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Ford Prefect and Arthur Dent were running through a forest with their hands intertwined. Arthur did not know why they were running. He did not know why they were holding hands. He did not, in fact, even know what they were doing in a forest in the first place.
A few minutes prior to finding himself barreling through branches in a mad dash towards nothing in particular, Arthur had been failing to enjoy a thoroughly disgusting dinner. It was at a thoroughly ugly restaurant, which Zaphod had insisted served only the most sophisticated of intergalactic delicacies. In other words, a standard day.
He suspected his present situation had something to do with the letter that had been delivered to their table just a few moments prior to the few moments prior. His brain didn't like that theory, for the very understandable reason that it made no sense, even taking into account the inside-out definition of “making sense” that seemed to apply to his life these days. But the evidence was, he reluctantly had to admit, the evidence.
The letter had arrived in a purple envelope with embossed gold script spelling out Zaphod Beeblebrox. Zaphod had been off in a corner being arrogant at some unfortunate acquaintance, so Arthur had picked it up, and a missive of thick card stock had fallen into his hands. Before he'd had a chance to even read the first word, Ford had stared in horror, jumped up with a shout, grabbed his hand, and started sprinting. When in that sequence of events they ended up in a forest remained a mystery.
The whole thing made his mind spin — or maybe that was the lack of oxygen. He ducked as a twig attacked his eye.
“Ford,” he said, and was surprised when it came out a weak gasp. “What. Is. Happening?”
Ford shot him a concerned glance and pulled at his hand, prompting him to go faster (something that Arthur suspected was a physical impossibility).
“We’re running for our lives,” he shouted.
Oh. Well, that was all right then. It was still a standard day after all.
Many painful minutes later, Ford swerved sharply, dragged Arthur through a series of increasingly sharp bushes — “Ow” Arthur said, and then “Stop” and then “Ow” again, but it didn't make a difference — and finally stumbled to a halt in a cave. Arthur collapsed onto his hands and knees, sucking in air with loud, painful gulps.
Ford crouched down to his level and stared at him with his unnervingly unblinking eyes. Arthur continued to suck in air, not quite sure what to ask, and not able to catch his breath long enough to ask it.
“Rest quickly,” Ford said. “We might need to start running again.”
Arthur groaned and sat back onto his heels, slamming his head into his knees. It didn't make him feel any better.
“Why?” he managed, which seemed to sum the situation up nicely.
Ford stood and looked down at his friend, contemplating how to answer him without causing undue alarm. The problem was there were quite a few things to be alarmed about. He decided on being blunt. “We've landed in the middle of an intergalactic fight to the death. It's very famous. Quite difficult to get tickets,” he added, in case the rarity of their opportunity helped put a positive spin on things.
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Arthur snapped.
Ford shrugged. “I thought it might.”
Arthur gave him a look that made it clear that this had been a misguided and stupid idea. “Why,” he said very slowly, “are we stuck in the middle of an intergalactic fight to the death? And what,” he added with emphasis, “can we do about it?”
Ford often found that at times like this, it was easier to let the Guide do the talking. Fortunately, he had managed to grab his trusty satchel, which, along with his towel and several packets of long-expired sucking candies, contained the most remarkable book to come out of the great publishing houses of Ursa Minor. He pulled it out, fiddled with the buttons, and handed it down to Arthur before wandering off to calculate the exact direness of their situation.
Arthur glared at the book that had mysteriously appeared in his hands while he was busy sulking.
The Intergalactic Mega-Fight, the Guide chirped at him, is an exclusive spectacle put on every century by the royal family of Umar, whose extraordinary wealth is matched only by their legendary bloodlust and extreme lack of imagination when it comes to titling events. Contestants, hand selected from only the most famous of intergalactic figures, are pitted against each other in the ultimate battle of brain, brawn, and willingness to slaughter one's fellow sentient creature.
The sole survivor is showered with riches and accolades. Winning, however, is a difficult and dangerous prospect, and it has become habit for the most wealthy participants to send well-trained mercenaries in their place. Some consider this cheating, but as it increases the level of violence and general mayhem, the royal family has embraced the tradition with open arms.
Many advocacy groups have protested against the entire event, calling it barbaric and uncivilized. However, those protesters who don't mysteriously turn up dead invariably lose interest in the cause after suddenly coming into unexplained wealth. There is a luxurious resort community on Ursa Minor Beta populated entirely by former anti-Intergalactic Mega-Fight advocates.
That, Arthur decided, was just a longer and even more disheartening version of what Ford had already told him.
“But we're not famous!” he protested.
Ford, who was now staring at the bleak gray wall of the cave as if it held the answers to the universe, replied, “The invitation was meant for Zaphod. Former Presidents of the Galaxy are very popular contestants.”
