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itchhikerGuide

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suffice."
"A simple one!" wailed Arthur.
"Yeah," said Zaphod with a sudden evil grin, "you'd just have to
program it to say What? and I don't understand and Where's the
tea? - who'd know the difference?"
"What?" cried Arthur, backing away still further.
"See what I mean?" said Zaphod and howled with pain because of
something that Trillian did at that moment.
"I'd notice the difference," said Arthur.
"No you wouldn't," said Frankie mouse, "you'd be programmed not
to."
Ford made for the door.
"Look, I'm sorry, mice old lads," he said. "I don't think we've
got a deal."
"I rather think we have to have a deal," said the mice in chorus,
all the charm vanishing fro their piping little voices in an
instant. With a tiny whining shriek their two glass transports
lifted themselves off the table, and swung through the air
towards Arthur, who stumbled further backwards into a blind
corner, utterly unable to cope or think of anything.
Trillian grabbed him desperately by the arm and tried to drag him
towards the door, which Ford and Zaphod were struggling to open,
but Arthur was dead weight - he seemed hypnotized by the airborne
rodents swooping towards him.
She screamed at him, but he just gaped.
With one more yank, Ford and Zaphod got the door open. On the
other side of it was a small pack of rather ugly men who they
could only assume were the heavy mob of Magrathea. Not only were
they ugly themselves, but the medical equipment they carried with
them was also far from pretty. They charged.
So - Arthur was about to have his head cut open, Trillian was
unable to help him, and Ford and Zaphod were about to be set upon
by several thugs a great deal heavier and more sharply armed than
they were.
All in all it was extremely fortunate that at that moment every
alarm on the planet burst into an earsplitting din.
=================================================================
Chapter 32
"Emergency! Emergency!" blared the klaxons throughout Magrathea.
"Hostile ship has landed on planet. Armed intruders in section
8A. Defence stations, defence stations!"
The two mice sniffed irritably round the fragments of their glass
transports where they lay shattered on the floor.
"Damnation," muttered Frankie mouse, "all that fuss over two
pounds of Earthling brain." He scuttled round and about, his pink
eyes flashing, his fine white coat bristling with static.
"The only thing we can do now," said Benji, crouching and
stroking his whiskers in thought, "is to try and fake a question,
invent one that will sound plausible."
"Difficult," said Frankie. He thought. "How about What's yellow
and dangerous?"
Benji considered this for a moment.
"No, no good," he said. "Doesn't fit the answer."
They sank into silence for a few seconds.
"Alright," said Benji. "What do you get if you multiply six by
seven?"
"No, no, too literal, too factual," said Frankie, "wouldn't
sustain the punters' interest."
Again they thought.
Then Frankie said: "Here's a thought. How many roads must a man
walk down?"
"Ah," said Benji. "Aha, now that does sound promising!" He rolled
the phrase around a little. "Yes," he said, "that's excellent!
Sounds very significant without actually tying you down to
meaning anything at all. How many roads must a man walk down?
Forty-two. Excellent, excellent, that'll fox 'em. Frankie baby,
we are made!"
They performed a scampering dance in their excitement.
Near them on the floor lay several rather ugly men who had been
hit about the head with some heavy design awards.