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That remarkable book, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, spends much time exploring the wilder reaches of space to wish a determined traveller might wish to journey or escape from, detailing the savage and glittering subempires such as that of the Pyrrhosoma, whose fierce and fanged inhabitants spend the century or so of their youth as despotic hunters, forever in competition with each other, driving the other species of their world before them through the thick and foetid jungles of their world in terror and despair, and forcing their slaves to build, magnificent bejewelled palaces from the remains of their fallen foes' chitinous bodies, before suddenly moulting and emerging as diaphanous-winged adults who live for but a week, most of which they spend complaining about the young people of today. The Guide further notes that, despite the more than likely chance of being hunted and devoured by the inhabitants of this world, Pyrrhosoma IV is a recommended destination for impecunious hitchhikers as they will need minimal cash during their visit, the Pyrrhosoma never having heard of money. As they are also somewhat behind the times in having heard of standard Galactic medicine and are rather fond of the taste of well-fed tourists it is advisable to have good health insurance –
"You know, Ford, I'm not really sure we should visit this place," Arthur said, looking up from the screen.
"Oh, come on, it'll be fun," Ford said cheerfully, scanning the departure boards. "You said you wanted to go somewhere exotic and that you were tired of all the civilized worlds looking the same. Think of the noble insectoid warriors! The bejewelled palaces! The royal concubines reclining on silks spun of their rivals' tears!" A strange and faraway look came into Ford's eyes, closely followed by one of his more disconcerting grins settling on his face.
"The carnivorous and insectoid royal concubines," Arthur said grimly. He waved the Guide emphatically, ignoring Ford's muttering about Earthmen being very sexually staid and unadventurous. "The entry cuts off mid-sentence, Ford!"
"Probably edited down for exceeding the word count."
"It was uploaded by someone called Kh'rrr Xcht't of Pyrrhosoma IV!"
"The writer probably took on a local pseudonym."
"Who says that the writer was delicious and who urges more tourists to visit his beautiful planet! And to bring foreign and exotic spices with them!"
"We can pick up some Arcturian mega-peppers in duty free."
"Ford," Arthur said, wishing he could slam the Guide closed and settling for sliding the cover back into place. "We are not going to a planet where we will be eaten and served up with our own condiments!"
Ford looked at him in puzzlement. "All right. We don't have to bring the peppers." He laughed at the odd groaning sound Arthur made. "I'm kidding. If you really want to go somewhere else we can do that – though there is a ship leaving in half an hour that would drop us off in the next system over from the chitinous concubines . . ."
Arthur rearranged his face in a pattern of stoic patience and waited until the last pleading tones had died away. "No," he said.
Ford sighed and took the Guide, scrolling quickly through the options before handing it back. "How about this place?" he said.
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy unreservedly recommends the sere and desolated world of Xiphoid to travellers in need of a dry, warm climate. Over the whole planet a vast and silent desert stretches out in all directions, treeless and blank, nothing but sand and sand-blasted rock. The hitchhiker dropped on this world will see – assuming they have brought enough water to survive the trek – the hazy sight of the Acuenxs mountain range in the distance, the razor-like peaks reaching into the sky. Owing to the often unpredictable weather it is advisable to attempt to reach them, fighting one's way against the occasional hot, high velocity wind that blows sand against the outcroppings of rock with a force that sculpts it into weird and haunting shapes around which the wind howls. Please be advised that sturdy outerwear should be worn during such wind storms as the sand will strip the flesh from the bones of –
"I'm really not sure about this place, Ford."
"No, it's good, keep reading."
- the unwary traveller who may have left their specially modified protective towel at their last stopping point. Some care must be taken when crossing the flat and even plains of sand at the foot of the mountains, which reverberate like a thousand drums if stepped upon too heavily, calling forth the inexorable wrath of the vast phalanxes of the planet's scorpion warriors who burst up from beneath the sands in a wave of fury to engulf -
"No," Arthur said.
"No?" Ford replied, cocking his head to one side.
"No. Just, no. Good God, the dreadful prose was enough to make me want to burst out of a sand dune in a wave of righteous fury. Isn't there anywhere we can go that doesn't involve being slaughtered and eaten?"
"Not in a lot of the Galaxy, no," Ford said. "Come on, Arthur! Fun! Adventure! Really wild things!"
"Tea?" Arthur said hopefully.
"No tea. But lots of new ways to experience alcohol poisoning while on the run from locals with-"
"- with sarissas tipped with the venomous stings of their slaughtered kin! For God's sake, Ford!" Arthur felt a slight headache coming on, as he always did when Ford smiled at him for too long. "Ford," he said plaintively, "I don't want to stay in the Eadrax spaceport forever; I hate the robots, everything's too expensive and there's a funny smell." He winced as a group of passing ship's engineers turned and glared at him. "Look," he said in a quieter tone, "let's just go somewhere pleasant with hot running water and some good restaurants where you can steal food from the bins."
"You do know how to promise someone a good time, Arthur," Ford said. "Well, we could visit the famed Gambling Dens of Speculatia VI and earn enough to stay on Ursa Minor Beta for a while and visit the Guide's main offices." His smile was becoming more self satisfied by the second. "It's about time I proved to the editors that I'm really still alive and about to sue them for withholding my danger money pay supplement."
"You haven't been anywhere dangerous for over a year," Arthur said suspiciously.
Ford's grin widened. "Of course I have. I've been hunted by fierce insectoid warriors and sword-wielding scorpions and I've been keeping company with the exotic last member of an extinct species. Who knows what you might get up to?"
Arthur's suspicion evolved to the point it developed its own nervous system. "You made all that stuff up?" he said.
"I prefer to think of it as poetic licence," Ford said. "You'll have to claim to be my pseudonymous identity's next of kin to get the life insurance due for the Pyrrhosoma article. Oh, and I'm banned for life from Speculatia, so we'll have to teach you how to cheat the ten-eyed croupiers to get our fare to Ursa Minor."
Arthur took a deep breath, ready to protest, then gave in to the inevitable. "You'd better steal me leftovers from the best restaurants on every planet we visit from now on," he said. "No more Algolian Zylatburgers."
"From now on," Ford said, "it's five-star bins all the way. Hey, that mining ship is going towards the Vermilion System, that's only a short hop from Speculatia! Come on, Arthur, you'll like Vermilion Gamma, it's a very striking place – colour therapists are driven to rage there."
He ran down the dock at a pace that Arthur – even if chased by entire legions of enraged scorpions and insectoids – could never hope to match.
"I'll hold the airlock for you!" Ford yelled over his shoulder.
Arthur ran faster. Despite his best intentions, he felt rather excited to be moving on again.