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ee the sun rising in the morning； and astonished by all the green stuff in the fields。
He was surprised to find he could feel the sheep being startled by the sun that morning； and the morning before； and being startled by a clump of trees the day before that。 He could go further and further back； but it got dull because all it consisted of was sheep being startled by things they'd been startled by the day before。
He left the sheep and let his mind drift outwards sleepily in developing ripples。 It felt the presence of other minds； hundreds of them； thousands in a web； some sleepy； some sleeping； some terribly excited； one fractured。
One fractured。
He passed it fleetingly and tried to feel for it again； but it eluded him like the other card with an apple on it in Pelmanism。 He felt a spasm of excitement because he knew instinctively who it was； or at least knew who it was he wanted it to be； and once you know what it is you want to be true； instinct is a very useful device for enabling you to know that it is。
He instinctively knew that it was Fenny and that he wanted to find her； but he could not。 By straining too much for it； he could feel he was losing this strange new faculty； so he relaxed the search and let his mind wander more easily once more。
And again； he felt the fracture。
Again he couldn't find it。 This time； whatever his instinct was busy telling him it was all right to believe； he wasn't certain that it was Fenny … or perhaps it was a different fracture this time。 It had the same disjointed quality but it seemed a more general feeling of fracture； deeper； not a single mind； maybe not a mind at all。 It was different。
He let his mind sink slowly and widely into the Earth； rippling； seeping； sinking。
He was following the Earth through its days； drifting with the rhythms of its myriad pulses； seeping through the webs of its life； swelling with its tides； turning with its weight。 Always the fracture kept returning； a dull disjointed distant ache。
And now he was flying through a land of light； the light was time； the tides of it were days receding。 The fracture he had sensed； the second fracture； lay in the distance before him across the land； the thickness of a single hair across the dreaming landscape of the days of Earth。
And suddenly he was upon it。
He danced dizzily over the edge as the dreamland dropped sheer away beneath him； a stupefying precipice into nothing； him wildly twisting； clawing at nothing； flailing in horrifying space； spinning； falling。
Across the jagged chasm had been another land； another time； an older world； not fractured from； but hardly joined： two Earths。 He woke。
A cold breeze brushed the feverish sweat standing on his forehead。 The nightmare was spent and so； he felt； was he。 His shoulders dropped； he gently rubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers。 At last he was sleepy as well as very tired。 As to what it meant； if it meant anything at all； he would think about it in the morning； for now he would go to bed and sleep。 His own bed； his own sleep。
He could see his house in the distance and wondered why this was。 It was silhouetted against the moonlight and he recognized its rather dull blockish shape。 He looked about him and noticed that he was about eighteen inches above the rose bushes of one of his neighbours； John Ainsworth。 His rose bushes were carefully tended； pruned back for the winter； strapped to canes and labelled； and Arthur wondered what he was doing above them。 He wondered what was holding him there； and when he discovered that nothing was holding him there he crashed awkwardly to the ground。
He picked himself up； brushed himself down and hobbled back to his house on a sprained ankle。 He undressed and toppled into bed。
While he was asleep the phone rang again。 It rang for fully fifteen minutes and caused him to turn over twice。 It never； however； stood a chance of waking him up。
Chapter 8
Arthur awoke feeling wonderful； absolutely fabulous； refreshed； overjoyed to be home； bouncing with energy； hardly disappointed at all to discover it was the middle of February。
He almost danced to the fridge； found the three least hairy things in it； put them on a plate and watched them intently for two minutes。 Since they made no attempt to move within that time he called them breakfast and ate them。 Between them they killed a virulent space disease he's picked up without knowing it in the Flargathon Gas Swamps a few days earlier； which otherwise would have killed off half the population of the Western Hemisphere； blinded the other half and driven everyone else psychotic and sterile； so the Earth was lucky there。
He felt strong； he felt healthy。 He vigorously cleared away the junk mail with a spade and then buried the cat。
Just as he was finishing that； the phone went； but he let it ring while he maintained a moment's respectful silence。 Whoever it was would ring back if it was important。
He kicked the mud off his shoes and went back inside。
There had been a small number of significant letters in the piles of junk … some documents from the council； dated three years earlier； relating to the proposed demolition of his house； and some other letters about the setting up of a public inquiry into the whole bypass scheme in the area； there was also an old letter from Greenpeace； the ecological pressure group to which he occasionally made contributions； asking for help with their scheme to release dolphins and orcas from captivity； and some postcards from friends； vaguely plaining that he never got in touch these days。
He collected these together and put them in a cardboard file which he marked 〃Things To Do〃。 Since he was feeling so vigorous and dynamic that morning； he even added the word 〃Urgent！〃
He unpacked his towel and another few odd bits and pieces from the plastic bag he had acquired at the Port Brasta Mega…Market。 The slogan on the side was a clever and elaborate pun in Lingua Centauri which was pletely inprehensible in any other language and therefore entirely pointless for a Duty Free Shop at a spaceport。 The bag also had a hole in it so he threw it away。
He realized with a sudden twinge that something else must have dropped out in the small spacecraft that had brought him to Earth； kindly going out of its way to drop him right beside the A303。 He had lost his battered and spaceworn copy of the thing which had helped him find his way across the unbelievable wastes of space he had traversed。 He had lost The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy。
Well； he told himself； this time I really won't be needing it again。
He had some calls to make。
He had decided how to deal with the mass of contradictions his return journey precipitated； which was that he would simply brazen it out。
He phoned the BBC and asked to be put through to his department head。
… Oh； hello； Arthur Dent here。 Look； sorry I haven't been in for six months but I've gone mad。
… Oh； not to worry。 Thought it was probably something like that。 Happens here all the time。 How soon can we expect you？
… When do hedgehogs stop hibernating？
… Sometime i