The Original Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Radio Scripts

NARRATOR: (Over music. Matter of fact, characterless voice)

This is the story of The Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, perhaps the most remarkable, certainly the most successful book ever to come out of the great publishing corporations of Ursa Minor – more popular than the Celestial Home Care Omnibus, better selling than 53 More Things To Do In Zero Gravity, and more controversial than Oolon Coluphid’s trilogy of philosophical blockbusters: Where God Went Wrong, Some More of God’s Greatest Mistakes and Who is This God Person Anyway?

And in many of the more relaxed civilizations on the outer Eastern rim of the Galaxy, the Hitch-Hiker’s Guide has already supplanted the great Encyclopaedia Galactica as the standard repository of all knowledge and wisdom, because although it has many omissions, contains much that is apocryphal, or at least wildly inaccurate, it scores over the older, more pedestrian work in two important ways. First, it is slightly cheaper, and second it has the words ‘DON’T PANIC’ inscribed in large, friendly letters on the cover.

To tell the story of the book, it is best to tell the story of some of the minds behind it. A human from the planet Earth was one of them, though as our story opens he no more knows his destiny than a tea leaf knows the history of the East India Company. His name is Arthur Dent, he is a six foot tall ape descendant, and someone is trying to drive a bypass through his home.

F/X: GENERAL ROAD BUILDING NOISES. BULLDOZERS, PNEUMATIC DRILLS, ETC.

(The following conversation is carried out over this noise. The man from the Council, Mr Prosser, is being dictatorial through a megaphone, and Arthur is shouting his answers rather faintly in the distance.)

PROSSER: Come off it Mr Dent, you can’t win you know. There’s no point in lying down in the path of progress.

ARTHUR: I’ve gone off the idea of progress. It’s overrated.

PROSSER: But you must realize that you can’t lie in front of the bulldozers indefinitely.

ARTHUR: I’m game, we’ll see who rusts first.

PROSSER: I’m afraid you’re going to have to accept it. This bypass has got to be built, and it’s going to be built. Nothing you can say or do . . .

ARTHUR: Why’s it got to be built?

PROSSER: What do you mean, why’s it got to be built? It’s a bypass, you’ve got to build bypasses.

ARTHUR: Didn’t anyone consider the alternatives?

PROSSER: There aren’t any alternatives. Look, you were quite entitled to make any suggestions or protests at the appropriate time.

ARTHUR: Appropriate time? The first I knew about it was when a workman arrived at the door yesterday. I asked him if he’d come to clean the windows and he said he’d come to demolish the house. He didn’t tell me straight away of course. No, first he wiped a couple of windows and charged me a fiver. Then he told me.

PROSSER: (Ordinary voice, but he is still clearly audible. In other words, he was standing next to Arthur anyway.)

But Mr Dent, the plans have been available in the planning office for the last nine months.

ARTHUR: Yes. I went round to find them yesterday afternoon. You hadn’t exactly gone out of your way to call much attention to them had you? I mean, like actually telling anybody or anything.

PROSSER: The plans were on display.

ARTHUR: And how many average members of the public are in the habit of casually dropping round at the local planning office of an evening? It’s not exactly a noted social venue is it? And even if you had popped in on the off-chance that some raving bureaucrat wanted to knock your house down, the plans weren’t immediately obvious to the eye, were they?

PROSSER: That depends where you were looking.

ARTHUR: I eventually had to go down to the cellar . . .

PROSSER: That’s the display department.

ARTHUR: . . . with a torch.

PROSSER: Ah, the lights had probably gone.

ARTHUR: So had the stairs.

PROSSER: But you found the notice didn’t you?

ARTHUR: Yes. It was on display in the bottom of a locked filing cabinet stuck in a disused lavatory with a sign on the door saying ‘Beware of the Leopard’. Ever thought of going into advertising?

PROSSER: It’s not as if it’s a particularly nice house anyway.

ARTHUR: I happen rather to like it.

PROSSER: Mr Dent!

ARTHUR: Hello? Yes?

PROSSER: Have you any idea how much damage that bulldozer would suffer if I just let it roll straight over you?

ARTHUR: How much?

PROSSER: None at all.

