At the bottom of it was a number which looked like one of those serial numbers you find on the underside of stereo sets which always takes so long to copy on to the registration form. He had, after all, been in the bar all day, he had been drinking a lot of stuff with bubbles in it, and he had bought an awful lot of rounds for all the pimps, thugs and record executives who suddenly couldn’t remember who he was.
He cleared his throat rather quietly and patted his pockets. There was, as he knew, nothing in them. He rested his left hand lightly but firmly on the half-opened flap of his satchel. The disembodied hand renewed its pressure on his right shoulder.
You see, said the barman, and his face seemed to wobble evilly in front of Ford’s, I have a reputation to think of. You see that, don’t you?
This is it, thought Ford. There was nothing else for it. He had obeyed the rules, he had made a bona fide attempt to pay his bill, it had been rejected. He was now in danger of his life.
Well, he said quietly, if it’s your reputation…
With a sudden flash of speed he opened his satchel and slapped down on the bar top his copy of The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and the official card which said that he was a field researcher for the Guide and absolutely not allowed to do what he was now doing.
Want a write-up?
The barman’s face stopped in mid-wobble. The bird’s talons stopped in mid-furrow. The hand slowly released its grip.
That, said the barman in a barely audible whisper, from between dry lips, will do nicely, sir.