Chapter 27 This is all very wonderful, said Fenchurch a few days later. But I do need to know what has happened to me. You see, there’s this difference between us. That you lost something and found it again, and I found something and lost it. I need to find it again. She had to go out for the day, so Arthur settled down for a day of telephoning. Murray Bost Henson was a journalist on one of the papers with small pages and big print. It would be pleasant to be able to say that he was none the worse for it, but sadly, this was not the case. He happened to be the only journalist that Arthur knew, so Arthur phoned him anyway. Arthur my old soup spoon, my old silver turreen, how particularly stunning to hear from you. Someone told me you’d gone off into space or something. Murray had his own special kind of conversation language which he had invented for his own use, and which no one else was able to speak or even to follow. Hardly any of it meant anything at all. The bits which did mean anything were often so wonderfully buried that no one could ever spot them slipping past in the avalanche of nonsense. The time when you did find out, later, which bits he did mean, was often a bad time for all concerned. What? said Arthur. Just a rumour my old elephant tusk, my little green baize card table, just a rumour. Probably means nothing at all, but I may need a quote from you. Nothing to say, just pub talk. We thrive on it, my old prosthetic limb, we thrive on it. Plus it would fit like a whatsit in one of those other things with the other stories of the week, so it could be just to have you denying it. Excuse me, something has just fallen out of my ear. There was a slight pause, at the end of which Murray Bost Henson came back on the line sounding genuinely shaken. Just remembered, he said, what an odd evening I had last night. Anyway my old, I won’t say what, how do you feel about having ridden on Halley’s Comet? I haven’t, said Arthur with a suppressed sigh, ridden on Halley’s Comet. OK, How do you feel about not having ridden on Halley’s Comet? Pretty relaxed, Murray. There was a pause while Murray wrote this down. Good enough for me, Arthur, good enough for Ethel and me and the chickens. Fits in with the general weirdness of the week. Week of the Weirdos, we’re thinking of calling it. Good, eh? Very good. Got a ring to it. First we have this man it always rains on. What? It’s the absolute stocking top truth. All documented in his little black book, it all checks out at every single funloving level. The Met Office is going ice cold thick banana whips, and funny little men in white coats are flying in from all over the world with their little rulers and boxes and drip feeds. This man is the bee’s knees, Arthur, he is the wasp’s nipples. He is, I would go so far as to say, the entire set of erogenous zones of every major flying insect of the Western world. We’re calling him the Rain God. Nice, eh? I think I’ve met him. 第27章 “這一切太美妙了。”幾天之後芬切琪說，“不過我還是需要知道我身上到底發生了什麼事情。你瞧，咱倆不一樣。你丟了點什麼東西然後又把它找到了，而我找到了點什麼東西又把它搞丟了。我得把它再找回來。” 她白天必須要出去工作，所以阿瑟呆在屋裏打了一天電話。 默裏?波斯特?漢森是一家發行量很大的小報的記者。如果可以說這件事對他沒有任何影響的話就太讓人高興了，可惜事情不是這樣。他碰巧是阿瑟認識的唯一一個記者，所以阿瑟還是給他打了電話。 “阿瑟我的老湯勺，我的老湯碗，有你的消息實在太好了。有人跟我說你到太空去了什麼的。” 默裏談話的時候有一套他自己的獨特用語，是他自己發明出來給自己用的，而且其他人都沒法說也沒法學。這些用語基本上沒有任何意義。有意義的小部分往往被巧妙地隱藏起來，以致沒有人會在大堆無聊的話中注意到它們在悄悄滑過。等到你後來發現他哪一部分有意義的時候，往往已經錯過了時機。 “什麼？”阿瑟說。 “只是傳言而已我的老象牙，我的小綠呢牌桌，只是傳言。可能沒有任何意義，但我需要你親口說說。” “沒什麼好說的，酒吧的閒聊而已。” “我們就靠這個才能成功，我的老假肢，我們就靠這個。另外它也像一個星期其他故事和其他東西里面的什麼玩意兒一樣合適，所以最好還是由你來否認這事兒。對不起，有什麼東西剛從我的耳朵裏面掉出來了。” 出現了一個短暫的停頓，隨後默裏?波斯特?漢森回到線上，聽起來很真誠地哆嗦着。 “剛想起來，”他說，“我昨天度過了一個多麼奇特的夜晚。不過我的老夥計，我不會說什麼的，你坐着哈雷彗星的時候感覺怎麼樣？” “我沒有，”阿瑟低低嘆口氣，“坐過哈雷彗星。” “好吧，你沒有坐哈雷彗星的感覺怎麼樣？” “挺輕鬆的，默裏。” 默裏停了一會把這些寫下來。 “對我來說夠好了，阿瑟，對於愛瑟爾和我和小雞們都夠好了。放在一週怪談中間很合適。怪人周，我們想取這麼個名字。真好。嗯？” “很好。” “有個響兒了。我們先是有了這個頭頂上總在下雨的人。” “什麼？” “絕對是最牛的消息。他的小黑本子上所有的記錄，實在會讓所有人都高興的。氣象局會去冰冷沉重的香蕉皮鞭的，那些有趣的穿着白色外套的小個男人們都帶着他們的小尺子和盒子還有滴灌飼料從世界各地飛進來。這個人是蜜蜂的膝蓋，阿瑟，他是黃蜂的乳頭。他就是，我甚至可以說，西方世界每個主要的飛行昆蟲的全套性感帶。我們把他叫做雨神。真好。嗯？” “我想我遇到過他。”
