Young Zaphod Plays It Safe, nouvelle de Douglas Adams
Informations sur l’ouvrageRésumé, langues, provenance et téléchargement
Ce que vous allez apprendreLes fils directeurs à suivre pendant la lecture
Lire la nouvelle comme un récit autonome et repérer ce que l’inspection révèle progressivement sur le danger examiné.
En quelques mots (résumé court)L’argument, la structure et les limites du livre
Une courte aventure de Zaphod Beeblebrox, placée entre les quatrième et cinquième romans dans l’anthologie.
Cette nouvelle suit Zaphod Beeblebrox au cours d’une inspection dont les enjeux dépassent vite la routine annoncée. Elle appartient au même univers romanesque, mais sa brièveté et sa place dans le volume justifient une fiche propre.
Le fichier HTML la situe après Salut, et encore merci pour le poisson et avant Globalement inoffensive. Elle ne forme pas un sixième roman.
Synthèse IA en 4 pagesUne lecture complète, à feuilleter sans quitter la page
Un plongeon sous le mot « sûr »
Un étrange appareil survole une mer magnifique en décrivant de grands arcs. Sur la plage, les habitants d’une île cherchent surtout à comprendre ce qu’ils voient. Ils constatent que l’objet ressemble fort peu à un homard, puis retournent à leur déjeuner. Quand l’appareil plonge brusquement dans l’eau, ils se rappellent qu’un événement semblable s’est déjà produit cette année-là. Leur calme et leur goût pour les homards prennent un autre sens à mesure que l’histoire dévoile ce qui repose sous la mer.
L’appareil appartient à la Beeblebrox Salvage and Really Wild Stuff Corporation. Il descend jusqu’à capter les faibles signaux d’un vaisseau écrasé sur le fond. Dans la cabine se trouvent Zaphod Beeblebrox et deux représentants de la Safety and Civil Reassurance Administration. L’un des fonctionnaires confirme l’identité de l’épave, bien qu’il ait auparavant garanti que ce vaisseau ne pouvait absolument pas s’écraser. Zaphod relève la contradiction. Ses interlocuteurs, eux, continuent de parler comme si une garantie pouvait effacer l’accident visible sur leurs écrans.
Zaphod veut savoir ce que transportait le vaisseau. Les fonctionnaires répondent qu’il s’agit de « sous-produits » issus de procédés parfaitement sûrs. Cette explication devient moins rassurante lorsque Zaphod rappelle la mission prévue : conduire la cargaison jusqu’au trou noir le plus proche pour l’y jeter. Le pilote aurait quitté sa route pour chercher des homards près de cette île. Zaphod imagine des matières assez dangereuses pour ravager tout un secteur et demande ce qu’on attend réellement de lui. Les fonctionnaires refusent de préciser la cargaison tout en insistant pour qu’il fasse son travail.
Le contraste entre les voix donne sa forme à cette première partie. Zaphod fanfaronne, s’emporte et peine même à retrouver le mot « scrupules », mais ses questions suivent les faits. Les représentants de la sécurité gardent leur sang-froid et répètent que le vaisseau ne peut pas se rompre, alors qu’il gît au fond de l’océan. Leur assurance produit l’effet inverse de celui qu’ils recherchent : chaque formule rassurante révèle une chose qu’ils ne veulent pas nommer.
Zaphod finit par donner l’ordre de descendre. La lumière disparaît, la pression augmente et des créatures surgissent brièvement dans les faisceaux du bâtiment de sauvetage. La plongée déplace ainsi le récit d’une anomalie presque comique vers un lieu où il faudra vérifier matériellement les promesses de sécurité. Le lecteur connaît déjà deux éléments que l’administration minimise : un transport destiné à être détruit a dévié pour un caprice alimentaire, et le vaisseau réputé invulnérable a coulé.