“Only former?” Arthur asked darkly, still clinging to his knees.
“They couldn't take the current President. That could be a disaster.”
“Oh, of course.” Arthur thought about standing, tried, and then collapsed again while his lungs attempted to escape the hundreds of tiny knives stabbing them. “Can't they send us back, since there's been a mix-up?”
Ford turned and fixed him with a solemn look. “Why would they do that? We can die just as entertainingly as anyone else.”
That declaration was met with a long silence. Outside the cave birds chirped with inappropriate sweetness. Somewhere deep in the cave water dripped with ominous plinks. A deep chill cloaked them in mild but irritating discomfort.
Suddenly Ford clapped his hands together. “No point in staying here,” he declared, grabbing Arthur's arm and hauling him — against multiple protests — to his feet. “We should find food and water.”
Arthur resisted asking “why” again. Instead, he said, “I'm not hungry.”
Ford nodded. “But you will be. And thirst is one of the worst ways to die.”
He added a smile that was meant to be encouraging, but came out closer to insane.
“Fine,” Arthur agreed, swaying a little. He didn't particularly like this cave, anyway. “But I'm not running.”
For the backdrop of a massive, public slaughterfest, the arena was surprisingly pleasant. Dense trees covered with leaves ranging from dark green to neon purple gave way, after twenty minutes of hiking downwards, to slightly less dense trees, whose leaves were a uniform pink.
In other circumstances Arthur would have stood and stared in awe. Instead, he focused on Ford, whose head weaved and bobbed as they trekked, apparently searching for some invisible sign of water. Occasionally he'd give out a yelp, run off into the shadows, and then emerge again a few minutes later, looking grim. In response to these outbursts Arthur simply waited in place and hoped no one came to kill him; every time Ford came back he was hit by a surprising and overwhelming wave of relief.
“Shouldn't we make weapons?” he finally asked.
Ford shook his head. “Weren't you listening? Most people in here are highly trained warriors. Our best weapon is running and hiding.”
“So your plan is to hide our way to victory. That's just brilliant.”
Ford, who was too distracted to pick up on the sarcasm, shrugged. “Not really. I'm hoping I'll come up with something better later.”
They continued to hike. The birds continued to chirp. A light breeze picked up, ruffling through their hair and gently tugging at their clothing. As the trees grew ever more sparse, the sun began to beat down rather pleasantly. Grassy hills rolled before them, looking more or less exactly like a slightly pinker version of the paintings Arthur dimly recalled ignoring on museum trips as a child.
“Are you sure you're right about where we are?” Arthur asked after another twenty minutes of undisturbed strolling. “This doesn't seem very ... foreboding.”
At that exact moment, a howl of incomparable pain echoed from the distance, bouncing around the hills and magnifying as it roared sickeningly by their ears.
“Yes,” Ford said, gesturing in the general direction of the sound. “It's specially designed to be as idyllic as possible, until it's not. The royal family are big fans of irony.” He pointed to a tree. “That’s a camera.”
Arthur squinted and stared. It looked like just another tree to him.
“And there are microphones all over,” Ford added. “It's really very impressive.” He glanced around wistfully. Under slightly different circumstances, this would be one of the most exciting things that had ever happened to him. To be inside a Mega-Fight arena! He didn't know any hitchhiker who could say they'd done that. The level of logistical coordination that went into following every contestant and projecting the live feed into the exclusive viewing ships would make most army generals weep.
It turns out that the masterful execution of your own death is more depressing than impressive, however, and the longer they walked the more Ford became deeply worried about the lack of water. Arthur was pushing on with his usual resigned crankiness, but pretty soon they'd both be feeling the effect of the “pleasant” sun. With so many trees there should have been a stream somewhere, but engineering could do wonders. Ford had a sneaking suspicion the forestry was being fed by inaccessible underground pipes. It was not a nice hunch to have.
His increasingly melancholy thoughts were interrupted by a tingling along his back. It was one of those instinctual feelings that transcends senses or logic, and it was saying Watch out. Ford listened, grabbing Arthur's shirt as he dove to the ground. They landed face down just as something dangerous-sounding whistled over their heads.
Arthur turned to him, panic not so much written as painted in neon letters across his face. Another evil something whizzed past and landed a few feet in front of them. It was an arrow.
“Run and hide?” Arthur asked.
“Run and hide,” Ford agreed.
And with that Ford was on his feet and sprinting wildly in a direction that was not the one the arrows were coming from. He could hear footsteps that he hoped were Arthur's just inches behind them. Maybe this plan was better —
“ARG!” The footsteps turned into a thud.
