Текст книги "The Ultimate Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy"

Автор книги: Douglas Noel Adams

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Текущая страница: 59 (всего у книги 62 страниц)

Chapter 19

It was a sight that Arthur never quite got used to, or tired of. He and Ford had tracked their way swiftly along the side of the small river that flowed down along the bed of the valley, and when at last they reached the margin of the plains, they pulled themselves up into the branches of a large tree, to get a better view of one of the stranger and more wonderful visions that the Galaxy has to offer.

The great thunderous herd of thousand upon thousand of Perfectly Normal Beasts was sweeping in magnificent array across the Anhondo Plain. In the early pale light of the morning, as the great animals charged through, the fine steam of the sweat of their bodies mingled with the muddy mist churned up by their pounding hooves, their appearance seemed a little unreal and ghostly anyway, but what was heart-stopping about them was where they came from and where they went to, which appeared to be, simply, nowhere.

They formed a solid, charging phalanx roughly a hundred yards wide and half a mile long. The phalanx never moved, except that it exhibited a slight gradual drift sideways and backward for the eight or nine days that it regularly appeared for. But though the phalanx stayed more or less constant, the great beasts of which it was composed charged steadily at upward of twenty miles an hour, appearing suddenly from thin air at one end of the plain, and disappearing equally abruptly at the other end.

No one knew where they came from, no one knew where they went. They were so important to the lives of the Lamuellans, it was almost as if nobody liked to ask. Old Thrashbarg had said on one occasion that sometimes if you received an answer, the question might be taken away. Some of the villagers had privately said that this was the only properly wise thing that they’d ever heard Thrashbarg say, and after a short debate on the matter, had put it down to chance.

The noise of the pounding of the hooves was so intense that it was hard to hear anything else above it.

“What did you say?” shouted Arthur.

“I said,” shouted Ford, “this looks like it might be some kind of evidence of dimensional drift.”

“Which is what?” shouted Arthur back.

“Well, a lot of people are beginning to worry that spacetime is showing signs of cracking up with everything that’s happening to it. There are quite a lot of worlds where you can see how the landmasses have cracked up and moved around just from the weirdly long or meandering routes that migrating animals take. This might be something like that. We live in twisted times. Still, in the absence of a decent spaceport …”

Arthur looked at him in a kind of frozen way.

“What do you mean?” he said.

“What do you mean, what do I mean?” shouted Ford. “You know perfectly well what I mean. We’re going to ride our way out of here.”

“Are you seriously suggesting we try to ride a Perfectly Normal Beast?”

“Yeah. See where it goes to.”

“We’ll be killed! No,” said Arthur, suddenly. “We won’t be killed. At least I won’t. Ford, have you ever heard of a planet called Stavromula Beta?”

Ford frowned. “Don’t think so,” he said. He pulled out his own battered old copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and accessed it. “Any funny spelling?” he said.

“Don’t know. I’ve only ever heard it said, and that was by someone who had a mouthful of other people’s teeth. You remember I told you about Agrajag?”

Ford thought for a moment. “You mean the guy who was convinced you were getting him killed over and over again?”

“Yes. One of the places he claimed I’d got him killed was Stavromula Beta. Someone tries to shoot me, it seems. I duck and Agrajag, or at least one of his many reincarnations, gets hit. It seems that this has definitely happened at some point in time, so, I suppose, I can’t get killed at least until after I’ve ducked on Stavromula Beta. Only no one’s ever heard of it.”

“Hmm.” Ford tried a few other searches of the Hitchhiker’s Guide, but drew a blank.

“Nothing,” he said.

“I was just … no, I’ve never heard of it,” said Ford, finally. He wondered why it was ringing a very, very faint bell, though.

“Okay,” said Arthur. “I’ve seen the way the Lamuellan hunters trap Perfectly Normal Beasts. If you spear one in the herd it just gets trampled, so they have to lure them out one at a time for the kill. It’s very like the way a matador works, you know, with a brightly colored cape. You get one to charge at you and then step aside and execute a rather elegant swing through with the cape. Have you got anything like a brightly colored cape about you?”

“This do?” said Ford, handing him his towel.

Chapter 20

Leaping onto the back of a one-and-a-half-ton Perfectly Normal Beast migrating through your world at a thundering thirty miles an hour is not as easy as it might at first seem. Certainly it is not as easy as the Lamuellan hunters made it seem, and Arthur Dent was prepared to discover that this might turn out to be the difficult bit.

