Chapter Two
In the control cabin of the Heart of Gold, Zaphod scratched his heads. Ford, meanwhile, was gently slapping Trillian in an effort to revive her.
"Hey... cut that out," she said, coming round.
"Sorry, are you okay?" said Ford.
"Poor Arthur," sobbed Trillian, "what a terrible thing to happen. What have you done with the body?"
"It's okay, I've left him in the medi-bay - the bots are cleaning him up. When they're finished, he can go into stasis."
"But what good can come of it? You said he'd lost his brain," said Trillian.
"So who's to know?" said Zaphod, whose mood had improved now that he was safely back on the Heart of Gold.
"You always despised Arthur," said Trillian rounding on Zaphod, "he was my last link with the Earth. Now I'm all alone in the universe with a bunch of crazy aliens!" She wondered, not for the first time, what she ever saw in him.
"Computer!" shouted Zaphod.
"Hi there," said Eddie, the shipboard computer, "always glad to be of service. What can I do for you?'
"Well for a start you can cut the bonhomie. We're not in the mood."
"You got it, Skipper," said Eddie cranking up the bonhomie another notch.
"See if the other ship has now opened communication channels."
"Which other ship do you mean?"
"How many ships are there on this planet?"
"Just the two."
"So why ask?"
"There may be only two ships on this planet, but there's a zillion-plus across the galaxy, and I'm capable of communicating with every one of them through the sub-etha. There's no guarantee they'll answer of course."
"I'm talking about the other ship on this planet, you pile of junk!"
"Okay, okay - don't get your anodes in a twist! Attempting to open communication channels... channels open. Go right ahead."
"Great, we're in."
"My pleasure", said Eddie brightly.
Zaphod took a deep breath and composed himself. He leaned over the main console. "We demand that you return the brain."
"Thank you, I appreciate that," said Trillian. Perhaps he wasn't so bad, she thought. Zaphod could be a little acerbic at times - most of the time, actually - but maybe that's just the way he was. He might be worth a second chance.
"What did you expect?" said Zaphod. "If the mice are prepared to go to these lengths it must be worth a fortune!"
"I might have known," said Trillian, bitterly.
It will be remembered that in Arthur Dent resided the final link with the Earth, as he was the last indigenous individual to leave that planet, moments before it was destroyed by a Vogon Constructor Fleet, ostensibly to make way for a new hyperspatial express route, a mere five minutes before it was due to provide - the planet itself having been the largest computer the galaxy had ever seen - the Question to the Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe and Everything, the Answer mysteriously being the number forty-two. That fact alone ensured that the Earthman's brain was a valuable commodity to the hyperintelligent, pan-dimensional beings - or mice, as they appeared in this reality - who commissioned the Earth from the planet-builders of the legendary world of Magrathea.
Somewhere in that unremarkable brain, the Question may yet reside.
This raises an interesting ethical dilemma as to whether Arthur Dent and his, until recently, attendant brain is an independent carbon-based lifeform, albeit ape-descended, free to make its own way in life, no matter how ridiculous that may sound to the more intelligent beings across the Galaxy. Sadly, for fans of courtroom drama, it is precisely this sort of argument that tends to be unceremoniously thrown out of court by the judge, landing the hapless advocate in trouble for wasting everybody's time. Older, wiser heads would counsel a more enlightened approach. Clearly, they would argue, Arthur Dent would not exist if the mice hadn't commissioned the Earth in the first place. The brain clearly belongs to them as it forms part of the original commission.
Furthermore, given that lawyers are apt to know on which side their bread is buttered - the fact that they want jam on it as well is neither here nor there - will frequently fall back on the old standby of 'having to earn their crust'. Moreover, said crust is proportional to the fees that their clients can, or cannot, afford to pay them. The mice, as clients of the exorbitantly expensive planet builders of Magrathea, had money to burn. Arthur Dent, on the other hand, had a disposable income that could be ascertained by turning out his pockets, and counting the small change. Ipso facto, Arthur Dent, or any part thereof, is the rightful property of the mice.
Arthur and his instinct for survival, not to mention an ingrained sense of superiority over rodents, however misplaced, had other ideas. But then he would.
Before things get overly complicated, it would be as well to state that the aforementioned pan-dimensional entities have absolutely nothing to do with this story. Zaphod wasn't to know that. However, he did firmly believe it - such is the powerful hold that wishful thinking has on those who prefer not to contemplate their own mortality. Arthur Dent's presence on the Heart of Gold was certainly consistent with reports available on the more esoteric stations across the etha-net, but even the more credulous listeners could see that he was small beer indeed, when compared to the reward for securing the most wanted man in the cosmos. Collaring a criminal of the former Imperial Galactic President's stature was money in the bank. Arthur, on the other hand, was by and large a commodity somewhat past his sell-by date, if he ever had one. The mice and their supposed interest in the Earthman were, for the most part, the subject of rumour and conjecture. In short, the Imperial Galactic Government was a sight easier to contact, than shadowy beings, which may or may not exist, and which may or may not, still be interested in securing said commodity.