Ford spun, panic making the world blur. Arthur. But his companion was already back on his feet, barreling past him with a large gash on his shoulder.
Relief hit Ford like a punch in the gut, but before he could follow another scream tore through the air. This one was from behind them; he whipped around. A deafening roar filled the air, followed by a sight five times worse than any of the sounds thus far.
A giant creature — something like a cross between a bear and the most horrifying monster anyone has ever imagined — stumbled out from behind the trees, snapping giant jaws and snarling. Running from it was a muscled mammoth of a person, who fruitlessly brandished a bow in one tentacle and a sword in two others.
Ford had never seen a Ravenous Bugblatter Beast in person, but there could be no question that was what the creature was. It set upon its victim with a bloody gusto, revealing rows of knife-like teeth that shone in yellow glory as they ripped through the tentacles.
And the screaming. There was quite a lot of screaming.
Ford's hand dove into his bag, reaching about in desperation for his towel. Behind him, Arthur was rooted in place, watching the spectacle in wide-eyed horror. Ford ran to him.
“Put this towel over your head,” he shouted. It was hard to be heard over the screaming and bellowing.
Arthur just stared at him blankly. Ford shook the towel. Arthur stared. With an exasperated sigh, Ford expertly dropped the towel over Arthur, just in time to hear the screams tapering off to low death moans.
“Ford – ” Arthur protested, reaching towards his eyes.
Ford snatched Arthur's hand away and held it in place at his side. With his free hand, he turned his bag upside down, spilling the Guide and the candy across the ground. He pulled it over his head, but not before getting a final, horrifying glimpse of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast lapping at a puddle of blood.
“Why do I have a towel on my head,” Arthur protested. “Shouldn't we be running before that thing makes us dessert?”
Ford tightened his sweaty grip on Arthur's hand. “If we can't see it, it thinks it can't see us,” he whispered, hoping very fervently this wasn't some specially-trained, super-intelligent Ravenous Bugblatter Beast. That just wouldn't be sporting.
They stood, hand in hand, completely blind, for what felt like an hour, but was in reality two minutes. Then the thump thump of giant footsteps began to approach them.
It was, Arthur decided, as the creaking of leaves and rumbling snarls grew ever closer, the single most frightening thing that had ever happened to him. Forget the the first time he tried to kiss a girl. Forget being attacked by bloodthirsty mice. Forget even the Vogon poetry. There's something uniquely unnerving about standing still, trusting a towel on your head to protect you from a ravenous beast.
The snorting, sniffing, growling creature finally reached them. Its hot breath hit them with the force of a thousand rotten fish. Its hideous nose sniffed the air around their ears. Arthur tried to concentrate on the feeling of blood trickling down his chest, but that just reminded him of the throbbing pain in his shoulder. Instead he focused on Ford's hand, which was squeezing his so hard it felt like his bones were crushing together. He liked that better. He squeezed back.
After another agonizing minute, the beast shuffled on. Ford and Arthur stood perfectly still, neither moving until the footsteps had faded off to nothing.
Arthur eventually ripped the towel off of his head with his free hand, turning to find Ford staring at him with a wide smile.
“It worked,” Arthur said.
Ford nodded emphatically. “And you know what else? I bet that poor bugger had some water on him.”
It turned out the poor bugger had not just a large container of water, but also a supply of dried meat tucked safely into a sack that he'd dropped while futilely fleeing from fate. Fortunately, Ravenous Bugblatter Beasts have no use for dried meat and water.
They hiked on in quiet shock until they found another cave. The sun was going down, so Ford suggested they stop for the night. Arthur, legs burning and psyche babbling, gladly agreed.
Unfortunately, the cave didn't provide much in terms of shelter, and as the sun disappeared the temperature dropped notably.
“That guy couldn't have dropped a blanket or something?” Arthur complained as he huddled on the cold ground, back against an equally cold wall. Earlier he'd suggested they start a fire, but Ford had pointed out that it might draw attention, and besides, neither of them knew how to build a fire without a match.
Ford, who was crouched in his own corner, stood and walked over, satchel in hand. Without comment he pulled out his towel, sat down beside Arthur, and draped it over both of them. Arthur thought about protesting, but he was much warmer where his side met Ford's. He sighed and leaned against him, letting their heads bump together.
“How are you?” Ford asked after a moment.
It seemed like an unreasonably large question. Arthur went with, “My shoulder hurts.”
Ford started. He had completely forgotten about that. “I can look at it,” he offered, pulling away enough to turn and fix Arthur with an apologetic stare.
Arthur shook his head. The bleeding had stopped, and at this point he was too exhausted to care. “Maybe tomorrow.”
Ford nodded, and slumped closer, shoving his head onto Arthur's good shoulder. “Please don't die of blood loss in the night,” he muttered.