GRAMS: NARRATOR BACKGROUND

NARRATOR: By a strange coincidence, ‘None at all’ is exactly how much suspicion the ape descendant Arthur Dent had that one of his closest friends was not descended from an ape, but was in fact from a small planet somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse. Arthur Dent’s failure to suspect this reflects the care with which his friend blended himself into human society after a fairly shaky start. When he first arrived fifteen years ago the minimal research he had done suggested to him that the name Ford Prefect would be nicely inconspicuous. He will enter our story in 35 seconds and say ‘Hello Arthur’. The ape descendant will greet him in return, but in deference to a million years of evolution he will not attempt to pick fleas off him. Earthmen are not proud of their ancestors and never invite them round to dinner.

FORD: (Arriving) Hello Arthur.

ARTHUR: Ford, hi, how are you?

FORD: Fine, look, are you busy?

ARTHUR: Well, I’ve just got this bulldozer to lie in front of, otherwise no, not especially.

FORD: There’s a pub down the road. Let’s have a drink and we can talk.

ARTHUR: Look, don’t you understand?

PROSSER: Mr Dent, We’re waiting.

ARTHUR: Ford, that man wants to knock my house down!

FORD: Well, he can do it whilst you’re away can’t he?

ARTHUR: But I don’t want him to!

FORD: Well just ask him to wait till you get back.

ARTHUR: Ford . . .

FORD: Arthur! Will you please just listen to me, I’m not fooling. I have got to tell you the most important thing you’ve ever heard, I’ve got to tell you now, and I’ve got to tell you in that pub there.

ARTHUR: Why?

FORD: Because you’re going to need a very stiff drink. Now, just trust me.

ARTHUR: (Reluctantly) I’ll see what I can do. It’d better be good. (Calls) Hello! Mr Prosser!

PROSSER: Yes Mr Dent? Have you come to your senses yet?

ARTHUR: Can we just for a moment assume for the moment that I haven’t?

PROSSER: Well?

ARTHUR: And that I’m going to be staying put here till you go away?

PROSSER: So?

ARTHUR: So you’re going to be standing around all day doing nothing.

PROSSER: Could be.

ARTHUR: Well, if you’re resigned to standing around doing nothing all day you don’t actually need me here all the time do you?

PROSSER: Er, no. Not as such.

ARTHUR: So if you can just take it as read that I am actually here, I could just slip off down to the pub for half an hour. How does that sound?

PROSSER: Er . . . that sounds . . . very er, reasonable I think Mr Dent. I’m sure we don’t actually need you there for the whole time. We can just hold up our end of the confrontation.

ARTHUR: And if you want to pop off for a bit later on I can always cover for you in return.

PROSSER: Oh, thank you. Yes. That’ll be fine Mr Dent. Very kind.

ARTHUR: And of course it goes without saying that you don’t try and knock my house over whilst I’m away.

PROSSER: What? Good Lord no Mr Dent. The mere thought hadn’t even begun to speculate about the merest possibility of crossing my mind.

ARTHUR: Do you think we can trust him?

FORD: Myself, I’d trust him to the end of the Earth.

ARTHUR: Yes, but how far’s that?

FORD: About twelve minutes away. Come on, I need a drink.

GRAMS: NARRATOR BACKGROUND

NARRATOR: By drink Ford Prefect meant alcohol. The Encyclopaedia Galactica describes alcohol as a colourless, volatile liquid formed by the fermentation of sugars, and also notes its intoxicating effect on certain carbon-based life forms. The Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy also mentions alcohol. It says that the best drink in existence is the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster, the effect of which is like having your brains smashed out with a slice of lemon wrapped round a large gold brick. The Guide also tells you on which planets the best Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters are mixed, how much you can expect to pay for one, and what voluntary organizations exist to help you rehabilitate.

The man who invented this mind-pummelling drink also invented the wisest remark ever made, which was this: ‘Never drink more than two Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters unless you are a thirty ton elephant with bronchial pneumonia.’ His name is Zaphod Beeblebrox and we shall learn more of his wisdom later.

F/X: PUB INTERIOR. GENERAL CONVERSATION CHATTER, CLINK OF GLASSES, JUKEBOX, ETC.

FORD: Six pints of bitter. And quickly please, the world’s about to end.

BARMAN: Oh yes, sir? Nice weather for it. Going to watch the match this afternoon sir?

FORD: No. No point.

BARMAN: Foregone conclusion that, you reckon sir? Arsenal without a chance?

FORD: No, it’s just that the world’s going to end.

BARMAN: Of yes, sir, so you said. Lucky escape for Arsenal if it did.