What he hadn’t been prepared to discover, however, was how difficult it was even getting to the difficult bit. It was the bit that was supposed to be the easy bit that turned out to be practically impossible.

They couldn’t even catch the attention of a single animal. The Perfectly Normal Beasts were so intent on working up a good thunder with their hooves, heads down, shoulders forward, back legs pounding the ground into porridge, that it would have taken something not merely startling but actually geological to disturb them.

The sheer amount of thundering and pounding was, in the end, more than Arthur and Ford could deal with. After they had spent nearly two hours prancing about doing increasingly foolish things with a medium-sized floral-patterned bath towel, they had not managed to get even one of the great beasts thundering and pounding past them to do so much as glance casually in their direction.

They were within three feet of the horizontal avalanche of sweating bodies. To have been much nearer would have been to risk instant death, chrono-logic or no chrono-logic Arthur had seen what remained of any Perfectly Normal Beast which, as the result of a clumsy miss-throw by a young and inexperienced Lamuellan hunter, got speared while still thundering and pounding with the herd.

One stumble was all it took. No prior appointment with death on Stavromula Beta, wherever the hell Stavromula Beta was, would save you or anybody else from the thunderous, mangling, pounding of those hooves.

At last, Arthur and Ford staggered back. They sat down, exhausted and defeated, and started to criticize each other’s technique with the towel.

“You’ve got to flick it more,” complained Ford. “You need more follow-through from the elbow if you’re going to get those blasted creatures to notice anything at all.”

“Follow-through?” protested Arthur. “You need more suppleness in the wrist.”

“You need more after-flourish,” countered Ford.

“You need a bigger towel.”

“You need,” said another voice, “a pikka bird.”

“You what?”

The voice had come from behind them. They turned, and there, standing behind them in the early morning sun, was Old Thrashbarg.

“To attract the attention of a Perfectly Normal Beast,” he said, as he walked forward toward them, “you need a pikka bird. Like this.”

From under the rough, cassocky robelike thing he wore he drew a small pikka bird. It sat restlessly on Old Thrashbarg’s hand and peered intently at Bob knows what darting around about three feet six inches in front of it.

Ford instantly went into the sort of alert crouch he liked to do when he wasn’t quite sure what was going on or what he ought to do about it. He waved his arms around very slowly in what he hoped was an ominous manner.

“Who is this?” he hissed.

“It’s just Old Thrashbarg,” said Arthur, quietly. “And I wouldn’t bother with all the fancy movements. He’s just as experienced a bluffer as you are. You could end up dancing around each other all day.”

“The bird,” hissed Ford again. “What’s the bird?”

“It’s just a bird!” said Arthur, impatiently. “It’s like any other bird. It lays eggs and goes ark at things you can’t see. Or kar or rit or something.”

“Have you seen one lay eggs?” said Ford, suspiciously.

“For heaven’s sake, of course I have,” said Arthur. “And I’ve eaten hundreds of them. Make rather a good omelette. The secret is little cubes of cold butter and then whipping it lightly with …”

“I don’t want a zarking recipe,” said Ford. “I just want to be sure it’s a real bird and not some kind of multidimensional cybernightmare.”

He slowly stood up from his crouched position and started to brush himself down. He was still watching the bird, though.

“So,” said Old Thrashbarg to Arthur. “Is it written that Bob shall once more take back unto himself the benediction of his once-given Sandwich Maker?”

Ford almost went back into his crouch.

“It’s all right,” muttered Arthur, “he always talks like that.” Aloud, he said, “Ah, venerable Thrashbarg. Um, yes. I’m afraid I think I’m going to have to be popping off now. But young Drimple, my apprentice, will be a fine sandwich maker in my stead. He has the aptitude, a deep love of sandwiches and the skills he has acquired so far, though rudimentary as yet, will, in time, mature, and, er, well, I think he’ll work out okay is what I’m trying to say.”

Old Thrashbarg regarded him gravely. His old gray eyes moved sadly. He held his arms aloft, one still carrying a bobbing pikka bird, the other his staff.

“O Sandwich Maker from Bob!” he pronounced. He paused, furrowed his brow and sighed as he closed his eyes in pious contemplation. “Life,” he said, “will be a very great deal less weird without you!”