There was an earnestness underlying the request that made Arthur's heart skip a beat. A hint of genuine, undisguised concern. He was pretty sure he'd never heard that from Ford before. A question that had been nagging at the back of his mind since he'd heard the Guide's description of the event suddenly surged forward into his consciousness.
“Ford?”
“Hmm?”
“Why are we both here?”
He felt Ford shift next to him. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you said that the invitation was for Zaphod, but it got us accidentally.”
“Right,” Ford agreed, breath tickling Arthur's neck.
“But there's one Zaphod, and two of us. How'd we both end up here? Do they do a literal headcount, or do they just pick up anyone who's around, or...?”
Ford shook his head, which was a very awkward thing to do when resting it on someone's shoulder. Reluctantly — because he was tired, he decided — he raised it, leaving his face inches from Arthur's.
“No,” he confessed. “It takes whoever touches the letter.”
Arthur frowned at him. “That was me. Not you.”
Ford didn't quite meet his eye. “I saw what it was, so I reached out and grabbed you. I got pulled along.”
“Why?”
The question hung in the air, filling the space between them. Ford's eyes stayed firmly trained to somewhere around Arthur’s left eyebrow, his uneven breaths forming cold puffs of vapor that evaporated as they hit Arthur's skin.
“Because I thought you'd die if I didn't.”
The answer also hung in the air, even more complicated and unexpected than the question. Arthur's mind turned it over, tried to contemplate it, saw a growing array of potential implications, gave up, and back-flipped straight into a pool of denial.
“So it's better if we both die, is it?” he protested instead.
This time Ford did meet his eye. “We made it through day one, right?”
“Do you actually think we can survive?”
Ford flashed a wicked smile. “I do have a knack for getting out of trouble,” he said with more confidence than he felt.
Oddly, that actually made Arthur feel a bit better, and the idea that he could go back to feeling worse discouraged pressing the issue. So he nodded and shifted closer, letting Ford place his head back on his shoulder. He didn't know much about surviving intergalactic gladiatorial death matches, but he had a feeling they'd need their sleep.
Arthur was running through the woods; screams echoed around him, and hidden under them the snorts and growls of the hideous Bugblatter Beast. Ahead of him, a burly, musclebound giant glanced back with fear. And suddenly Arthur was leaping through the air, jaws snapping until they clenched around the man's neck, the salty red taste of blood filling his mouth. He was the beast! He fought to stop but his teeth kept tearing, internal protests buried by the shout —
“Arthur! Arthur!” Ford was crouching over him, shaking him firmly by the shoulder. “Wake up!”
Arthur started up, almost slamming his head into Ford's, and then buried his face again his chest, trembling. Ford wrapped a confused arm around his back to hold him up.
Oh god, Arthur thought. I can't do this. The universe had thrown a lot of entirely unexpected obstacles at him, and he thought he'd taken them relatively in stride. But some things were just not on, and waking up in the middle of the most dangerous game was one of them. He rejected the whole thing.
“It was just a dream,” Ford offered, patting his back awkwardly. It was one of those obvious phrases humans seemed to cling to. He hoped it would make Arthur feel better. “It wasn't real.”
Arthur looked up at him with red eyes, clutching at his shirt. “But this is.” He waved one of his arms to indicate their surroundings, nearly hitting Ford in the face again.
Ford dodged and tried to think of a way to counter that argument, but it was pretty airtight. He nodded.
“Are we going to have to kill people?” Arthur asked.
He sounded desperate for Ford to say no, so Ford said, “No.” And then, because he wasn't sure whether or not that was a lie and it bothered him, he added, “Let me look at your shoulder.”
Arthur gave him a blank look before glancing down to see his dressing gown matted with blood along his left shoulder. He shrugged and pulled it back to reveal a ripped shirt and a wound already crusting over.
Ford, who'd asked mainly as a distraction, was surprised by the bolt of panic that hit him again when he saw Arthur covered in blood. In a fit of startled action he grabbed the canteen, poured a little water on the towel, and rubbed it over the laceration. While the dried blood stubbornly refused to budge, Arthur did end up slightly wetter than before.
“Ow!” he protested. “I don't think that's helping.”
Ford stopped. Arthur was right, of course. It was just a waste of water. What was he thinking?
“Anyway,” he pronounced, shoving the towel back into his bag and jumping to his feet as if he knew what he was doing. “Sun's coming up. We should go see if we can find anything that could help.”
The sun burst over the horizon in a blaze of color. The trees reflected deep orange. The grass glowed a warm green. The hills rolled in an undulating rainbow of warm reds and purples. The birds sang a merry morning tune. Ford wished all the colors and birds and peaceful morning vibes would go jump off a cliff.
