Chapter Two – Celebrity Horror Camp
It starts with a static view of space, from the very edge of the Universe. A multitude of galaxies fills the screen. Deep space. We move, slowly at first, or so it appears, but we are picking up speed. Unbelievable speed. Galaxies flash by in an instant. Incredibly, the pace quickens still more, and we diminish giant ellipticals and irregular spirals to subliminal images with our fantastic headlong rush. Their size is nothing to us. Soon, it becomes apparent which of those tiny white patches we are heading for. Not long now...
Of necessity, and in order to enjoy the spectacle all the more, we decelerate as we approach our target galaxy. Close, closer, closer, and we're in! We pass into the galaxy and shoot around its outer Eastern rim. The swirl of stars rushes towards us, seemingly building to an exhilarating velocity as we reach the more densely populated clusters. We move at thousands of light years per second in ever decreasing circles. Red, white and brown dwarfs and blue supergiants flash by at an alarming rate. They pass so close we can almost feel the heat. The circles get tighter and tighter, and then we slow right down... Galactic Central.
A sharp bank and we see the star, Alpha Sagittarii in the middle distance. The planets, five gas giants, and half a dozen of the solid sort, slide by until the familiar green and gold patterns of the planet Rukbat IV frame our field of view. After a couple of quick orbits, a change of trajectory plunges us into the planet's atmosphere, and down through the wispy clouds. The topography of the planet's surface is a blur as we soar over green mountains and yellow seas, and then we hit the night side, and the horrific jumble of architectural nonsense, lit by a billion neon lights, that is the planet's only city is directly ahead of us. We slow down and see the buildings, aircars, and the illuminated advertising hoardings of a teeming metropolis. We are on a collision course with a gaudy monstrosity composed of gold bricks and diamond dust. We swoop down, and zip through the open doors at ground level. Into the foyer we go, and through another set of double doors which lead to the auditorium beyond, and we don't stop until we are eyeball to eyeball with the sequin-suited, sparkle-toothed vision on the stage.
"Hermaphrodites, Ladies and Gentlemen, Intelligent Plant Life, and Sentient Beings All," the precisely-enunciated, disembodied voice announces, "Welcome to the Show of Shows. By Special Arrangement with Milliways, the Restaurant at the End of the Universe, Please Show Your Appreciation for the Host with the Most, Mister Max Quordlepleen! This is Celebrity Horror Camp!"
The professional audience erupts into pseudo-spontaneous applause, with wild practised whoops of delight, and rehearsed neighbourly and enthusiastic hugs all round. The Audience-Coordinator cavorts around the edge of the stage like a demented chimp with a caffeine habit. Close-ups of the audience members suggest that they cannot believe their luck. You would imagine from observing them that this is the last thing they had expected. They really were here in Rukbat City for a live transmission of the greatest show in the Milky Way! And tomorrow they won't believe their luck either, or the day after that. Audience-Coordinator tucks his prompt boards under his arm and decides to have an early night. His services won't be needed anymore this evening. He is surplus to requirements. This audience knows its stuff.
Max Quordlepleen smiles. He looks around the great hall and contemplates the sea of faces before him. He shakes his head, as if, even he, the great Max Quordlepleen, possibly the best known entertainer in the Galaxy, can scarcely credit the delights on offer, and in the days ahead until the show reaches its carefully planned finale. At last, he finds his voice and addresses the audience, and the zillions of people watching off world in every part of the Galaxy, "Thank you, thank you. And thank you Spiro for that great introduction."
This is a cue for the specially auditioned live, albeit technically brain-dead, audience to start into another round of wild cheering, whistling and clapping. This audience is hot, hot, hot. The Audience-Coordinator is nowhere to be seen.
