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The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy has the following to say about the planet Earth, where Ford Prefect is currently hiding from the kind of loanshark that literally has fins and pearly white, razor sharp teeth: Mostly Harmless. Ford Prefect is oddly proud of these two words, much as he is oddly fond of the slightly tilted dustball that his sort-of friend Arthur Dent calls home.
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy has the following to say about Galactus: Harmful. No mostly about it. No tips for fighting it off or scaring it away, no suggestions on how to avoid it, not even any description of what it is. Ford curses the staffer who slacked off on the assignment to cover the topic. No wait, it was him. Yeah, it's coming back to him now. He was supposed to go write the entry for the Guide on Galactus, but instead there was that lovely red-haired girl with the stunningly unusual anatomy. It's not every day that you get to see the parts arranged like that, so he'd phoned in the Galactus gig, pried his paycheck out of the reluctant hands of the accounting department, and booked it for Tarmidia VI. Bloody hell.
Of course, she'd given him plenty of material for the Guide's quite extensive chapter on space herpes, for which work he'd earned a valuable bonus. But that was no matter now. Okay, Ford, think, he thought to himself. You're no Arthur Dent, who walks around gibbering helplessly in the face of mortal peril. You're a hoopy frood who really knows where his towel is. You're a galactic hitchhiker who has looked into the face of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal and promptly covered your eyes in fear. You can handle this mess.
What are his options? He can run, but since Galactus appears to be on the order of planet-destroying Harmful, it's not like he can escape to South America the way the Germans used to. South America tastes just the same as England to a planet-devouring terror, he figures. He can raise an army and wage battle against it, but that sounds like Zaphod's kind of crazy1. He can get plastered and deal with whatever comes. He was planning to do that anyway, though. Whatever he does to save his own ass is going to have to be on top of that.
He glances at an unassuming gadget he was issued by the Guide's main offices. It looks like a broken second generation Gameboy, with a couple of gangly antenna poking out at unlikely angles. It used to beep incessantly whenever something large approached Earth, but Ford had gotten tired of the irritated glances on the autobus and set the damned thing to vibrate.
The device tells him that two objects are approaching Earth. The latter, and more threatening, is the gigantic God-Creature in the funny looking hat. He is preceded by his herald, a bald man on a surf board. Ford's dealt with surfers in the past. He's not looking forward to another encounter with a chilled out dude, but he remembers the Guide's report. Harmful. Ford sighs. This must be what Arthur feels like all the time.
Ford has met more than a few surfers over the years, almost always at the sort of party where they didn't serve you enough alcohol to handle the sort of conversations they expected you to have. At thes parties, you could tell the surfers easily enough. They were dressed exactly the same as all the other men, but their hair was bleached and kept just long enough to elicit the disapproval of the hostess's mother and the approval of all the other women. If you made the mistake of engaging them, they'd explain to you the difference between Waikiki and Malibu until you jabbed them in the eye with a decorative toothpick.
On the other hand, people with funny hats were a lot less predictable. Some were just as boring as surfers, but occasionally you found one who was a perfectly reasonable person. He'd better talk to the giant in the funny hat. But when he stops by Galactus's interstellar ship, it's the surfer who greets him at the front desk.
"Hello, welcome to Galactus's Office. How may I assist you today?" God, underlings. Ford hates underlings. Though it stood to reason. Ford had never encountered a surfer that anyone trusted to be in charge of anything.
"Yes, I'd like to speak to your boss. Ford Prefect here. Of the Betelgeuse Prefects?"
"I'm sorry, sir. Galactus is in a meeting. I'm Norrin Radd, his executive assistant and herald. Should I direct you to the customer service department, the hostile boarding department, the purchasing department, or accounting?"
"Um... well, it's just that I'd like to get your boss to not eat Earth."
The silvery being shakes his head slowly, his unchanging eyes somehow seeming mournful. "I'm sorry, sir. Our scheduled visit to ZZ9 Plural Z Alpha is to take place on Thursday, July 13th as originally planned." In his head, Ford can picture Arthur mumbling, "I never could get the hang of Thursdays." This isn't going as planned.