L’épave, ses portes et son survivant
Au fond de la mer apparaît le Billion Year Bunker, vaste forteresse cylindrique dont les cales centrales ont reçu un blindage exceptionnel. Avant son départ, cette structure avait subi toutes sortes d’épreuves censées démontrer sa résistance. La partie ainsi protégée est pourtant rompue en deux. Un fonctionnaire précise aussitôt que les cales, même si le vaisseau s’est brisé, ne peuvent pas être ouvertes par l’accident. La scène impose une différence que ses paroles tentent d’effacer : tester une défense contre des agressions prévues ne garantit pas son comportement dans un naufrage réel.
Zaphod, les deux fonctionnaires et une combinaison vide utilisée pour porter le matériel et reconnaître le chemin sortent du bâtiment de sauvetage. Ils longent la coque endommagée, trouvent un sas qui s’ouvre difficilement et attendent que la pression intérieure soit rétablie. Derrière plusieurs portes de haute sécurité, ils pénètrent plus avant dans l’épave. Les dispositifs de protection restent assez actifs pour compliquer l’accès, tandis que la rupture du bâtiment est déjà manifeste. Cette coexistence nourrit la question centrale : qu’est-ce qui tient encore, et qu’est-ce qui a cédé ?
Une dernière porte donne sur une salle où Zaphod aperçoit un visage hurlant et un corps au sol. Pris de panique, il s’assied sur le cadavre, avec des conséquences répugnantes pour sa combinaison. Il essaie ensuite de s’évanouir ou de feindre une perte de mémoire, sans obtenir le répit espéré. La farce physique est violente, mais elle situe aussi la catastrophe : l’épave contient des morts, une atmosphère fétide et des restes que les formules administratives ne peuvent pas rendre inoffensifs.
Le visage appartient à un membre d’équipage vivant dans un réservoir de survie. Son récit donne à l’accident son origine dérisoire. Le pilote voulait prouver qu’on trouvait ici un homard exceptionnel, lié au pays de ses ancêtres. Son compagnon préférait les coquilles Saint-Jacques et lui proposait d’attendre le trajet du retour. Le pilote a tout de même conduit le vaisseau dans l’atmosphère, en affirmant pouvoir le maîtriser; il en a perdu le contrôle. Le survivant dit avoir envoyé un appel de détresse avant le choc et pense être le seul à s’être réfugié à temps dans un réservoir.
Après six mois passés dans cette cuve, le survivant comprend enfin qu’on l’a trouvé. Un fonctionnaire corrige sèchement son espoir d’être secouru : pour l’instant, seule la découverte est certaine. Il va consulter les circuits de surveillance du vaisseau et annonce que les chambres des tiges aoristes sont intactes. Pour Zaphod, cette précision confirme soudain qu’une cargaison redoutée se trouve bien à bord. Le récit du pilote explique pourquoi le vaisseau a sombré; il n’a encore rien résolu sur ce qui pourrait s’en échapper.
Les cargaisons dangereuses et la sécurité officielle
Les tiges aoristes permettent d’extraire de l’énergie du passé. Une fois cette possibilité découverte, de vastes portions du passé ont été exploitées jusqu’à s’appauvrir. Les défenseurs de cette énergie la présentaient comme abondante, bon marché et propre. À ceux qui craignaient une perte pour le présent, on répondait que ses effets étaient négligeables, quitte à réserver quelques fragments de passé aux personnes disposées à en payer le coût. L’invention donne une portée littérale à une habitude familière : traiter ce dont on hérite comme une ressource que l’on peut épuiser ailleurs que chez soi.
Le raisonnement change quand les gens constatent que leur propre présent souffre de la même pratique exercée par les habitants du futur. La destruction des tiges et du secret de leur fabrication devient alors impérative. La prétendue sollicitude pour les grands-parents et les petits-enfants masque un intérêt plus immédiat : protéger le présent de ceux qui prennent la décision. Cette boucle temporelle est une satire précise de la façon dont une nuisance lointaine devient intolérable lorsqu’elle revient à son point de départ.
