Starship Titanic by Douglas Adams

Lucy had originally been strongly attracted by the suave Englishman, but as they’d all got to know each other she found Dan, the quiet East Coast University man, more real and more understandable. In fact, the more they got to know each other, the more she wondered why on earth nobody could see at first glance what a complete sleazeball Nigel was.

‘We’re going to call it The Watergate Hotel,’ said Dan.

‘Won’t that put off Republicans who still want to bug each other?’ asked Nettle.

Nigel patted her tight bottom. ‘Go and turn the car around, there’s a good girl,’ he said. And Nettle trotted off on her high heels down the steps of the elegant early Victorian rectory, into the night.

How can she let him treat her like that, thought Lucy to herself, but said: ‘When are you going to sign the final release forms for the company, Dan?’

‘Oh er… I’m not sure…’ Dan seemed suddenly nervous. ‘I don’t think Nigel’s got them yet…’

‘The forms should be waiting for us back at the hotel,’ said Nigel before Lucy could explode. Exploding was a reaction to Nigel which she found increasingly natural. However, in this case, the fuse was lit, but would keep burning until they got back to the hotel and found that (surprise! surprise!) the release forms hadn’t arrived after all and that that damned delivery company had let Nigel down yet again. Poor Nigel! He always had some excuse or other.

They turned the lights off in the empty house and made their way across the drive in the darkness. Above them, the stars filled the cold night sky with astonishing clarity.

‘Why hasn’t Nettle turned the car round?’ A twitch of irritation gave Nigel’s suavity a razor-edge.

When they got to the car, they found Nettie squinting through the lens of a single-reflex Minolta that she had placed on its roof.

‘What on earth d’you think you’re doing, Bozo?’ When Nigel sounded playful he was always at his most dangerous.

‘Sh!’ said Nettle. ‘I’m taking a photo of the house. Don’t jog the car.’

‘I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, Einstein…’ there was sheer joy in Nigel’s voice. He loved ridiculing his girlfriends. ‘But it’s night.’

”Sright!’ replied Nettle, not moving her blonde head so much as a millimetre. ‘I’m taking a photo called “Dan and Lucy’s Hotel Beneath the Stars”. It’ll look great in the album! Maybe you’ll frame it and hang it in the entrance hall?’

‘You can’t take photos at night unless you’ve got a flash, Dumbbell.’ Nigel opened the car door.

‘Hey! You’ve jogged it!’ Nettle screamed out.

‘Get in, Brainbox, I’ll drive,’ said Nigel.

‘I guess it was long enough,’ said Nettle to Dan. ‘Terrific,’ said Dan.

They were all just about to get in the car, when a sudden wind swept across the rectory lawn and the trees blew almost as if a hurricane had hit them – except that they blew in all directions.

‘Jesus!’ exclaimed Dan, gripping the side of the car, ‘What was that?’

‘Look!’ breathed Lucy. She was pointing up in the sky. ‘A falling star!’

‘Make a wish!’ shouted Nettle.

‘Holy Moly!’ growled Nigel, who was the sort of person who had always preferred Captain Marvel to Superman. ‘Will you look at that?!’

Above them, a most extraordinary thing was happening. A ring of cloud had suddenly formed immediately overhead and then spread out – like a nuclear explosion – until the entire sky was covered by a broiling layer of evil-looking cloud. Nigel went weak at the knees; Lucy shuddered; Dan felt his stomach jump and Nettle simply gaped.

But there was more to come.

The four Earth-folk heard a ghostly roar, as if of seas beating on a distant shore that lies beyond the horizon of thought, and then hugely, magnificently, and without warning a vast metallic prong descended from the cloud and sliced their elegant former Victorian rectory (with planning permission for commercial development) in two.

Nigel gaped; Lucy gaped; Dan gaped.

‘Terrific!’ murmured Nettle.

There was no other noise save the wind rushing crazily around in the trees as if it were looking for a place to hide, and the occasional thud of filling masonry, as bits of the rectory that had not already been dislodged by the thing crashed to the ground.

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