Zaphod looked nervously out of the corners of his eyes at the two dishevelled hitch-hikers at the next table. Where the hell was he? How had he got there? Where was his ship? His hand felt the arm of the chair on which he was sitting, and then the table in front of him. They seemed solid enough. He sat very still.
“How can they sit and write a guide for hitch-hikers in a place like this?” continued the voice. “I mean look at it. Look at it!”
Zaphod was looking at it. Nice place, he thought. But where? And why?
He fished in his pocket for his two pairs of sunglasses. In the same pocket he felt a hard smooth, unidentified lump of very heavy metal. He pulled it out and looked at it. He blinked at it in surprise. Where had he got that? He returned it to his pocket and put on the sunglasses, annoyed to discover that the metal object had scratched one of the lenses. Nevertheless, he felt much more comfortable with them on. They were a double pair of Joo Janta 200 Super-Chromatic Peril Sensitive Sunglasses, which had been specially designed to help people develop a relaxed attitude to danger. At the first hint of trouble they turn totally black and thus prevent you from seeing anything that might alarm you.
Apart from the scratch the lenses were clear. He relaxed, but only a little bit.
The angry hitch-hiker continued to glare at his monstrously expensive fruit juice.
“Worst thing that ever happened to the Guide, moving to Ursa Minor Beta,” he grumbled, “they’ve all gone soft. You know, I’ve even heard that they’ve created a whole electronically synthesized Universe in one of their offices so they can go and research stories during the day and still go to parties in the evening. Not that day and evening mean much in this place.”
Ursa Minor Beta, thought Zaphod. At least he knew where he was now. He assumed that this must be his great grandfather’s doing, but why?
Much to his annoyance, a thought popped into his mind. It was very clear and very distinct, and he had now come to recognize these thoughts for what they were. His instinct was to resist them. They were the pre-ordained promptings from the dark and locked off parts of his mind.
He sat still and ignored the thought furiously. It nagged at him. He ignored it. It nagged at him. He ignored it. It nagged at him. He gave in to it.
What the hell, he thought, go with the flow. He was too tired, confused and hungry to resist. He didn’t even know what the thought meant.