Chapter Three – A Visitor From Outer Space
Ford Prefect quickly ducked behind a spiny gorse bush, before anybody could see him. He took a quick peek at the flying saucer. It was still there, so he hadn't imagined it. The craft was of a type he hadn't seen before, but that wasn't so very surprising. There are more marques and models of vehicles flitting about the Galaxy than anyone could learn to recognise in several lifetimes. From the massive bulks of cargo ships to little two-seaters like the one he had just seen. Ford fished in his battered leather satchel for the Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic. It was silent. The device looked okay, and yet it had failed to notify Ford of this extra-planetary visitation. The pilot must be using a jamming device, he thought. Selfish bastard. What is the point of carrying a Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic and an Electronic Thumb if the very people you are trying to locate are invisible?
Ford crawled away from the bush, being careful to remain hidden. He circled the clearing, with the craft at its centre, from the safety of the undergrowth. The saucer's viewing bubble showed an absence of occupants. So somewhere close by, there must be one or two aliens of one sort or another. It wasn't a lot to go on. Then Ford began to think more clearly. He reasoned that the dimensions of the interior of the craft indicated creatures of a similar size to himself. Possibly smaller. They couldn't be that much bigger and still be comfortable in such a confined space. In addition, the controls, from what he could see of them, were designed for a humanoid species. The rubber grips on the two control sticks, with their little indentations to make their use more comfortable, when using the more prevalent arrangement of fingers and thumbs, were particularly indicative of type four humanoids, which includes Betelgeusians, and at a pinch Earthlings.
Not that Ford, for one moment, believed the owners to be from his home planet (or from Earth for that matter). Betelgeusians are much travelled, but the saucer's controls looked too simplistic for such an urbane species as his own. There weren't nearly enough buttons, or controls of any kind, and the only light was a little red one which blinked, and reflected off the inside of the Impregna-Glass bubble. Probably an anti-theft device, Ford guessed. In summary, the vehicle before him was clearly designed for an unsophisticated humanoid (type four) belonging to a species who travelled in interstellar space using technology other than their own. Unless, of course, its lack of sophistication was simply a stylistic consideration, but this is a concept that it is difficult for Betelgeusians to grasp. For a Betelgeusian a nutcracker is not simply two bits of metal hinged at one end, but an impressive gadget with lots of interesting switches that make pinging noises for no reason at all.
Ford was not, in the usual way of things, a thief. He considered the possibility, however, along with the notion that he might be able to persuade the owner to give him a lift somewhere, just so long as he or she didn't mind leaving their passenger behind, if they had one. On second thoughts, he decided to steal it – just in case. He was desperate to get off this bloody planet. At night, he would dream of chasing colossal hamburgers across vast pepperoni pizza fields and rivers of Arcturan Mega-gin. The pilot was nowhere to be seen, and Ford screwed his courage to the sticking-place, wherever that was.
"Hello, Ford," said Arthur.
So he was right the first time. The saucer belonged to an idiot. Ford turned to face Arthur, but did not see him. Instead standing in front of Ford was a relative of Arthur's who was using Arthur's voice. He looked young enough to be the Earthman's son. He also looked sufficiently like Arthur for Ford to wonder what had happened to his mother's genetic contribution. Ford had been on Earth long enough to be able to distinguish between one specimen of humanity and another, and then to be able to see the resemblance between two individuals of the same family, whilst still being able to tell them apart. Quite a feat if you can manage it. The stranger was smartly dressed in an immaculate, dark, crease proof suit, which looked very expensive to Ford's practised journalistic eye. It was the type of suit that usually came with integral cleaner nanobots, so that the wearer never had to take it off to wash it. Very flash.
Ford decided to give his larynx a long needed workout.
"Hello," he said.
"How are you, Ford?" said the Earthman, "It's been a long time."
"Since when?"
"Since I last saw you."
Ford mulled this over. As far as he could remember, he had never met Arthur's son. He didn't even realise that Arthur had a son. He let it go.
"How is your father," he said for want of anything else to say.
"My father perished when the Earth was destroyed by the Vogons. I thought you knew that," the stranger said. "You don't recognise me, do you, Ford?"
"Arthur?"
"Yes?"
"Is that really you?"
"Yes."
"What happened? You look different. When you escaped in the teaser ship...."
"Ah, but I was so much older then," said Arthur, "I'm younger than that now."
Ford took a moment to appraise his friend, Arthur Dent. He started at the top and worked his way down. He did look a lot younger. The worry lines had gone, but the worry that causes worry lines, Ford noted, remained. Arthur would never be entirely comfortable in the Galaxy at large. He may have come to accept his lot, by and large, but he reserved the right to fly into a blind panic whenever the occasion demanded. Sometimes he simply panicked because the complete weirdness of his situation demanded a little letting off of steam, now and then, if only to preserve what was left of his sanity.
Arthur had also lost some weight, and appeared leaner and fitter. He had lost the dressing gown and pyjamas, and this had given Arthur a more confident bearing. However, it may have been the suit doing that. An ensemble, like the one Arthur was wearing, does not come cheap. Nevertheless, if you can afford the initial outlay, you will make on the deal in the fullness of time, as you will never have to buy another set of clothes, or pay for the dry cleaning. The open-necked shirt was obviously out of the same stable, as it had changed its appearance since Ford had first seen it. The shirt had started out as a brilliant white, which complemented the blackness of the suit perfectly, but had since developed dark blue stripes against an off-white background. Ford hadn't seen it change, it just had. The suit probably shared this feature, but would have been programmed, given the way these things usually worked, to change less often. The black shoes were both practical and smart. They looked as if you could run a sub-four minute mile in them without breaking sweat.
"Arthur," said Ford, "forgive me for asking, but where did you get the money to buy..."
"A flying saucer?"
"You own the flyer?" Ford asked incredulously. "You mean to tell me that you actually own it?"
"I've been working," said Arthur, simply.
"Actually, I was going to ask about the suit."
"I own this as well."
"Yes, I had assumed as much. It was obviously made for you. It's a perfect fit."
"Are you hungry, Ford?"
"Not ravenously. I still have some gerbils left over from this morning. Why what have you got?"
"Oh, just a few leftovers from the cafeteria – a brace of stuffed poulets glazed with yellow-bee honey, with vegetables crisped in virgin kelp oil, and a medley of exotic fruits for dessert," said Arthur, casually, "oh, and I think there's some Hawalius goat's cheese and biscuits, if you just want a snack."
"I'd have preferred a couple of burgers, but what the hell, let's eat, and then you can tell me all about this job of yours."
Arthur retrieved the food hamper and a blanket from the boot of the flying saucer, and arranged a picnic on the grass.
To be continued...