"Give me visual," said Zaphod.
"Sure thing - coming right up," said Eddie.
"Arrgh! Visuals off and do it now!"
"Visuals off, but are you really sure? It's usually better in my experience to communicate face to face. More personal," said Eddie.
"It didn't have a face, and neither do you for that matter."
"Actually, I could have a face if you think it would help. I've lots to choose from. We might even get along better. Put a face to the voice sort of thing. Perhaps you'd like to see some of my favourites?"
"No-thank-you," said Zaphod in a tone calculated to imply an air of dark menace regarding large heavy objects, and the more sensitive inner parts of Eddie's circuitry.
"What the hell was it, anyway?" said Ford. "I think it was in some kind of transparent tank."
The thing was in fact a Metaslug of the sub order Gastropoda Giganticus, and this was its world. And because it and its kind have a tendency to leave a thick trail of slime everywhere they go - not to mention their enormous appetite for all things vegetative - Metaslugs are not in the least bit welcome on planets where the locals would prefer not to constantly watch where they put their feet. Though, to be fair, being somewhat on the large side, they are unlikely to turn up in your side salad without your noticing. Not that there is much chance of any salad being available within a mile of a Metaslug.
As a consequence, the Metaslugs of Murkuria are rarely seen, yet alone studied, even by xeno-biologists who generally prefer to carry out their field research in more cosy surroundings.
Vogsphere, for example, despite being full of Vogons, is a relatively popular destination.
Marvin, who had until now been sulking in a corner, deigned to appraise the surviving members of the crew - or passengers as he preferred to think of them - of these facts. His exasperated monotone had the unmistakable air of one who hopes, that by so doing, he may gain a short respite from the inane chatter of imbeciles with whom he has the misfortune of sharing a broken lift.
However, it would be but a short time, Marvin calculated, before the same imbeciles alighted upon another subject of which they knew less than a gnat knows of particle physics.
He would not have to wait long. The subject of 'brains' and the possibility of getting by without one, and let's face it many people do, was approaching with all the inevitability of a shared destiny the pavement has with a brick dropped from a tall building.
"Thanks, Tinman," said Zaphod.
"You're on their planet, and you didn't even realise. Pathetic," Marvin droned.
"Well, that's not really fair," said Ford, "after all, we were answering a distress call."
"Correction: The ship was answering a distress call. Personally I couldn't give a bugblatter's fart," said Zaphod.
Marvin said nothing. It really wasn't his place to argue. Given the company, it was actually beneath him. Why did he have to end up with this bunch of losers? He doubted they had a working brain cell between them. He should be hobnobbing with the finest minds the galaxy has to offer. At least then, he wouldn't have to look down quite so far.
"But isn't it weird that the ship should respond? I mean, it's never done that before," said Ford.
"Perhaps this is the first distress call it's received," said Trillian.
"Unlikely," said Ford, "the universe is a dangerous place. It couldn't have been the only mayday since Zaphod stole the ship."
"You think it was a trap?" said Trillian.
"Looks like it. Our attackers were waiting for us. It couldn't have been chance. They must have found a way of targeting the signal specifically at the Heart of Gold," said Ford.
"But who are they?" asked Trillian.
"Their leader is almost certainly a bounty-hunter. The rest are probably fellow travellers drawn from the general scum of the universe," said Ford.
"How can you know that?" asked Trillian.
"Well... they were appropriately armed. That is, in such a way that the Weapons Inhibitor Field could do nothing to protect us. Nobody knows weapons - what's available and where to get them - better than a bounty-hunter. All right, given their low-tech approach, they could have just lobbed rocks at us until we ran away, but they couldn't then be sure of securing the brain, if that's what they were after. Also, from what I saw of them, they were clearly a mixed bunch. You'd expect government agencies to be more consistent in the species employed. It's easier if you have troops, who eat the same things, sleep in the same beds, and have sex with each other, and not the local wildlife.
"Compatibility of a reasonably consistent lifestyle and genitalia are important considerations. Bounty-hunting is not the sort of profession where you get volunteers queuing around the block - too dangerous. Whoever's funding these people has to make do with what they can get. The money's good but they rarely live long enough to spend it, and that's fine by me - they're the dregs of the four quadrants."
