, kiddo; piece of rubbish needs a good old static jolt now and then, and I lost my own towel back on Traal -those bugs there sure do put a damper on your hitchhiking- and there aren't too many people here who carry one of their own. A real shame, that. But I owe you one."
The gears began to grind methodically, humming something about squeaks and alternative pop. "Hitchhiking?"
"Oh yeah, sorry about that; let me introduce myself. The name's Roosta, professional hitchhiker and prelim worker on the upcoming Guide. Basically I'm either planning with the team or traveling around the galaxy, collecting materials for a galactic guidebook." With another easy smile, he stuck out a large hand and pulled one of Ford's own into a firm handshake. "It might sounds a bit strange, but between you and me, I wouldn't trade it for any other job in the universe. It's one hoopy time."
During Roosta's introduction, a myriad of expressions offered a change of scenery across Ford's face. Indifference, maniacal interest, curiosity, amusement, and finally utter confusion at the mention of the word "hoopy."
Roosta seemed to pick up on this last change as he slung the now-working radio over his back. "You know… hoopy. Great. Cool. Awesome. The best thing to happen since Eccentrica Gallumbits." Ford continued to stare at him blankly, this time widening one eye while narrowing the other, creating an all-around bizarre expression as though his features, not quite knowing what to do with themselves, had decided that a six-ship pileup was the best solution. He quietly filed it away for future use at parties. Meanwhile, Roosta dutifully showed his concern over either the contortions or the lack of recognition of Eccentrica Gallumbits. "Man… What planet are you from?"
"Eh, Betelguese 5." He tacked on that bizarre expression just for kicks, and attempted to modify it even more by sticking his tongue partway out. It failed miserably, and merely succeeded in frightening an elementary tour group who happened to be passing by.
"Oh, no wonder!" Roosta gave a quick, deep laugh. "Heard a lot of stories about that one. A few of our co-workers are from there actually; for the first few months they never shut up about the place unless they were drunk." He paused for a moment in thought. "Which I suppose means that they really didn't talk about it all that much. Anyway, what did you escape in?" Ford pointed casually over his shoulder at the ice cream ship. The other alien craned his head slightly to the right, registered it for a moment, and then laughed again with an ease that seemed to imply that he spent a good deal of his life in this state of mind. Which in all honesty wasn't a bad place to be.
"Well, congratulations, kid. You've made it to Ursa Minor, probably the most appalling place in the universe. Betelguese 5 not included." He paused and suddenly produced a pen and a somewhat crumpled pad of paper from his suitcase. "Hang on, lemme write that down; that's pretty good." He tossed the items back in their place and continued. "So now what? What do you want to do with your life?"
Zaphod and any other individual who contained the capacity to actually make decisions based on rational thought would have smacked him with a two by four over his response based off of a conversation he'd been having for less than ten minutes with an alien he'd never met and a job he'd never heard of. But Zaphod was currently weaseling his way into the world of politics, and "unplanned action" was Ford's forte supposedly. And besides, the words were out of his mouth before he'd even had time to think about them. Not that he would have anyway. "Hitchhike."
Roosta stared at him for a few seconds confusedly, then burst into a wide grin and clapped him on the back, steering him into the smoky interior of a nearby bar. Not to be outdone, Ford immediately matched his grin with one of his own. "You're a strange kid… but a hoopy frood if I ever saw one…"
"Ford," he supplied.
"…saw one, Ford. But the Guide needs all the hoopy froods we can get. And if Hitchhiking's where you've set your sights, then what say I order us a few Ol' Janx Spirits and hammer out the details to you, eh?" In response, Ford continued to grin manically at him the entire time, the little gears inside his head registering the "hoopy" job he'd just wormed his way into and not much else, as particularly evident by the way he nearly ran into the bar's countertop, earning him a peeved glare from the eight-armed alien standing behind it. Roosta in turn took that as a 'yes' and clapped him on the back once more. "Well then, let me just be the first to say: welcome to the staff of the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy."