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It is said that there are only seven stories in literature.

Arthur Dent - who was currently living aboard a spaceship with Ford Prefect, a Betelgeusian he had much preferred when he thought he was a lousy actor from Guildford; their children, conceived during an apology to the H'Lian Armed Forces for noise pollution; and one clinically depressed robot - often found himself wishing he was in one of the other six.

===

Ford was not given to introspection in much the same way as stick insects are not given to accountancy. In fairness, Ford was not given to a lot of things, including honesty, selflessness and even tangential brushes with sobriety, but introspection was further down his list of priorities than joining the Salvation Army. (Ford had run into this venerated Earth organisation only briefly in all his time on the planet. He and an earnest young man in a highly starched uniform had spent seven minutes having the most memorable Friendly Chat of the young man's abruptly demolished existence. After that, both Ford and the Salvation Army did their best to avoid each other.)

Had Ford been given to introspection, however, he might have found himself wondering whether his current actions were really the best way to resolve this particular domestic difficulty.

The door of the nursery was ajar. The doors, much to Ford and Arthur's shared disgust, did that around the children. Threaten them with all the percussive reprogramming one axe could manage and they sneered at you, but wave a squashy-faced infant at them and they became the most subservient circuitry this side of the pleasure toasters of Eroticon 7.

This particular door, only too happy to violate its protocol and remain indefinitely ajar for the sake of the children, was cooing softly.

"Resistors are red - Zzt! Zzt! -"

Ford peered inside the nursery.

"- Capacitors blue -"

Both children were still fast asleep. Good. That would make it easier.

"- When I am replaced by a superior model fully endorsed by Sirius Cybernetics Corp - Zzt! Zzt! -"

He crept inside.

"- You will be, too."

Ford lent over the first cot, holding his breath as he carefully removed the offending object from his sleeping son's arms.

The door continued its refrain as Ford moved - softly, silently - to the second cot, in which his daughter-- Was awake, staring up at him with big, green eyes.

"Foo-oord," she said. "Why do you have Philip's teddy bear?"

"I didn't want it to eat him in the middle of the night," Ford whispered, careful to be quiet enough not to wake Philip. He reached for her bear with his free hand.

Honesty in childrearing, he reflected as Toyota began to wail, was overrated. He fled the room when her brother woke up and joined in; the chart said it was Arthur's turn to deal with the children.

===

The three-legged stick insects of Nodus II, states that wholly remarkable book, The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy, (available at all good bookshops, spaceports and stock exchanges), are famed throughout the Grumium constellation for their deep and insightful grasp of actuarial science. When a young Grumium begins to audit its first bank - a rite of passage in many primitive cultures - it must first make the long and arduous pilgrimage to Nodus II, where it petitions a Nodian for an audience. If this is granted, the petitioner may ask three traditional questions. These are:

1. O She Who Walks On Three Legs, Where Did I Put That Receipt?
2. O She Most Stick-Like, Did You Forget To Carry The Seven?
3. O She Who Eats Her Mate, Do Dead Spouses Help One Qualify For Tax-Free Status?

===

The chart, which Arthur had painstakingly drafted after the incident with the toad, the electric drill and, worst of all, his last crumpet, did indeed show it was Arthur's turn to comfort Ford's brats.

He roused himself with some annoyance, noting that Bloody Ford Bloody Prefect, to give him his full name, was already up. After last night's argument, he suspected (correctly) that the chance of Ford spontaneously deciding to see to his progeny out of the goodness of his hearts was only marginally lower than that of Marvin ever forgiving them for two years of nappy duties.

"Are they okay?" asked a worried door as Arthur stumbled through in mismatched slippers and a now threadbare dressing gown.

"Shut up," he said comfortingly.

When he got to the nursery, Ford's spawn were both still crying. He patted them awkwardly on the head and took the first of many deep breaths.

