Chapter Nine
With Trillian at the wheel, the track-buggy made heavy weather of the journey across the flats, leaving two deep ruts in its wake. Trillian hated driving at the best of times and this was not the best of times. The wipers worked overtime to clear the torrential rain from the windscreen, and she could barely see more than a few metres ahead. The quad beams of the headlights reflected off the sheeting rain, and revealed little else.
Mooncalf told of his own part in the rescue mission, as improvised by Zaphod on the Heart of Gold, and himself on the Knapsacker. The brain was to be placed in the lounge where the dombots would inevitably direct any callers. Security was not their forte as they and the ship had been previously employed to ferry backpackers around the forest planet of Arborea, by a travel company specialising in walking holidays on pleasantly green worlds, with more plant life than you could shake a stick at – exactly the sort of place where a metaslug could happily live out its final days. Marsha had tried to reprogram the dombots, to Dritsek's annoyance, but they weren't exactly top of the range, and the best she could manage was a new paint job, so that they at least looked the part. It was clear to Mooncalf's audience that the assorted dombots had made up the numbers in the attack on the camp, and help create the impression of a dedicated band of desperadoes. They were, however, incapable of little more than their presence, and they would certainly never deliberately harm any sentient being.
Mooncalf had little more to do than direct Marvin to whatever he needed to sort out the mess that the Betelgeuseans had got themselves into.
Zaphod felt compelled to fill Mooncalf in as to his real identity, lest he should feel compelled to fill him in for constantly referring to him as Arthur.
The track-buggy ploughed on.
Mooncalf turned his attention to Trillian. She was undoubtedly a fine-looking woman, and she had a great memory-store of chat up attempts with which to compare Mooncalf's. Nevertheless, none of those she could remember came remotely close. Mooncalf's attempt was in a special category all of its own. His opening gambit on the finer points of defensive play in Brockian Ultra-Cricket fell on her pretty, but deaf ears. Trillian did not even try to feign interest as she was concentrating on the way ahead.
The first metaslug flopped onto the bonnet of the track-buggy and partially obscured the windscreen so that Trillian could see even less than she had before. It stayed there. She gave out a yell. The next took up residence on the roof. The occupants of the main compartment yelled in unison. Another, then another, joined the advance guard. The track-buggy was sinking into the mud. Trillian took her foot of the accelerator. More metaslugs joined their slimy comrades, their additional weight pushing the track-buggy deeper into the slime.
"Er... shouldn't we be doing something?" said Mooncalf.
"This sort of thing happens all the time," said Ford, "I'm sure we'll find a way out. Any ideas, guys?"
"This is it," screamed Zaphod, "we're all going to die!"
"Thanks, Zaphod - really helpful, man - anybody else?"
Marvin stirred, and with a voice that went beyond contempt, through incredulity, taking in cynicism and utter astonishment along the way, said: "You really don't know what to do?"
"No, Marvin, we really don't know what to do. What would you suggest?" said Trillian.
Marvin sighed. "It's really obvious. Go on, have a guess."
"Marvin, old buddy, we're in a really bad situation here. Why don't you just tell us? We don't have much time," said Ford.
"All right, but you really should be able to figure it out. You want to get the metaslugs off the track-buggy?"
"Yes."
"Then I suggest you reroute the power supply to the outer shell of the vehicle."
"How do we do that?"
"Just ask the on board computer to do it," droned Marvin wearily.
"I didn't realise it had one," said Trillian, "Computer, reroute..."
"You haven't turned it on yet. Here, let me." Marvin clanked to the driving compartment. He leaned across Trillian, and hit a large, important-looking button.
"I was wondering about that button."
Marvin instructed the computer to carry out the instructions, and suggested a two-second blast as being more than enough.
The computer began the countdown. "Five... Four..."
"I'd close my eyes, if I were you, which thankfully, I'm not," said Marvin.
"Three..."
Trillian, Ford, Zaphod and Mooncalf closed their eyes.
"Two... One... Engage."
A brilliant momentary flash, emphasised by the gloom, lit up the surrounding area. The accompanying shriek, from two dozen metaslugs, suddenly and incongruously airborne, was barely muffled by the padded interior. The vehicle immediately felt lighter.
"Well, that's got rid of them," said Zaphod, "barbequed slug, anybody."
"We've still got to get out of this hole they've made," said Ford. "It's filling up with water. We'd better climb out through the roof-hatch."
"Of course, you could always ask the computer to inflate the air-bags. It is a multi-purpose vehicle, after all," Marvin droned, "then we'll float back to ground level as soon as the hole fills. It shouldn't take long in these conditions."
Repulsed, the metaslugs kept their distance, and a host of slimy eyestalks, swaying in the dank air, watched the lights of the track-buggy as it crawled away. A skein of honking crested prannets, migrating to their breeding grounds on the mud flats far to the south, changed direction to feast upon the charred remains.
Marvin suggested the on-board computer should drive from now on. After all, it was designed to do precisely that, and Trillian clearly hated driving the truck-buggy herself. The constant bellyaching about the controls, and the conditions, was depressing him, and that was one thing he didn't need any help with.
He couldn't understand why she hadn't switched it on sooner. She couldn't understand why he hadn't mentioned the possibility sooner. She knew the answer, of course - she hadn't asked.