"Thank you again, kind friends," says Max Quordlepleen. "Tonight we have our best ever Celebrity Horror Camp. Never before has such a line up been assembled for your enjoyment. We have stars from a variety of disciplines in the world of popular entertainment and public life. From the vidicube to politics, from sport to the criminal fraternity, from young hopefuls desperate to kick start their celebrity careers, to established mega-stars who should have read the small print. I do not, however, wish to take up much more of your time. I know you are as anxious, as I am, to get on with the show. And so, let us reveal, without further ado, and in no particular order," he says stretching things out still further, "our roll call of victims, er... sorry I mean, of course, our contestants," Max adds with a chuckle and a trademark conspiratorial wink to the slave-cam. "Spiro, take it away!"
"Thank you, Max. First up, someone I'm sure you've all heard of," Spiro says for the benefit of those members of the viewing public who don't usually watch this sort of crap, but who are with company who usually watches this sort of crap, so that they can pretend they have actually heard of the elevated non-entity that is about to be announced, "direct from her non-starring role in the smash hit holo-movie, When Worlds Collide, please put your hands together – or whatever it is you use on these occasions – for the delectable Miss Fanny Starr!"
The audience applauds enthusiastically, but in an entirely professional way. They have clearly never heard of Fanny Starr, or her smash hit holo-movie. Neither do they recognise her from her pretty smiling face, which has appeared on the screens behind their host. Max looks around for the Audience-Coordinator but fails to see him. He makes a note on the clipboard cradled in his left arm.
"But that's not all," Spiro continues quickly, "Fanny is joined in the camp by none other than this season's leading offensive batter, in the Pan-dimensional Brockian Ultra Cricket League, with over seventeen knock outs and twenty-five submissions..."
The invited live audience is ahead of him, and an excited buzz shoots around the theatre. Several individuals are already back on their feet.
"Yes, that's right; please give a Celebrity Horror Camp welcome for the fabulous, Splat Braynematter!"
Now there is no controlling them. A swarm of green insectoids, from the Serpens Caput constellation, in a carefully choreographed manoeuvre, attempt to storm the stage to thank their host personally for such a great line-up. They are beaten back by a group of carefully choreographed powder-pink humanoid bouncers wielding soft rubber truncheons. They have clearly put in a lot of work to make it look realistic. Max makes another note on his clipboard.
"Next up," the voice of Spiro announces, "lead singer with the sensational Coleopterans, all the way from their sell out tour of the beach resorts of Santraginus Five, let Spiro hear it for... Weevil Metamorphosis!"
A young hermaphroditic space-penguin, amidst a sea of ecstatic tentacles, and other assorted neighbourly limbs, faints dead away... right in front of a vidibot. The vidibot moves on to its next shot.
Right on cue, Max Quordlepleen throws a mixture of shock and anxiety onto his face. His slave-cam, in scripted unscripted-mode, follows him shakily, and just a little out of focus, to the edge of the stage, where Max has a few quick words with the first aid team that had luckily been passing at just the right moment. "It's okay, everybody – he/she is going to be just fine. Emergency over," he says making a calming motion with his hands.
Slowly, Max walks back to his mark, and takes a moment to blow out his cheeks. He shakes his head again, and tugs at his sequined jacket. "Spiro, are you still there?" he laughs.
"I'm still here, Max."
"Then they're all yours. Who else have you got for us?"
"Well, Max, let me give you a clue. Have you ever heard of a planet out on the Western spiral arm of this Galaxy? A small planet whose inhabitants are so backward that not one member of their species has ever left the confines of their own planetary system, save by abduction and invitation? A planet where writers describe in extraordinary detail the future exploits of their own kind beyond their local system, despite the fact that not one of their number has ever seen the planets described? A planet full of hopeless dreamers? A planet... called Earth?"
Max looks thoughtful. He knows what is coming, but the zillions of viewers across the Galaxy do not know that he knows what is coming. As far as the viewing public are concerned this is as real as it gets. As far as the gullible elements, a clear and substantial majority of those watching are concerned, Max Quordlepleen is an intelligent humanoid, and if anyone has heard of this funny little planet, then that humanoid is Max Quordlepleen. He reputedly spoke one-hundred-and-twenty-six languages (he denies it, but it makes no difference), and for twelve years presented a popular, though erudite, vidicube quiz called, 'Big Brains Beget Big Bucks'. Max pinches the bridge of his nose and looks to the gantries for inspiration.