Les fonctionnaires assurent néanmoins que les chambres contenant ces tiges sont sûres. L’un d’eux ajoute qu’il y a pire à bord et espère même que ce pire se trouve toujours dans le vaisseau. Son collègue le reprend, mais le premier explique pourquoi l’administration a recruté Zaphod au lieu de mener une opération officielle. Si Zaphod raconte ce qu’il apprend, sa réputation d’aventurier extravagant rendra son témoignage peu crédible. Même le récit de cette manœuvre pourra passer pour de la paranoïa. La mission de sauvetage sert donc aussi à préserver le secret.
En avançant, le groupe passe devant des produits capables, en quantité infime, d’infecter mortellement une planète, de la faire exploser ou de l’irradier. Chaque fois, le fonctionnaire répète que les cales sont sûres. Zaphod répond par une remarque sur la chance de ne pas être une planète. Le comique repose sur une mesure du danger réduite à la solidité du conteneur : l’administration énumère des effets immenses sans accepter que ces effets comptent dans son évaluation.
Près de la cassure du Billion Year Bunker, le couloir est déformé et humide. Une porte de cale a perdu son étanchéité et s’ouvre d’un simple contact. La répétition du mot « sûr » se heurte enfin à une preuve qui concerne directement la cargaison. Pressé de dire quels « sous-produits » se trouvent là, le fonctionnaire envoie d’abord son collègue vérifier une capsule de sauvetage prévue pour l’équipage. Il admet ensuite que, selon lui, les autres armes seraient rarement utilisées : les personnes assez dangereuses pour s’en servir éveilleraient normalement la méfiance. La cargaison suivante met précisément cette confiance en cause.
Les personnalités conçues et l’ordre final
La Sirius Cybernetics Corporation a reçu des fonds pour fabriquer des personnalités de synthèse sur commande. Ses créations associaient des traits qui, selon le fonctionnaire, ne coexisteraient pas chez des êtres naturels. La plupart étaient des êtres inadaptés et pitoyables; quelques-uns étaient profondément dangereux. Leur danger particulier tenait à la réaction des autres : ils ne déclenchaient pas les signaux d’alarme habituels. Ils pouvaient traverser des situations sans que personne reconnaisse ce qu’il fallait leur refuser.
Trois créations identiques étaient considérées comme les plus dangereuses. Le fonctionnaire les décrit comme simples, aimables, sans méchanceté intrinsèque. Il affirme pourtant qu’elles feraient tout ce qu’on leur permettrait et qu’on leur permettrait tout. Elles avaient été enfermées dans cette cale pour être projetées hors de l’univers avec le vaisseau. Le récit déplace ainsi la menace. Les armes précédentes possédaient une puissance mesurable; ces êtres agissent par l’écart entre l’impression qu’ils produisent et les limites que les autres seraient prêts à leur imposer.
Dans la cale, Zaphod distingue deux faibles lumières jaunes et l’emplacement d’une troisième, endommagée. Des traces humides et collantes marquent le sol. Son compagnon reçoit alors un message : la capsule de sauvetage a disparu. Il exige qu’on retrace son parcours. Zaphod ouvre une porte de verre dépoli et découvre un réservoir où flotte un homme à l’air bienveillant, souriant, les traits marqués par le rire. Ce visage donne une forme concrète à l’avertissement précédent : l’apparence rassurante fait partie du problème décrit par le fonctionnaire.
La destination vers laquelle la capsule s’est dirigée est identifiée : une planète du secteur galactique ZZ9 Plural Z Alpha. Dans le réservoir, l’homme parle doucement d’une cité brillante sur une colline. Le fonctionnaire ordonne alors que la planète soit rendue « parfaitement sûre ». Le récit s’arrête sur cet ordre. Il ne montre ni l’arrivée de la capsule, ni l’identité de son occupant, ni l’exécution de la mesure annoncée. La cale endommagée, la capsule absente et l’urgence de l’ordre rendent la menace intelligible sans en livrer les conséquences.