Arthur was stunned.

“Do you know,” he said, “I think that’s the nicest thing anybody’s ever said to me?”

“Can we get on, please?” said Ford.

Something was already happening. The presence of the pikka bird at the end of Thrashbarg’s outstretched arm was sending tremors of interest through the thundering herd. The odd head flicked momentarily in their direction. Arthur began to remember some of the Perfectly Normal Beast hunts he had witnessed. He recalled that as well as the hunter-matadors brandishing their capes there were always others standing behind them holding pikka birds. He had always assumed that, like him, they had just come along to watch.

Old Thrashbarg moved forward, a little closer to the rolling herd. Some of the Beasts were now tossing their heads back with interest at the sight of the pikka bird.

Old Thrashbarg’s outstretched arms were trembling.

Only the pikka bird itself seemed to show no interest in what was going on. A few anonymous molecules of air nowhere in particular engaged all of its perky attention.

“Now!” exclaimed Old Thrashbarg at last. “Now you may work them with the towel!”

Arthur advanced with Ford’s towel, moving the way the hunter-matadors did, with a kind of elegant strut that did not come at all naturally to him. But now he knew what to do and that it was right. He brandished and flicked the towel a few times, to be ready for the moment, and then he watched.

Some distance away he spotted the Beast he wanted. Head down, it was galloping toward him, right on the very edge of the herd. Old Thrashbarg twitched the bird, the Beast looked up, tossed its head, and then, just as its head was coming down again, Arthur flourished the towel in the Beast’s line of sight. It tossed its head again in bemusement, and its eyes followed the movement of the towel.

He had got the Beast’s attention.

From that moment on, it seemed the most natural thing to coax and draw the animal toward him. Its head was up, cocked slightly to one side. It was slowing to a canter and then a trot. A few seconds later the huge thing was standing there among them, snorting, panting, sweating and sniffing excitedly at the pikka bird, which appeared not to have noticed its arrival at all. With strange sorts of sweeping movements of his arms, Old Thrashbarg kept the pikka bird in front of the Beast, but always out of its reach and always downward. With strange sorts of sweeping movements of the towel, Arthur kept drawing the Beast’s attention this way and that – always downward.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite so stupid in my life,” muttered Ford to himself.

At last, the Beast dropped, bemused but docile, to its knees.

“Go!” whispered Old Thrashbarg, urgently, to Ford. “Go! Go now!”

Ford leapt up onto the great creature’s back, scrabbling among its thick, knotty fur for purchase, grasping great handfuls of the stuff to hold him steady once he was in position.

“Now, Sandwich Maker! Go!” He performed some elaborate sign and ritual handshake which Arthur couldn’t quite get the hang of because Old Thrashbarg had obviously made it up on the spur of the moment, then he pushed Arthur forward. Taking a deep breath, he clambered up behind Ford onto the great, hot, heaving back of the Beast and held on tight. Huge muscles the size of sea lions rippled and flexed beneath him.

Old Thrashbarg held the bird suddenly aloft. The Beast’s head swiveled up to follow it. Thrashbarg pushed upward and upward repeatedly with his arms and with the pikka bird; and slowly, heavily, the Perfectly Normal Beast lurched up off its knees and stood, at last, swaying slightly. Its two riders held on fiercely and nervously.

Arthur gazed out over the sea of hurtling animals, straining in an attempt to see where it was they were going, but there was nothing but heat haze.

“Can you see anything?” he said to Ford.

“No.” Ford twisted around to glance back, trying to see if there was any clue as to where they had come. Still, nothing.

Arthur shouted down at Thrashbarg.

“Do you know where they come from?” he called. “Or where they’re going?”

“The domain of the King!” shouted Old Thrashbarg back.

“King?” shouted Arthur in surprise. “What King?” The Perfectly Normal Beast was swaying and rocking restlessly under him.

“What do you mean, what King?” shouted Old Thrashbarg. “The King.”

“It’s just that you never mentioned a King,” shouted Arthur back, in some consternation.

“What?” shouted Old Thrashbarg. The thrumming of a thousand hooves was very hard to hear over, and the old man was concentrating on what he was doing.

Still holding the bird aloft, he led the Beast slowly around till it was once more parallel with the motion of its great herd. He moved forward. The Beast followed. He moved forward again. The Beast followed again. At last, the Beast was lumbering forward with a little momentum.

