Archive of Our Own ^beta

"I really don't think you're taking these seriously enough," Arthur protested. He began to gesture down at his chest, then stopped, morbid fear of impropriety staying his hand where horror and fear had failed. Guiltily, he averted his eyes.

Ford, burdened by no such cultural difficulties, gazed at his chest with mild interest. "You mean it's not normal for you people?"

"No!" Arthur's voice rose past its normal constraints. "You were on Earth for fifteen years. Surely not even you ever saw anyone spontaneously change s--" He cut himself off. There was a woman present now, after all. "...bodies?"

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"Arthur."

Ford's voice was dangerously quiet, its frequencies resonating in the part of Arthur's brain most closely related to small, woodland mammals with very short life expectancies.

"Come here."

Somewhere in Arthur's hindbrain, a furry paw tugged frantically on an alarm bell. This was not unusual.

"Now."

"Just a minute!" Arthur called from the corridor, where he was engaged in a lively game of Oh, Bloody Well Shut Up with the cabin door's circuitry.

There was a rustle from the cabin, followed by a soft, wet, slippery noise and a most un-Ford-like moan. "Never mind," Ford said. "I've got it."

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"...and so you said, yes, of course it's safe, why else would they be covered in pictures of, of, those, and then I said--"

Ford folded his arms over his new pair of those and glared. "And then, Arthur, you turned your head to one side, realised they were breasts, and promptly and with great daring didn't say anything at all. I was so charmed."

Arthur blinked, shocked out of his attempt not to notice any of the four extra breasts now in the cave. "Was that sarcasm?"

"I am," stated Ford through gritted teeth, "a whole new me."

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The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, that marvellous and insightful tome, contains a wealth of information on the Lesser Moons of Zoton, including the collected resignation letters of the last five Guide employees sent to research it. These witty, erudite and, above all, sensitive letters are now available in their own genuine Vorpel-fur binding for just seven Galactic dollars and a confidential skin sample. Laugh! at B Gyphon's skilled word-play in rhyming synonyms for "terror" and "taxidermist", Boggle! at the anatomical dexterity L.E. Weeble imagines of the editors, Sigh! with F Prefect's powerful description of a robot now named Sue.

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The door swished behind them, unable to contain its delight. "Thank you for maki--" There was a dull thump, almost exactly as though a hammer had been thrown with some precision at a control panel.

"My editor would kill for the story." There was a thoughtful pause. "But I think the ship's defence grid is still up."

"I don't see why," came the reply in a tone that spoke longingly of hot showers, Guardian crosswords and an end to all this madness. Amy Dent stared dejectedly at her new body. "It's just a, a--"

"Penis?" Ferrari offered brightly.

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