La dernière formule reprend celle qui a servi depuis le début à nier l’accident, à rassurer Zaphod et à décrire des armes planétaires. Elle n’a plus le son d’une garantie. Elle annonce une intervention dont le contenu reste caché, décidée par une institution qui a déjà confondu ses procédures avec la réalité. L’histoire tient ensemble un détour pour des homards, des protections qui cèdent et une personnalité charmante que nul ne saurait arrêter. Son inquiétude durable vient de cette question concrète : que vaut une sécurité fondée sur les dangers que ses gardiens savent reconnaître ?
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- 16
Young Zaphod Plays It Safe, nouvelle de Douglas Adams section 1
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A large flying craft moved swiftly across the surface of an astoundingly beautiful sea. From mid-morning onward it plied back and forth in great widening arcs, and at last attracted the attention of the local islanders' a peaceful, sea-food-loving people who gathered on the beach and squinted up into the blinding sun, trying to see what was there.
Any sophisticated knowledgeable person, who had knocked about, seen a few things, would probably have remarked on how much the craft looked like a filing cabinet-a large and recently burgled filing cabinet lying on its back with its drawers in the air and flying.
The islanders, whose experience was of a different kind, were instead struck by how little it looked like a lobster.
They chattered excitedly about its total lack of claws, its stiff unbending back, and the fact that it seemed to experience the greatest difficulty staying on the ground. This last feature seemed particularly funny to them. They jumped up and down on the spot a lot to demonstrate to the stupid thing that they themselves found staying on the ground the easiest thing in the world.
But soon this entertainment began to pall for them. After all, since it was perfectly clear to them that the thing was not a lobster, and since their world was blessed with an abundance of things that were lobsters (a good half dozen of which were now marching succulently up the beach toward them), they saw no reason to waste any more time on the thing but decided instead to adjourn immediately for a late lobster lunch.
At that exact moment the craft stopped suddenly in mid-air, then upended itself and plunged headlong into the ocean with a great crash of spray which sent them shouting into the trees.
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When they reemerged, nervously, a few minutes later, all they were able to see was a smoothly scarred circle of water and a few gulping bubbles.
That's odd, they said to each other between mouthfuls of the best lobster to be had anywhere in the Western Galaxy, that's the second time that's happened in a year.
The craft which wasn't a lobster dived direct to a depth of two hundred feet, and hung there in the heavy blueness, while vast masses of water swayed about it. High above, where the water was magically clear, a brilliant formation of fish flashed away. Below, where the light had difficulty reaching, the color of the water sank to a dark and savage.
Here, at two hundred feet, the sun streamed feebly. A large, silk-skinned sea-mammal rolled idly by, inspecting the craft with a kind of half interest, as if it had half expected to find something of this kind around about here, and then it slid on up and away toward the rippling light.
The craft waited for a minute or two, taking readings, and then descended another hundred feet. At this depth it was becoming seriously dark. After a moment or two the internal lights of the craft shut down, an
in the second or so that passed before the main external beams suddenly; stabbed out, the only visible light came from a small hazily illuminated pink sign which readThe Beeblebrox Salvage and Really Wild Stuff Corporation .
The huge beams switched downward, catching a vast shoal of silver fish which swiveled away in silent panic.
In the dim control room, which extended in a broad bow from the craft's blunt prow, four heads were gathered around a computer display that was analyzing the very, very faint and intermittent signals that emanated from deep on the sea bed.
"That's it," said the owner of one of the heads finally.
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"Can we be quite sure?" said the owner of another of the heads.
"One hundred percent positive," replied the owner of the first head.
"You're one hundred percent positive that the ship which is crashed on the bottom of this ocean is the ship which you said you were one hundred percent positive could one hundred percent positively never crash?" said the owner of the two remaining heads. "Hey," he put up two of his hands, "I'm only asking."
The two officials from the Safety and Civil Reassurance Administration responded to this with a very cold stare, but the man with the odd, or rather the even, number of heads missed it. He flung himself back on the pilot couch, opened a couple of beers-one for himself and the other also for himself-stuck his feet on the console and said "Hey, baby" through the ultra-glass at a passing fish.
