Ford felt a rising sense of curiosity, and then a rising sense of panic. That was the complete list of rising feelings he had. In every other respect he was falling very rapidly. He really ought to turn his mind to wondering how he was going to get out of this situation alive.
He glanced down. A hundred feet or so below him people were milling around, some of them beginning to look up expect- antly. Clearing a space for him. Even temporarily calling off the wonderful and completely fatuous hunt for wockets. He would hate to disappoint them, but about two feet below him, he hadn’t realised before, was Colin. Colin had obviously been happily dancing attendance and waiting for him to decide what he wanted to do.
`Colin!’ Ford bawled.
Colin didn’t respond. Ford went cold. Then he suddenly realised that he hadn’t told Colin his name was Colin.
`Come up here!’ Ford bawled.
Colin bobbed up beside him. Colin was enjoying the ride down immensely and hoped that Ford was, too.
Colin’s world went unexpectedly dark as Ford’s towel suddenly enveloped him. Colin immediately felt himself get much, much heavier. He was thrilled and delighted by the challenge that Ford had presented him with. Just not sure if he could handle it, that was all.
The towel was slung over Colin. Ford was hanging from the towel, gripping to its seams. Other hitch hikers had seen fit to modify their towels in exotic ways, weaving all kinds of esoteric tools and utilities and even computer equipment into their fabric. Ford was a purist. He liked to keep things simple. He carried a regular towel from a regular domestic soft furnishings shop. It even had a kind of blue and pink floral pattern despite his repeated attempts to bleach and stone wash it. It had a couple of pieces of wire threaded into it, a bit of flexible writing stick, and also some nutrients soaked into one of the corners of the fabric so he could suck it in an emergency, but otherwise it was a simple towel you could dry your face on.
The only actual modification he had been persuaded by a friend to make to it was to reinforce the seams.
Ford gripped the seams like a maniac.
They were still descending, but the rate had slowed.
`Up, Colin!’ he shouted.
Nothing.
`Your name,’ shouted Ford, `is Colin. So when I shout “Up, Colin!” I want you, Colin, to go up. OK? Up, Colin!’
Nothing. Or rather a sort of muffled groaning sound from Colin. Ford was very anxious. They were descending very slow- ly now, but Ford was very anxious about the sort of people he could see assembling on the ground beneath him. Friendly, local, wocket-hunting types were dispersing, and thick, heavy, bull-necked, slug-like creatures with rocket launchers were, it seemed, sliding out of what was usually called thin air. Thin air, as all experienced Galactic travellers well know, is, in fact, extremely thick with multi-dimensional complexities.
`Up,’ bellowed Ford again. `Up! Colin, go up!’
Colin was straining and groaning. They were now more or less stationary in the air. Ford felt as if his fingers were breaking.
`Up!’
They stayed put.
`Up, up, up!’
A slug was preparing to launch a rocket at him. Ford couldn’t believe it. He was hanging from a towel in mid-air and a slug was preparing to fire rockets at him. He was running out of anything he could think of doing and was beginning to get seriously alarmed.
This was the sort of predicament that he usually relied on having the Guide available for to give advice, however infuriating or glib, but this was not a moment for reaching into his pocket. And the Guide seemed to be no longer a friend and ally but was now itself a source of danger. These were the Guide offices he was hanging outside, for Zark’s sake, in danger of his life from the people who now appeared to own the thing. What had become of all the dreams he vaguely remembered having on the Bwenelli Atoll? They should have let it all be. They should have stayed there. Stayed on the beach. Loved good women. Lived on fish. He should have known it was all wrong the moment they started hanging grand pianos over the sea-monster pool in the atrium. He began to feel thoroughly wasted and miserable. His fingers were on fire with clenched pain. And his ankle was still hurting.