“I said you never mentioned a King!” shouted Arthur again.

“I didn’t say a King,” shouted Old Thrashbarg, “I said the King.”

He drew back his arm and then hurled it forward with all his strength, casting the pikka bird up into the air above the herd. This seemed to catch the pikka bird completely by surprise, as it had obviously not been paying any attention at all to what was going on. It took it a moment or two to work out what was happening, then it unfurled its little wings, spread them out and flew.

“Go!” shouted Thrashbarg. “Go and meet your destiny, Sandwich Maker!”

Arthur wasn’t so sure about wanting to meet his destiny as such. He just wanted to get to wherever it was they were going so he could get back off this creature again. He didn’t feel at all safe up there. The Beast was gathering speed as it followed in the wake of the pikka bird. And then it was in at the fringes of the great tide of animals, and in a moment or two, with its head down, the pikka bird forgotten, it was running with the herd again and rapidly approaching the point at which the herd was vanishing into thin air. Arthur and Ford held on to the great monster for dear life, surrounded on all sides by hurtling mountains of bodies.

“Go! Ride that Beast!” shouted Thrashbarg. His distant voice reverberated faintly in their ears. “Ride that Perfectly Normal Beast! Ride it, ride it!”

Ford shouted in Arthur’s ear, “Where did he say we were going?”

“He said something about a King,” shouted Arthur in return, holding on desperately.

“What King?”

“That’s what I said. He just said the King.”

“I didn’t know there was a the King,” shouted Ford.

“Nor did I,” shouted Arthur back.

“Except of course for the King,” shouted Ford. “And I don’t suppose he meant him.”

“What King?” shouted Arthur.

The point of exit was almost upon them. Just ahead of them, Perfectly Normal Beasts were galloping into nothingness and vanishing.

“What do you mean, what King?” shouted Ford. “I don’t know what King. I’m only saying that he couldn’t possibly mean the King, so I don’t know what he means.”

“Ford, I don’t know what you’re talking about,”

“So?” said Ford. Then with a sudden rush, the stars came on, turned and twisted around their heads, and then, just as suddenly, turned off again.

Chapter 21

Misty gray buildings loomed and flickered. They bounced up and down in a highly embarrassing way.

What sort of buildings were they? What were they for?

What did they remind her of?

It’s so difficult to know what things are supposed to be when you suddenly turn up unexpectedly on a different world, which has a different culture, a different set of the most basic assumptions about life, and also incredibly dull and meaningless architecture.

The sky above the buildings was a cold and hostile black. The stars, which should have been blindingly brilliant points of light this far from the sun, were blurred and dulled by the thickness of the huge shielding bubble. Perspex or something like it. Something dull and heavy anyway.

Tricia wound the tape back again to the beginning.

She knew there was something slightly odd about it.

Well, in fact, there were about a million things that were slightly odd about it, but there was one that was nagging at her and she hadn’t quite got it.

She sighed and yawned.

As she waited for the tape to rewind she cleared away some of the dirty polystyrene coffee cups that had accumulated on the editing desk and tipped them into the bin.

She was sitting in a small editing suite at a video production company in Soho. She had DO NOT DISTURB notices plastered all over the door and a block on all incoming calls at the switchboard. This was originally to protect her astonishing scoop, but now it was to protect her from embarrassment.

She would watch the tape all the way through again from the beginning. If she could bear to. She might do some fast forwarding here and there.

It was about four o’clock on Monday afternoon, and she had a kind of sick feeling. She was trying to work out what the cause of this slightly sick feeling was, and there was no shortage of candidates.

First of all, it had all come on top of the overnight flight from New York. The red-eye. Always a killer, that.

Then, being accosted by aliens on her lawn and flown to the planet Rupert. She was not sufficiently experienced in that sort of thing to be able to say for sure that that was always a killer, but she would be prepared to bet that those who went through it regularly cursed it. There were always stress charts being published in magazines. Fifty stress points for losing your job. Seventy-five points for a divorce or changing your hairstyle and so on. None of them ever mentioned being accosted on your lawn by aliens and then being flown to the planet Rupert, but she was sure it was worth a few dozen points.

It wasn’t that the journey had been particularly stressful. It had been extremely dull in fact. Certainly it had been no more stressful than the trip she had just taken across the Atlantic and it had taken roughly the same time, about seven hours.