"Mr. Beeblebrox..." began the shorter and less reassuring of the two officials in a low voice.
"Yup?" said Zaphod, rapping a suddenly empty can down on some of the more sensitive instruments. "You ready to dive; Let's go."
"Mr. Beeblebrox, let us make one thing perfectly clear..."
"Yeah let's," said Zaphod. "How about this for a start. Why don't you just tell me what's really on this ship."
"We have told you," said the official. "By-products."
Zaphod exchanged weary glances with himself.
"By-products," he said. "By-products of what?"
"Processes," said the official.
"What processes?"
"Processes that are perfectly safe."
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"Santa Zarquana Voostra!" exclaimed both of Zaphod's heads in chorus. "So safe that you have to build a zarking fortress ship to take the byproducts to the nearest black hole and tip them in! Only it doesn't get there because the pilot takes a detour-is this right?-to pick up some lobster...? OK, so the guy is cool, but... I mean own up, this is barking time, this is major lunch, this is stool approaching critical mass, this is... this is...total vocabulary failure! "
"Shut up!" his right head yelled at his left, "we'reflanging !"
He got a good calming grip on the remaining beer can.
"Listen, guys," he resumed after a moment's peace and contemplation. The two officials had said nothing. Conversation at this level was not something to which they felt they could aspire. "I just want to know," insisted Zaphod, "what you're getting me into here."
He stabbed a finger at the intermittent readings trickling over the computer screen. They meant nothing to him but he didn't like the look of them at all. They were all squiggly with lots of long numbers and things.
"It's breaking up, is that it?" he shouted. "It's got a hold full of epsilonic radiating aorist rods or something that'll fry this whole space sector for zillions of years back and it's breaking up. Is that the story? Is that what we're going down to find? Am I going to come out of that wreck with even more heads?"
"It cannot possibly be a wreck, Mr. Beeblebrox," insisted the official, "the ship is guaranteed to be perfectly safe. It cannot possibly break up."
"Then why are you so keen to go and look at it?"
"We like to look at things that are perfectly safe."
"Freeeooow!"
"Mr. Beeblebrox," said the official, patiently, "may I remind you that you have a job to do?"
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"Yeah, well, maybe I don't feel so keen on doing it all of a sudden. What do you think I am, completely without any moral whatsits, what are they called, those moral things?"
"Scruples?"
"Scruples, thank you, whatsoever? Well?"
The two officials waited calmly. They coughed slightly to help pass the time.
Zaphod sighed a "what is the world coming to" sort of sigh to absolve himself from all blame, and swung himself around in his seat.
"Ship?" he called.
"Yup?" said the ship.
"Do what I do."
The ship thought about this for a few milliseconds and then, after double checking all the seals on its heavy duty bulkheads, it began slowly, inexorably, in the hazy blaze of its lights, to sink to the lowest depths.
Five hundred feet.
A thousand.
Two thousand.
Here, at a pressure of nearly seventy atmospheres, in the chilling depths where no light reaches, nature keeps its most heated imaginings. Two foo6: long nightmares loomed wildly into the bleaching light, yawned, and vanished back into the blackness.
Two and a half thousand feet.
At the dim edges of the ship's lights guilty secrets flitted by with their eyes on stalks.
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Gradually the topography of the distantly approaching ocean bed resolved with greater and greater clarity on the computer displays until as last a shape could be made out that was separate and distinct from its surroundings. It was like a huge lopsided cylindrical fortress that widened sharply halfway along its length to accommodate the heavy ultraplating with which the crucial storage holds were clad, and which were supposed by its builders to have made this the most secure and impregnable spaceship ever built. Before launch the material structure of this section had been battered, rammed, blasted and subjected to every assault its builders knew it could withstand in order to demonstrate that it could withstand them.
The tense silence in the cockpit tightened perceptibly as it became dear that it was this section that had broken rather neatly in two.