FORD: No, not really.

BARMAN: There you are sir, six pints.

F/X: DRINKS BEING PUT ON BAR. RUSTLE OF BANK NOTES

FORD: Keep the change.

BARMAN: What, from a fiver? Thank you, sir.

FORD: You’ve got ten minutes left to spend it.

ARTHUR: Ford, would you please tell me what the hell is going on? I think I’m beginning to lose my grip on the day.

FORD: Drink up, you’ve got three pints to get through.

ARTHUR: Three? At lunchtime?

FORD: Time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so.

ARTHUR: Very deep. You should send that in to the Reader’s Digest. They’ve got a page for people like you.

FORD: Drink up.

ARTHUR: Why three pints?

FORD: Muscle relaxant. You’ll need it.

ARTHUR: Did I do something wrong today, or has the world always been like this and I’ve been too wrapped up in myself to notice?

FORD: All right. I’ll try to explain. How long have we known each other Arthur?

ARTHUR: Er . . . five years, maybe six. Most of it seemed to make some kind of sense at the time.

FORD: All right. How would you react if I said that I’m not from Guildford after all, but from a small planet somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse?

ARTHUR: (Really baffled now) I don’t know. Why, do you think it’s the sort of thing you feel you’re likely to say?

FORD: Drink up, the world’s about to end.

ARTHUR: This must be Thursday. I never could get the hang of Thursdays.

F/X: NARRATOR BACKGROUND

NARRATOR: On this particular Thursday, something was moving quietly through the ionosphere miles above the surface of the planet. But few people on the surface of the planet were aware of it. One of the six thousand million people who hadn’t glanced into the ionosphere recently was called Lady Cynthia Fitzmelton. She was at that moment standing in front of Arthur Dent’s house in Cottington. Many of those listening to her speech would probably have experienced great satisfaction to know that in four minutes time she would evaporate into a whiff of hydrogen, ozone and carbon monoxide. However, when the moment came they would hardly notice because they would be too busy evaporating themselves.

(Lady Cynthia Fitzmelton is a sort of Margaret Thatcher, Penelope Keith character, who delivers this speech with dignity and utter conviction through a barrage of enraged boos and catcalls.)

LADY CYNTHIA: I have been asked to come here to say a few words to mark the beginning of work on the very splendid and worthwhile new Bevingford bypass. And I must say immediately what a great honour and a great privilege I think it must be for you, the people of Cottington, to have this gleaming new motorway going through your cruddy little village . . . I’m sorry, your little country village of cruddy Cottington. (Shouts from annoyed crowd) I know how proud you must feel at this moment to know that your obscure and unsung hamlet will now arise reborn as the very splendid and worthwhile Cottington Service Station, providing welcome refreshment and sanitary relief for every weary traveller on his way.

VOICE 1: Why don’t you push off, you crud-faced old bat?

VOICE 2: What about our bloody homes?

LADY CYNTHIA: And for myself, it gives me great pleasure to take this bottle of very splendid and worthwhile champagne and break it against the noble prow of this very splendid and worthwhile yellow bulldozer.

F/X: BOTTLE SMASHING AGAINST BULLDOZER, WHICH BEGINS TO RUMBLE FORWARD

F/X: CAST LOUD JEERS AND ALSO A PERFUNCTORY RIPPLE OF APPLAUSE FROM ONE OR TWO HIRED LACKEYS

F/X: SWITCH BACK TO PUB INTERIOR ATMOS. THE MUFFLED SOUND OF THE HOUSE BEING KNOCKED DOWN FILTERS THROUGH

ARTHUR: What’s that?

FORD: Don’t worry, they haven’t started yet.

ARTHUR: Oh good.

FORD: It’s probably just your house being knocked down.

ARTHUR: What?

FORD: It hardly makes any difference at this stage.

ARTHUR: My God it is! What the hell are they doing! We had an agreement!

FORD: Let ’em have their fun.

ARTHUR: Damn you and your fairy stories, they’re smashing up my home!

F/X: HE RUNS OUT OF THE PUB

ARTHUR: (Shouting) Stop you vandals! You home wreckers! You half-crazed visigoths, stop will you!

FORD: Arthur! Come back. It’s pointless! Hell, I’d better go after him. Barman, quickly, can you just give me four packets of peanuts?

BARMAN: Certainly, sir. There you are, twenty eight pence.

