经典科幻文学:《生命 宇宙及一切》第12章1

Chapter 12
Shhh, said Slartibartfast. Listen and watch.
Night had now fallen on ancient Krikkit. The sky was dark and empty. The only light was coming from the nearby town, from which pleasant convivial sounds were drifting quietly on the breeze. They stood beneath a tree from which heady fragrances wafted around them. Arthur squatted and felt the Informational Illusion of the soil and the grass. He ran it through his fingers. The soil seemed heavy and rich, the grass strong. It was hard to avoid the impression that this was a thoroughly delightful place in all respects.
The sky was, however, extremely blank and seemed to Arthur to cast a certain chill over the otherwise idyllic, if currently invisible, landscape. Still, he supposed, it’s a question of what you’re used to.
He felt a tap on his shoulder and looked up. Slartibartfast was quietly directing his attention to something down the other side of the hill. He looked and could just see some faint lights dancing and waving, and moving slowly in their direction.
As they came nearer, sounds became audible too, and soon the dim lights and noises resolved themselves into a small group of people who were walking home across the hill towards the town.
They walked quite near the watchers beneath the tree, swinging lanterns which made soft and crazy lights dance among the trees and grass, chattering contentedly, and actually singing a song about how terribly nice everything was, how happy they were, how much they enjoyed working on the farm, and how pleasant it was to be going home to see their wives and children, with a lilting chorus to the effect that the flowers were smelling particularly nice at this time of year and that it was a pity the dog had died seeing as it liked them so much. Arthur could almost imagine Paul McCartney sitting with his feet up by the fire on evening, humming it to Linda and wondering what to buy with the proceeds, and thinking probably Essex.
The Masters of Krikkit, breathed Slartibartfast in sepulchral tones.
Coming, as it did, so hard upon the heels of his own thoughts about Essex this remark caused Arthur a moment’s confusion. Then the logic of the situation imposed itself on his scattered mind, and he discovered that he still didn’t understand what the old man meant.
What? he said.
The Masters of Krikkit, said Slartibartfast again, and if his breathing had been sepulchral before, this time he sounded like someone in Hades with bronchitis.
Arthur peered at the group and tried to make sense of what little information he had at his disposal at this point. The people in the group were clearly alien, if only because they seemed a little tall, thin, angular and almost as pale as to be white, but otherwise they appeared remarkably pleasant; a little whimsical perhaps, one wouldn’t necessarily want to spend a long coach journey with them, but the point was that if they deviated in any way from being good straightforward people it was in being perhaps too nice rather than not nice enough. So why all this rasping lungwork from Slartibartfast which would seem more appropriate to a radio commercial for one of those nasty films about chainsaw operators taking their work home with them?
Then, this Krikkit angle was a tough one, too. He hadn’t quite fathomed the connection between what he knew as cricket, and what…
Slartibartfast interrupted his train of thought at this point as if sensing what was going through his mind.
The game you know as cricket, he said, and his voice still seemed to be wandering lost in subterranean passages, is just one of those curious freaks of racial memory which can keep images alive in the mind aeons after their true significance has been lost in the mists of time. Of all the races on the Galaxy, only the English could possibly revive the memory of the most horrific wars ever to sunder the Universe and transform it into what I’m afraid is generally regarded as an incomprehensibly dull and pointless game.
Rather fond of it myself, he added, but in most people’s eyes you have been inadvertently guilty of the most grotesque bad taste. Particularly the bit about the little red ball hitting the wicket, that’s very nasty.
Um, said Arthur with a reflective frown to indicate that his cognitive synapses were coping with this as best as they could, um.
And these, said Slartibartfast, slipping back into crypt guttural and indicating the group of Krikkit men who had now walked past them, are the ones who started it all, and it will start tonight. Come, we will follow, and see why.
They slipped out from underneath the tree, and followed the cheery party along the dark hill path. Their natural instinct was to tread quietly and stealthily in pursuit of their quarry, though, as they were simply walking through a recorded Informational Illusion, they could as easily have been wearing euphoniums and woad for all the notice their quarry would have taken of them.
Arthur noticed that a couple of members of the party were now singing a different song. It came lilting back to them through the soft night air, and was a sweet romantic ballad which would have netted McCartney Kent and Sussex and enabled him to put in a fair offer for Hampshire.
You must surely know, said Slartibartfast to Ford, what it is that is about to happen?
Me? said Ford. No.