It wasn't that they were marching through an artificially beautiful world filled with artificially induced horrors for someone else's entertainment. It wasn't that they had almost emptied their canteen of water, and his throat was starting to close up in scratchy protest. It wasn't even the lingering question of whether or not he'd have to kill another sentient being. It was that he was worried about Arthur. And that, in turn, made him worry about himself.
If he was being honest, he'd admit that he didn't always think hard about the things he did. He went with the flow, and since the flow normally tossed him up somewhere interesting, it was generally a good enough plan. He spent a lot of time drinking, running, and enjoying the vast wonders the universe had in store, and very little time contemplating questions like Why did I rescue this particular human from his planet's destruction?
In fact, he had not once considered why, of all the people he had met in his fifteen years of pretending to be an out of work Earth actor, Arthur was the one he immediately ran to when he realized the Vogons were coming. And he'd continued not to consider why he kept palling around with him, even though he was unmistakably a liability in the casual hitchhiking lifestyle Ford was accustomed to. He had, in fact, not even thought about why he'd dived into this suicidal situation before Arthur had asked him, and his answer surprised himself. Ford didn't like surprising himself. He'd seen the results of that with Zaphod, and it gave him the willies.
So now he was trying to give himself some room to think, which was difficult when he was also trying to both watch out for danger and brainstorm their escape. So far, all he'd discovered was that every plan he could think of was as useless as the last, he didn't like how pale and drawn Arthur looked even in the glorious morning light, and the memory of his friend trembling in wide-eyed horror after his nightmare made him nauseous.
“Ford?” Arthur asked. “Why are you staring at me?”
“I'm hoping you'll magically transform into a water fountain.”
Arthur rolled his eyes and stalked onwards with a defeated determination in his gait.
This whole thing was, in a word, distracting.
By midday the the forest had given way to a rocky plain that swept for miles in every direction, and the sun had ramped its way up to unpleasantly hot. Ford was starting to wish they'd run into someone else, just for a break from the loop of confused ideas buzzing around his head. Arthur had given up on wishing for anything, and in fact had shut down thought in general.
Birds circled overhead. Not the happy chirping kind, but big ones, eagle-like creatures with fifteen yard wingspans. They swooped down sometimes, golden feathers glinting in the sun. Ford toyed with the idea of trying to harness one, but the complete lack of harnessing materials, or bait other than themselves, killed that idea before it could get started. Instead they kept walking.
“Ford,” Arthur said eventually, breaking the hours of glum silence.
“Hmm?”
“I'm sorry.”
“For what?”
“Grabbing that letter.”
Since there wasn't anything else to say about the matter that would make either of them feel better, they lapsed back into silence for a few more miles.
Then, just as Arthur was starting to think the “death match” element if this ordeal was highly oversold, Ford let out a shout and pointed across the plain. Arthur followed his finger and promptly wished he hadn't.
Charging towards them were three huge men with gleaming muscles, giant axes, and huge suits of armor, which were clearly designed to make anyone who spotted their wearers running at them from across a plain tremble in fear. It worked.
Arthur trembled. He gaped. He groaned. He knew it was time to run again, but when he looked in the other direction, all he saw was more plain. He looked back. The men were still far behind them, but they were advancing at a clip that would make an Olympic marathoner give up.
“Arthur!” Ford yelled, urgently tugging at his arm. “We need to run!”
“Where? Running and hiding doesn't work when there's nowhere to hide.”
“I have a new plan,” Ford insisted, hand venturing from Arthur's arm to his dressing gown collar, which he started to pull desperately.
“Which is?”
“Just run.”
With a resigned nod, Arthur ran. What else could he do?
Ford was just asking himself that exact question when their desperate and increasingly futile sprint away from the evil-looking pack of contestants was brought to an abrupt halt by the sudden appearance of a cliff. He skidded to a stop, looked over the edge, saw a sheer hundred yard drop interrupted only by some of the giant birds gliding around, turned in time to catch Arthur before he barreled over the edge in a blind panic, and then promptly fell to the ground, dragging Arthur down with him.
They lay for a second, panting at each other. Ford glanced back. The men were still several minutes behind them, but, as he preferred to live for more than several more minutes, that wasn't much comfort.
“Ford,” Arthur gasped out between heavy breaths. “Now would be a good time for another brilliant idea.”
Ford looked at Arthur. He looked at the men making their way briskly towards them. He looked at the cliff.
He didn't have any brilliant ideas. But he did have one bad enough it just might work.
He grabbed Arthur by the shoulder, and looked him straight in the eyes. While Arthur was busy blinking at him in confusion, Ford declared in a loud, steady voice:
“I love you.”
