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'Far out, in the uncharted backwaters at the unfashionable end

'of the Western Spiral arm of the Galaxy,

'lies a small unregarded yellow sun.

'Orbiting this at a distance of roughly 92 million miles

'is an utterly insignificant little blue-green planet

'whose ape-descended lifeforms are so amazingly primitive

'that they still think digital watches are neat.

'This planet has-or had - a problem, which was this -

'most of the people living on it were unhappy for pretty much of the time.

'Many solutions were suggested for this problem,

'mostly concerned with the movements of small green pieces of paper,

'which is odd, because, on the whole,

'it wasn't the small green pieces of paper that were unhappy.

'And so the problem remained and lots of the people were mean,

'and most of them were miserable, even the ones with digital watches.'

'Many increasingly felt that they'd all made a big mistake

'in coming down from the trees in the first place.

'And some said that even the trees had been a bad move

'and that no one should ever have left the oceans.

'And then, one day,

'nearly 2,000 years after one man had been nailed to a tree

'for saying how great it would be to be nice to people for a change,

'a girl sitting on her own in a small caf� in Rickmansworth

'suddenly realised what it was had been going wrong all this time,

'and she finally knew how the world could be made a good and happy place.

'This time it was right, it would work,

'and no one would have to get nailed to anything.

'Sadly, however, before she could get to a phone to tell anyone,

'the Earth was demolished to make way for a hyperspace by-pass

'and so the idea was lost forever.

'Meanwhile, Arthur Dent has escaped from the Earth

'in the company of a friend of his,

'who has unexpectedly turned out to be from a small planet

'in the vicinity of Betelgeuse, and not from Guildford after all.

'His name is Ford Prefect,

'for reasons which are unlikely to become clear again at the moment,

'and they're hiding in a Vogon spaceship.'

What's that?

If we're lucky, it's a Vogon come to throw us out into space.

And if we're unlucky?

The captain might want to read us some of his poetry first.

Oh, freddled gruntbuggly!

Thy micturitions are to me

As plurdled gabbleblotchits on a lurgid bee

That mordiously hath bitled out its earted jurtles...

Now the jurpling slayjd agrocrustles

Are slurping hagrilly up the axlegrurts...

'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 poetmaster Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem:

'... four of his audience died of internal haemorrhaging

'and the president of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council

'only 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 12-book epic:

'when his own major intestine,

'in a desperate attempt to save lifekind,

'leapt straight up through his neck and throttled his brain.

'The very worst poetry of all and its creator:

'perished in the destruction of the planet Earth.

'Vogon poetry is mild by comparison.'

Now the jurpling slayid agrocrustles

Are slurping hagrilly up the axlegrurts...

And living glupules frart and slipulate

Like jowling meated liverslime.

Groop I implore thee

My foonting turling dromes

And hooptiously drangle me with crinkly bindlewurdles

Or else I shall rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon

See if I don't!

- So, Earthlings... - I'm not an Earthling.

Quiet! I present you with a simple choice.

Think very carefully, for your very lives lie in your hands.

Now choose! Either die in the vacuum of space

or... tell me how good you thought my poem was.

I liked it.

Huh?

Oh, yes. I thought some of the metaphysical imagery

- Was particularly effective. - Yes?

Oh, and interesting... rhythmic devices...

which seemed to counterpoint the, er...

Counterpoint the surrealism of the underlying metaphor of the, er...

Humanity...

- Vogonity. - Vogonity, sorry!

Of the poet's compassionate soul, which strives

through the verse structure to sublimate this, transcend that,

and one is left with a profound and vivid insight into... into...

Into whatever the poem was about. That was very good.

So, what you are saying is that I just write poetry

because underneath my mean, callous, heartless exterior,

I just want to be loved, is that it?

Well, I mean, yes, don't we all, deep down, underneath...?

No! You're completely wrong.

I write poetry just to throw my mean, callous, heartless exterior

into sharp relief. I'm going to throw you off the ship anyway.

Guard! Take the prisoners to number 3 airlock and throw them out.

This is great! This is really terrific!

Ow! Let go of me, you brute!

Don't worry - I'll think of something.

Resistance is useless!

What is all this, Ford?

I woke up this morning, thought I'd have a nice, relaxed day,

do a bit of reading, brush the dog...

