(no subject)
The doors slide shut with an ingratiating sigh, and Zaphod shudders.
"Hey boss!" Eddie's gratingly cherful voice echoes through the empty ship, and he groans.
"Eddie."
"Yeah, boss?"
"Don't talk."
"Sure thing, Mr. President! You got it!"
Zaphod scrubs at his eyes, fighting back the headaches that thrum merrily through his temples. Okay. So. Stop one, Eroticon 6. Stop two, Adrian. Stop three--
But he doesn't want to think about stop three, so his minds slide away from it easily enough while he taps his fingers moodily on the arm of his chair.
Bad idea, is the thought that slips from one head to the other. Man, the worst. Who's thinking, here?
Yeah, baby. Bad idea, alright. The best kind.
He whistles under his breath. Trouble, baby. Good to be on the march again. All he's got is a vague idea, and some people to contact, but hell, that's more than he's had in the past, right?
"Eddie," he says, flattening the fingers of one hand with another to keep them from drumming nervously, "there's six people I gotta see. You know which ones."
There's a pause.
"...yeah," Eddie says, cautiously. "Er, about that, boss?"
Zaphod waves a hand impatiently, and then waves it again to shut off the radio.
"No questions," he says, lazily. "Just find them, got it?"
The computer sounds distinctly unhappy.
"I got it."
"Good." He leans back, and puts his smoked glasses on, grateful for their near opaque-ness. Trouble, baby. Bad trouble.
Ain't it the best kind.
"Hey boss!" Eddie's gratingly cherful voice echoes through the empty ship, and he groans.
"Eddie."
"Yeah, boss?"
"Don't talk."
"Sure thing, Mr. President! You got it!"
Zaphod scrubs at his eyes, fighting back the headaches that thrum merrily through his temples. Okay. So. Stop one, Eroticon 6. Stop two, Adrian. Stop three--
But he doesn't want to think about stop three, so his minds slide away from it easily enough while he taps his fingers moodily on the arm of his chair.
Bad idea, is the thought that slips from one head to the other. Man, the worst. Who's thinking, here?
Yeah, baby. Bad idea, alright. The best kind.
He whistles under his breath. Trouble, baby. Good to be on the march again. All he's got is a vague idea, and some people to contact, but hell, that's more than he's had in the past, right?
"Eddie," he says, flattening the fingers of one hand with another to keep them from drumming nervously, "there's six people I gotta see. You know which ones."
There's a pause.
"...yeah," Eddie says, cautiously. "Er, about that, boss?"
Zaphod waves a hand impatiently, and then waves it again to shut off the radio.
"No questions," he says, lazily. "Just find them, got it?"
The computer sounds distinctly unhappy.
"I got it."
"Good." He leans back, and puts his smoked glasses on, grateful for their near opaque-ness. Trouble, baby. Bad trouble.
Ain't it the best kind.