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I was greatly saddened to hear of the passing of Douglas Adams on May 12th, 2001. I was at my cousin Noah’s bar mitzvah when I heard the unfortunate news from my uncle Gary, who introduced me to the Hitchhiker’s series.
My first thought was, Bugger, now I’ll never get to send him that letter with all the questions I had about "Mostly Harmless". My second thought was, I wonder if the bartender makes Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters.
In any case, it definitely spoiled the party. Later, though, I got up and did a karaoke version of the Beastie Boys’ "Intergalactic," which I dedicated to the memory of my favorite author. I am pleased to say that it was well received.
That night, I had the following dream. Upon waking, I immediately wrote it down.
I’m sure that Douglas Adams is, metaphorically, on Ursa Minor Beta right now, enjoying a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster and seeing everything he’s written about. I thereby dedicate this story to the memory of Douglas Adams. So long, and thanks for all the fish.
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Hasta Luego, Y Gracias Por Todos Los Pesces
The phone rang.
Douglas Adams didn’t answer it. He was asleep. He did, however, turn over and mumble something.
The phone rang again.
Douglas Adams again failed to answer it. He turned over again.
The phone rang a third time.
A shoe hit him on the head.
Douglas sat up and rubbed his head. "What was that for?" he muttered.
Fenchurch, his younger sister, stood in the doorway of his bedroom. "The phone was ringing," she said.
"You could have gotten it, couldn’t you?" Douglas asked.
"I did." She held out the receiver. "It’s for you."
Douglas took the phone. "Hello?" he asked sleepily.
"We’re on the lawn," said a strange and yet somehow familiar voice. "Are you going to come out or not?"
Douglas sat up. "What? Who are you? Is this about that computer game? Because if it is, my computer crashed so I haven’t been able to work on it, and-"
"What computer game?" asked the person.
"It’s not about that, then?" Douglas said.
A sigh. "Look, are you coming with us or not? We have to leave soon."
Fenchurch appeared once again in the doorway. "I packed a bag for you," she said.
Douglas dropped the phone. "Look, what the bloody hell is going on here?"
Fenchurch sat down next to him on the bed. "Do you remember the time I went to Southern California, and then I disappeared for a while, and then I reappeared here?"
Douglas remembered that very well. "Yes. And I also remember that six months before that, you had a nervous breakdown and collapsed screaming into an egg sandwich. And you asked me to write something about that, and I did, and you said that I had gotten it all wrong. What does that have to do with anything?"
Fenchurch sighed and shouldered her own bag. "Bring a towel."
"Towel." Douglas sat on the bed, ruminating. "Towel...Bloody Belgium."
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Within fifteen seconds he had changed into a pair of trousers and a shirt and was on the lawn with Fenchurch.
There was a spaceship on his lawn.
It was white. It looked like a brand-new running shoe.
The door opened, and a small, sad little figure shambled out. It looked up at Douglas.
"Come on," it said, "they’ve been waiting for you. How depressing."
Fenchurch ran into the open hatchway. Douglas shrugged and followed her.
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When Douglas finally got inside the ship, he discovered a number of interesting things.
One thing was his sister, in her nightgown, hugging and kissing a dark-haired man who was wearing a bathrobe.
Another was the bored-looking teenage girl slouching against an instrument panel and watching her wrist.
There was his old high school girlfriend, Tricia, arguing with the small sad robot that had brought them onto the ship.
There was a man with two heads and three arms.
Douglas stood with his mouth open. "Wha...?"
Ford Prefect turned around. "Sorry about waking you up so early," he said, "but the Earth is going to be destroyed in about an hour. Again. "
"Oh." Douglas sat down in a nearby chair. "Er...this isn’t a dream, is it?"
"Don’t think so," Ford said. "Come on. We’ve just got to pick up Slartibartfast, and then we’re all going to breakfast at Milliways."
Slowly, Douglas grinned. "Sounds great."
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Douglas Adams owned the Hitchhiker's Trilogy, and all the characters, ideas, and arithmetic theories that implies. Now, I suppose, his publishers and/or heirs do, which is a rather depressing thought. The authors who wrote them own the other fine examples of literature contained in this site. Yahoo owns the site. I don't know what that leaves me with, but it isn't much.