Deep in the fundamental heart of mind and Universe, said Slartibartfast, there is a reason.
Ford glanced sharply around. He clearly thought this was taking an optimistic view of things.
The interior of the flight deck was dark green, dark red, dark brown, cramped and moodily lit. Inexplicably, the resemblance to a small Italian bistro had failed to end at the hatchway. Small pools of light picked out pot plants, glazed tiles and all sorts of little unidentifiable brass things.
Rafia-wrapped bottles lurked hideously in the shadows.
The instruments which had occupied Slartibartfast’s attention seemed to be mounted in the bottom of bottles which were set in concrete.
Ford reached out and touched it.
Fake concrete. Plastic. Fake bottles set in fake concrete.
The fundamental heart of mind and Universe can take a running jump, he thought to himself, this is rubbish. On the other hand, it could not be denied that the way the ship had moved made the Heart of Gold seem like an electric pram.
He swung himself off the couch. He brushed himself down. He looked at Arthur who was singing quietly to himself. He looked at the screen and recognized nothing. He looked at Slartibartfast.
How far did we just travel? he said.
About… said Slartibartfast, about two thirds of the way across the Galactic disc, I would say, roughly. Yes, roughly two thirds, I think.
It’s a strange thing, said Arthur quietly, that the further and faster one travels across the Universe, the more one’s position in it seems to be largely immaterial, and one is filled with a profound, or rather emptied of a…
Yes, very strange, said Ford. Where are we going?
We are going, said Slartibartfast, to confront an ancient nightmare of the Universe.
And where are you going to drop us off?
I will need your help.