"Mr. Radd... No, you're a herald, right? Is that like a knight? Should I be calling you Sir Norrin?"
"Norrin Radd is my name."
"Norrin Radd, I really think your boss needs to talk to me. See, my cousin is Zaphod Beeblebrox- you must know the frood? Ex-president of the Galaxy? Personal friend of half the 5 star generals in the galaxy?" Sworn enemy of the other half. "If I tell Zaphod that Galactus foisted me off on an underling, gave me the runaround, destroyed the planet I've been hanging out on, there's no telling what he might do."
Stony. "Zaphod Beeblebrox is white."
"So?"
"You are black."
"So?"
"You are cousins?"
Ford sighs. This business again. "Look, I don't want to go into Betelgeusian sex practices with you. I mean, I do: That silver skin of yours is pretty exotic, I've never been with anybody that looks like you before, but my experience is that a lot of people don't like it when I stick my tentacles in their business. Zaphod's my cousin. I'm his cousin. That should be enough for you."
"Galactus is still going to eat Earth."
"I was afraid you'd say that." The abs were particularly nice, Ford thought.
"Sorry."
"I just want to talk to him. I bet I can change his mind. I'm a pretty persuasive guy."
"Galactus does not change his mind."
"Well, is there anything I can do?"
The Silver Surfer considers for a moment. "You could change my mind."
"That seems bloody unlikely at the moment, wouldn't you say?"
"You haven't even tried, have you? You've spent the whole time trying to see my boss. You haven't made even the slightest appeal to my conscience."
"Conscience? You're the herald of a giant planet-consuming monster. You go from world to world, preparing them to be eaten. You're practically the personification of Imperialism Gone Mad, Norrin Radd, and you expect me to appeal to your conscience?''
"How do you know I'm not a victim of the imperialist patriarchy, too?"
"...Oh."
"Exactly. I didn't use to be the Silver Surfer, you know. I was Norrin Radd, unassuming scholar until my life was changed forever in an instant.I was given control of the Power Cosmic, a force beyond the understanding of mortals, when ..."
"Wait, I've heard this one before. You were bitten by a radioactive insect?"
A stunned sneer erupts on the Surfer's previously placid face. "No! That's ridiculous. I was a mild-mannered scholar until Galactus came to my utopic homeworld, an indescribably beautiful world with none of the social ills that plague Earth, where we'd reached perfect equilibrium with the planet..."
Ford snaps his fingers."Pandora, right? Sexy blue chicks, gigantic trees, no machinery anywhere. I went there a few years ago, met this one girl, showed her the stars, if you know what I mean..."
"No! I'll have you know that my homeworld of Zenn-La was more technologically advanced than Earth!"
"Sorry." Let the man talk, Ford. He obviously has a desperate desire to monologue.
"Zenn-la was a paradise. There was no war, no hunger, no suffering. We were free to pursue any kind of pleasure we wanted, until Galactus came. As my Imperialist master approached Zenn-La, my people thought the end had come.But I knew that Zenn-La was more important than my own life, so I offered myself to Galactus as a servant, in exchange for the safety of my people." He sighs dramatically. "I have been a loyal servant since that day, for I fear that if I stray from Galactus's will, he will return to doom my homeworld."
"Sad story, kid. So there's a whole world of people with that sexy silver skin out there somewhere?"
The Surfer's face contorts into distant, placid fury. "Get out!" He stands up and moves toward Ford. The hitchhiker takes advantage of the moment to dart past the desk into the rear office, where he figures he ought to find Galactus. He slams the door behind him and jams the lock into position. From the front office he can hear an anguished bellow: "Shalla Bal!"
He turns around and examines the room he's now in. It is mindbogglingly large and inside it the giant in the funny hat sits down for tea. A much smaller man in a dressing gown sits next to him, sipping from fine china. Ford goggles. He slaps the side of his head to knock out the fog. He goggles again. Head slap. Goggle. Head slap. The smaller man is Arthur Dent.
"Hello, Ford," he says. "What are you doing here?"
"Trying to save the planet. What the bloody hell are you doing here?"