It's 4.00 p.m. and I'm being thrown out of an alien spaceship

five light years from the smoking remains of the Earth.

Just stop panicking! Who mentioned panicking?

This is just culture shock.

Wait till I settle! Then I'll panic!

- Arthur, you're hysterical! Shut up! - Resistance is useless!

- And you! - Resistance is useless!

Give it a rest! Do you enjoy this sort of thing?

What do you mean?

What I mean is-does it give you a full, satisfying life?

Full, satisfying life?

Yeah, stomping around, shouting, pushing people off spaceships.

- Well, the hours are good. - They'd have to be (!)

- Ford, what are you doing? - Shh!

- So, the hours are good? - Yeah. But now you mention it,

most of the actual minutes are pretty lousy.

Except some of the shouting I quite like.

Resistance is...

Sure, yes, you're good at that, I can tell.

But if the rest of it is so lousy, why do you do it?

The girls?

The rubber? The machismo?

I don't know, really. I think I just sort of... do it.

My aunt said that spaceship guard was a good career for a young Vogon -

you know, the uniform, the low-slung stun-ray holster, mindless tedium...

Ford, this guy's half-throttling me!

Yeah, but try and understand his problem.

Here he is, poor guy,

his entire life is stamping around, pushing people off spaceships...

- And shouting... - Yeah, and shouting!

And he doesn't even know why he's doing it.

Poignant, very poignant (!)

- Now you've put it like that... - Good lad.

All right, but what's the alternative?

Stop doing it! Tell them you're not going to do it any more.

Doesn't sound that great to me!

That's just the start. There's more than that...

No, if it's all the same to you,

I'll just get you two shoved out,

and then get on with some other bits of shouting. Resistance is useless!

But come on... Now, look...

Ow! Stop that!

Hang on! There's music and art and things to tell you about yet!

I think I better stick to what I know, thanks,

but thanks for taking an interest.

I've got a headache! I don't want to go to heaven with a headache!

I'll be all cross and won't enjoy it.

There's a whole world you know nothing about. How about this...?

- Doesn't that stir anything in you? ...No.

Bye. I'll tell my aunt what you said.

Potentially bright lad, I thought.

...Nah!

- We're trapped now, aren't we? - Yeah, we're trapped.

Well, didn't you think of anything?

- Yeah. - What?

Unfortunately, it involved being on the other side of this hatchway.

So that's it? We're going to die?

Yeah.

Except... no!

Wait a minute! What's this switch?

What? Where?

No, I was only fooling. We're going to die after all.

You know, it's at times like this,

when I'm stuck in a Vogon airlock with a man from Betelgeuse

and about to die of asphyxiation in deep space,

that I wish I'd listened to what my mother told me.

- Why? What did she tell you? - I don't know... I didn't listen.

Oh, terrific.

"Counterpoint the surrealism of the underlying metaphor"!

Huh! Death's too good for them!

'The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy is a wholly remarkable book.

'The introduction starts like this:

'And so on...

'After a while, the style settles down a bit,

'and it starts telling you things you actually need to know,

'like the fact that the fabulously beautiful planet of Bethselamin...

'is now so worried about the cumulative erosion

'caused by 10 billion tourists a year

'that any net imbalance between the amount you eat

'and the amount you excrete whilst on the planet

'is surgically removed from your body weight when you leave.'

'So every time you go to the lavatory there,

'it's vitally important to get a receipt.

'In the entry in which it talks about dying of asphyxiation

'30 seconds after being thrown out of a spaceship...

'... which, amazingly, was also the phone number of an Islington flat

'where Arthur once went to a very good party,

'where he ate some very good food,

'had some very good drinks with some very good friends

'and met a very nice girl whom he totally failed to get off with.'

Is this guy bothering you?

'Though the planet Earth, the Islington flat,

'and the telephone have all now been demolished...

'it's comforting to reflect

'that they are all in some small way commemorated by the fact

'that some 29 seconds later Arthur and Ford were, in fact, rescued.'

- Told you I'd think of something... - Oh, sure (!)

Bright idea of mine to find a passing spaceship and get rescued by it.

Come on! The chances against it were astronomical.

Don't knock it! It worked!

Where the hell are we?