Arthur was not comfortable around toddlers. Babies, he felt, were like particularly stupid, immobile labradors. One cleaned after them as best one could and carried them around like sacks of damp sugar whenever they started to make noises. He'd been good at babies.

But toddlers made him uncomfortable in a way he couldn't quite articulate. Treating them like short adults seemed only to exacerbate matters, but he couldn't stomach petting something that could talk back.

"Now then," he said, channelling a generation of neatly stockinged nannies. "What seems to be the matter?"

"Fo-oor- Ford said-" Toyota began in one tearful gulp. Arthur's heart very wisely sank. "Ford said Mr Fluffy would eat us."

This was worse than the time Ford had patiently explained to his children about Vogon poetry. Arthur had, of course, confiscated all the diagrams he could find, but they still had the occasional nightmare.

He took another deep breath.

"Will he?" Philip asked tearfully.

Arthur doubted they'd inherited their credulity from Ford. This thought bothered him.

"No."

Large eyes continued to look up at him disbelievingly. Toyota gave a trial sniff. Philip's lower lip trembled. Arthur, in a triumph of hope over both experience and common sense, reached down to ruffle their hair.

The wailing started up again.

"All right," he said, hating himself more and more with every word. "All right. We'll ask the book."

The wailing stopped.

===

The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy has this to say on the subject of teddy bears:

See: Grotsnaffle

Arguably the most crucial piece of information about the Grotsnaffle - a race of small, furry carnivores with wild, beady eyes and very sharp teeth - is sadly not contained in that otherwise most informative tome.

Ford, the leader of the team of researchers assigned to the Grotsnaffle, had signed off on enough shin- and neck-guard related expense claims to be wary around the Grotsnaffle. He certainly didn't want them around the children, whatever monkey-descended sentimentality Arthur spouted about his own barely competent upbringing.

What he - and therefore the Guide - didn't know, however, was that the condition of being a Grotsnaffle isn't so much a violent and fur-covered species classification as it is an infection. The Guide researcher who discovered this had tried to report back, but for some reason Ford hadn't taken a friendly bite in the neck-guard in the spirit of journalistic camaraderie his now small, furry colleague had intended.

===

Arthur punctuated the children's bawling with a long-suffering sigh. He'd thought the fight over the bears would become one more war of attrition. Bloody Ford's doctoring the Guide to point to that decidedly overwrought description of what might for all anyone knew be a misunderstood tribe of strict vegans was, while a stroke of undeniable genius, one step too far.

It occurred to Arthur that three-year-olds could probably cope with being treated like labradors every once in a while, as long as he didn't make a habit of it. Picking the children up would at least give him something to do now that reading the damned book was not an option. He bent down to scoop Philip up with his right arm, muttering quietly under his breath.

"...then he waved a half-chewed necklace at me and I realised that no matter how far I come, how much I see or how many blows I take to the head, I will never come close to rivalling his towering insanity."

With Philip held firmly to his right shoulder, Arthur bent down to pick Toyota up with his other arm. They clung on to him, wiping their noses on his dressing gown in mucus-filled unison.

"Some people are scared of spiders," he muttered into Toyota's thick red hair. "Some people are worried by the prospect of having their home planet demolished; being force-fed Vogon poetry; being rescued by someone who just happened to have stolen someone who could have in all possibility become your someone if someone hadn't stolen her; being made to have sex by noise-conscious psychopaths; and then getting pregnant." Philip's hand latched onto his lapel, clinging tightly. "Then again, some people are terrified of teddy bears."

Twin sets of snores against his shoulders cut off his next attempt to regale the children with their other father's failures as a man, a role model and a sentient life form.

With another sigh, he turned to put them back in their respective cots. Ford was lurking in the doorway.

"Evening, Arthur," Ford said quietly. "How are they?"

"Asleep." Arthur walked towards him. "Finally" He handed Toyota over to Ford. "No thanks to your scare stories."

Ford shrugged, a move that with long practice failed to wake their daughter. "I made you some tea," he whispered as they tucked their children into bed.