"Well, Max?"
Max Quordlepleen gives a resigned shrug, and he is about to give up, when the light of recognition puts in an appearance. "Tell me, Spiro," he says, "this planet – Earth, I believe you called it – is that where one or more of the former travelling companions of a certain ex-President of the Imperial Galactic Government originated?"
"Correct!" says Spiro, as a collective sharp intake of breath is heard from the live audience.
"You're not saying are you Spiro, that our next contestant, is actually Zaphod Beeblebrox?" Max says.
"No, I'm not, Max - it is in fact one of those travelling companions that you mentioned, who goes by the name of Tricia McMillan."
A practiced groan of disappointment wells up from the stalls and sweeps across the stage. Max staggers back in a comical way, grinning broadly and holding out his hands in a don't-blame-me gesture. Nevertheless, the groans turn to titters, then full-blown laughter, as the live audience realises that it was all a joke at their expense. Moreover, in more than a zillion homes, on more than a billion planets, circling more than a million stars, more than a hundred-thousand species, watching on their vidicubes, take their cue, and laugh along with Max Quordlepleen and the studio audience.
Max turns to see the image of Trillian on the giant screen behind him. "That's one pretty primate," he says.
"Next up, Max, one of the most recognisable voices across the sub-etha radio bands; a pioneer at the cutting edge of gunk rock presentation and programming; a being," Spiro says, keeping things vague, "who cannot walk through the cities of his home-world, without running the risk of not being recognised; a physiognomical non-entity, but a giant among jabbering jocks, and desperate to get his vidicube career off to a flyer, it can only be... 'The Voice', Vince Vapid!
"Also joining us," says Spiro, cutting across the subsiding laughter, and still laughing himself, "more celebrities from the worlds of politics, the vidicube, holo-movies, sport, music, sub-etha wave radio, and the sex-o-matica. These additional guests, in the time-honoured tradition of Rukbat Realisations, will be introduced as the show develops."
"Okay," says Max "let's get this show on the road..."
"Oh, one last thing," Spiro interrupts, "before I forget, we do have one additional competitor who deserves, I think, a special mention."
"And who would that be, Spiro?" Max asks, with a puzzled look playing across his expressive and handsome face. It is a look that says 'the line up is surely complete,' and, 'it's a brilliant line up,' and, 'why are you wasting our time with this, Spiro' and, as if that wasn't enough, 'the audience wants to get on with it.' He really is the only man for the job.
"Well, Max I should have mentioned him earlier, but I got sidetracked. I am talking of the coup of the millennium. I am talking of none other than, one of the most notorious individuals ever to capture our imaginations. Yes, that's right, the one, the only..."
"Spiro, will you please get on with it?" says Max at the crucial moment. "Just tell everybody who it is."
"You want to know?" Spiro teases.
"Yes, we really want to know. Just give us the name. If he's that big a catch, he won't need the build up."
"Oh, all right," Spiro concedes, "it's Zaphod Beeblebrox!"
The powder pink security staff, who had been pretending to relax at the back of the stage, as if they could not, for the life of them, countenance the possibility of further excitement, suddenly spring into life. Weeks of rehearsals are about to pay off. They rush to the front of the stage, but by design, they are too late to prevent Max Quordlepleen from being engulfed in a tsunami of primed quasi-fanatics intent on personally pumping the hand of the man who has brought such joy into their worthless lives. Max Quordlepleen is disappearing beneath a sea of assorted, multi-coloured bobbing heads – a carefully chosen cross section of the Galaxy's exotic menagerie, selected to appeal to both the more numerous vidicube-watching species, and those species within that social group with the largest disposable incomes.
We can only just hear Max as he struggles to make himself heard over the noise of the screaming fans, but he is mouthing the words in an exaggerated way so that we get it: "We'll be right back after this short break," he says as he disappears into a massive inter-species group hug.