"Er, having tea."
"Tea is delicious," the planet-eater rumbles.1 "I cannot wait to eat more of it. Earth will replenish my energy reserves for weeks."
Ford gulps, eying the water tower sized teacup held delicately in Galactus's hand, pinkie curled delicately. He sidles over next to Arthur and hisses into his ear. "Look what you've done!"
"What?" said Arthur, in a normal speaking voice. "I didn't do anything. We're just having tea! How could there be anything wrong with tea?"
A typical British attitude. As if he's totally unaware of the imperialist history of tea, the way the unquenchable English thirst for tea overturned centuries-old civilizations, ruined millions of lives, started catastrophic wars. Add in doomed England's own home planet to the list, unless something changes quickly. Ford isn't really sure why he's bothering. The British empire has been setting for the past two hundred years. This will just be... the ultimate setting, kind of. When he thinks of it like that, it really doesn't sound that bad.
Still, he's been through so much with Arthur that he feels he owes him a little loyalty. If Arthur was upset about the Vogons destroying Earth, he'd probably be just as upset if Galactus ate it. He just doesn't seem to grasp the magnitude of the situation yet. Which is why he has Ford Prefect, experienced galactic hitchhiker, to look out for his back.
"You really like tea, don't you, Galactus," Ford asks.
"It's delicious. Earth is delicious. I, Galactus, have traveled across the universe. I am the all-knowing, all-seeing, all-powerful, but I have never encountered a drink as satiating as this tea."3
"If you eat Earth, there won't be any more tea, Galactus."
"No more tea?" Galactus looks struck.
"Nobody's able to make a good cup of tea off Earth. Isn't that right, Arthur?"
"Uh... Yes. I tried to use the synthesizer to make me a cup of tea, but all it could make was something almost, but not quite, entirely unlike tea. Now what's this all about eating Earth?"
"Never mind, Arthur. The point is," he says, turning to glare at Galactus,4 "If you eat Earth, you'll be happy now and sad later. But if you don't eat Earth, we'll be able to give you tea any time you like."
Galactus rises out of his seat and stares straight into Ford's eyes with his own glowing green orbs, the scarlet red of his funny hat set off nicely by his eyes. Ford melts in terror.
"You have a point, puny mortal. You will provide me tea, if I don't destroy Earth?"
"Uh... yes! As much as you want! Mountains and mountains of tea, any time you're thirsty! Right, Arthur?"
"Uh... what?" Ford bobs his head at Arthur and mimes, trying to coax the right answer out of him. "Yes. Sure," he says at last, a bit uncertainly.
Galactus rumbles in satisfaction. "This extortion thing works out even better than the eating planets thing. First I got my herald. Now I have my tea." Ford grabs Arthur and runs out of the room before Galactus can change his mind5.
On their way off the ship, Ford fancies he can hear a plaintive shout, "Take me with you!" He stops for a moment and listens, but he can hear nothing but the roar of the ship's engines. He decides it must have been his imagination.
The three times Zaphod has raised an army, he's gotten bored halfway to Aldebaran and cast his soldiers in a production of Pinafore.
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy now describes Galactus's voice as "Similar to the rumble in the stomach of a hundred famished lions, if their stomachs were in some kind of physically impossible resonance mode."
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy now notes that Galactus seems to really enjoy the Earth beverage known as tea, made by soaking the leaves of a specific plant into hot water for an unspecified period of time. It does not explain how this discovery was made.
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy now has the following to say about glaring at Galactus: Don't do it. You won't intimidate him, you won't feel more self-confident, and you won't get a good story to tell at parties. You'll just look silly and you might piss him off. Well, you might get a good story to tell at parties, but is it really worth it? In any case, the editors disclaim all legal liability if you don't heed our advice. While we're at it, we disclaim all other legal liability. Don't sue us, no matter what happens.
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy now suggests that the best way to save your planet from Galactus's predations is to buy him off with something utterly useless, like tea or youtube videos of otters. If this fails, it suggests trying to appeal to the conscience of his herald, "a poor dumb sop who might be searching for a way out."