F/X: NOTE SLAPPED ON TABLE

FORD: Keep the change.

BARMAN: Are you serious sir? I mean, do you really think the world’s going to end this afternoon?

FORD: Yes, in just over one minute and thirty five seconds. barman

BARMAN: Well, isn’t there anything we can do?

FORD: No, nothing.

BARMAN: I always thought we were meant to lie down or put a paper bag over our head or something.

FORD: If you like, yes.

BARMAN: Will that help?

FORD: No. Excuse me, I’ve got to find my friend. (Goes)

BARMAN: Oh well then, last orders please!

F/X: OUTSIDE ATMOS

ARTHUR: (Yelling) You pinstriped barbarians! I’ll sue the council for every penny it’s got! I’ll have you hung; drawn and quartered, and whipped and boiled, and then I’ll chop you up into little bits until. . . until. . . until you’ve had enough!

FORD: Arthur, don’t bother, there isn’t time, get over here, there’s only ten seconds left!

ARTHUR: (Oblivious) And then I’ll do it some more! And when I’ve finished I will take all the little bits . . . and I will jump on them! And I will carry on jumping on them until I get blisters or I can think of something even more unpleasant to do, and then I’ll. . . WHAT THE HELL’S THAT????

F/X: AN UNEARTHLY SCREAM OF JETS THUNDERS ACROSS THE SKY. MASS PANDEMONIUM BREAKS OUT, WITH PEOPLE SHOUTING, RUNNING IN EVERY DIRECTION

FORD: Arthur! Quick, over here!

ARTHUR: What the hell is it?

FORD: It’s a fleet of flying saucers, what do you think it is? Quick, you’ve got to get hold of this rod!

ARTHUR: What do you mean, flying saucers?

FORD: Just that, it’s a Vogon constructor fleet.

ARTHUR: A what?

FORD: A Vogon constructor fleet, I picked up news of their arrival a few hours ago on my sub-ether radio.

ARTHUR: (Still yelling to be heard over din) Ford, I don’t think I can cope with any more of this. I think I’ll just go and have a little lie down somewhere.

FORD: No! Just stay here! Keep calm . . . and just take hold of. . . (lost in din).

F/X: CLICK OF A P.A. CHANNEL OPENING. ALIEN VOICE REVERBERATES ACROSS THE LAND:-

ALIEN: People of Earth, your attention please. This is Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz of the Galactic Hyperspace Planning Council. As you will no doubt be aware, the plans for the development of the outlying regions of the Western Spiral arm of the Galaxy require the building of a hyperspace express route through your star system and, regrettably, your planet is one of those scheduled for demolition. The process will take slightly less than two of your Earth minutes. Thank you very much.

F/X: CLICK OF CHANNEL TURNING OFF. WILD HUBBUB OF PROTEST AS PANIC BREAKS OUT. CLICK AS CHANNEL OPENS AGAIN

ALIEN: There’s no point in acting all surprised about it. All the planning charts and demolition orders have been on display at your local planning department in Alpha Centauri for fifty of your Earth years, so you’ve had plenty of time to lodge any formal complaints, and it’s far too late to start making a fuss about it now.

F/X: MORE PROTESTING HUBBUB

ALIEN: What do you mean you’ve never been to Alpha Centauri? Oh, for heaven’s sake mankind it’s only four light years away you know. I’m sorry, but if you can’t be bothered to take an interest in local affairs that’s your own lookout. Energize the demolition beams. (To himself) God, I don’t know, apathetic bloody planet, I’ve no sympathy at all . . .

F/X: A LOW THROBBING HUM WHICH BUILDS QUICKLY IN INTENSITY AND PITCH. WIND & THUNDER, RENDING, GRINDING CRASHES. ALL THE NIGGLING LITTLE FRUSTRATIONS THAT THE BBC SOUND EFFECTS ENGINEERS HAVE EVER HAD CAN ALL COME OUT IN A FINAL DEVASTATING EXPLOSION WHICH THEN DIES AWAY INTO SILENCE

(Longish pause. Then:)

A FAINT BUT CLEAR BACKGROUND HUM STARTS UP. VARIOUS QUIET ELECTRONIC MECHANISMS. A FEW VAGUE RUSTLES OF MOVEMENT. SOME SOFTLY PADDING FOOTSTEPS

(A pause – just long enough to build up the suspense, then:)

FORD: I bought some peanuts.

