da.solongandthanksforallthefish-第7部分

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　　The　night　was　uneasy　with　rain。　The　rain　clouds　themselves　had　now　moved　on　and　were　currently　concentrating　their　attention　on　a　small　transport　cafe　just　outside　Bournemouth；　but　the　sky　through　which　they　had　passed　had　been　disturbed　by　them　and　now　wore　a　damply　ruffled　air；　as　if　it　didn't　know　what　else　it　might　not　do　it　further　provoked。
　　The　moon　was　out　in　a　watery　way。　It　looked　like　a　ball　of　paper　from　the　back　pocket　of　jeans　that　have　just　e　out　of　the　washing　machine；　and　which　only　time　and　ironing　would　tell　if　it　was　an　old　shopping　list　or　a　five　pound　note。
　　The　wind　flicked　about　a　little；　like　the　tail　of　a　horse　that's　trying　to　decide　what　sort　of　mood　it's　in　tonight；　and　a　bell　somewhere　chimed　midnight。
　　A　skylight　creaked　open。
　　It　was　stiff　and　had　to　be　jiggled　and　persuaded　a　little　because　the　frame　was　slightly　rotten　and　the　hinges　had　at　some　time　in　its　life　been　rather　sensibly　painted　over；　but　eventually　it　was　open。
　　A　strut　was　found　to　prop　it　and　a　figure　struggled　out　into　the　narrow　gully　between　the　opposing　pitches　of　the　roof。
　　It　stood　and　watched　the　sky　in　silence。
　　The　figure　was　pletely　unrecognizable　as　the　wild…looking　creature　who　had　burst　crazily　into　the　cottage　a　little　over　an　hour　ago。　Gone　was　the　ragged　threadbare　dressing　gown；　smeared　with　the　mud　of　a　hundred　worlds；　stained　with　junk　food　condiment　from　a　hundred　grimy　spaceports；　gone　was　the　tangled　mane　of　hair；　gone　the　long　and　knotted　beard；　flourishing　ecosystem　and　all。
　　Instead；　there　was　Arthur　Dent　the　smooth　and　casual；　in　corduroys　and　a　chunky　sweater。　His　hair　was　cropped　and　washed；　his　chin　clean　shaven。　Only　the　eyes　still　said　that　whatever　it　was　the　Universe　thought　it　was　doing　to　him；　he　would　still　like　it　please　to　stop。
　　They　were　not　the　same　eyes　with　which　he　had　last　looked　out　at　this　particular　scene；　and　the　brain　which　interpreted　the　images　the　eyes　resolved　was　not　the　same　brain。　There　had　been　no　surgery　involved；　just　the　continual　wrenching　of　experience。
　　The　night　seemed　like　an　alive　thing　to　him　at　this　moment；　the　dark　earth　around　him　a　being　in　which　he　was　rooted。
　　He　could　feel　like　a　tingle　on　distant　nerve　ends　the　flood　of　a　far　river；　the　roll　of　invisible　hills；　the　knot　of　heavy　rainclouds　parked　somewhere　away　to　the　south。
　　He　could　sense；　too；　the　thrill　of　being　a　tree；　which　was　something　he　hadn't　expected。　He　knew　that　it　felt　good　to　curl　your　toes　in　the　earth；　but　he'd　never　realized　it　could　feel　quite　as　good　as　that。　He　could　sense　an　almost　unseemly　wave　of　pleasure　reaching　out　to　him　all　the　way　from　the　New　Forest。　He　must　try　this　summer；　he　thought；　and　see　what　having　leaves　felt　like。
　　From　another　direction　he　felt　the　sensation　of　being　a　sheep　startled　by　a　flying　saucer；　but　it　was　virtually　indistinguishable　from　the　feeling　of　being　a　sheep　startled　by　anything　else　it　ever　encountered；　for　they　were　creatures　who　learned　very　little　on　their　journey　through　life；　and　would　be　startled　to　see　the　sun　rising　in　the　morning；　and　astonished　by　all　the　green　stuff　in　the　fields。
　　He　was　surprised　to　find　he　could　feel　the　sheep　being　startled　by　the　sun　that　morning；　and　the　morning　before；　and　being　startled　by　a　clump　of　trees　the　day　before　that。　He　could　go　further　and　further　back；　but　it　got　dull　because　all　it　consisted　of　was　sheep　being　startled　by　things　they'd　been　startled　by　the　day　before。
