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The prisoners sat in Poetry Appreciation Chairs - strapped in. Vogons
suffered no illusions as to the regard their works were generally held in.
Their early attempts at composition had been part of bludgeoning
insistence that they be accepted as a properly evolved and cultured race,
but now the only thing that kept them going was sheer bloodymindedness.
The sweat stood out cold on Ford Prefect's brow, and slid round the
electrodes strapped to his temples. These were attached to a battery of
electronic equipment - imagery intensifiers, rhythmic modulators,
alliterative residulators and simile dumpers - all designed to heighten
the experience of the poem and make sure that not a single nuance of the
poet's thought was lost.
Arthur Dent sat and quivered. He had no idea what he was in for, but
he knew that he hadn't liked anything that had happened so far and didn't
think things were likely to change.
The Vogon began to read - a fetid little passage of his own devising.
"Oh frettled gruntbuggly..." he began. Spasms wracked Ford's body -
this was worse than ever he'd been prepared for.
"... thy micturations are to me | As plurdled gabbleblotchits on a
lurgid bee."
"Aaaaaaarggggghhhhhh!" went Ford Prefect, wrenching his head back as
lumps of pain thumped through it. He could dimly see beside him Arthur
lolling and rolling in his seat. He clenched his teeth.
"Groop I implore thee," continued the merciless Vogon, "my foonting
turlingdromes."
His voice was rising to a horrible pitch of impassioned stridency.
"And hooptiously drangle me with crinkly bindlewurdles, Or I will rend
thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon, see if I don't!"
"Nnnnnnnnnnyyyyyyyuuuuuuurrrrrrrggggggghhhhh!" cried Ford Prefect and
threw one final spasm as the electronic enhancement of the last line
caught him full blast across the temples. He went limp.
Arthur lolled.
"Now Earthlings..." whirred the Vogon (he didn't know that Ford
Prefect was in fact from a small planet in the vicinity of Betelgeuse, and
wouldn't have cared if he had) "I present you with a simple choice! Either
die in the vacuum of space, or..." he paused for melodramatic effect,
"tell me how good you thought my poem was!"
He threw himself backwards into a huge leathery bat-shaped seat and
watched them. He did the smile again.
Ford was rasping for breath. He rolled his dusty tongue round his
parched mouth and moaned.
Arthur said brightly: "Actually I quite liked it."
Ford turned and gaped. Here was an approach that had quite simply not
occurred to him.
The Vogon raised a surprised eyebrow that effectively obscured his
nose and was therefore no bad thing.
"Oh good..." he whirred, in considerable astonishment.
"Oh yes," said Arthur, "I thought that some of the metaphysical
imagery was really particularly effective."
Ford continued to stare at him, slowly organizing his thoughts around
this totally new concept. Were they really going to be able to bareface
their way out of this?
"Yes, do continue..." invited the Vogon.
"Oh... and er... interesting rhythmic devices too," continued Arthur,
"which seemed to counterpoint the... er... er..." He floundered.
Ford leaped to his rescue, hazarding "counterpoint the surrealism of
the underlying metaphor of the... er..." He floundered too, but Arthur was
ready again.
"... humanity of the..."
"Vogonity," Ford hissed at him.
"Ah yes, Vogonity (sorry) of the poet's compassionate soul," Arthur
felt he was on a home stretch now, "which contrives through the medium of
the verse structure to sublimate this, transcend that, and come to terms
with the fundamental dichotomies of the other," (he was reaching a
triumphant crescendo...) "and one is left with a profound and vivid
insight into... into... er..." (... which suddenly gave out on him.) Ford
leaped in with the coup de gr@ce:
"Into whatever it was the poem was about!" he yelled. Out of the
corner of his mouth: "Well done, Arthur, that was very good."
The Vogon perused them. For a moment his embittered racial soul had
been touched, but he thought no - too little too late. His voice took on
the quality of a cat snagging brushed nylon.
"So what you're saying is that I write poetry because underneath my
mean callous heartless exterior I really just want to be loved," he said.
He paused. "Is that right?"
Ford laughed a nervous laugh. "Well I mean yes," he said, "don't we
all, deep down, you know... er..."
The Vogon stood up.
"No, well you're completely wrong," he said, "I just write poetry to
throw my mean callous heartless exterior into sharp relief. I'm going to
throw you off the ship anyway. Guard! Take the prisoners to number three
airlock and throw them out!"
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