"What about Arthur? Is there really any hope?" said Trillian, thereby giving the extant crew members of the Heart of Gold a fresh opportunity, as foreseen by Marvin, to display their ignorance on a new topic.
"Well, there's a chance if we can get his brain back..."
"But we must! The medibots could put his whole head back on if they had to!"
"No, Ford's right," said Zaphod. "I'm sure we could find a donor. I know of a dozen planets full of monkeys."
"Zaphod, you're not helping. Trillian's upset enough as it is," said Ford.
"Yeah yeah. Sorry, Trillian, but you know we could get him an artificial brain. I'm not kidding, they're better than the real thing. Do you remember that kid we were in school with, Ford? What was his name?"
"I can't remember."
"No, neither could he most of the time, come to think of it. But they've improved a lot since then."
"Hey, you guys, mind if I butt in a moment?" said Eddie the shipboard computer.
"It had better be important!" snapped Zaphod.
"It is important. I thought you ought to know that the audio channels are still open. The dregs of the four quadrants have heard every word."
"Holy Zarquon!" said Zaphod, "why didn't you turn it off?"
"Because, you never asked me to turn it off. I distinctly remember a request to turn off the visuals. You didn't say a word about..."
"Forget it!" shouted Zaphod.
"Consider it done. Glad to be of service. I'm right here if you need me. Good luck with the dregs!"
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy has this to say on the subject of bounty-hunters:
A bounty-hunter is an irresponsible crook who has absolutely no regard for anyone but himself. The previous sentence is, of course, an example of the well-known practice of stating the mind-numbingly obvious. It matters little to a bounty-hunter if he has been paid up front - usually not the full amount if his client has any sense, which is doubtful given whom he's dealing with - as the bounty-hunter (or 'Herbert', in the argot of the profession) is as liable as not to disappear with any retainer paid by his client (or 'Charlie'). Besides, he may sell any unfortunate captive, contrary to any previous agreement with the client, to the highest bidder, should a market exist.
Moreover, there is often a greater return for the bounty-hunter in negotiating with the captive - as happens when the miscreant (or 'Reggie', where theft is at issue) has more financial clout than the client. This may occasionally transpire where there is a shift in their relative wealth as a direct result of the former having relieved the latter of the folding stuff in the first place. Then, of course, there's 'doing the double' whereby the Charlie, and the Reggie (in this example), are both considerably poorer as a result of the Herbert's involvement. In fact, it is often better, from the client's point of view, to put the whole sorry episode down to experience and take greater care in the future.
All of this barely scratches the surface of that edifice of deceit and depravity thrown up by the bounty-hunting profession. Anyone with access to an industrial vat of tar, and a very large brush, should have no compunction in liberally coating the lot of them. A good pair of running shoes should also be considered.
Readers interested in finding out more would do well to consult the burgeoning library of bounty-hunter fiction, some of which is actually based on real events, but most of which, is fabricated by the army of litbots employed by the publishers.
A study by the Lauded Institute of Analysts, Researchers and Statisticians (L.I.A.R.S.) concluded that bountyfic is one of the most popular genres to emanate from the great publishing houses of Ursa Minor. The Institute adjudged it second only to that peculiar genre of inter-species sex and shopping novels, with their rich sassy heroines and exotic locations, as popularised by one, Zepates F. Xantigoatfrugal III, and his many imitators.
Latterly, a decision was made to reverse the positions to the detriment of 'Xanti' - as he is known to his legion of fans - after an objection, on a number of points, by the Amalgamated Union of Bounty-hunters and Second-hand Spaceship Salesbeings, but chiefly on the grounds that bountyfic is more widely read in pirated editions. A situation, which arose, not surprisingly, as a direct consequence of the wanton illegality promoted by the genre itself.
However, the clincher probably had more to do with the heavily armed nature of bounty-hunters, vis-à-vis pen-pushing market researchers.
Ford took a deep breath, and asked Eddie to reinstate visual contact. This time, a short, balding middle-aged man appeared on the screen, his trousers pulled up over his potbelly, partially obscuring the Inter-Planetary Brockian Cricket Federation logo on his T-shirt. His face was a natural for gormless expressions, and he was currently sporting one of the best examples of its type Ford had ever seen. He looked like the type of person you would happily fight if you had to fight somebody and did not want to lose. His quick darting glances to the left and right betrayed anxiety. He looked for all the worlds of Galactic Central as if he shouldn't be doing whatever it was he shouldn't be doing, but was in fact doing.
"What happened to the slug," said Ford.
"It's having its lunch," replied the man.
"And you are...?"
"Nah, I had something earlier," replied the man confused by the question.