Well, it looks like the seafront at Southend.

God, I'm relieved to hear you say that!

- I thought I must be going mad! - Perhaps you only thought I said it.

- Well, did you or didn't you? - I think so.

Perhaps we're both going mad.

Nice day for it-sun...

Sea...

You know, if this is Southend, there's something very odd about it.

You mean the way the sea stays steady as a rock...

and the buildings keep washing up and down?

I thought that was odd.

2 to the power of 100,000 to 1 against and falling.

What's that?

It sounded like a measurement of probability.

What does it mean?

I don't know. But I definitely think we're on some kind of spaceship.

Then, I can only assume we're not in the first-class compartment (!)

Southend seems to be melting away...

The stars are swirling... a dustbowl...

snow...

My leg's drifting off into the sunset...

My left arm's disappeared!

How am I going to operate my digital watch now?

Ford, you're turning into a penguin! Stop it!

Qu-what?

2 to the power of 75,000 to 1 against and falling...

Hey! Who are you? Where are you?

What's going on? And is there any way of stopping it?

Relax. You are perfectly safe.

That's not the point!

The point is that I am now a perfectly safe penguin

and my colleague is rapidly running out of limbs.

Isn't there anything you feel you ought to be telling us?

Welcome to the starship Heart of Gold.

Please do not be alarmed by anything you see or hear around you.

You are bound to feel some initial ill effects

as you have been rescued from certain death at an improbability level

of 2 to the power of 260,199 to 1 against, possibly much higher.

We are now cruising at a level of 2 to the power of 25,000 to 1 against

and falling, and we will be restoring normality

as soon as we are sure what normal is. Thank you. 2 to the power...

Arthur, this is fantastic!

We've been picked up by a ship with the new Infinite Improbability Drive!

This is incredible, Arthur...

Arthur? What's happening?

Ford, there's an infinite number of monkeys out here

who want to talk to us about this script for Hamlet they've worked out.

'The Infinite Improbability Drive

'is a wonderful new method of crossing interstellar distances

'in a few seconds, without all that tedious mucking about in hyperspace.

'The principle of generating small amounts of finite improbability,

'by simply hooking the logic circuits of a Bambleweeny 57 Sub-Meson Brain

'to an atomic vector plotter,

'suspended in a Brownian Motion producer-say, a nice cup of tea -

'had long been understood,

'and such generators were often used to break the ice at parties

'by making all the molecules in the hostess's undergarments

'simultaneously leap one foot to the left,

'in accordance with the theory of indeterminacy.

'Many respectable physicists said they wouldn't stand for such a thing,

'partly because it was a debasement of science,

'but mostly because they didn't get invited to those sort of parties.

'Another thing they couldn't stand

'was their perpetual failure in trying to construct a machine

'which could generate the Infinite Improbability field

'needed to flip a spaceship between the furthest stars...

'and, in the end,

'they grumpily announced that such a machine was virtually impossible.

'Then, one evening, a student, who had been left to sweep up the lab

'after a particularly unsuccessful party,

'found himself reasoning this way...

"'If such a machine is a virtual impossibility,

"'then it must, logically, be a finite improbability.

"'So all I have to do to make one

"'is work out exactly how improbable it is...

"'feed that figure into the finite improbability generator...

"'give it a fresh cup of really hot tea and turn it on."

'The moment he did this, he was rather startled to discover

'that he had managed to create the long sought-after

'Infinite Improbability Generator out of thin air.

'It startled him even more

'when, just after he was awarded the Galactic Institute's prize

'for extreme cleverness,

'he got lynched by a rampaging mob of respectable physicists

'who had finally realised

'the one thing they really couldn't stand was a smartass!'

5 to 1 against and falling.

4 to 1 against and falling.

3 to 1...

2... 1...

Probability factor of 1 to 1.

We have normality. I repeat-we have normality.

Anything you still can't cope with is, therefore, your own problem.

- Who are they, Trillian? - A couple of guys we picked up.

Sector ZZ9 Plural Z Alpha.

That's very sweet, Trillian,

but do you really think it's wise?

We're on the run and everything,

we've got the police of half the Galaxy after us,

and we pick up hitchhikers.

10 out of 10 for style, but minus several million for thinking.

They were floating in open space. You didn't want them to die, did you?