ARTHUR: Whhhrrr?

(This conversation mostly in hushed tones)

FORD: If you’ve never been through a matter transference beam before you’ve probably lost some salt and protein. The beer you had should have cushioned your system a bit. How are you feeling?

ARTHUR: Like a military academy – bits of me keep on passing out. If I asked you where the hell we were would I regret it?

FORD: We’re safe.

ARTHUR: Good.

FORD: We’re in a small galley cabin in one of the spaceships of the Vogon Constructor Fleet.

ARTHUR: Ah, this is obviously some strange usage of the word safe that I wasn’t previously aware of.

FORD: I’ll have a look for the light.

ARTHUR: All right. How did we get here?

FORD: We hitched a lift.

ARTHUR: Excuse me, are you trying to tell me that we just stuck out our thumbs and some bug-eyed monster stuck his head out and said ‘Hi, fellas, hop right in, I can take you as far as the Basingstoke roundabout’?

FORD: Well, the thumb’s an electronic sub-ether device, the roundabout’s at Barnard’s Star six light years away, but otherwise that’s more or less right.

ARTHUR: And the bug-eyed monster?

FORD: Is green, yes.

ARTHUR: Fine. When can I go home?

FORD: You can’t. Ah, I’ve found the light.

F/X: THE SOUND OF LIGHT GOING ON IN A VOGON SPACESHIP

ARTHUR: (Wonderment) Good grief! Is this really the interior of a flying saucer?

FORD: It certainly is. What do you think?

ARTHUR: It’s a bit squalid, isn’t it?

FORD: What did you expect?

ARTHUR: Well I don’t know. Gleaming control panels, flashing lights, computer screens. Not old mattresses.

FORD: These are the Dentrassi sleeping quarters.

ARTHUR: I thought you said they were called Vogons or something.

FORD: The Vogons run the ship. The Dentrassi are the cooks. They let us on board.

ARTHUR: I’m confused.

FORD: Here, have a look at this.

ARTHUR: What is it?

FORD: The Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. It’s a sort of electronic book. It’ll tell you everything you want to know. That’s its job.

ARTHUR: I like the cover. ‘DON’T PANIC’. It’s the first helpful or intelligible thing anybody’s said to me all day.

FORD: That’s why it sells so well. Here, press this button and the screen will give you the index, several million entries, fast wind through the index to ‘V’. There you are, Vogon Constructor Fleets. Enter that code on the tabulator and read what it says.

NARRATOR: Vogon Constructor Fleets.

Here is what to do if you want to get a lift from a Vogon: Forget it. They are one of the most unpleasant races in the Galaxy – not actually evil, but bad-tempered, bureaucratic, officious and callous. They wouldn’t even lift a finger to save their own grandmothers from the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal without orders signed in triplicate, sent in, sent back, queried, lost, found, subjected to public inquiry, lost again, and finally buried in soft peat for three months and recycled as fire lighters. The best way to get a drink out of a Vogon is stick your finger down his throat, and the best way to irritate him is to feed his grandmother to the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal.

ARTHUR: What a strange book. How did we get a lift then?

FORD: That’s the point, it’s out of date now. I’m doing the field research for the new revised edition of the Guide. So, for instance,I will have to include a revision pointing out that since the Vogons have made so much money being professionally unpleasant, they can now afford to employ Dentrassi cooks. Which gives us a rather useful little loophole.

ARTHUR: Who are the Dentrassi?

FORD: The best cooks and the best drinks mixers, and they don’t give a wet slap about anything else. And they will always help hitch-hikers on board, partly because they like the company, but mostly because it annoys the Vogons. Which is exactly the sort of thing you need to know if you’re an impoverished hitch-hiker trying to see the marvels of the Galaxy for less than thirty Altairian dollars a day. And that’s my job. Fun, isn’t it?

ARTHUR: It’s amazing.

FORD: Unfortunately I got stuck on the Earth for rather longer than I intended. I came for a week and was stranded for fifteen years.

ARTHUR: But how did you get there in the first place?

FORD: Easy, I got a lift with a teaser. You don’t know what a teaser is, I’ll tell you. Teasers are usually rich kids with nothing to do. They cruise around looking for planets which haven’t made interstellar contact yet, and buzz them.

ARTHUR: Buzz them?

FORD: Yes. They find some isolated spot with very few people around, then land right by some poor unsuspecting soul whom no one’s ever going to believe and then strut up and down in front of him wearing silly antennae on their head and making beep beep noises. Rather childish really.

