“But you didn’t….” started Arthur.
“Don’t interrupt,” interrupted Zaphod. “They said I couldn’t really go back to being President, but would be willing to give me any other job I wanted. I didn’t mess around, guys. I went for the big one. Guys, you are now looking at the new Owner Editor for the Hitch-hikers Guide to the Galaxy.” He paused for effect. “With the platinum handshake I got, I put down a deposit for a Magrathean planet. Now I’ve got my planet and the Magratheans have a full page advert for a year. The rest is made up from the tourist trade.”
“So, basically, you’re rolling in it,” said Ford.
“Exactly,” said Zaphod.
“Good, you can pay me the money I’m owed for the coverage on Earth!” Ford held out his hand.
“But I got it all put in instead of the edited version, isn’t that enough?”
“No, I don’t do this for the love, you know.”
“You really find out who your friends are when you become their owner,” muttered Zaphod.
“Owner!” Shouted Ford.
“Yeah, apparently, as a researcher your guide remains the property of Megadodo Publications, which is the property of myself, and your contract states that as you are in possession of the guide, you are the property of Megadodo Publications, which is in turn, well, you know the rest.”
“Well here’s fifty nine point nine nine alterian dollars,” said Ford, thrusting money in Zaphod’s hand, then took his researchers card out of his pocket and threw it in the swimming pool. “I quit.”
“Nice to see you again Ford,” beamed Zaphod.
“And you mate,” grinned Ford. They embraced, realised how silly they looked and separated. Arthur got on with getting tanned.
“So what about the Stag Night?” Asked Ford.
“Well I thought we could go to Eccentrica Gallumbits’ new night club planet, it’s supposed to be wild.”
“Great,” said Ford.
“Are you in, monkey man?” Asked Zaphod.
“Yes, four eyes, I’m in.” Arthur dialled himself a greater angle. Screaming and hollering filled the air, causing Arthur to upend his sun bed and land, too heavily, on the floor. Two little kids hammered towards him, leapt over his cowering body and into Zaphod’s arms.
“Little brats,” he said, grinning paternally. “I’ve named the oldest one Phil, after my Earth name. The nipper’s called Trisha, after Trillian’s Earth name.”
“Arthur studied them closely. They looked like normal kids, maybe a bit too cute for his liking, but still normal. He breathed a sigh of relief to the fact that they had taken after their mother.
“Children, this is Uncle Ford and Uncle Arthur.” Zaphod had changed, thought Arthur. The kids giggled and buried their faces in Zaphod. He shook his heads, still grinning. “Bless ’em.”
Arthur felt that ‘bless ’em’ should be mentioned every time their names were said as an unofficial middle name. He had a niece on Earth called Michaela and he always associated her name with ‘bless her heart’. Michaela ‘bless her heart’ Martin. It had a nice ring to it and if you ever met her, you would know how applicable it was. By this time, Zaphod, the kids and Ford had gone inside. Arthur hurried into the house.
Everyone was sitting around a magnificent table, covered by a magnificent feast. The last time Arthur had seen food like this he had found mice on the table. He checked before sitting down. Fenchurch took his hand and squeezed it.
“This incredible,” she whispered in his ear.
“I propose a toast,” shouted Ford, not knowing the acoustically perfect design of the room would swell his voice to that of a Welsh Male Voice Choir. Everyone lifted their glasses.
“To Zaphod, Trillian and the kids. May your futbulions never cross and your buquabs never separate.”
Only Zaphod appreciated this ancient Betelgeuse toast, but they all drank to it. As they prepared to gorge themselves, Zaphod stood up.
“Did you get us a present?”
“Zaphod!” Said Trillian through clenched teeth.
“Well, they’re expected to bring a present. Still, never mind if you haven’t, I’ve enough presence for all of us.”
Zaphod was the only one to laugh, as was usual for his attempts at humour.
“Actually, we have,” said Arthur, mystifying everyone. He rummaged through his carrier bag and produced some circuit boards. “Sorry they’re not gift wrapped.”