Chapter 9 Chapter VII

Vogon poetry is without a doubt the third worst poetry in the universe.The second worst is the poetry of the Azgolds of Creel.During the recitation of their poetic master, the pompous Grandthos, from his poem "Ode to the Spot I Found in My Armpit One Midsummer Morning," four listeners died of internal hemorrhage, of which Galactic Art The chairman of the fraud committee survived eating off his own leg.Grançois is reportedly "disappointed" with the poem's reception and is now working on a reading of his 12-volume epic "My Favorite Bathing Rumble". The worst poetry follows its creator, Paula of Greenbridge, Essex, England.nancy.milston.Jennings, died with the destruction of the planet called Earth.

Vogon Jerz forced a smile slowly, but it was not quite standard, because he needed to try to remember the sequence of facial muscle movements.He'd already given a therapeutic yell at his prisoner, and now felt perfectly at ease, ready to show his ruthlessness. Two prisoners sat in the poetry-appreciation booth—straps.The Vogons have little illusions, given the strict constraints on which their jobs are often placed.Their first attempts at writing were part of a sort of compulsion to be accepted as a fully evolved, cultured race, but now the only thing keeping them going is their bloodthirsty brutality.

Sweat dripped down Ford Prefect's brow and swirled along the electrodes strapped to his temples.These electrodes are directly connected to a host of electronic devices—imagery enhancers, tempo adjusters, phonological selectors, and metaphor pourers, all of which are designed to enhance the experience of poetry, to ensure that no part of the poem is missed. A little thought. Arthur.Dent sat, trembling.He doesn't have the slightest idea what's going to happen next, but he knows that everything that's happened so far is something he doesn't like, and things don't seem to be improving in any way.

The Vogon began to recite--a foul poem of his own composition. "Oh, drooling you sticking my face..." he began.A spasm hit Ford's body—the poem was more disgusting than he'd prepared himself for. "...you pissed on me—like a sickly bee going mad." "Ah, ah, ah! . . . " groaned Ford Prefect, twisting his neck back desperately.He vaguely saw Arthur beside him slowly curling up into a ball on the seat.He gritted his teeth. "I implore you," continued the merciless Vogon, "my hairy-nosed love." His voice raised to the point that it almost pierced the eardrums, "Show me in the viscous liquid, or I will tear you apart, see if I will!"

"No, no, no! . . . " screamed Ford Prefect, and as the last line of the poem was strengthened through his temples, he had a final convulsion and went limp. Arthur continued to curl up. "Now, Earthboy..." the Vogon wheezed (he didn't know Ford Prefect was actually from an asteroid near Betelgeuse, but he wouldn't have cared if he did ), "I offer you a simple choice! Or die in the vacuum of outer space, or..." He paused, "Tell me how much you like my poems!" With that, he fell back into a large leather chair and looked at them.He forced another smile.

Ford gasped heavily.He licked his hot mouth with his tongue and moaned. Arthur said loudly: "In fact, I do like your poems." Ford turned to Arthur, dumbfounded. The Vogon raised his eyebrows, which effectively undercut his big nose, so it wasn't such a bad thing. "Oh, good..." he said, with a rather surprised expression. "Oh, it's true," Arthur continued, "I think some of the metaphorical imagery in it is quite effective." Ford continued to stare at him, slowly beginning to reorganize his thoughts around this new position.Can they really use this position to escape bad luck?

"Yes, go on..." demanded the Vogon. "Oh... um... the rhyme is interesting, too," Arthur said, "it feels like it fits... um... um..." He froze. At this time, thanks to Ford's stepping up to smooth things over, he summoned up the courage to say: "...corresponding to the surrealist principle of metaphor, about... um..." He couldn't continue, but at this time Arthur was ready again up. "……human nature……" "Vogon traits." Ford took the subject. "Oh, yes, the Vogon quality—sorry—the sympathetic soul of the poet—" Arthur realized that this was the most critical moment, "to be sublimated through the structure of poetry, beyond all terms," He was about to reach the finish line of triumph, "through the deep and living insight straight... straight... well..." His inspiration suddenly ran out.Fortunately, Ford caught up and finally delivered the winning blow: "Get to the bottom of what makes poetry what it is!" he almost yelled.The corner of his mouth whispered softly: "Nice job, Arthur, great."

The Vogons looked them over carefully.His heart was touched for a time, but he immediately denied himself—after all, the touch was too slight and too late.His voice sounded like a cat scratching nylon. “So, from your point of view, I write poetry because I want to be loved beneath my seemingly ruthless exterior,” he said.He paused, "Is that so?" Ford smiled nervously. "Oh, I think, yes," he said. The Vogon rose to his feet. "No, you're totally wrong," he said. "I wrote poetry just to find a balance to the ruthless exterior. So, I'm going to throw you out of the ship anyway. Guards! Take these two prisoners to No. 3 Airlock, throw the spaceship!"