ARTHUR: Ford, I don’t know if this sounds like a silly question, but what am I doing here?

FORD: Well, you know that. I rescued you from the Earth.

ARTHUR: And what has happened to the Earth?

FORD: It’s been disintegrated.

ARTHUR: Has it?

FORD: Yes, it just boiled away into space.

ARTHUR: Look. I’m a bit upset about that.

FORD: Yes, I can understand.

ARTHUR: So what do I do?

FORD: You come along with me and enjoy yourself. You’ll need to have this fish in your ear.

ARTHUR: I beg your pardon?

F/X: A RATHER EXTRAORDINARY NOISE STARTS UP. IT SOUNDS LIKE A COMBINATION OF GARGLING, HOWLING, SNIFFING AND FIGHTING OFF A PACK OF WOLVES

ARTHUR: What’s the devil’s that?

FORD: Listen, it might be important.

ARTHUR: What?

FORD: It’s the Vogon Captain making an announcement on the PA.

ARTHUR: But I can’t speak Vogon!

FORD: You don’t need to. Just put the fish in your ear, come on, it’s only a little one.

ARTHUR: Uuuuuuuuggh!

F/X: THE CACOPHONOUS AND HIGHLY IMAGINATIVE SOUNDS DESCRIBED ABOVE ABRUPTLY TRANSFORM INTO THE VOICE OF THE ALIEN WHO ADDRESSED THE EARTH

ALIEN: . . . should have a good time. Message repeat. This is your Captain speaking so stop whatever you’re doing and pay attention. First of all I see from our instruments that we have a couple of hitch-hikers aboard our ship. Hello wherever you are I just want to make it totally clear that you are not at all welcome. I worked hard to get where I am today, and I didn’t become Captain of a Vogon Constructor ship simply so that I could turn it into a taxi service for degenerate freeloaders. I have sent out a search party, and as soon as they find you I will put you off the ship. If you’re very lucky I might read you some of my poetry first.

Secondly, we are about to jump into hyperspace for the journey to Barnard’s Star. On arrival we will stay in dock for a seventy two hour refit, and no-one’s to leave the ship during that time. I repeat, all planet leave is cancelled. I’ve just had an unhappy love affair, so I don’t see why anyone else should have a good time. Message ends.

ARTHUR: Charming these Vogons. I wish I had a daughter so I could forbid her to marry one.

FORD: You wouldn’t need to. They’ve got as much sex appeal as a road accident. And you’d better be prepared for the jump into hyperspace. It’s unpleasantly like being drunk.

ARTHUR: Well what’s so unpleasant about being drunk?

FORD: You ask a glass of water.

ARTHUR: Ford.

FORD: Yes?

ARTHUR: What’s this fish doing in my ear?

FORD: Translating for you. Look under Babel Fish in the book.

F/X: BOOK MOTIF, INTERRUPTED BY A SUDDEN SWELLING SOUND OF FANTASTIC ACCELERATION . . .

ARTHUR: (A slurring distort) What’s happening?

FORD: (A slurring distort) We’re going into hyperspace.

ARTHUR: Ugggh! I’ll never be cruel to a gin and tonic again.

F/X: SOUND DISTORTS TOTALLY. THE NARRATOR’S VOICE CUTS ACROSS IT

GRAMS: NARRATOR BACKGROUND

NARRATOR: The Babel Fish is small, yellow, leechlike, and probably the oddest thing in the Universe. It feeds on brainwave energy, absorbing all unconscious frequencies and then excreting telepathically a matrix formed from the conscious frequencies and nerve signals picked up from the speech centres of the brain; the practical upshot of which is that if you stick one in your ear you can instantly understand anything said to you in any form of language – the speech you hear decodes the brainwave matrix. Now it is such a bizarrely improbable coincidence that anything so mindbogglingly useful could evolve purely by chance that some thinkers have chosen to see it as a final clinching proof of the non-existence of God.

The argument goes something like this:

‘I refuse to prove that I exist’ says God, ‘for proof denies faith, and without faith I am nothing’. ‘But’, says Man, ‘the Babel Fish is a dead giveaway isn’t it? It proves you exist, and so therefore you don’t. QED’. ‘Oh dear’, says God, ‘I hadn’t thought of that’ and promptly vanishes in a puff of logic. ‘Oh, that was easy’ says Man, and for an encore he proves that black is white and gets killed on the next zebra crossing.

