Pheromones, some researchers said.
Something sonic, others claimed.
The place was always stiff with researchers trying to get to the bottom of it all and taking a very long time about it.
Not surprisingly, the Guide’s graphically enticing description of the general state of affairs on this planet has proved to be astonishingly popular amongst hitch-hikers who allow themselves to be guided by it, and so it has simply never been taken out, and it is therefore left to latter-day travellers to find out for themselves that today’s modern Brequinda in the City State of Avalars is now little more than concrete, strip joints and Dragon Burger Bars.
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Chapter 22
The night in Islington was sweet and fragrant.
There were, of course, no Fuolornis Fire Dragons about in the alley, but if any had chanced by they might just as well have sloped off across the road for a pizza, for they were not going to be needed.
Had an emergency cropped up while they were still in the middle of their American Hots with extra anchovy they could always have sent across a message to put Dire Straits on the stereo, which is now known to have much the same effect.
“No,” said Fenchurch, “not yet.”
Arthur put Dire Straits on the stereo. Fenchurch pushed ajar the upstairs front door to let in a little more of the sweet fragrant night air. They both sat on some of the furniture made out of cushions, very close to the open bottle of champagne.
“No,” said Fenchurch, “not till you’ve found out what’s wrong with me, which bit. But I suppose,” she added very, very, very quietly, “that we may as well start with where your hand is now.”
Arthur said, “So which way do I go?”
“Down,” said Fenchurch, “on this occasion.”
He moved his hand.
“Down,” she said, “is in fact the other way.”
“Oh yes.”
Mark Knopfler has an extraordinary ability to make a Schecter Custom Stratocaster hoot and sing like angels on a Saturday night, exhausted from being good all week and needing a stiff beer – which is not strictly relevant at this point since the record hadn’t yet got to that bit, but there will be too much else going on when it does, and furthermore the chronicler does not intend to sit here with a track list and a stopwatch, so it seems best to mention it now while things are still moving slowly.
“And so we come,” said Arthur, “to your knee. There is something terribly and tragically wrong with your left knee.”
“My left knee,” said Fenchurch, “is absolutely fine.”
“Do it is.”
“Did you know that …”
“What?”
“Ahm, it’s all right. I can tell you do. No, keep going.”
“So it has to be something to do with your feet …”
She smiled in the dim light, and wriggled her shoulders noncommittally against the cushions. Since there are cushions in the Universe, on Squornshellous Beta to be exact, two worlds in from the swampland of the mattresses, that actively enjoy being wriggled against, particularly if it’s noncommittally because of the syncopated way in which the shoulders move, it’s a pity they weren’t there. They weren’t, but such is life.
Arthur held her left foot in his lap and looked it over carefully. All kinds of stuff about the way her dress fell away from her legs was making it difficult for him to think particularly clearly at this point.
“I have to admit,” he said, “that I really don’t know what I’m looking for.”
“You’ll know when you find it,” she said. “Really you will.” There was a slight catch in her voice. “It’s not that one.”
Feeling increasingly puzzled, Arthur let her left foot down on the floor and moved himself around so that he could take her right foot. She moved forward, put her arms round and kissed him, because the record had got to that bit which, if you knew the record, you would know made it impossible not to do this.
Then she gave him her right foot.
He stroked it, ran his fingers round her ankle, under her toes, along her instep, could find nothing wrong with it.