"What!" exclaimed Ford. A hulking young Vogon guard stepped forward and lifted them from their seats in his fleshy arms. "You can't do that," cried Ford. "We're writing a book." "It's no use resisting!" the Vogon guard yelled at him from behind.These were the first words he learned after joining the Vogon Guard. The captain looked at this with a kind of detached pleasure, and turned away. Arthur stared wildly after him. "I don't want to die now!" he cried. "I still have a headache! I don't want to go to heaven with a headache, I hate it!"

The guard held them firmly by the neck, bowed respectfully to his captain's back, and ushered them out of the control bridge.With a metal door closed, Captain Vogon was alone again.He hummed softly, fell into deep thought, and wrote down some verses in his notebook from time to time. "Well," he said to himself, "'corresponds to the principle of surrealism in metaphor'..." He thought about the sentence for a moment, then closed his book and smiled grimly. "Death seemed too cheap for them," he said. The long metal passage echoed with the feeble struggle of the two men in the pincer-like hands of the Vogon guards.

"That's great," cried Arthur incoherently, "that's bloody hell. Let me go, you brute!" The Vogon guard carried them on. "Don't worry," Ford said, "I'll figure something out." But that didn't sound too hopeful. "It's useless to resist!" The guard roared again. "Don't say such self-defeating things," stammered Ford. "How can a man maintain a positive outlook when he's always talking about it?" "God chirp," Arthur grumbled, "what about a positive outlook, your planet didn't just get burned today. I got up this morning thinking I'd have a light-hearted-day, Reading, bathing the dog...it's only past 4pm, and I'm in this ghost place 6 light years away from the smoke left by the destruction of the earth, waiting to be thrown out of an alien spaceship!" He sputtered all this, and the Vogon guards held him tighter. "Now," said Ford, "don't be so alarmed!" "Who's panicking?" Arthur snapped. "It's still just culture shock. You'll have to wait until I get my bearings in this environment before I start panicking!" "Arthur, you're hysterical. Shut up!" Ford tried desperately to calm down and think about it, but was interrupted by the guard's roar. "It's useless to resist!" "Shut your beak, too!" Ford called to him. "It's useless to resist!" "Oh, my God, can't you take a break," said Ford.He turned his head until he could see the face of the man holding him.Suddenly an idea popped up. "Do you really like doing things like this?" he asked suddenly. The Vogon guard stopped and stood still, an expression of extreme dementia slowly emerged from his face. "Like it?" He said in a low voice, "What do you mean?" "I mean," said Ford, "are these things going to give you a full, satisfying life? Pedling around, yelling, pushing people out of spaceships . . . " The guard stared up at the low metal ceiling, frowning.Gradually, the corners of his mouth relaxed.Finally he said, "Yeah, those were the good times..." "It must be," agreed Ford. Arthur looked back at Ford. "Ford, what are you doing?" he whispered curiously. "Oh, you just have to try to find a little fun around me. Okay?" said Ford. "Look how good times get, don't you?" he continued. The guard looked down at him, and some dull thoughts began to surge in his dark heart. "Yeah," he said, "you've mentioned that reality is pretty nasty most of the time. Except..." He was lost in thought again, and he had to stare up at the ceiling, "except for some of the things I like roar." He took a breath and roared, "Resistance is..." "Of course, yes," interrupted Ford hastily, "you're good at it, I'm sure. But if it's the nastiest thing," he said, speaking slowly so that each word had enough Time for best results, "So why are you even doing it? What are you drawing? Women? Leather? Manliness? Or just because this kind of nonsense is a fun challenge for you?" Arthur looked back and forth between them, puzzled. "Hmm..." said the guard, "well... um... I don't know either. I guess I'll just... simply do it. My aunt told me being a guard on a ship would be a good job for a young Vogon — you know, uniforms, stun ray holsters, no brains..." "You see, Arthur," said Ford, in a concluding tone, "you think you're in trouble." Arthur really thought he was in trouble.Apart from the destruction of his own planet, the Vogon guard had already suffocated him, and he absolutely disliked the sound of being thrown into space. "But you might as well try to feel and understand his distress," Ford went on. "Here he is, poor guy, and all he lives is pacing up and down and throwing people off ships..." "And roaring," added the guard. "And yelling, of course," said Ford, patting the fat, fleshy arm around his neck kindly, "but he doesn't know why he's doing it!" Arthur agreed it was a very sad thing.He expressed his attitude with a small movement, because he was too suffocated to speak. The guard was completely confused, and made a dull, dull voice. "Okay. Now I want a change..." "What a fellow!" said Ford encouragingly. "But," the guard continued dully, "what