Ford decided to change tack.
"Who's in charge?" he said.
"She's not here."
"We need to talk."
"We are talking," said the man.
This could take some time, Ford realised. The man was clearly a first-class gimboid. He ploughed on choosing his words with care. "I would like to talk to your leader. Would you please fetch her?"
"She's not here."
"I can see that," said Ford, impatiently. "Where is she?"
"She's been delayed... not back yet. You left all that gear behind at your camp. She's nicking it."
"Why would she want it? It's not worth much. Not to a Herbert, surely?" said Ford, to show he was up on the lingo, and to confirm his suspicions.
"Well, saves letting it go to waste. I mean, it's not as if we're going anywhere. Not until we've made repairs to the ship. We had a bit of a dodgy landing. Not that I'm surprised, given the state of this old crate. The whole ship's a series of accidents waiting to happen."
"I'd have thought the mice would have given her a new ship," said Ford, still fishing.
"Mice?"
"Yeah, pan-dimensional beings with... er, never mind," said Ford.
"If anybody had given her a new ship, she'd have sold it, first planet she landed on. Especially if a client had given it to her. Never trust a Charlie, that's her motto. It could be wired. To be honest, I don't know too much about it. They never tell me anything. I only really know what I overhear, and what the dombots tell me. I'm Mooncalf, by the way," he said, and had another look around to make sure he wasn't caught talking to the crew of the Heart of Gold by whoever it was that didn't want him talking to the crew of the Heart of Gold.
Mind you, thought Ford, you wouldn't want him on your side in an argument; he's not exactly discreet.
"I'm enjoying this little chat. Nobody ever talks to me on this ship."
"Why is that, Mooncalf?" said Trillian, positioning herself so that Mooncalf could see her.
Mooncalf brightened and then started to colour. This was going to be easy, thought Trillian. She treated him to her best sunny smile. She was good looking and intelligent, but preferred to be recognized for her intelligence, except when it suited her, and then she preferred to be recognized for her pretty face.
"Oh, I d-don't know... they think I'm stupid," said Mooncalf, "B-b-but, I'm n-n-not. N-not really," he added, as hastily as his new-found stammer would allow. "I'm P-president of m-my l-local B-b-brockian Ultra-C-cricket Appreciation S-s-society."
"Well I for one don't think you're stupid. You certainly don't look it." Trillian lied. "You don't think so either do you guys?" said Trillian, taking in the rest of the crew with a girly tilt of her pretty head.
Ford concurred. Zaphod who was picking his teeth muttered something incoherent, and Marvin looked up as if to say something before Trillian cut him dead with an all together different look. She had quite a repertoire.
"My name's Trillian, by the way."
'M-mooncalf,' said Mooncalf.
"So what's her name?" said Ford addressing Mooncalf.
"Er... T-Trillian isn't it?" said Mooncalf with a puzzled expression.
Zaphod giggled out of shot.
"Very good, you certainly know your stuff," said Ford, "and the Herbert? What's her name?"
"I call her Sis. She doesn't like it though," said Mooncalf regaining a little of his composure. "She says it undermines her authority in front of the others. You'd best call her Marsha," he added with a nervous glance to his left.
"She's your sister?" said Trillian.
"For my sins," said Mooncalf unhappily.
"You don't get on then?"
"Nah, she only brought me along because Mum said she had to. Neither of them wants me hanging about. They reckon I get in the way."
"What about the other crew members? Don't they talk to you?" asked Ford.
"Well, there's the berserker, Dritsek. Miserable so-and-so. Doesn't really want to be here. He and Marsha are always arguing. And I don't have much in common with the slug," said Mooncalf.
"Oh, I don't know," said Zaphod under his breath. He was watching Mooncalf on a subsidiary monitor with one head, and watching Trillian with the other.
"Was the raid successful by the way? I hope so - I want to get home. I hate being cooped up like this. They won't let me off the ship. Not that there's much to see on this bog of a planet, anyway."
Trillian turned away and fought for control of her emotions. Breathing deeply she turned back to face the image of Mooncalf.
Instead, she saw that a tall, slim, muscular woman had joined Mooncalf on the bridge. A reasonably attractive female could be guessed at beneath the stern face, which bore more slap than was strictly necessary. Her dark eyes blazed with fury, and her face contorted with rage. Her jet-black hair was pulled tight into a topknot. It looked as if it had an urgent appointment anywhere other than this close to her face. A black leather jerkin, black breeches, black over-the-knee boots, and black accessories completed the look. It would be safe to assume that her favourite colour was black.
Her right hand gripped Mooncalf firmly by the undercarriage. Mooncalf danced on his toes making 'ow!-ow!-ow!' noises. His eyes were watering.
