Chapter 1

Arthur Dent rose from the bed after a totally refreshing night of sleep. So refreshing, in fact, that his eyes weren't crusted over and he didn't feel morning weary; really, he felt like a man who laid down on a couch and shut his eyes for a few minutes, with the added benefit of eight hours or so of rest in a semi-conscious state.

Such was the chaotic nature of Arthur's own personal universe that he became immediately suspicious. Why do I feel rested? What house is this? What is that smell?

Well, it is bad form for your chronicler of events to reveal anything to the principals, but to you the reader, I have already described why Arthur felt so refreshed. As for the house, it was indeed Arthur's house. This was the sort of answer which leads to more questions, but for now we will limit the discussion to the singular question of who had ownership of the house Arthur Dent woke up in.

The smell. A simple question on its face (the answer is that it was the smell of Fenchurch cooking up breakfast), but it was again the sort of question that led to other more questions.

For the majority of his adult life, Arthur had been waking up in more strange places than he would have preferred; however, in this distinct case, he couldn't piece together the events that led to this morning. He was troubled, but not alarmed. When you've witnessed the destruction of your home planet, the end of the Universe itself, God's final message to Creation, met head-on the entity you've killed countless times, and flown, without the aid of a flying craft or a winged creature, thousands of feet above your hometown which was supposed to have been destroyed along with your home planet by the Vogons only to have been saved by the dolphins, your perspective on what is troubling and what is alarming changes radically.

Arthur looked around. The bedroom had a very modernistic feel. Neutral colors abound, none of the furniture could be described as elaborate or ornate. This is not a subjective appraisal. On Keilos V, there exists the Galactic Council of Descriptive Writing. In their gigantic rules texts, Volume 4, Page 1223, Paragraph 29, Clause F states: "We decree that bedroom furniture, lacking any sort of decorative paraphernalia such as drawer pulls, lattice work, fiberoptic decor, etc., shall not be described, designated, alluded to, referred to, or called 'ornate' or 'elaborate'. (A permissible exception is to refer to said furniture as 'ornate' or 'elaborate' in a negative sense) Furthermore, we request that manufacturers of bedroom furniture adhere to this standard closely by affixing only neutral colors (a term, while sufficiently descriptive, is appallingly incorrect) to said pieces of furniture and describe them as 'modernistic'."

Arthur's first shock of the day came when he stepped in front of a mirror. The image looking back at him was Arthur Dent, but something had changed: there was much more gray in his temples, his unimpressive physique was even less impressive, having lost some muscle and gained a bit more flab round the middle. In short, Arthur Dent thought Arthur Dent looked like he had aged ten years.

Arthur was usually very good at estimating age, and in his own case he was spot on. Arthur Dent was ten years older.

(Actually, that's not entirely true, but the confusing bits will be ironed out in due time)

Chapter 2

Fenchurch looked positively lovely hovered over the frying bacon and pancaking pancakes. (The chronicler will admit to being nonplused about the proper term for a cooking pancake, so the settled upon term shall be "pancaking".) Anyhow, Fenchurch was lovelyly tending to the delicious breakfast. Her hair had some random runs of gray in it, but she clearly wore the aging process better than Arthur did. Arthur came to his own defense in his mind, noting correctly that Fenchurch had not been in so many harrowing scrapes as Arthur had, and thus the aging process was logically kinder to her.

Then it dawned on Arthur.

All of it.

Yep, that too.

The last time he saw Fenchurch was rather a long time ago. In fact, it was rather a long time and space ago. On that fateful voyage wherein Fenchurch simply vanished from her passenger seat in a hyperspace mishap.

Ah yes, then there was the small bit about the Earth disappearing from existence for good, along with Ford Prefect, Trillian (known in that Earth as Tricia McMillian), Arthur's artificially conceived petulant daughter Random F.F. Dent, some other 5.5 billion others, and that Greek-German, or German-Greek individual. Arthur couldn't recall his name, and if this is the brother he was thinking of, couldn't recall whether he claimed German or Greek heritage first.

Arthur's sense of alarm rose significantly. Firstly, he seldom ever recalled such matters in such an orderly or serial fashion. His mind's impressive manner of compartmentalizing gave him high hopes for his future, but at the same time he was concerned over his newfound sense of priority and responsibility. Formerly, Arthur's instincts in a crisis situation were to:

1) Ask the obvious questions - check

2) Reach for a towel - hadn't yet crossed Arthur's mind

3) Seek out Ford Prefect- ditto

4) Seek out a stiff drink - had he done that, he would surely have found Ford

Arthur had done nothing of the sort, save to ask the obvious questions (some habits die hard).

The second matter that brought Arthur to a state of near-alarm was the fact that he was able to recall these events at all. Non-existence was Arthur's most recent state of being, and achieving some form of existence, post non-existence, usually proved difficult.

Arthur wondered what sort of cosmic accident brought him into a kitchen, to the smell of frying bacon and pancaking pancakes.

"Good morning, love," said Fenchurch. She strode over lightly to greet Arthur with a light, tender peck on the cheek. Arthur returned the gesture simultaneously.

"Have you had a look at the papers, Arthur?"

"No..." said Arthur, entirely truthfully.

"Well, do have a look then. There's an interesting bit in the opinion section about demolishing homes in the East End - apparently they're going to have a go at a new bypass." said Fenchurch. In their brief time together before the hyperspace mishap, Arthur never quite got around to mentioning to Fenchurch the unfortunate turn of events centered around bypasses. Therefore, one can conclude that her feelings on the matter of demolition for bypasses would likely have been much stronger if Arthur had made her aware of the considerable drawbacks thereof.