are the other options?" "Okay," said Ford slowly and excitedly, "stop doing these things, of course! Go tell them," he went on, "you'll never do these things again." He felt he should add something, But at this moment, the guard seemed to have run out of brains because he had to think about so many things. "Hmmm..." said the guard, "Well, that doesn't sound too good to me." Ford suddenly realized that the opportunity was slipping away. "Wait a minute," he said, "this is just the beginning, you see, there's a lot more you can do, you see..." But at this moment the guard had regained his senses, and he grabbed the two people in his hand again, and led them to the airlock according to the original instructions.Still, he was clearly shaken quite a bit. "No, I think you'll end up the same way," he said, "I'd better put both of you in the airlock and get back to the yelling work I'm supposed to be doing." Ford Prefect is back to square one. "Okay then...but you should think about it again!" He spoke more slowly and without excitement. "Hmm..." Arthur mumbled a string of words. "You should keep going," continued Ford. "Music, art, and many other things can be done! Oh, really!" "It's no use resisting!" the guard yelled again, adding this time, "You see, if I persist, I'll eventually be promoted to Senior Howling Officer, and we don't usually have no shouting, no using There's an opening for the officer who pushes people off the ship, so I figured I'd better do what I was told." While speaking, they had come to the airlock-a huge circular metal hatch on the inner wall of the spaceship.The guard operated the switch, and the hatch slid open smoothly. "I'd like to thank you for an interesting talk, though," said the Vogon guard. "And now, goodbye." And he threw Ford and Arthur through the hatch into the small room inside.Finally out of suffocation, Arthur lay on the ground panting.Ford scrambled around, bumping helplessly with his shoulder against the closing hatch. "Listen," he called to the guards, "there's a world you don't understand at all... What do you think?" Start humming the first bar of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. "Bang bang bang bang—pound! Doesn't that tune make you feel anything?" "No," said the guard, "not really. But I'll mention it to my aunt." If he said anything else after that, it was inaudible because the hatch was closed tightly.All sound died away, save for the distant hum of the ship's engines. They were now in a small, polished cylindrical room, about six feet in diameter and ten feet long. Panting heavily, Ford began to look around the room. "I didn't expect him to be such a wise and foolish guy." He mumbled, and then leaned limply against the curved wall. Arthur was still lying on the curved floor where he had been thrown in, not even looking up, just panting. "We're stuck, aren't we?" "Yes," said Ford, "we're stuck." "Well, have you thought of something? I remember you said you would think of it. Of course, maybe you have thought of something, but I didn't pay attention." "Oh, yes, I did have an idea," gasped Ford. Arthur looked up expectantly. "Unfortunately," Ford continued, "this idea has something to do with the guy on the other side of the closed hatch." He kicked the hatch. "But that's a really good idea, isn't it?" "Oh, of course, quite ingeniously." "what is it then?" "Well, I haven't figured out the details yet. We don't have much time left, do we?" "So... well, what's going to happen next?" Arthur asked. "Oh, well, come on, the hatch in front of us will open automatically soon, and we will be ejected into deep outer space, and then gradually suffocated. If you take a deep breath beforehand, you can hold it for up to 30 seconds. Of course..." said Ford.Frowning with his hands behind his back, he began humming an old Betelgeuse battle hymn.He seemed suddenly strange to Arthur. "It seems to be the case," said Arthur, "that we're dying." "Sure," said Ford, "unless... no! Wait!" He dashed across the room toward something behind Arthur. "What's this switch?" he called. "What? Where?" cried Arthur, turning quickly. "Nothing, I was just joking," Ford said, "we're going to die anyway." He leaned limply against the wall again, and continued humming from where he had just broken off. "You know," said Arthur, "at a moment like this, when I'm trapped in a Vogon airlock with a man from Betelgeuse, about to be thrown into outer space and die of asphyxiation. When I die, I wish I had listened to my mother when I was young." "Why, what did she tell you?" "I don't know, I didn't listen."' "Oh." Ford went on humming. "It's so horrible," Arthur said to himself, "Nelson's column is gone, McDonald's is gone, and all that's left is me, and the entry, 'Mostly harmless.' A few seconds more , the only thing left is 'essentially harmless'. And just yesterday, the planet looked normal." At this time, there was a mechanical sound. As the air surge gradually changed from a faint hiss to a deafening roar, the outer hatch opened, revealing an empty darkness dotted with some distant tiny bright spots.Ford and Arthur are thrown into outer space like corks shot from a toy gun.