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The
Heart
of
Gold
fled
on
silently
through
the
night
of
space
,
now
on
conventional
photon
drive
.
Its
crew
of
four
were
ill
at
ease
knowing
that
they
had
been
brought
together
not
of
their
own
volition
or
by
simple
coincidence
,
but
by
some
curious
principle
of
physics
--
as
if
relationships
between
people
were
susceptible
to
the
same
laws
that
governed
the
relationships
between
atoms
and
molecules
.
As
the
ship
's
artificial
night
closed
in
they
were
each
grateful
to
retire
to
separate
cabins
and
try
to
rationalize
their
thoughts
.
Trillian
could
n't
sleep
.
She
sat
on
a
couch
and
stared
at
a
small
cage
which
contained
her
last
and
only
links
with
Earth
--
two
white
mice
that
she
had
insisted
Zaphod
let
her
bring
.
She
had
expected
not
to
see
the
planet
again
,
but
she
was
disturbed
by
her
negative
reaction
to
the
planet
's
destruction
.
It
seemed
remote
and
unreal
and
she
could
find
no
thoughts
to
think
about
it
.
She
watched
the
mice
scurrying
round
the
cage
and
running
furiously
in
their
little
plastic
treadwheels
till
they
occupied
her
whole
attention
.
Suddenly
she
shook
herself
and
went
back
to
the
bridge
to
watch
over
the
tiny
flashing
lights
and
figures
that
charted
the
ship
's
progress
through
the
void
.
She
wished
she
knew
what
it
was
she
was
trying
not
to
think
about
.
Zaphod
could
n't
sleep
.
He
also
wished
he
knew
what
it
was
that
he
would
n't
let
himself
think
about
.
For
as
long
as
he
could
remember
he
'd
suffered
from
a
vague
nagging
feeling
of
being
not
all
there
.
Most
of
the
time
he
was
able
to
put
this
thought
aside
and
not
worry
about
it
,
but
it
had
been
re-awakened
by
the
sudden
inexplicable
arrival
of
Ford
Prefect
and
Arthur
Dent
.
Somehow
it
seemed
to
conform
to
a
pattern
that
he
could
n't
see
.
Ford
could
n't
sleep
.
He
was
too
excited
about
being
back
on
the
road
again
.
Fifteen
years
of
virtual
imprisonment
were
over
,
just
as
he
was
finally
beginning
to
give
up
hope
.
Knocking
about
with
Zaphod
for
a
bit
promised
to
be
a
lot
of
fun
,
though
there
seemed
to
be
something
faintly
odd
about
his
semi-cousin
that
he
could
n't
put
his
finger
on
.
The
fact
that
he
had
become
President
of
the
Galaxy
was
frankly
astonishing
,
as
was
the
manner
of
his
leaving
the
post
.
Was
there
a
reason
behind
it
?
There
would
be
no
point
in
asking
Zaphod
,
he
never
appeared
to
have
a
reason
for
anything
he
did
at
all
:
he
had
turned
unfathomably
into
an
art
form
.
He
attacked
everything
in
life
with
a
mixture
of
extraordinary
genius
and
naive
incompetence
and
it
was
often
difficult
to
tell
which
was
which
.
Arthur
slept
:
he
was
terribly
tired
.
There
was
a
tap
at
Zaphod
's
door
.
It
slid
open
.
"
Zaphod
...
?
"
"
Yeah
?
"