Arthur's response was something like, “Errr.”
Ford didn't wait around to hear the rest. He jumped up, dashed towards the cliff, and threw himself over the edge.
Ford's plan went something like this: The universe is a vast place that operates on principles that aren’t fully understood. Based on a number of apocryphal stories, extensive anecdotal evidence, and a gut sense of what is right and fair, one of those principles would seem to be that if you declare your love for a friend before doing something monumentally brave and terribly stupid, like jumping off of a cliff, things should work out for you, because romance is good and love is true.
Put another way, he was hoping that he might land on one of the giant eagles.
Twenty yards down and no bird in sight, he was starting to think this was the worst idea he'd ever had. That was when he looked up and saw Arthur's head peeking over the edge of the cliff. He seemed to be mouthing something.
As anyone who has checked the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy knows, there's a trick to flying: Throwing yourself at the ground and missing. This is best achieved by getting sidetracked at just the right moment, and forgetting you're supposed to be falling in the first place.
Hearing an unexpected “I love you, too” is one hell of a great distraction.
It took several moments of rapid heartbeats and a tumbling thrill of emotions for Ford to realize he was no longer plummeting to his death. Instead, he was floating unsteadily thirty yards off the ground. He registered that fact, started to fall, remembered what Arthur had just shouted, and suddenly went back to flying.
He let out a tentative whoop. Then a confident one. He wasn't sure what he was celebrating. Being alive? The confused and hopeful feelings swelling in his chest? The simple joy of soaring across the sky? The giant bird swooping below him at just this moment, proving that maybe the universe did keep an eye out for happy endings?
“FORD!” Arthur's panicked shout snapped him back to reality. It couldn't have been more than a minute since he'd thrown himself off the edge, but they'd had less than two before their burly attackers were on them.
Ford reluctantly let go of his new-found flight and plopped onto the bird gliding beneath him with another “whoop.” He buried his fingers in its feathers — which were sharper than he'd have liked, but you can't have everything — and pulled. With an annoyed squawk it began to flap upwards.
When they were level with the plains, Ford pushed down again and the bird stopped. He gave it an appreciative stroke along the neck.
“Hop on,” he yelled to Arthur, who was gaping at him and the bird with a mixture of awe and horror. Ford nudged the bird closer to the edge and held out his hand. Arthur grabbed it.
“Are you sure it can hold both of us?” he asked.
“No. But I do know that guy is about to chop your head off.”
Arthur glanced behind him, noted the validity of that argument, closed his eyes, and hoisted himself onto the bird, wrapping his arms tightly around Ford's waist. The bird stuttered, dropped, and then flapped its giant wings. With a sickening rush they tilted up and flew off, leaving their pursuers shouting in futile anger behind them.
For several minutes they flew in silence. Arthur pressed against Ford's back with his eyes still thrust shut, trying very, very hard not to be sick.
Several emotions were competing for his attention. One was animal panic, a sheer bone-deep terror of the heights he could feel them reaching with each roaring flap. Wind hit them from every side; sharp feathers cut at his thighs. This bird was not made for riding, and his body knew it. Dueling it out with that feeling was a tremor of thrill at being alive. He had seen death running at him with the pointy end of an axe, and he'd cheated it.
Then there was the uncomfortable realization that while “love” might be a stronger word than he was actually ready for, seeing Ford step off the edge of that cliff had been the single most horrifying moment of his life since he'd realized Earth really was gone. And along with the fear and the joy, a small part of his mind was busy deciding he really liked the way Ford's body felt in his arms.
Which, if he'd been able to read Ford's mind, he would have realized was very convenient, because between trying to steer the bird and taking in the depressingly never-ending landscape sweeping below them, Ford's brain had come to the conclusion that it would be quite content if Arthur never took his arms away.
“What do we do now?” Arthur shouted over the rush of the wind.
“Now,” Ford informed him, “We keep flying. Hopefully everyone else will kill each other off soon.”
Arthur groaned and buried his face in Ford's neck.
“I hate this,” he murmured.
Ford was hit with an overwhelming desire to give his friend a comforting hug. Maybe even stroke his hair, or whisper something sickening about making sure everything would be all right. Maybe he really was in love. Love love. When did that happen? It was, he quickly realized, a question for another day. He had more pressing concerns. Such as: How long would this bird put up with them?
He never got the answer, because their triumphant flight was cut short when the bird dipped low, apparently distracted by a glittering pond — which, Ford's throat said, was fair enough — only to be promptly shot full of arrows. It squawked, careened into a tree, tumbled to the ground, and threw Ford and Arthur off, leaving them a groaning pile of limbs.
When Arthur finally opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Ford's arm over his face. The next thing he saw was an arrow pointed at his head.