Not as such...

A second later, they'd have died.

So if you'd thought about it a moment longer, it would've gone away, right?

Anyway, I didn't pick them up. The ship did-all by itself.

- Hey, what? - Hey, what?

- The ship picked them up by itself. - So what?

The ship... Oh, forget it and go back to sleep!

We picked them up while we were in Infinite Improbability Drive.

- But that's incredible! - No, just very, very improbable.

Don't worry about the aliens. Just a couple of guys, I expect.

I'll send the robot down to check them out. Marvin?

I think you ought to know I'm feeling very depressed.

Oh, God!

Here's something to take your mind off things.

It won't work. I have an exceptionally large mind.

Marvin!

All right. What do you want me to do?

Go down to number 3 entry bay and bring the two aliens up here.

Just that?

- Yes. - I won't enjoy it.

Just do it!

All right! I'll do it.

Good. Great. Thank you.

I'm not getting you down at all, am I?

No, no, Marvin, that's just fine, really.

I wouldn't like to think I was getting you down.

No, don't worry about that.

You just act naturally and everything will be fine.

- You're sure you don't mind? - No, no. It's just part of life.

Life! Don't talk to me about life!

I don't think I can stand that robot much longer, Zaphod.

'The Encyclopaedia Galactica defines a robot

'as a mechanical apparatus designed to do the work of a man.

'The Marketing Division of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation

'defines a robot as:

'The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy

'defines the Marketing Division of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation:

'Curiously enough, an edition of the Encyclopaedia Galactica

'that fell through a time warp from 1,000 years in the future

'defines the Marketing Division of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation

'as "A bunch of mindless jerks

"'who were the first against the wall when the revolution came."'

I think this ship is brand-new, Arthur.

Have you got some exotic device for measuring the age of metal?

No. I just found this sales brochure.

"The Universe can be yours for a mere five quilliard Altairian dollars."

Cheap?

A quilliard is a whole page of noughts with a one at the beginning.

Ah, this is what I was after!

"Sensational new breakthrough in improbability physics.

"As the ship's drive reaches Infinite Improbability,

"it passes through every point in the Universe.

"Be the envy of other major governments." Wow!

It's a whole lot better than that dingy Vogon crate!

This is my idea of a spaceship,

all gleaming metal, flashing lights, everything...

- What happens if I press this? - Don't!

Oh!

What happened?

A sign lit up saying, "Please do not press this button again."

They make a big thing of the ship's cybernetics.

"A new generation of Sirius Cybernetics Corporation computers

"and robots with the new GPP feature."

GPP? What's that?

- Genuine People Personalities. - Sounds ghastly.

It is.

What?

It all is. Absolutely ghastly.

Just don't even talk about it.

Look at this door.

"All the doors in this spacecraft have a cheerful, sunny disposition.

"It is their pleasure to open for you

"and their satisfaction to close again

"with the knowledge of a job well done."

Glad to be of service.

Hateful, isn't it?

Come on. I've been ordered to take you up to the bridge.

Here I am, brain the size of a planet,

and they tell me to take you up to the bridge.

Call that job satisfaction? 'Cause I don't!

- Which government owns this ship? - Watch this door.

It's about to open again.

I can tell by the intolerable air of smugness it suddenly generates.

Enjoy your trip through this door!

Come on.

Thank you!

Thank you very much,

the Marketing Division of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation (!)

Excuse me... Which government...?

"Let's build robots with Genuine People Personalities," they said,

so they tried it out with me.

I'm a personality prototype... You can tell, can't you?

- Which govern...? - I hate that door.

I'm not getting you down, am I?

Which government owns this...?

No government owns it. It's been stolen.

- Stolen? - Stolen?

- Who by? - Zaphod Beeblebrox.

- Zaphod Beeblebrox?! - Sorry, did I say something wrong?

Pardon me for breathing,

which I never do anyway, so I don't know why I bother to say it.

Oh, God, I'm so depressed!

Here's another of those self-satisfied doors!

Life! Don't talk to me about life!

No one even mentioned it!

Glad to be of service.

Really, Zaphod Beeblebrox...!

... Reports brought to you here on the sub-etha waveband,

broadcasting around the Galaxy, around the clock.