　　He　left　the　sheep　and　let　his　mind　drift　outwards　sleepily　in　developing　ripples。　It　felt　the　presence　of　other　minds；　hundreds　of　them；　thousands　in　a　web；　some　sleepy；　some　sleeping；　some　terribly　excited；　one　fractured。
　　One　fractured。
　　He　passed　it　fleetingly　and　tried　to　feel　for　it　again；　but　it　eluded　him　like　the　other　card　with　an　apple　on　it　in　Pelmanism。　He　felt　a　spasm　of　excitement　because　he　knew　instinctively　who　it　was；　or　at　least　knew　who　it　was　he　wanted　it　to　be；　and　once　you　know　what　it　is　you　want　to　be　true；　instinct　is　a　very　useful　device　for　enabling　you　to　know　that　it　is。
　　He　instinctively　knew　that　it　was　Fenny　and　that　he　wanted　to　find　her；　but　he　could　not。　By　straining　too　much　for　it；　he　could　feel　he　was　losing　this　strange　new　faculty；　so　he　relaxed　the　search　and　let　his　mind　wander　more　easily　once　more。
　　And　again；　he　felt　the　fracture。
　　Again　he　couldn't　find　it。　This　time；　whatever　his　instinct　was　busy　telling　him　it　was　all　right　to　believe；　he　wasn't　certain　that　it　was　Fenny　…　or　perhaps　it　was　a　different　fracture　this　time。　It　had　the　same　disjointed　quality　but　it　seemed　a　more　general　feeling　of　fracture；　deeper；　not　a　single　mind；　maybe　not　a　mind　at　all。　It　was　different。
　　He　let　his　mind　sink　slowly　and　widely　into　the　Earth；　rippling；　seeping；　sinking。
　　He　was　following　the　Earth　through　its　days；　drifting　with　the　rhythms　of　its　myriad　pulses；　seeping　through　the　webs　of　its　life；　swelling　with　its　tides；　turning　with　its　weight。　Always　the　fracture　kept　returning；　a　dull　disjointed　distant　ache。
　　And　now　he　was　flying　through　a　land　of　light；　the　light　was　time；　the　tides　of　it　were　days　receding。　The　fracture　he　had　sensed；　the　second　fracture；　lay　in　the　distance　before　him　across　the　land；　the　thickness　of　a　single　hair　across　the　dreaming　landscape　of　the　days　of　Earth。
　　And　suddenly　he　was　upon　it。
　　He　danced　dizzily　over　the　edge　as　the　dreamland　dropped　sheer　away　beneath　him；　a　stupefying　precipice　into　nothing；　him　wildly　twisting；　clawing　at　nothing；　flailing　in　horrifying　space；　spinning；　falling。
　　Across　the　jagged　chasm　had　been　another　land；　another　time；　an　older　world；　not　fractured　from；　but　hardly　joined：　two　Earths。　He　woke。
　　A　cold　breeze　brushed　the　feverish　sweat　standing　on　his　forehead。　The　nightmare　was　spent　and　so；　he　felt；　was　he。　His　shoulders　dropped；　he　gently　rubbed　his　eyes　with　the　tips　of　his　fingers。　At　last　he　was　sleepy　as　well　as　very　tired。　As　to　what　it　meant；　if　it　meant　anything　at　all；　he　would　think　about　it　in　the　morning；　for　now　he　would　go　to　bed　and　sleep。　His　own　bed；　his　own　sleep。
　　He　could　see　his　house　in　the　distance　and　wondered　why　this　was。　It　was　silhouetted　against　the　moonlight　and　he　recognized　its　rather　dull　blockish　shape。　He　looked　about　him　and　noticed　that　he　was　about　eighteen　inches　above　the　rose　bushes　of　one　of　his　neighbours；　John　Ainsworth。　His　rose　bushes　were　carefully　tended；　pruned　back　for　the　winter；　strapped　to　canes　and　labelled；　and　Arthur　wondered　what　he　was　doing　above　them。　He　wondered　what　was　holding　him　there；　and　when　he　discovered　that　nothing　was　holding　him　there　he　crashed　awkwardly　to　the　ground。