"In fact it's perfectly safe," said one of the officials, "it's built so that even if the ship does break up, the storage holds cannot possibly be breached."
Three thousand, eight hundred and twenty-five feet.
Four Hi-Presh-A Smart Suits moved slowly out of the open hatchway of the salvage craft and waded through the barrage of its lights toward the monstrous shape that loomed darkly out of the sea night. They moved with a sort of clumsy grace, near weightlessness though weighed on by a world of water.
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With his right-hand head Zaphod peered up into the black immensities above him and for a moment his mind sang with a silent roar of horror. He glanced to his left and was relieved to see that his other head was busy watching the Brockian Ultra-Cricket broadcasts on the helmet vid without concern. Slightly behind him to his left walked the two officials from the Safety and Civil Reassurance Administration, slightly in front of him to his right walked the empty suit, carrying their implements and testing the way for them.
They passed the huge rift in the broken backed StarshipBillion Year Bunker , and played their flashlights up into it. Mangled machinery loomed between torn and twisted bulkheads, two feet thick. A family of large transparent eels lived in there now and seemed to like it.
The empty suit preceded them along the length of the ship's gigantic murky hull, trying the airlocks. The third one it tested ground open uneasily. They crowded inside it and waited for several long minutes while the pump mechanisms dealt with the hideous pressure that the ocean exerted, and slowly replaced it with an equally hideous pressure of air and inert gases. At last the inner door slid open and they were admitted to a dark outer holding area of the StarshipBillion Year Bunker .
Several more high security Titan-O-Hold doors had to be passed through, each of which the officials opened with a selection of quark keys. Soon they were so deep within the heavy security fields that the UltraCricket broadcasts were beginning to fade, and Zaphod had to switch to one of the rock video stations, since there was nowhere that they were not able to reach.
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A final doorway slid open, and they emerged into a large sepulchral space. Zaphod played his flashlight against the opposite wall and it fell full on a wild-eyed screaming face.
Zaphod screamed a diminished fifth himself, dropped his light and sat heavily on the floor, or rather on a body which had been lying there undisturbed for around six months and which reacted to being sat on by exploding with great violence. Zaphod wondered what to do about all this, and after a brief but hectic internal debate decided that passing out would be the very thing.
He came to a few minutes later and pretended not to know who he was, where he was or how he had got there, but was nor able to convince anybody. He then pretended that his memory suddenly retuned with a rush and that the shock caused him to pass out again, but he was helped unwillingly to his feet by the empty suit-which he was beginning to take a serious dislike to-and forced to come to terms with his surroundings:
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They were dimly and fitfully lit and unpleasant in a number of respects, the most obvious of which was the colorful arrangement of parts of the ship's late lamented Navigation Officer over the floor, walls and ceiling, and especially over the lower half of his, Zaphod's, suit. The effect of this was so astoundingly nasty that we shall not be referring to it again at any point in this narrative-other than to record briefly the fact that it caused Zaphod to throw up inside his suit, which he therefore removed and swapped, after suitable headgear modifications, with the empty one. Unfortunately the stench of the fetid air in the ship, followed by the sight of his own suit walking around casually draped in rotting intestines was enough to make him throw up in the other suit as well, which was a problem that he and the suit would simply have to live with.
There. All done. No more nastiness.
At least, no more of that particular nastiness.
The owner of the screaming face had calmed down very slightly now and was babbling away incoherently in a large tank of yellow liquid-
emergency suspension tank.
"It was crazy," he babbled, "crazy! I told him we could always try the lobster on the way back, but he was crazy. Obsessed! Do you ever get like that about lobster? Because I don't. Seems to me it's all rubbery and fiddly to eat, and not that much taste, well I mean is there? I infinitely prefer scallops, and said so. Oh Zarquon, Isaid so!"
Zaphod stared at this extraordinary apparition, flailing in its tank. The man was attached to all kinds of life-support tubes, and his voice was bubbling out of speakers that echoed insanely around the ship, returning as haunting echoes from deep and distant corridors.
