Anything that belongs to the estate of Douglas Adams belongs to the estate of Douglas Adams, and not me, unfortunately. Reviews are always welcome.
Chapter One – The Mahogany Wood
Ford Prefect watched the three-banded tree bears glide from their high vantage points, in the Mahogany Wood. The flaps of skin, loose and little noticed when at rest, were taut between the front and back limbs in flight. Their short paddle-like tails acted as rudders as they chased iridescent damselflies, or pounced on dark lizards camouflaged - but not adequately enough to escape the visual acuity of the bears - against the boles of the trees.
The bears extended their sharp claws, to grip the hard bark, as they came in to land. After dispatching their prey they would throw back their black snouts, and whistle their staccato contact call, "It's probably not very important, but just to let you know I'm over here now."
During the mating season male tree bears whistle a slight variant on the theme, which effectively says, "I'm a sexually mature three-banded tree bear, strong and virile, and I've just caught a tasty treat. If you're a female, three-banded tree bear, preferably in season, and would like to eat it, you'd be more than welcome." As a strategy, as is ever the case in matters of sexual congress, it was a bit hit and miss. Here in the Mahogany Wood, food was in plentiful supply, and female tree bears are more than capable of catching their own lunch.
Ford sent off another entry to the offices of The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy, and moved on. They probably wouldn't use it. In fact, it was a certainty that the entry would find its way into the back-up archives, which could only be accessed from the offices of Megadodo Publications, the publishers of the Guide. Nevertheless, if he wanted the back pay, he had to work. He had once demanded fifteen years remuneration for the two words 'mostly harmless' but those juice-sipping sun-tanned bastards, on Ursa Minor Beta, had tightened up the rules. No matter, that nobody was ever going to read anything he wrote about an uninhabited planet, he still had to write it. That is why Ford was making the effort. If his submissions found their way into the archives, then they could find their way back out again. There was that girl in the library – she'd help him. And if she didn't work there anymore he'd have to speak to her replacement.
One day this planet, pleasant enough for a short stay, may be of interest to holidaymakers, and a small tome on the subject may prove lucrative. He wouldn't always be a two-hundred-and-ten year old stripling, and an interesting, albeit wantonly erroneous, travelogue of his 'adventures' on this wooded world might provide a nice little nest egg.
Adventures - if only that were true. It was now almost a standard year since he'd had any contact with another sentient being. He could understand why Arthur had left without him. The teasers had taken off in something of a hurry, and Ford couldn't blame them for that. The cops were closing in and there wasn't any time to hang around for stragglers. The cops hadn't come looking for him afterwards, so Ford could only suppose that they had thought him on board. But he'd been delayed, having gone back for his towel. He knew where it was. He just hadn't had it with him when they'd first spotted the Blagulon Kappa policecraft. As Ford approached the beach, he'd seen Arthur climb into the teasers' ship, and then seen it lift away, gathering speed as it did so, until the ship became a streak of nothingness.
But why hadn't Arthur come back for him? If the Earthman knew one thing about Ford Prefect, it was surely that the Betelgeusian hated being marooned anywhere. Earth had been torture enough, but at least the locals made a decent brew. Still, it could have been worse. Here there was food and water in abundance. He would survive.
Ford loved and hated his towel in equal measure. It was a source of great comfort, but it was also the reason he'd been alone for two-point-four year's local time. He had seen the seasons come and go, and come and go again. Another rainy season would finish him off, he decided. It wasn't the constant daily drenching for weeks on end, though that was bad enough - it was the interminable boredom. At least in the dry season he could move around and explore the island. It was big enough for that.
In a previous dispatch he had called it 'Ford's Island', in the hope that the name would become fixed, and that in turn would lead the curious to investigations as to where the name came from, and that in turn would lead them to the travel book he felt sure he could cobble together from the reports he'd written. Sometimes, when Ford let his imagination run away with him, the book became a something of a Robinson Crusoe affair, a novel Ford had once read on Earth. Except that, Ford had no Man Friday to help him pass the time, so he would have to make that bit up.
The worst thing of all, however, was that Ford had too much time to think. He shouldn't be thinking about his retirement just yet. Betelgeusians are long-lived and there is really no need to rush around thinking all the time. His species are apt to let things happen, and tend not to fall into the trap of planning ahead, which so often leads to disappointment. On Betelgeuse Five they have a saying: A stitch in time is often a waste of twine.
A small flock of bright yellow finches flew across Ford's line of sight, and as he watched them disappear into the trees, something caught his eye. There in the clearing before him stood a small metallic-red two-seater flying saucer.