　　He　picked　himself　up；　brushed　himself　down　and　hobbled　back　to　his　house　on　a　sprained　ankle。　He　undressed　and　toppled　into　bed。
　　While　he　was　asleep　the　phone　rang　again。　It　rang　for　fully　fifteen　minutes　and　caused　him　to　turn　over　twice。　It　never；　however；　stood　a　chance　of　waking　him　up。
　　
　　
　　　Chapter　8
　　
　　Arthur　awoke　feeling　wonderful；　absolutely　fabulous；　refreshed；　overjoyed　to　be　home；　bouncing　with　energy；　hardly　disappointed　at　all　to　discover　it　was　the　middle　of　February。
　　He　almost　danced　to　the　fridge；　found　the　three　least　hairy　things　in　it；　put　them　on　a　plate　and　watched　them　intently　for　two　minutes。　Since　they　made　no　attempt　to　move　within　that　time　he　called　them　breakfast　and　ate　them。　Between　them　they　killed　a　virulent　space　disease　he's　picked　up　without　knowing　it　in　the　Flargathon　Gas　Swamps　a　few　days　earlier；　which　otherwise　would　have　killed　off　half　the　population　of　the　Western　Hemisphere；　blinded　the　other　half　and　driven　everyone　else　psychotic　and　sterile；　so　the　Earth　was　lucky　there。
　　He　felt　strong；　he　felt　healthy。　He　vigorously　cleared　away　the　junk　mail　with　a　spade　and　then　buried　the　cat。
　　Just　as　he　was　finishing　that；　the　phone　went；　but　he　let　it　ring　while　he　maintained　a　moment's　respectful　silence。　Whoever　it　was　would　ring　back　if　it　was　important。
　　He　kicked　the　mud　off　his　shoes　and　went　back　inside。
　　There　had　been　a　small　number　of　significant　letters　in　the　piles　of　junk　…　some　documents　from　the　council；　dated　three　years　earlier；　relating　to　the　proposed　demolition　of　his　house；　and　some　other　letters　about　the　setting　up　of　a　public　inquiry　into　the　whole　bypass　scheme　in　the　area；　there　was　also　an　old　letter　from　Greenpeace；　the　ecological　pressure　group　to　which　he　occasionally　made　contributions；　asking　for　help　with　their　scheme　to　release　dolphins　and　orcas　from　captivity；　and　some　postcards　from　friends；　vaguely　plaining　that　he　never　got　in　touch　these　days。
　　He　collected　these　together　and　put　them　in　a　cardboard　file　which　he　marked　〃Things　To　Do〃。　Since　he　was　feeling　so　vigorous　and　dynamic　that　morning；　he　even　added　the　word　〃Urgent！〃
　　He　unpacked　his　towel　and　another　few　odd　bits　and　pieces　from　the　plastic　bag　he　had　acquired　at　the　Port　Brasta　Mega…Market。　The　slogan　on　the　side　was　a　clever　and　elaborate　pun　in　Lingua　Centauri　which　was　pletely　inprehensible　in　any　other　language　and　therefore　entirely　pointless　for　a　Duty　Free　Shop　at　a　spaceport。　The　bag　also　had　a　hole　in　it　so　he　threw　it　away。
　　He　realized　with　a　sudden　twinge　that　something　else　must　have　dropped　out　in　the　small　spacecraft　that　had　brought　him　to　Earth；　kindly　going　out　of　its　way　to　drop　him　right　beside　the　A303。　He　had　lost　his　battered　and　spaceworn　copy　of　the　thing　which　had　helped　him　find　his　way　across　the　unbelievable　wastes　of　space　he　had　traversed。　He　had　lost　The　Hitch　Hiker's　Guide　to　the　Galaxy。
　　Well；　he　told　himself；　this　time　I　really　won't　be　needing　it　again。
　　He　had　some　calls　to　make。
　　He　had　decided　how　to　deal　with　the　mass　of　contradictions　his　return　journey　precipitated；　which　was　that　he　would　simply　brazen　it　out。
　　He　phoned　the　BBC　and　asked　to　be　put　through　to　his　department　head。
　　…　Oh；　hello；　Arthur　Dent　here。　Look；　sorry　I　haven't　been　in　for　six　months　but　I've　gone　mad。
　　…　Oh；　not　to　worry。　Thought　it　was　probably　something　like　that。　Happens　here　all　the　time。　How　soon　can　we　expect　you？
　　…　When　do　hedgehogs　stop　hi