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"That was where I went wrong," the madman yelled, "I actually said that I preferred scallops and he said it was because I hadn't had real lobster like they did where his ancestors came from, which was here, and he'd prove it. He said it was no problem, he said the lobster here was worth a whole journey, let alone the small diversion it would take to get here, and he swore he could handle the ship in the atmosphere, but it was madness, madness!" he screamed, and paused with his eyes rolling, as if the word had rung some kind of bell in his mind. "The ship went right out of control! I couldn't believe what we were doing and just to prove a point about lobster which is really so overrated as a food, I'm sorry to go on about lobsters so much, I'll try and stop in a minute, but they've been on my mind so much for the months I've been in this tank, can you imagine what it's like to be stuck in a ship with the same guys for months eating junk food when all one guy will talk about is lobster and then spend six months floating by yourself in a tank thinking about it. I promise I will try and shut up about the lobsters, I really will. Lobsters, lobsters, lobsters-enough! I think I'm the only survivor. I'm the only one who managed to get to an emergency tank before we went down. I sent out the Mayday and then we hit. It's a disaster, isn't it? A total disaster, and all because the guy liked lobsters. How much sense am I making? It's really hard for me to tell."
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He gazed at them beseechingly, and his mind seemed to sway slowly back down to earth like a falling leaf. He blinked and looked at them oddly like a monkey peering at a strange fish. He scrabbled curiously with his wrinkled up fingers at the glass side of the tank. Tiny, thick yellow bubbles loosed themselves from his mouth and nose, caught briefly in his swab of hair and strayed on upward.
"Oh Zarquon, oh heavens," he mumbled pathetically to himself, "I've been found. I've been rescued...."
"Well," said one of the officials, briskly,"you've been found at least." He strode over to the main computer bank in the middle of the chamber and started checking quickly through the ship's main monitor circuits for damage reports.
"The aorist rod chambers are intact," he said.
"Holy dingo's dos," snarled Zaphod, "thereare aorist rods on board...!"
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Aorist rods were devices used in a now happily abandoned form of energy production. When the hunt for new sources of energy had at one point got particularly frantic, one bright young chap suddenly spotted that one place which had never used up all its available energy-the past. And with the sudden rush of blood to the head that such insights tend to induce, he invented a way of mining it that very same night, and within a year huge tracts of the past were being drained of all their energy and simply wasting away Those who claimed that the past should be left unspoiled were accused of indulging in an extremely expensive form of sentimentality. The past provided a very cheap, plentiful and clean source of energy, there could always be a few Natural Past Reserves set up if anyone wanted to pay for their upkeep, and as for the claim that draining the past impoverished the present, well, maybe it did, slightly, but the effects were immeasurable and you really had to keep a sense of proportion.
It was only when it was realized that the present really was being impoverished, and that the reason for it was that those selfish plundering wastrel bastards up in the future were doing exactly the same thing, that everyone realized that every single aorist rod, and the terrible secret of how they were made, would have to be utterly and forever destroyed. They claimed it was for the sake of their grandparents and grandchildren, but it was of course for the sake of their grandparent's grandchildren, and their grandchildren's grandparents.
The official from the Safety and Civil Reassurance Administration gave a dismissive shrug.
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"They're perfectly safe," he said. He glanced up at Zaphod and suddenly said with uncharacteristic frankness,"There's worse than that on board. At least," he added, tapping at one of the computer screens, "I hope it's on board."
The other official rounded on him sharply.
"What the hell do you think you're saying?" he snapped.
The first shrugged again. He said, "It doesn't matter. He can say what he likes. No one would believe him. It's why we chose to use him rather than do anything official, isn't it? The more wild the story he tells, the more it'll sound like he's some hippy adventurer making it up. He can even say that we said this and it'll make him sound like a paranoid." He smile' pleasantly at Zaphod who was seething in his nasty suit. "You may accompany us," he told him, "if you wish."
"You see?" said the official, examining the ultra-titanium outer seals of the aorist rod hold. "Perfectly secure, perfectly safe."
