Chapter Four
Ford slid the periscope over the ridge. He peered down at the ship, lit up by its own internal lights, which cut through the gloom at irregular intervals along its length. There were several inexpertly replaced panels around its body, with no attempt to blend them in with the original dark green. Ford could just make out the faded name, Knapsacker. The landing legs, a number of which splayed out in a way clearly at odds with their design, supported a fat sausage-shaped body, giving the ship the appearance of a mottled, over-sized geriatric grasshopper.
It was the most decrepit ship Ford had ever seen outside of a crash site.
The Knapsacker had put down on the highest, of a series, of naturally occurring terraces, which if there were light to see them from a distance, would resemble a staircase with the spaceship, a broken child's toy discarded carelessly, on the penultimate step.
Ford kept a special watch on the exit ramp. Marsha was probably on the ship along with the rest of the crew. The night-cams had not alerted them to any movement during their four-hour sleep, after their exhausting bumpy ride to get to their present position.
Zaphod wasn't happy. He constantly moved Arthur's hands around Arthur's body, prodding and pulling, as if he were wearing a badly made suit. He hadn't stopped complaining since leaving the Heart of Gold. Not least about a headache, which he claimed, resulted from a bad fit of a large brain in a small brain cavity. Having received no sympathy from Trillian, he finally gave it up.
Trillian watched Ford and Zaphod from the driving compartment of the track-buggy, which was hidden from the Knapsacker by the ridge. Seeing Arthur again seemed strange at first. It was stranger still that he had all the mannerisms of speech and gesture that she associated with Zaphod. However, she had resolved to think of Zaphod-Arthur as Zaphod and not Arthur: He hadn't once asked the Nutri-Matic to make him a cup of tea. Two Zaphods! The sooner this is over the better, thought Trillian.
Marvin stood guard a little way down the gentle slope, which had brought them to their present vantage point. He felt a tad over-qualified for the role.
The shadows shifted at the top of the ramp around the hatchway, which led to the interior of the Knapsacker. Presently, Ford saw Mooncalf pushing the Metaslug, in its tank, down the ramp and onto the muddy ground. He turned the wheel at the tank's side and it tipped forward disgorging its contents into a well-used groove in the mud. The Metaslug slid along the depression, and then down a steep incline where it was lost from view, on the terrace below.
The shadows shifted again and the elegant figure of Marsha emerged, wearing a black holstered zappomatic slung low on her thigh. A short, stocky, bearded man wearing a colourful battle-smock and carrying the schloop accompanied her - Dritsek, no doubt. They climbed into a covered jeep, and as they drove away, Marsha shouted instructions to her brother. Mooncalf turned and trudged back up the ramp, his insubstantial shoulders carrying a world of woe.
Ford ran back to the track-buggy, "Okay, Trillian. Marsha and the spear-chucker are out of the way. I reckon it's as good a time as any."