That, he decided, was just not fair. Then he passed out.
When he came to he was sitting on the bank of a pond. Ford was next to him, humming quietly to himself. A collection of roasted animal meats, fruits, and, inexplicably, bottles of a dangerous looking alcohol was spread out on a patch of grass several yards away. But what really stood out were the arrows still pointed at their faces. Also notable were the creatures at the other end of the arrows; they were blubbery, purplish-gray, and overall not unlike bipedal hippopotamuses. Hippopotamuses, Arthur mentally corrected, with intelligent, beady eyes, and the ability to hold arrows.
Another ability: Conversation. There were four of them, and they appeared to be discussing the best way to kill Ford and Arthur.
“We should just shoot them!” one declared.
“What if they have their own alliance?” another argued. “Maybe they know where others are.”
A third shook its head and looked straight at Arthur as if he was a delightful toy. “Let's carve them up!” it cackled.
Great. He was going to die at the hands of sadist hippo aliens. Just how he always dreamed. He looked over at Ford, who was staring at the alcohol with a hungry glint in his eyes.
“Is that Janx Spirit?” he suddenly burst out, startling Arthur and, apparently, their captors.
“Yes,” the sadist declared. It lumbered forward with the unmistakable saunter of the person in charge. “What's it to you?”
Ford licked his lips, tongue darting out in a movement that sent and unbidden and entirely circumstance-inappropriate shiver down Arthur's spine. A pang of regret chased it. They'd had so much time, but now —
“I want some,” Ford demanded, apparently entirely missing the gist of their situation. Arthur's thoughts took a sharp right turn into panic.
“Ford!” he protested, but his friend just shot him a warning glare before turning a defiant gaze back to their captor.
“Why would we give you that?” the creature shouted, jowls wobbling. It took a threatening step forward.
”Um,” Ford said, in his unmistakable I'm flying by the seat of my pants and just ran out of steam voice.
“Because we just discovered we're in love,” Arthur cut in, still confused, but willing to buy time any way possible.
The creature turned its beady eyes on Arthur with an air that was clearly skeptical.
“It's true,” Ford agreed, picking up the thread. He grabbed Arthur's hand. “Nothing like a near-death experience to open your eyes, right fellas?”
Arthur nodded. “And since it looks like we're about to die...”
“Don't you think we at least deserve a drink for our unfortunate timing?” Ford finished with a flourish.
The creatures eyed them. It eyed its companions, who shrugged noncommittally. It eyed them again. Ford held up their conjoined hands as proof.
“Fine,” it finally rumbled. “You can drink … until you die!”
Inexplicably, Ford's face broke into an impossible grin. “Great!” he declared. Then, by way of explanation for his expression, he added, “If I'm gonna go, that's the way to do it.”
Arthur didn't quite agree with this sentiment, but when he attempted to make his dissatisfaction apparent through glaring, Ford just grinned wider and winked.
It was too bad, Arthur mused as he took the overflowing glass that was forced into his hand, that he wasn't going to live long enough to do some serious soul searching. He clinked his cup against the one Ford extended towards him. Clearly, he had to be mad to have fallen for this insufferable maniac. There must be some trauma in his past he'd forgotten.
One more mystery he'd never figure out. He raised the drink to his lips and gulped it down with a wince.
Four nauseating drinks later, they weren't dead. They were, however, more intoxicated than Arthur had ever been, and even Ford would have called it a good party — if they had been at a party, instead of facing their imminent demise.
A fifth serving was shoved into their hands. The hippos were clearly enjoying the show. They lounged on the beach, stuffing down meat and laughing as Ford and Arthur struggled to get the cups to meet their mouths.
Arthur glowered at his. It looked like there were three of it. He checked Ford. It looked like there were four of him.
“Fffff,” he said. He swallowed and tried again. “Fords.”
Ford gave him a weak sort of smile, which Arthur took to mean he was still conscious enough to listen.
“Thanks rescue.” No. That wasn't a sentence. “From Earth.”
“No problem.” Ford tried to toast to that, and mostly spilled drink over his hand, earning hisses from the hippos. He took another sip to prove that he was still in this to win it. Or lose it, as it were. “My pleasure.”
“Apparently.” Arthur giggled into his drink.
“You know,” Ford said, voice suddenly louder, and clearer than Arthur would have thought possible. “We've never even kissed.”
That was true, Arthur realized. But it just made him sad. He took another sip and heaved.
“Hey guys,” Ford suddenly said, even louder. He waved his hands to make sure all four of their captors were paying attention. “Is it okay if we have our first kiss before we drink ourselves into the great alehouse in the sky?”