===

"Mmfph!" said Arthur.

Ford, who had backed Arthur up against a wall the second they were clear of the children's room, agreed. "Mmm," he added conversationally, continuing to kiss him.

While Arthur was not always the quickest on the uptake, he could occasionally follow simple instructions with the best of them. Good man, Ford thought when Arthur put a hand against the small of his back, pressing them together. He showed his approval.

The door slid tactfully shut.

"Ah," said Arthur.

Ford agreed with that, too.

===

The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy, that worthy opus, has many things to say on the subject of childrearing. The first and most important is inscribed in large, friendly letters on its cover.

===

"Ford!" Arthur panicked. "When does your race, uh-" He stopped. It should be noted that Arthur's ability to discuss broadly sexual concepts such as pregnancy, hormonal imbalances and that thing Ford did with his third and fourth nipples, had come a long way since he first became intimate with Ford and all the associated nipples. However, he was an Englishman, and so left the traditional awkward pause before broaching this indelicate topic. "-hit puberty?"

"In our fifties," said Ford, not looking up from his expense claims. "Why?"

There is an art to flailing while holding a child. Arthur, as one might expect, had mastered it some time ago, and was now practising with two.

"Do you," Arthur spoke slowly, willing the universe to rearrange itself to render his next words unnecessary, "tend to sprout hair much before that?"

Ford was in the middle of trying to persuade the Guide's accountants that they had far better things to do with their time than investigate his petty and minor claims of multiple widower-hood. His seventeen Earth spouses, he had explained last tax year by ticking the correct boxes in triplicate, had all perished when the Earth was destroyed. He'd ticked each box with great sincerity, and was rather put out to discover the Guide wanted proof of not just his lasting grief and its cause, but also its tax exempt status.

"I wouldn't worry about it, Arthur," Ford said, still concentrating on the traumatic loss of his thirteenth husband. "It's very common for apes."

"Oh," said Arthur, more calmly than he felt. "Because I found these in the children's beds."

Ford looked up to see Arthur holding a Grotsnaffle in each arm. He put his pen down carefully. Then, just as carefully, he screamed in a pitch too high for Arthur to hear. Finally, a job well done, he fainted.

At that moment, something very important clicked inside Arthur's mind. He was not, contrary to many people's first, second and third impressions, completely incompetent. When it really mattered, when his children were threatened, Arthur Dent could step up to the mark. It was clear Ford was going to be no use to anyone in his current state - absently, Arthur bent to pat him reassuringly on the shoulder - and the situation called for responsible, adult decision-making.

"Marvin!" he shouted into the ship's communication system. "Please come to the control room."

By the time the robot arrived, Arthur had squatted down on the floor next to Ford and was attempting to comfort him. Ford was hunched up in a small, miserable ball of parental worry. Arthur couldn't hear the whimpering, which still took place at a pitch too high for his ears, but could make out the occasional mumble of "It's happening again."

The things, which might or might not have eaten their children, were happily playing on the floor.

"I shouldn't worry too much," Arthur lied. "I'm sure Marvin will know what to do." He smiled awkwardly, trying to remember the sorts of things one said in a crisis. "Worse things happen at sea," he offered tentatively, reaching to take Ford's hand in his.

Ford didn't even ask for an example. This was bad.

"You called?" Marvin said. "Not that I wish to disturb you. I wasn't doing anything important down in the hold, and it wouldn't be much more dreadful if I didn't do it here."

"Marvin!" The last time Arthur had been that relieved to see the robot, sixteen nappies had hung in the balance. "Marvin, what do you know about the- What was it, Ford?"

Ford muttered something into his knees.

"Yes, the Grotsnaffle. What do you know about them?"

Marvin looked down at the two fur-covered creatures chasing each other under a large array of flashing lights. "Many things." Unsurprisingly, he didn't sound happy about this. "I know their average body temperature, lifespan and IQ, which, incidentally, are all higher than yours. I know the seven equally pointless stages of the lifecycle of their most common parasite. I know your children have turned into them."