Well, that was pretty astounding, wasn’t it? Flying to the outer limits of the solar system in the same time that it took to fly to New York meant they must have some fantastic unheard of form of propulsion in the ship. She quizzed her hosts about it and they agreed that it was pretty good.

“But how does it work?” she had demanded excitedly. She was still quite excited at the beginning of the trip.

She found that part of the tape and played it through to herself. The Grebulons, which is what they called themselves, were politely showing her which buttons they pressed to make the ship go.

“Yes, but what principle does it work on?” she heard herself demand, from behind the camera.

“Oh, you mean is it something like a warp drive or something like that?” they said.

“Yes,” persisted Tricia. “What is it?”

“It probably is something of the kind,” they said.

“Like what?”

“Warp drive, photon drive, something like that. You’d have to ask the flight engineer.”

“Which one is he?”

“We don’t know. We have all lost our minds, you see.”

“Oh yes,” said Tricia, a little faintly. “So you said. Um, how did you lose your minds, exactly, then?”

“We don’t know,” they said, patiently.

“Because you’ve lost your minds,” echoed Tricia, glumly.

“Would you like to watch television? It is a long flight. We watch television. It is something we enjoy.”

All of this riveting stuff was on the tape, and fine viewing it made. First of all the picture quality was extremely poor. Tricia didn’t know why this was, exactly. She had a feeling that the Grebulons responded to a slightly different range of light frequencies, and that there had been a lot of ultraviolet around, which was mucking up the video camera. There were a lot of interference patterns and video snow as well. Probably something to do with the warp drive that none of them knew the first thing about.

So what she had on tape, essentially, was a bunch of slightly thin and discolored people sitting around watching televisions that were showing network broadcasts. She had also pointed the camera out of the very tiny viewport near her seat and got a nice, slightly streaky effect of stars. She knew it was real, but it would have taken a good three or four minutes to fake.

In the end she had decided to save her precious videotape for Rupert itself and had simply sat back and watched television with them. She even dozed off for a while.

So part of her sick feeling came from the sense that she had had all that time in an alien spacecraft of astounding technological design, and had spent most of it dozing in front of reruns of “M*A*S*H” and “Cagney and Lacey.” But what else was there to do? She had taken some photos as well, of course, all of which had subsequently turned out to be badly fogged when she got them back from the chemist.

Another part of her sick feeling probably came from the landing on Rupert. This at least had been dramatic and hair-raising. The ship had come sweeping in over a dark and somber landscape, a terrain so desperately far removed from the heat and light of its parent sun, Sol, that it seemed like a map of the psychological scars of the mind of an abandoned child.

Lights blazed through the frozen darkness and guided the ship into the mouth of some kind of cave that seemed to bend itself open to accept the small craft.

Unfortunately, because of the angle of their approach, and the depth at which the small, thick viewport was set into the craft’s skin, it hadn’t been possible to get the video camera to point directly at any of it. She ran through that bit of the tape.

The camera was pointing directly at the sun.

This is normally very bad for a video camera. But when the sun is roughly a third of a billion miles away, it doesn’t do any harm. In fact it hardly makes any impression at all. You just get a small point of light right in the middle of the frame, which could be just about anything. It was just one star in a multitude.

Tricia fast-forwarded.

Ah. Now, the next bit had been quite promising. They had emerged out of the ship into a vast, gray hangarlike structure. This was clearly alien technology on a dramatic scale. Huge gray buildings under the dark canopy of the Perspex bubble. These were the same buildings that she had been looking at at the end of the tape. She had taken more footage of them while leaving Rupert a few hours later, just as she was about to reboard the spacecraft for the journey home. What did they remind her of?

Well, as much as anything else they reminded her of a film set from just about any low-budget science-fiction movie of the last twenty years. A lot larger, of course, but it all looked thoroughly tawdry and unconvincing on the video screen. Apart from the dreadful picture quality, she had been struggling with the unexpected effects of gravity that was appreciably lower than on Earth, and she had found it very hard to keep the camera from bouncing around in an embarrassingly unprofessional way. It was therefore impossible to make out any detail.

And now here was the Leader coming forward to greet her, smiling and sticking his hand out.

That was all he was called. The Leader.

