"I'll show you how it works," said Ford. He snatched it from Arthur, who was still holding it as if it were a two-week dead lark, and pulled it out of the cover.
"You press this button here, you see, and the screen lights up, giving you the index."
A screen, about three inches by four, lit up and characters began to flicker across the surface.
"You want to know about Vogons, so I entered that name so." His fingers tapped some more keys. "And there we are."
The words Vogon Constructor Fleets flared in green across the screen.
Ford pressed a large red button at the bottom of the screen and words began to undulate across it. At the same time, the book began to speak the entry as well in a still, quiet, measured voice. This is what the book said:
"Vogon Constructor Fleets. Here is what to do if you want to get a lift from a Vogon: forget it. They are one of the most unpleasant races in the Galaxy--not actually evil, but bad-tempered, bureaucratic, officious and callous. They wouldn't even lift a finger to save their own grandmothers from the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal without orders signed in triplicate, sent in, sent back, queried, lost, found, subjected to public inquiry, lost again, and finally buried in soft peat for three months and recycled for firelighters.
"The best way to get a drink out of a Vogon is to stick your finger down his throat, and the best way to irritate him is to feed his grandmother to the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal.
"On no account allow a Vogon to read poetry at you."
Arthur blinked at it.
I must say that The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy sounds a lot like an iPhone, with Siri reading an entry on Vogons. It has been kind of a crazy day. Got up this morning to try to get my car shoveled out to go to church. Didn't happen. Too much snow, and the plows had come through. There was a concrete wall of white blocking the entire street line of my property. I spent 40 minutes digging, pushing, and digging some more. Then I came back inside, checked my iPhone, and found out that the church services had been canceled for the day.
Not only that, but the Winter Storm Warning had also been canceled for my little corner of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, only to be replaced by a Blizzard Warning that is in effect until 1 a.m. tomorrow.
My son is doing a no-school dance. My daughter and her boyfriend have been firmly ensconced upstairs in my daughter's bedroom all day, watching Netflix. And I am sitting in my kitchen, listening to the wind rattle my windows and drive clouds of white powder into my backyard.
Earlier, my plow guy came through. He dug us out. I got my car stuck down the street. (I was attempting to reach my mother's house to see if everybody was alright. Didn't make it.) With the help of my daughter, her boyfriend, my plow guy, and a helpful neighbor, I was able to push my way back up the street to my driveway. Since that time, I haven't stepped foot outside.
UPDATE: My kids just found out that school is canceled for tomorrow.,
Tonight, I will be watching the Academy Awards as my house gets buried in drifts of snow. I'm supposed to work tomorrow. I'm supposed to teach tomorrow. (The university will not make an announcement about cancellation until the wee morning hours.) Usually, on Oscar night, I get together with my family, eat snacks, order pizza, and have a little competition. It's like New Year's Eve but without the horns and balloons. That won't be happening this year.
Currently, I'm wondering what we're going to eat for dinner. Old Father Hubbard's cupboard is pretty bare. I have blueberries that I picked this summer. There's eggs and milk. Tonight's menu might consist of blueberry pancakes and omelets.
I hope all of my disciples are safe and warm tonight. Stay off the roads. Drink hot cocoa. Watch a bunch of shallow people in Hollywood congratulate themselves on how wonderful they are.
That's what Saint Marty is going to do.
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