Most leading theologians claim that this argument is a load of dingo’s kidneys, but that didn’t stop Oolon Colluphid making a small fortune when he used it as the central theme of his best-selling book Well, That About Wraps It Up For God.

Meanwhile, the poor Babel Fish, by effectively removing all barriers to communication between different cultures and races, has caused more and bloodier wars than anything else in the history of creation.

ARTHUR: What an extraordinary book.

FORD: Help me write the new edition.

ARTHUR: No, I want to go back to Earth again I’m afraid. Or its nearest equivalent.

FORD: You’re turning down a hundred billion new worlds to explore.

ARTHUR: Did you get much useful material on Earth?

FORD: I was able to extend the entry, yes.

ARTHUR: Oh, let’s see what it says in this edition then.

FORD: OK.

ARTHUR: Let’s see . . . Earth . . . tap out the code (FX BOOK MOTIF) . . . there’s the page. Oh, it doesn’t seem to have an entry.

FORD: Yes it does. See, right there at the bottom of the screen. Just under Eccentrica Gallumbits, the triple-breasted whore of Eroticon VI.

ARTHUR: What, there? Oh yes.

BOOK: Harmless.

ARTHUR: Is that all it’s got to say? One word? Harmless? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?

FORD: Well, there are a hundred billion stars in the Galaxy and a limited amount of space in the book. And no one knew much about the Earth of course.

ARTHUR: Well I hope you’ve managed to rectify that a little.

FORD: Yes, I transmitted a new entry off to the Editor. He had to trim it a bit, but it’s still an improvement.

ARTHUR: What does it say now?

FORD: ‘Mostly harmless.’

ARTHUR: Mostly harmless?

FORD: That’s the way it is. We’re on a different scale now.

ARTHUR: OK Ford, I’m with you. I’m bloody well coming with you. Where are we now?

FORD: Not far from Barnard’s Star. It’s a beautiful place, and a sort of hyperspace junction. You can get virtually anywhere from there.

F/X: MARCHING FEET OUTSIDE

FORD: That is, assuming that we actually get there.

F/X: BANGING ON THE STEEL DOOR

ARTHUR: What’s that?

FORD: Well, if we’re lucky it’s just the Vogons come to throw us into space.

ARTHUR: And if we’re unlucky?

FORD: If we’re unlucky the Captain might want to read us some of his poetry first.

NARRATOR: Vogon poetry is, of course, the third worst in the Universe. The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria. During a recitation by their Poet Master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem ‘Ode to a small Lump of Green Putty I found in My Armpit One Midsummer Morning’ four of his audience died of internal haemorrhaging, and the President of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off. Grunthos is reported to have been ‘disappointed’ by the poem’s reception, and was about to embark on a reading of his twelve book epic entitled ‘My Favourite Bathtime Gurgles’ when his own major intestine, in a desperate attempt to save humanity, leapt straight up through his neck and throttled his brain. The very worst poetry of all perished along with its creator, Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Greenbridge in the destruction of the Planet Earth. Vogon poetry is mild by comparison, and when the Vogon Captain began to read it provoked this reaction from Ford Prefect . . .

FORD: Aaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrggggghhhh!!!

NARRATOR: And this from Arthur Dent.

ARTHUR: Nnnnnnnyyyyyyuuuuuurrrrrggghhh!!! (Continues ad lib)

VOGON: Oh freddled gruntbuggly! Thy micturations are to me

As plurdled gabbleblotchits in a lurgid bee.

Groop I implore thee my foonting turlingdromes,

And hooptiously drangle me with crinkly bindle werdles,

For otherwise I will rend thee in the gobberwarts with

My blurglecruncheon see if I don’t.

So Earthlings. I present you with a simple choice. I was going to throw you straight out into the empty blackness of space to die horribly and slowly. But there is one way, one simple way in which you may save yourselves. Think very carefully, for you hold your very lives in your hands. Now choose! Either die in the vacuum of space or . . .

GRAMS: DRAMATIC CHORD

VOGON: . . . tell me how good you thought my poem was.

NARRATOR: Will our heroes survive this terrible ordeal? Can they win through with their integrity unscathed? Can they escape without completely compromising their honour and artistic judgement?

Tune in next week for the next exciting instalment of ‘The Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’.