He waited patiently while the next round was duly distributed. He composed the next bit of his story in his mind, which was going to be something about the tank needing to be orientated along a line dropped perpendicularly from the Pole Star to a baseline drawn between Mars and Venus, and was about to start trying to say it when he decided to give it a miss.
“Long time,” he said instead, “in a tank. In a trance.” He looked round severely at his audience, to make sure it was all following attentively.
He resumed.
“Where was I?” he said.
“In a trance,” said one.
“In a tank,” said another.
“Oh yes,” said Arthur. “Thank you. And slowly,” he said pressing onwards, “slowly, slowly slowly, all your excess body fat … turns … to …” he paused for effect, “subcoo … subyoo … subtoocay …” – he paused for breath – “subcutaneous gold, which you can have surgically removed. Getting out of the tank is hell. What did you say?”
“I was just clearing my throat.”
“I think you doubt me.”
“I was clearing my throat.”
“She was clearing her throat,” confirmed a significant part of the audience in a low rumble.
“Oh yes,” said Arthur, “all right. And you then split the proceeds …” he paused again for a maths break, “fifty-fifty with the alchemist. Make a lot of money!”
He looked swayingly around at his audience, and could not help but be aware of an air of scepticism about their jumbled faces.
He felt very affronted by this.
“How else,” he demanded, “could I afford to have my face dropped?”
Friendly arms began to help him home. “Listen,” he protested, as the cold February breeze brushed his face, “looking lived-in is all the rage in California at the moment. You’ve got to look as if you’ve seen the Galaxy. Life, I mean. You’ve got to look as if you’ve seen life. That’s what I got. A face drop. Give me eight years, I said. I hope being thirty doesn’t come back into fashion or I’ve wasted a lot of money.”
He lapsed into silence for a while as the friendly arms continued to help him along the lane to his house.
“Got in yesterday,” he mumbled. “I’m very happy to be home. Or somewhere very like it …”
“Jet lag,” muttered one of his friends. “Long trip from California. Really mucks you up for a couple of days.”
“I don’t think he’s been there at all,” muttered another. “I wonder where he has been. And what’s happened to him.”
After a little sleep Arthur got up and pottered round the house a bit. He felt woozy and a little low, still disoriented by the journey. He wondered how he was going to find Fenny.
He sat and looked at the fish bowl. He tapped it again, and despite being full of water and a small yellow Babel fish which was gulping its way around rather dejectedly, it still chimed its deep and resonant chime as clearly and mesmerically as before.
Someone is trying to thank me, he thought to himself. He wondered who, and for what.
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Chapter 10
“At the third stroke it will be one … thirty-two … and twenty seconds.
“Beep … beep … beep.”
Ford Prefect suppressed a little giggle of evil satisfaction, realized that he had no reason to suppress it, and laughed out loud, a wicked laugh.
He switched the incoming signal through from the Sub-Etha Net to the ship’s hi-fi system, and the odd, rather stilted, sing-song voice spoke out with remarkable clarity round the cabin.
“At the third stroke it will be one … thirty-two … and thirty seconds.
“Beep … beep … beep.”
He tweaked the volume up just a little while keeping a careful eye on a rapidly changing table of figures on the ship’s computer display. For the length of time he had in mind, the question of power consumption became significant. He didn’t want a murder on his conscience.
“At the third stroke it will be one … thirty-two … and forty seconds.
“Beep … beep … beep.”
He checked around the small ship. He walked down the short corridor. “At the third stroke …”