We'll be saying a big hello to all intelligent lifeforms everywhere.

And to everyone else, the secret is bang the rocks together, guys.

The big story tonight is the sensational theft

of the Improbability prototype ship, by none other than Zaphod Beeblebrox.

And the question everyone's asking -

has the big Zee finally flipped?

Beeblebrox, inventor of the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster,

ex-confidence trickster, part-time Galactic President,

described by Eccentrica Gallumbits as "The best bang since the big one",

and recently voted the worst-dressed sentient being in the Universe

for the seventh time running...

Has he got an answer? We asked his brain care specialist Gag Halfrunt.

Well, Zaphod's just zis guy, you know...

Beeblebrox stole the Improbability Drive Ship

when he was meant to be launching it...

- Hey, kid, what'd you do that for? - I just thought of something.

Worth interrupting a bulletin about me for?

Can we leave your ego out of this? This is important.

If there's anything more important than my ego around, I want it shot!

- We picked up the couple of guys... - What couple of guys?

- The couple of guys we picked up! - Oh, yeah. Those couple of guys.

We picked them up in Sector ZZ9 Plural Z Alpha.

- Yeah! - Does that mean anything to you?

- Sector ZZ9 Plural Z Alpha! - Well?

What does the Z mean?

- Which one? - Any one.

Would you mind looking at the Galactic charts?

Hey, that's wild!

We should have zapped right into the Horsehead Nebula. That is nowhere!

Improbability Drive.

We pass through every point in the Universe!

Yeah, but actually picking those dudes up there

is just too wild a coincidence. I want to work this out. Computer!

Hi, there. Whatever your problem, I am here to help you solve it.

- Shut up and work something out. - A probability forecast based on...

Improbability data!

OK. Did you know most people's lives are governed by telephone numbers?

Telephone numbers?

I've got this terrible pain in all the diodes down my left side.

Really?

Oh, yes. I mean, I've asked for them to be replaced,

but no one ever listens.

I can imagine.

Well, well, well, Zaphod Beeblebrox!

I don't believe it! This is just too amazing!

Trillian! Trillian?

Oh, this is going to be great!

I'm going to be so amazingly cool it would fluster a Vegan snow lizard!

What real cool! Several million points out of ten for style!

Right, which is the most nonchalant chair to be discovered in?

Glad to be of service.

I suppose you'll want to see the aliens now.

Do you want me to rust in a corner or fall apart where I'm standing?

Show them in.

Thank you.

Ford, hi. How are you? Glad you could drop in.

Oh, hi, Zaphod, great to see you. You're looking well.

The extra arm suits you. Hey, this is a great ship you've stolen!

Ford, you mean you know this person... s?

Know him? He's my... Oh, hey, Zaphod...

This is my friend - Arthur Dent. I saved him when his planet blew up.

Hi, Arthur. Glad you could make it.

- This is... - We've met!

What?

Oh, er, have we?

Hey!

What do you mean-met?

This is Zaphod Beeblebrox from Betelgeuse 5, you know,

not bloody Martin Smith from Croydon.

I don't care. We've met, haven't we, Zaphod?

- Or should I say... Phil? - What?

- At a party six months ago. - Hey, I really doubt that...

On Earth, England,

London, Islington.

- Oh, hey, yeah! That party? - What?

You mean you've been to that miserable little planet as well?

I may have dropped in on my way somewhere.

At this party was a girl I was after.

Beautiful, charming, devastatingly intelligent...

everything I'd been saving myself up for.

Along comes your friend and says, "Hey, doll! Is this guy boring you?"

"Why don't you talk to me? I'm from a different planet."

- Zaphod? - He only had two arms and one head,

and called himself Phil, but...

But you must admit, he was from another planet!

Good heavens! Tricia McMillan!

- Trillian to you. - Infinity minus 1.

- For my next trick... - Shut up!

What are you doing here?

Same as you. I hitched a lift.

With a degree in maths and another in astrophysics,

it was either that or back to the dole on Monday.

Oh, God! Ford, this is Trillian.

Hi! Trillian, my semi-cousin, Ford,

who shares three of the same mothers as me.

Is this sort of thing going to happen every time we use the Drive?

Very probably, I'm afraid.

Zaphod Beeblebrox, this is a very large drink. Hi.

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