Finally he came to the corner, and as his hand rounded the corner it encountered something which gave him such a shock that he nearly fell straight off. It was another hand.
The two hands gripped each other.
He desperately wanted to use his other hand to pull the towel back from his eyes, but it was holding the hold-all with the olive oil, the retsina and the postcards from Santorini, and he very much didn’t want to put it down.
He experienced one of those “self” moments, one of those moments when you suddenly turn around and look at yourself and think “Who am I? What am I up to? What have I achieved? Am I doing well?” He whimpered very slightly.
He tried to free his hand, but he couldn’t. The other hand was holding his tightly. He had no recourse but to edge onwards towards the corner. He leaned around it and shook his head in an attempt to dislodge the towel. This seemed to provoke a sharp cry of some unfashionable emotion from the owner of the other hand.
The towel was whipped from his head and he found his eyes peering into those of Ford Prefect. Beyond him stood Slartibartfast, and beyond them he could clearly see a porchway and a large closed door.
They were both pressed back against the wall, eyes wild with terror as they stared out into the thick blind cloud around them, and tried to resist the lurching and swaying of the building.
Where the zarking photon have you been? hissed Ford, panic stricken.
Er, well, stuttered Arthur, not really knowing how to sum it all up that briefly. Here and there. What are you doing here?
Ford turned his wild eyes on Arthur again.
They won’t let us in without a bottle, he hissed.
The first thing Arthur noticed as they entered into the thick of the party, apart from the noise, the suffocating heat, the wild profusion of colours that protruded dimly through the atmosphere of heavy smoke, the carpets thick with ground glass, ash and avocado droppings, and the small group of pterodactyl-like creatures in lurex who descended on his cherished bottle of retsina, squawking, “A new pleasure, a new pleasure”, was Trillian being chatted up by a Thunder God.
Didn’t I see you at Milliways? he was saying.
Were you the one with the hammer?
Yes. I much prefer it here. So much less reputable, so much more fraught.
Squeals of some hideous pleasure rang around the room, the outer dimensions of which were invisible through the heaving throng of happy, noisy creatures, cheerfully yelling things that nobody could hear at each other and occasionally having crises.
Seems fun, said Trillian. What did you say, Arthur?
I said, how the hell did you get here?
I was a row of dots flowing randomly through the Universe. Have you met Thor? He makes thunder.
Hello, said Arthur. I expect that must be very interesting.
Hi, said Thor. It is. Have you got a drink?
Er, no actually…