Hitchhikers Manual Entry # 2639467287.6
Category: Entertainment
In virtually every civilization, there are people who perform particular tasks so well that the performances, or the artifacts of them, are of immense interest to others. There is no real rhyme or reason to what activities a given culture will find amusing; while the spectacle of toilet construction is eagerly attended to on Rigel 6, whose inhabitants excretory systems appear to be modeled after a Klein bottle, equally puzzling is the observation of excretory functions, which is the primary recreational activity of the meiotic macrophages of Cygnus 3, also known as the first species to devise a calculus of flatulence frequencies, quite useful for settling disagreements over the primary contributor of methane to the local atmosphere in enclosed spaces, which has prevented untold wars.
The realization that any activity may conceivably be someone else's entertainment has resulted in market forces rendering the antiquated concept of privacy utterly obsolete, with most cultures who gave even lip service to the notion having coincidentally met their demise in a series of unrelated incidents over the last century.
These days, one's best source of financial security and physical protection is a camera crew following one around the clock (which clock depends on local ordinances primarily), a loyal sponsor, and a large, affectionate audience. These things are also required for one to hold public office in any sector of the galaxy that hasn't been condemned unfit for biological habitation and reconfigured as an orgone dump.
*****
"I hope you don't expect me to act like I'm happy to see you."
The sullen, pouty expression on the face of the woman addressing them somehow only seemed to exacerbate her alabaster skin, her lustrously dark hair which spilled out of her scalp to rest at her shoulders, her slightly long, almost Mediterranean nose (all descriptions stem from Arthur's still Earthbound frame of reference), and her slightly pointed, insolent chin. She had impressive cheekbones, and lips that were almost too big for the mouth they encompassed. The black dress draped over her slender frame exposed her sharp shoulders, and disdained to cover any part of her legs below mid-thigh.
From what Arthur could tell, the entire raison d'etre of that face was to appear unhappy to be anywhere, doing anything, and look devastatingly attractive in the process. Had he not heard her speak and seen the play of her features match the words issuing from her mouth, he'd have been convinced she was a mannequin, As it was, he suspected–
"Oh, hello robot." Ford apparently had not trouble detecting her artificiality. As an aside to his compatriots, he noted, "Standard Sexbot, Olympia Corporation, Mark 7.3. Never seen one look this sullen, though."
"I was supposed to be modeled after an Orionian princess, from the post feudal era," said the quite fetchingly disingenuous facsimile. "They made me post-industrial."
Agnes thought she had it. "So your like our Generation Y?"
"Even worse," said Ford. "Orion 5 decided they could continue their colossal rates of per capita consumption with no drawbacks once someone invented an engine for a matter replicator that ran on hope."
"Not such a bad idea if it worked," said Agnes, who possessed a large supply of optimism herself.
"Only turns out there's a limited supply of the stuff," said Ford. "It's a renewable resource only if it isn't completely drained from the central nervous system of the organism generating it."
"So a cycle of ever-increasing wasteful consumption, limited only by whim and temperament, resulted in a generation of teenagers who were jaded, cynical and morose?" said Arthur. "Who could have guessed?"
"
Congenitally
morose," corrected Ford. "The only cure was hope transplants from those members of the population that were almost psychotically hopeful."
"Mostly registered voters," said the sexbot. Arthur, who'd voted straight Labour ticket until Blair's ascendancy, felt indignant, but held his peace.
All through this conversation, they'd been following the saucy sexbot and her abnormally long legs through various corridors, some brightly lit, others the light level of an average nightclub, minus the strobe effect.
Finally they reached what Arthur had come to recognize as a Significant Door. These doors serve the function of allowing people to carry on a conversation at full volume without being interrupted by the ambient noise of, say, another set of people arguing about whether they've gotten lost or not. They also provide a ready supply of cheap suspense before new characters are introduced.
As this one is opened, both Arthur and Ford are startled by the realization that they have encountered at least one of the inhabitants previously, although, for Ford, this just reinforces his conviction that they are caught up in a web of Extremely Unlikely Events.
Here they are," said the sexbot, clearly feeling no satisfaction at the completion of her assigned task. "Does anyone want me to have sex with them or something?"
"No, Marvella," said a clearly female voice. "I don't think any of us want sex just now." This voice was attached to a slender woman with brown hair frizzed up into what on a black woman would have termed an Afro. She had large brown eyes and a small button of a nose, her lips pale and quite thin.
While the sexbot was long and lithe, and Agnes medium-sized and curvy, this woman was petite, with small, but emphatically feminine proportions that refused to concentrate in any one physical feature, clothed anyway.
"Speak for yourself." The dual reply was almost synchronized, as if Ford and the man standing at what were obviously the ships controls had rehearsed this collaboration. Both of them also grinned, and moved towards each other to culminate in a bear hug, which was released after a good minute.
"Fame hasn't changed you that much," said Ford, giving the object of his declaration a final once-over before pronouncing judgement.
Said object had jet-black hair, on both his head and his face, as unkempt as a logger's and almost frighteningly large teeth, now proudly on display thanks to their owner's manic grin. Slender as a footballer, his outfit was a shiny, silky purple, except for the vest, which was black crushed velvet.
"And how about you," this living monument to tacky excess exclaimed. "Done chasing obscurity and bad investments, are we?"
Ford stopped grinning. "That planet was a prime vacation spot! If it hadn't been destroyed..."
"The population would have been up to 12 billion in 15 years and there'd be no more ice," said the man with certainty. "Trillian told me all about it."
"Trillian being me," said the lady in question, walking up to Ford with her hand outstretched. "Zaphod's never been much for politeness or introductions or...well, I'm sure he's good for something." She then turned towards Arthur and Agnes. "And Arthur I've met, but not your...friend?" If their disheveled appearance fazed her, she gave no sign. Agnes seemed startled, however, possibly by their familiarity.
"So when you took off with this bloke from the party, you completely ditched the planet, didn't you?" said Arthur, as if it had all been a laugh, not a past humiliation he really would have preferred not to recall.