第十二章
“嘘……” 司拉提巴特法斯说道，“注意听，注意看。”
夜幕笼罩着古老的版求星。漆黑的天上，空无一物。唯一的光线来自附近那座小镇。一阵阵欢声笑语随着微风远远地传来。他们站在一棵树下，醉人的芬芳萦绕在他们身旁。阿瑟蹲坐下来，触摸那土壤和草地的信息幻影。他让它们在指间滑动。土壤很肥沃，草很茂盛。不可否认，这地方从各方面来看，都是相当不错的。
然而，天空，却是极度的空虚。在阿瑟看来，为这恬美之地——当然现在啥也看不见了——骤添了一分阴森。不过，他猜想这应该是习惯的问题。
他感到有人敲了敲自己的肩膀，于是抬起头。司拉提巴特法斯只是静静地示意他向山丘的另一面看去。他望过去，只见些许微光闪烁，缓缓朝他们几个移来。
那些光近了，声音也渐渐清晰。声与光越来越近，现在可以认出那是一拨人，正走在回小镇的路上。
那拨人过来了，离几位偷窥者越来越近。他们摇着灯笼，那些柔和的光点就在树林草丛之间跳来跳去。他们谈笑风生，唱着歌儿，内容是一切多么美好，他们多么快乐、多么热爱农活，回家去见老婆孩子是多么开心；还有一段悠扬婉转的和声，大意是这个季节花儿多么香，可惜他们可爱的狗已经死了，看不见这一切了。阿瑟几乎可以想象，在夜里，保罗·麦卡特尼①跷着腿坐在火堆旁，对琳达②哼着这些歌儿，考虑着赚了钱要买些什么。唱这些歌儿赚的钱，大概能把爱塞克斯③买下来呢。
“版求的主人。”司拉提巴特法斯用葬礼般阴沉的声音低语道。
这么一句话，在关于爱塞克斯的念头之后突如其来，让阿瑟一时摸不着头脑。他逼迫自己涣散的精神恢复到逻辑状态，可还是不明白老人此话怎讲。
“什么？”他问。
“版求的主人。”司拉提巴特法斯再次说道。如果说，刚才他的声音像葬礼，这次他的声音则像患了支气管炎的鬼一样。
阿瑟定定地看着那拨人，想弄懂刚才那句话是什么意思。那拨人显然是外星人，他们特别高，瘦骨嶙峋，白得几乎像雪。更要紧的是，他们太快乐了。你不会很想跟他们一起长途旅行——听上去有点怪。如果他们不算厚道的好人，原因并非他们不够厚道不够好，而是因为他们实在好得过分了。可是，司拉提巴特法斯干嘛用这骇人的语调说话？这种语调，恐怕更适于恐怖电影的预告片，关于诸如电锯杀人狂的故事什么的。
看来，这个版求也会很恐怖罗。他不明白，自己所知的“板球”和这有什么联……
司拉提巴特法斯打断他的万千思绪，仿佛看透他的心思。
“你所知的板球运动，”他的声音依然像在地道里游荡，“其实是一种民族集体记忆的特殊变异，它是为了保留事件的真实意义，令其不至于在历史长河中消逝。在银河系所有种族中，只有英格兰人将这一宇宙恶战的记忆，转记成……恐怕是……一种枯燥透顶不可想象的无聊游戏。
“我个人很喜欢它。”他补充道，“但在大多数人看来，你们真的是品味怪诞，不可理喻。特别是要让那颗小红球打到三柱门上，这点真的很恐怖。”
“噢。”阿瑟应声皱了皱眉，表示他的认知神经突触已经尽力了，“噢。”
“而他们，”司拉提巴特法斯又变回他那墓穴般的喉音，朝那拨正走过的版求星人看了两眼，“导致了一切的开始。就在今晚。来吧。我们跟上，看看怎么回事。”
他们从树下溜出去，跟着那群愉快的人们走在漆黑的山间小道上。出于本能，他们极力放轻脚步，偷偷摸摸地跟着“猎物”。其实，他们不过是走在信息幻影里而已。就算吹着次中音大号，浑身涂上蓝颜色，“猎物”也看不见他们的。
阿瑟注意到，人群中有几个人开始唱另一支歌。歌声随着晚风飘到他们几个的耳朵里，那是一支甜美浪漫的民谣。麦卡特尼要是把这首歌出成唱片，恐怕能把肯特郡、苏塞克斯郡和汉普郡都买下来了。
“你一定知道，”司拉提巴特法斯对福特道，“接下来是什么吧？”
“我？”福特说，“不知道。”