He said the same thing as they passed holds containing chemical weapons so powerful that a teaspoonful could fatally infect an entire planet.
He said the same thing as they passed holds containing zeta-activq. compounds so powerful that a teaspoonful could blow up a whole planet.
He said the same thing as they passed holds containing theta-active compounds so powerful that a teaspoonful could irradiate a whole planet.
"I'm glad I'm not a planet," muttered Zaphod.
"You'd have nothing to fear," assured the official from the Safety and Civil Reassurance Administration, "planets are very safe. Provided," he added-and paused. They were approaching the hold nearest to the point where the back of the StarshipBillion Year Bunker was broken. The corridor here was twisted and deformed, and the floor was damp and sticky in patches.
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"Ho hum," he said,"ho very much hum."
"What's in this hold?" demanded Zaphod.
"By-products," said the official, clamming up again.
"By-products...," insisted Zaphod, quietly, "of what?"
Neither official answered. Instead, they examined the hold door very carefully and saw that its seals were twisted apart by the forces that had deformed the whole corridor. One of them touched the door lightly. It swung open to his touch. There was darkness inside, with just a couple of dim yellow lights deep within it.
"Ofwhat ?" hissed Zaphod.
The leading official turned to the other.
"There's an escape capsule," he said, "that the crew were to use to abandon ship before jettisoning it into the black hole," he said. "I think it would be good to know that it's still there." The other official nodded and left without a word.
The first official quietly beckoned Zaphod in. The large dim yellow lights glowed about twenty feet from them.
"The reason," he said, quietly, "why everything else in this ship is, I maintain, safe, is that no one is really crazy enough to use them. No one. At least no one that crazy would ever get near them. Anyone that mad or dangerous rings very deep alarm bells. People may be stupid but they're not that stupid."
"By-products," hissed Zaphod again, he had to hiss in order that his voice shouldn't be heard to tremble, "of what."
"Er, Designer People."
"What? "
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"The Sirius Cybernetics Corporation was awarded a huge research grant to design and produce synthetic personalities to order. The results were uniformly disastrous. All the 'people' and 'personalities' turned out to be amalgams of characteristics that simply could not co-exist in naturally occurring life forms. Most of them were just poor pathetic misfits, but some were deeply, deeply dangerous. Dangerous because they didn't ring alarm bells in other people. They could walk through situations the way that ghosts walk through walls, because no one spotted the danger.
"The most dangerous of all were three identical ones-they were put in this hold, to be blasted, with this ship, right out of this universe. They are not evil, in fact they are rather simple and charming. But they are the most dangerous creatures that ever lived because there is nothing they will not do if allowed, and nothing they will not be allowed to do...."
Zaphod looked at the dim yellow lights, the two dim yellow lights. As his eyes became accustomed to the light he saw that the two lights framed a third space where something was broken. Wet sticky patches gleamed dully on the floor.
Zaphod and the official walked cautiously toward the lights. At that moment, four words came crashing into the helmet headsets from the other official.
"The capsule is gone," he said tersely.
"Trace it," snapped Zaphod's companion. "Find exactly where it has gone. Wemust know where it has gone!"
Zaphod slid aside a large ground-glass door. Beyond it lay a tank full of thick yellow liquid, and floating in it was a man, a kindly looking man with lots of pleasant laugh lines around his face. He seemed to be floating quite contentedly and smiling to himself.
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Another terse message suddenly came through his helmet headset. The planet toward which the escape capsule had headed had already been identified. It was in Galactic Sector ZZ9Plural Z Alpha.
The kindly looking man in the tank seemed to be babbling gently to himself, just as the co-pilot had been in his tank. Little yellow bubbles beaded on the man's lips. Zaphod found a small speaker by the tank and turned it on. He heard the man babbling gently about a shining city on a hill.
He also heard the official from the Safety and Civil Reassurance Administration issue instructions that the planet in ZZ9Plural Z Alpha must be made "perfectly safe."