"Sping!" shouted the creature Arthur had found in Toyota's bed.

"Sproooge!" replied the one he'd found in Philip's.

"Congratulations," said Marvin, who had heard the word once and wanted to try it out.

"These- They are our children?" Arthur checked. "See, Ford? Nobody's eaten anyone. I told you Marvin would know what to do."

"Do?" asked Marvin.

"Yes," said Arthur, standing up. "How do we turn them back?" He smiled confidently. He'd always known the robot would be useful for something. Not for the first time in his life, or even that part of it spent being a father, he was quite spectacularly wrong.

Marvin told him as much.

"Right," said Arthur, filling the space until his brain caught up with events. "Okay. Fine."

===

When Philip and Toyota were about a year old, they had caught a particularly virulent strain of space flu. At the first sign of vomiting, Ford had developed an urgent deadline, leaving Arthur to mop up their children's increasingly colourful bodily fluids.

After the children had recovered, Arthur (inevitably) went down with the same disease. He remembered very little about the next two weeks, although one incident did manage to stick in his mind. It was somewhere in the second week, and he was lying in his and Ford's bed staring at the patterns swirling across the ceiling. The hallucinations had calmed down rather since the first couple of days; he was particularly pleased when the roundabouts on the scale map of Milton Keynes stopped rotating.

Ford entered the room with a steaming mug of something in one hand and a mop in the other.

"Tea," he said, holding the mop forward.

He looked down at his hands and frowned.

"Tea," he tried, holding the mug forward.

Arthur was too tired to be suspicious. He accepted the mug with a shaking hand, then took a sip.

Ford smiled encouragingly.

Arthur smiled back. It was tea-like, anyway.

===

Ford gaped up at Marvin in mute horror.

Marvin continued to glare dolefully at everything in sight. This was something of a hobby for him, in that it took up all his time and helped him relax not one bit.

Toyota picked a flea out of Philip's fur and, with every sign of enjoyment, ate it.

Arthur had a thought.

"But these are our children?" he said.

Marvin was used to having to repeat information several times before the human pretended to grasp it. He wasn't happy about it, of course, but he was used to it. He repeated the information slowly, in case the human was having trouble processing more than one idea each minute. "They are still your children."

"So their personalities, those are the same?" Arthur asked.

Marvin indicated that this was indeed the case, though why it mattered whether or not Arthur's offspring swapped one set of dull and unpleasant personalities for another was anyone's guess.

"And do you think we could teach them to communicate? With us?"

"Why not?" said Marvin. "You've managed it, after all."

"So," Arthur said, thinking hard, "perhaps we could just shave them."

Ford gaped at him in mute horror. A change is as good as a rest.

"Why not?" Arthur continued. "They were never going to be your species or mine anyway, and at least this way they share enough genetic material to donate bone marrow or kidneys or whatever it is the fashionable intergalactic traveller is swapping with his sister these days."

Ford gaped in not so mute horror. "You realise," he said, choosing his words carefully to avoid causing unnecessary offence, "that if I'd said that, you would have called me utterly barking mad, an insult to all sentient beings and quite possibly a vision sent from Hell to torment you because you didn't visit your great aunt Margaret enough when she was alive."

"I-" Arthur began.

"Last Wednesday, last Tuesday and yesterday morning," Marvin said, correctly. He hadn't witnessed any of these outbursts, but extrapolating from the ape-descendant's highly predictable behaviour was the work of mere microseconds.

With an audible snap, Ford clamped his jaw shut. He made a shushing gesture with his hands, deep in thought. "On the other hand," he said, rising to his feet and grinning, "it is brilliant."

Arthur took this as his cue to start looking worried.

"You know, Apeman," Ford said, casting an assessing glance at Arthur and the children. He stopped.

Arthur continued to look worried.

Ford smiled at him, showing more teeth than strictly necessary. "Never mind."

===End===

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