The aliens exchanged looks. One of them — Arthur was pretty sure it was the one who hadn't said anything yet, but then he was also pretty sure there were nine of them now — nodded.
“We're not monsters,” it said, glaring around at its companions. For a moment, Arthur had the feeling that the comment was part of a larger conversation they had wandered into the middle of. Then he got distracted by the feeling that he was going to vomit.
“Thank you,” Ford slurred. He put down his drink, shifted the satchel that was still around his neck, and scooted towards Arthur, who watched him in a dazed stupor and tried to figure out which swaying figure was the real one. Fortunately Ford had a slightly firmer grip on reality, because his hand found Arthur's cheek; fingers splayed drunkenly across his face, cupping his jaw. His hand was warm. Arthur pressed into it.
Then Ford's face was inches from his, breath smelling of booze and something sweet and tangy. Odd. Maybe that was just the way he smelled. Arthur swallowed as Ford leaned closer.
“Too bad this didn't happen sooner,” he muttered, and then Ford's lips were on his.
In an entirely unsurprising turn of events, it was a messy, drunken kiss. Their noses bumped, and Arthur had to grab Ford's shoulder to stay steady as their lips pressed together. He moaned and opened his mouth, pulling Ford closer until their chests hit. Somehow his hand found its way from Ford's shoulder to his hair and laced into it, a desperate grip. This is it, he realized as Ford's tongue pushed its way into his mouth. My last kiss.
And then something weird happened. A small, round ball rolled off of Ford's tongue and into Arthur's mouth. It was hard, and tasted like Ford's breath had smelled: sweet and sharply tangy. For a moment he wondered if it was some alien mating thing, but before he could make up his mind to be disgusted Ford pulled back, hand clutching his jaw closed with surprising force.
They locked eyes. Ford's gaze was swimming but gentle.
“Swallow,” he whispered urgently, so Arthur, head spinning from arousal, confusion, and mostly alcohol, did.
Ford smiled a relieved smile, pressed their lips together for a brief moment, and then shoved a drink back into Arthur's hand. He grabbed his own cup and raised it to their captors. “Thanks, guys!” he slurred. “I wish you luck.”
Arthur just had time to wonder why Ford suddenly seemed so much drunker before he slid off into oblivion.
The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy contains many tips and tricks that are useful to know when you're trying to see the universe on less than 30 Altairian dollars a day. One such tip is this: Sometimes, the best way to get out of a seemingly impossible jam — for example, a fight against one of the famed boxers of Albrazia, or an accidental marriage to one of the legendary sirens of the Glolar sector (who are as deadly as they are beautiful) — is to play dead.
There are, the Guide advises, countless drugs that can help achieve this effect. But by far cheapest and easiest to acquire is the popular Vigrant brand sweet and sour sucking candy which, when expired, can be used to render any lifeform apparently lifeless for up to twelve hours.
The Guide also notes that Vigrant has been sued over this product many times, but as everyone survives they've successful argued no harm, no foul, and have started purposefully selling expired bags to schoolchildren with tests to avoid.
Arthur awoke to his brain melting out of his ears. Or had his ears run away entirely? It was difficult to tell over the sound of throbbing blood. He opened his eyes very slowly, only to be assaulted by a bright light bouncing off the teeth Ford bared at him in what was perhaps a smile.
He was lying on something cold. He sat. The world span, his head screamed. He heaved. The world calmed down enough for him to see that he was on a metal table. Ford was sitting across from him, also on a metal table. He was definitely smiling.
Around them were other metal tables. People were lying on them, but no one else was sitting up. Arthur tried to put these clues together. His brain, which apparently only felt like it had melted out of his ears, tried very hard to make that feeling reality. His elbows buckled. Suddenly Ford was at his side, pulling him back to sitting.
“We need to get going,” he hissed, bouncing on the balls of his feet with nervous energy.
“Is this the afterlife?” Arthur boggled.
“No. It's the Mega-Fight morgue ship.”
“Oh,” Arthur said. And then, because that didn't explain it, “What?”
“We're out!” Ford urged Arthur to his feet. “We tricked them.”
“Oh,” Arthur said again. He clutched Ford's arm, because that was the only thing that made sense (and also because he felt the overwhelming urge to fall over). “How?”
“I'll explain later,” Ford promised. “Right now we need to get out of here.”
“So we're not safe yet?”
Ford grinned an unnerving grin. They weren't out, but they were on a spaceship. Guards and robots and ducking down corridors. His territory. He grabbed Arthur's face and kissed him, briefly and triumphantly. “We got this far, right?”
Arthur, head spinning, sighed a put-upon sigh, but reached for Ford's hand and nodded. Pleased, Ford laced their fingers together and squeezed.
They started running.