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"Er . . ." said Arthur.
"Well?" said Ford.
"Look," said Zaphod, "will you get it into your heads? That's just a recorded message. It's millions of years old. It doesn't apply to us, get it?"
"What," said Trillian quietly, "about the missiles?"
"Missiles? Don't make me laugh."
Ford tapped Zaphod on the shoulder and pointed at the rear screen. Clear in the distance behind them two silver darts were climbing through the atmosphere towards the ship. A quick change of magnification brought them into close focus--two massively real rockets thundering through the sky. The suddenness of it was shocking.
"I think they're going to have a very good try at applying to us," said Ford.
Zaphod stared at them in astonishment.
"Hey, this is terrific!" he said. "Someone down there is trying to kill us!"
"Terrific," said Arthur.
"But don't you see what this means?"
"Yes. We're going to die."
"Yes, but apart from that."
"Apart from that?"
"It means we must be on to something!"
"How soon can we get off it?"
Second by second the image of the missiles on the screen became larger. They had swung round now on to a direct homing course so that all that could be seen of them now was the warheads, head on.
"As a matter of interest," said Trillian, "what are we going to do?"
"Just keep cool," said Zaphod.
"Is that all?" shouted Arthur.
"No, we're also going to . . . er . . . take evasive action!" said Zaphod with a sudden access of panic. "Computer, what evasive action can we take?"
"Er, none I'm afraid, guys," said the computer.
". . . or something," said Zaphod, ". . . er . . ." he said.
"There seems to be something jamming my guidance system," explained the computer brightly, "impact minus forty-five seconds. Please call me Eddie if it will help you to relax."
Zaphod tried to run in several equally decisive directions simultaneously. "Right!" he said. "Er . . . we've got to get manual control of this ship."
"Can you fly her?" asked Ford pleasantly.
"No, can you?"
"No."
"Trillian, can you?"
"No."
"Fine," said Zaphod, relaxing. "We'll do it together."
"I can't either," said Arthur, who felt it was time he began to assert himself.
"I'd guessed that," said Zaphod. "OK, computer, I want full manual control now."
"You got it," said the computer.
Several large desk panels slid open and banks of control consoles sprang up out of them, showering the crew with bits of expanded polystyrene packaging and balls of rolled-up cellophane: these controls had never been used before.
Zaphod stared at them wildly.
"OK, Ford," he said, "full retro thrust and ten degrees starboard. Or something . . ."
"Good luck, guys," chirped the computer, "impact minus thirty seconds . . ."
Ford leapt to the controls--only a few of them made any immediate sense to him so he pulled those. The ship shook and screamed as its guidance rocked jets tried to push it every which way simultaneously. He released half of them and the ship span round in a tight arc and headed back the way it had come, straight towards the oncoming missiles.
Air cushions ballooned out of the walls in an instant as everyone was thrown against them. For a few seconds the inertial forces held them flattened and squirming for breath, unable to move. Zaphod struggled and pushed in manic desperation and finally managed a savage kick at a small lever that formed part of the guidance system.
The lever snapped off. The ship twisted sharply and rocketed upwards. The crew were hurled violently back across the cabin. Ford's copy of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy smashed into another section of the control console with the combined result that the Guide started to explain to anyone who cared to listen about the best ways of smuggling Antarean parakeet glands out of Antares (an Antarean parakeet gland stuck on a small stick is a revolting but much sought after cocktail delicacy and very large sums of money are often paid for them by very rich idiots who want to impress other very rich idiots), and the ship suddenly dropped out of the sky like a stone.
It was of course more or less at this moment that one of the crew sustained a nasty bruise to the upper arm. This should be emphasized because, as had already been revealed, they escape otherwise completely unharmed and the deadly nuclear missiles do not eventually hit the ship. The safety of the crew is absolutely assured.
"Impact minus twenty seconds, guys . . ." said the computer.
"Then turn the bloody engines back on!" bawled Zaphod.
"OK, sure thing, guys," said the computer. With a subtle roar the engines cut back in, the ship smoothly flattened out of its dive and headed back towards the missiles again.
The computer started to sing.
"When you walk through the storm . . ." it whined nasally, "hold your head up high . . ."
Zaphod screamed at it to shut up, but his voice was lost in the din of what they quite naturally assumed was approaching destruction.
"And don't . . . be afraid . . . of the dark!" Eddie wailed.
The ship, in flattening out had in fact flattened out upside down and lying on the ceiling as they were it was now totally impossible for any of the crew to reach the guidance systems.
"At the end of the storm . . ." crooned Eddie.
The two missiles loomed massively on the screens as they thundered towards the ship.
". . . is a golden sky . . ."
But by an extraordinarily lucky chance they had not yet fully corrected their flight paths to that of the erratically weaving ship, and they passed right under it.
"And the sweet silver songs of the lark . . . Revised impact time fifteen seconds fellas . . . Walk on through the wind . . ."
The missiles banked round in a screeching arc and plunged back into pursuit.
"This is it," said Arthur watching them. "We are now quite definitely going to die, aren't we?"
"I wish you'd stop saying that," shouted Ford.
"Well we are, aren't we?"
"Yes."
"Walk on through the rain . . ." sang Eddie.
A thought struck Arthur. He struggled to his feet.
"Why doesn't anyone turn on this Improbability Drive thing?" he said. "We could probably reach that."
"What, are you crazy?" said Zaphod. "Without proper programming anything could happen."
"Does that matter at this stage?" shouted Arthur.
"Though your dreams be tossed and blown . . ." sand Eddie.
Arthur scrambled up on to one end of the excitingly chunky pieces of moulded contouring where the curve of the wall met the ceiling.
"Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart . . ."
"Does anyone know why Arthur can't turn on the Improbability Drive?" shouted Trillian.
"And you'll never walk alone . . . Impact minus five seconds, it's been great knowing you guys, God bless . . . You'll ne . . . ver . . . walk . . . alone!"
"I said," yelled Trillian, "does anyone know . . ."
The next thing that happened was a mid-mangling explosion of noise and light.
Chapter 18
And the next thing that happened after that was that the Heart of Gold continued on its way perfectly normally with a rather fetchingly redesigned interior. It was somewhat larger, and done out in delicate pastel shades of green and blue. In the centre a spiral staircase, leading nowhere in particular, stood in a spray of ferns and yellow flowers and next to it a stone sundial pedestal housed the main computer terminal. Cunningly deployed lighting and mirrors created the illusion of standing in a conservatory overlooking a wide stretch of exquisitely manicured garden. Around the periphery of the conservatory area stood marble-topped tables on intricately beautiful wrought-iron legs. As you gazed into the polished surface of the marble the vague forms of instruments became visible, and as you touched them the instruments materialized instantly under your hands. Looked at from the correct angles the mirrors appeared to reflect all the required data readouts, though it was far from clear where they were reflected from. It was in fact sensationally beautiful.