But Arthur could not bring himself to discuss bypasses, demolition, frying bacon, pancaking pancakes, or anything relating to any of the perfectly benign strangeness of the morning. Because suddenly, the famous phrase DON'T PANIC seemed like so many empty words. Suddenly the pancaking pancakes seemed irrelevant, even though Arthur was quite hungry enough to consume an entire Perfectly Normal Beast. With that hunger-induced reminder of Lamuella, panic turned to remorseful disgust when he compared all of his trials around the universe with the simple life on Lamuella before the arrival of his spiteful, mercurial daughter.

It seemed to Arthur that the chaotic forces of the universe were continually finding new ways to torment him. He wondered if this wasn't some grand revenge scheme launched by Agrajag eons ago - or eons from now.

"Arthur," Fenchurch asked tensley, in a deliberate fashion, "is anything wrong?"

Arthur could only manage a rapid nodding of the head, a nodding barely perceptible against the overall quivering mass he currently was.

Fenchurch felt uneasy. She had had suspicions, totally unfounded suspicions, though paranoia seldom needs a foundation of any kind, that Arthur might have been seeing another woman. Arthur's alibi was airtight, though nearly impossible to prove.

"Is...is there something you have to tell me, Arthur?"

All Arthur Dent had to prove now is that he didn't exist for about ten years.

So he began to try.

Chapter 3

The Hitchhiker's Guide has this to say on the subject of Spatial-Temporal Displacement: A very common occurrence in one's own given universe is to perform an action so out of character that it is usually phrased, "going out of one's mind" or "one is not one's self". A less common phenomenon is spatial-temporal displacement. A series of actions gives rise to something so out of character that in very rare instances, one's parallel universal selves are shifted sideways across the continuum to permit consistent behavior. Spatial-temporal displacement occurs when one or more of the parallel beings fails to shift back into their own universe.

Neither Arthur Dent nor Ford Prefect found this entry in the Guide, as both men were too harried to find the proper reference. Of course, Ford's problem wasn't related to time and space, but to alcohol.

Chapter 4

One of the great philosophical conflicts known to all sentient beings involves the battle for supremacy between Emotion and Logic. For instance, in a life-or-death scenario involving 100 people, a given course of action has a 50 per cent chance at saving all 100 lives. A second course of action has a 100 per cent chance of saving 75 lives. Emotion dictates you try to save everyone, lest you ask 25 people to sacrifice their lives. Logic dictates that the greater good is served by ensuring that people live, even if all do not. Both arguments have their merit, and it is clear that this argument will persist long after all 100 of the hypothetical people involved have died of extreme old age.

Today, in a small bar in a small town on the fourth planet of Altair, the clash between these two forces rages on. Ford Prefect, as he will come to be known, falls in on the side of Emotion. You see, Ford believes passionately that he enjoys drinking, and his belief is in conflict with the bartender's logical idea that drinks can only be enjoyed once compensated for by way of hard currency. The struggle continues.

An experienced hitchhiker, Ford knew how to look needy in a dignified way. It was imperative to project importance while hustling free D'zhinan Tahnyx. Someone was always willing to buy a drink for someone with travel-weary gravitas.

Ah, here's one, thought Ford.

A middle-aged humanoid sidled up to the barstool next to Ford.

"I'll have a D'zhinan Tahnyk, barkeep," said the man, "and what are you having?"

Ford smiled, a smile that was two parts gratitude, two parts charisma, six parts glee. "Make that two."

As the bartender turned to mix the drinks, Ford's benefactor turned to face him.

"Haven't seen you around here before," said the man.

"Haven't been here before, but I kind of like this place," said Ford, "and I appreciate you hooking me up like that."

"No problem. Matter of fact, you look like the kind of guy who could help me out."

Ford smiled. "Well, you've got my attention, that's for sure."

Grabbing the drinks, the man handed one to Ford.

"Here you go. The name's Ohrlint. Kezton Ohrlint."

"And I am Ix", said the future Ford Prefect.

Kezton paused. "Excuse me?"

"Ix. It's a long story."

"Well...yeah, I suppose it is," said Kezton, regaining his grip on reality enough to start the sales pitch, "but do you realize why I sought you out?"

Because alcohol is wasted on the sober, thought Ford. Before he could answer Kezton, Kezton continued.

"Suppose you were to travel the Galaxy, drinking at the hottest bars in existence? For a living wage?"

Ford's eyebrows arched in curiosity.

This procedure is more or less how correspondents to The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy are born.

Chapter 5

"So..."

"Yes?" Arthur nodded, his throat stuck in his gullet.

"Do you mean to say," asked Fenchurch with more than an incredulous air, "that you are very likely not my husband Arthur Dent, and yet you are Arthur Dent?"

Arthur nodded.

"That your last memory before this morning was being in a bistro with a man from Betelguese, your artificially conceived daughter, your archenemy, that woman on the telly-"

"- Trisha McMillan." Arthur assisted.

"-yes, and all of that just moments before the Earth was demolished? For the second time?"

Arthur nodded again. It was a comfortable gesture in an uncomfortable moment.

"And furthermore, you say that the last time you saw me was years ago, on a spaceship, seated next to you, before I simply vanished into thin air?

"Hyperspace, to be precise," Arthur added. For good measure, he nodded.

A long moment passed. It was so long, in fact, it could hardly be called a moment. It was, in fact, the length of several pauses. One might call it a spell, but such pedagogic discourse diverts from the main idea, which is to say that a long, silent, awkward, undefined length of time passed as Fenchurch tried to digest everything Arthur said.

Instead, she spit it out.

"Why don't you just admit that you are sleeping with Judith Howe!?" Fenchurch demanded, slapping Arthur across the face. She then stormed out of the kitchen, into the living room.

Arthur reflected upon the question. Admit adultery? That may be an easier tactic.

Shaking off that idea, he followed Fenchurch into the living room. He had a new method with which to convince her.