None of the Grebulons had names, largely because they couldn’t think of any. Tricia discovered that some of them had thought of calling themselves after characters from television programs they had picked up from Earth, but hard as they had tried to call each other Wayne and Bobby and Chuck, some remnant of something lurking deep in the cultural subconscious they had brought with them from the distant stars that were their home must have told them that this really wasn’t right and wouldn’t do.

The Leader had looked pretty much like all the others. Possibly a bit less thin. He said how much he enjoyed her shows on TV, that he was her greatest fan, how glad he was that she had been able to come along and visit them on Rupert and how much everybody had been looking forward to her coming, how he hoped the flight had been comfortable and so on. There was no particular sense she could detect of being any kind of emissary from the stars or anything.

Certainly, watching it now on videotape, he just looked like some guy in costume and makeup, standing in front of a set that wouldn’t hold up too well if you leaned against it.

She sat staring at the screen with her face cradled in her hands, and shaking her head in slow bewilderment.

This was awful.

Not only was this bit awful but she knew what was coming next. It was the bit where the Leader asked if she was hungry after the flight, and would she perhaps like to come and have something to eat? They could discuss things over a little dinner.

She could remember what she was thinking at this point.

Alien food.

How was she going to deal with it?

Would she actually have to eat it? Would she have access to some sort of paper napkin she could spit stuff out into? Wouldn’t there be all sorts of differential immunity problems?

It turned out to be hamburgers.

Not only did it turn out to be hamburgers, but the hamburgers it turned out to be were very clearly and obviously McDonald’s hamburgers which had been reheated in a microwave. It wasn’t just the look of them. It wasn’t just the smell. It was the polystyrene clamshell packages they came in which had “McDonald’s” printed all over them.

“Eat! Enjoy!” said the Leader. “Nothing is too good for our honored guest!”

This was in his private apartment. Tricia looked around it in bewilderment that had bordered on fear but had nevertheless got it all on videotape.

The apartment had a water bed in it. And a Midi hi-fi. And one of those tall electrically illuminated glass things that sit on tabletops and appear to have large globules of sperm floating in them. The walls were covered in velvet.

The Leader lounged against a brown corduroy beanbag chair and squirted breath freshener into his mouth.

Tricia began to feel very scared, suddenly. She was farther from Earth than any human being, to her knowledge, had ever been, and she was with an alien creature who was lounging against a brown corduroy beanbag and squirting breath freshener into his mouth.

She didn’t want to make any false moves. She didn’t want to alarm him. But there were things she had to know.

“How did you … where did you get … this?” she asked, gesturing around the room nervously.

“The decor?” asked the Leader. “Do you like it? It is very sophisticated. We are a sophisticated people, we Grebulons. We buy sophisticated consumer durables … by mail order.”

Tricia had nodded tremendously slowly at this point.

“Mail order …” she had said.

The Leader chuckled. It was one of those dark chocolate, reassuring, silky chuckles.

“I think you think they ship it here. No! Ha-ha! We have arranged a special box number in New Hampshire. We make regular pick-up visits. Ha-ha!” He lounged back in a relaxed fashion on his beanbag, reached for a reheated French fry and nibbled the end of it, an amused smile playing across his lips.

Tricia could feel her brain beginning to bubble very slightly. She kept the video camera going.

“How do you, well, er, how do you pay for these wonderful … things?”

The Leader chuckled again.

“American Express,” he said with a nonchalant shrug.

Tricia nodded slowly again. She knew that they gave cards exclusively to just about anybody.

“And these?” she said, holding up the hamburger he had presented her with.

“It is very easy,” said the Leader. “We stand in line.”

Again, Tricia realized with a cold, trickling feeling going down her spine, that explained an awful lot.

She hit the fast-forward button again. There was nothing of any use here at all. It was all nightmarish madness. She could have faked something that would have looked more convincing.

Another sick feeling began to creep over her as she watched this hopeless, awful tape, and she began, with slow horror, to realize that it must be the answer.

She must be …

She shook her head and tried to get a grip.

An overnight flight going east … The sleeping pills she had taken to get her through it. The vodka she’d had to set the sleeping pills going.

What else? Well. There was seventeen years of obsession that a glamorous man with two heads, one of which was disguised as a parrot in a cage, had tried to pick her up at a party but had then impatiently flown off to another planet in a flying saucer. There suddenly seemed to be all sorts of bothersome aspects to that idea that had never really occurred to her. Never occurred to her. In seventeen years.