"I didn't say anything, honest... It's only just come on... I heard you coming... I thought it'd save time... save having to call 'em back, like... I thought you'd want to talk to them straight away... honest, Sis... Oooow!"
"If I find out that you've told 'em anything you'll be tucking your testicles into your socks!" she spat.
"Saucy," said Zaphod turning both heads to enjoy the spectacle. He was clearly taken with her.
"Excuse me," said Ford, "could I have a word?"
"And you are?" said Marsha.
"Arthur Dent, you have something that belongs to a friend of ours." said Ford.
Zaphod's heads involuntarily choreographed a double-take. Trillian caught on immediately and showed her gratitude with a smile to Ford.
"You're Arthur Dent? The Earthman?" she said as she let go of her brother, "Bollocks!"
Mooncalf sank from view with an expression that managed to convey a combination of excruciating pain with a plea not to get him into trouble with his sister.
It's a bit late for that, thought Ford.
"I'll speak to you lot later," Marsha snarled slamming her fist down on a nearby console.
Her image winked out, much to Zaphod's dismay. Her black leather, gunk rock attitude sent his pulse racing.
"Pleasant enough young lady, I'd say," said Ford, practising his sarcasm, a skill he had almost learnt on Earth, but was never entirely sure of getting right.
"Well, she's got a lot on her plate," said Zaphod, leaping to Marsha's defence, having gained a remarkable facility for recognising insincerity in his much shorter stay on the Earth, "what with her ship being damaged, and getting the wrong brain," he added with a pointed look at Ford. "And let's not forget her idiot brother. It can't be easy."
"I'm going for a lie down," said Trillian pointedly ignoring Zaphod, "and thanks, Ford, that was a great idea. I'm sure we can think of some way out of this mess. We've been in worse jams than this, but right now I'm exhausted. See you later Ford."
Zaphod tried to look nonchalant, and ignore the fact that he was being ignored. His other head however, was singing from a different hymn sheet and wistfully watched her as she left.
"Yeah, okay. We'll call you if there's any news," said Zaphod, trying to retrieve the situation. He was wasting his time.
Ford Prefect was beginning to have second thoughts. He was now, through no fault of his own - this is not entirely true, of course - a target for a psychopathic killer who thought that he was Arthur Dent. His thinking-gear was in serious danger of being lifted from his cranium if he wasn't careful. Why did he have to be so noble? Okay, they should be safe enough in the Heart of Gold, but eventually they would have to emerge, if for no other reason than to attempt a rescue of Arthur's brain. Trillian would never forgive them if they didn't at least make the effort. Zaphod couldn't be relied on to cooperate beyond the bare minimum. The ship refused to take off, and the answer to that little conundrum may lie in the bounty-hunter's ship along with Arthur's brain.
Then Ford had an idea.
"You do realise, Zaphod that we're going to have to do something? We can't just sit here and see what happens. Strike whilst the iron's hot and all that."
Zaphod affected not to know what Ford was talking about. One head looked puzzled, whilst the other developed a deep fascination for the architrave over the door through which Trillian had exited. Finally, reluctantly both heads turned to face Ford. "Listen, Man, it's not that I'm unsympathetic, but I can't put my butt on the line. There's a price on my heads too, you know?"
"Don't worry - your backside won't even have to leave the ship."
"Great," said Zaphod warming to the idea. "I suppose I could act as a sort of command centre, directing operations. A general behind the front line, kind of thing, giving orders and generally keeping an eye on what's going on. Sounds fine to me. And don't worry, I'll do a great job."
"Well... there's one other thing," said Ford.
"Name it and it's yours. Just as long as I get to park my butt right here," said Zaphod, carelessly swinging his feet up onto the control panel, and dimming the lights.
"So, it's agreed: you stay here and look after the ship and Trillian, Arthur, Marvin and myself go and fetch the brain."
"Whoa! How in the name of Zarquon is the Monkey Man involved in the rescue of his own brain?"
"Oh, that's easy," said Ford, "he can use one of yours."
"Suddenly I don't like this plan of yours, Ford." said Zaphod, "Seems to me you want me to be here and there at the same time. Did we not agree that I would remain behind on the ship, whilst you, Trillian and Marvin put the running about bit into effect?"
"No, Zaphod. We agreed that your behind could remain behind. I said nothing about any other part of your anatomy. Of course, if you're not happy about it, I could always talk it over with Trillian. Maybe together we could come up with something else. Doubt it though. We'll need as many bodies as possible if we're going to pull this one off."
Zaphod felt that he had been done up like a Damogranian mega-kipper.