Are you sure she’s all right? he said again.
Beyond the fact that she was, to him, heartthumpingly beautiful, he could make out very little, how tall she was, how old she was, the exact shading of her hair. And nor could he ask her anything about herself because, sadly, she was completely unconscious.
She’s just drugged, said her brother, shrugging, not moving his eyes from the road ahead.
And that’s all right, is it? said Arthur, in alarm.
Suits me, he said.
Ah, said Arthur. Er, he added after a moment’s thought.
The conversation so far had been going astoundingly badly.
After an initial flurry of opening hellos, he and Russell the wonderful girl’s brother’s name was Russell, a name which, to Arthur’s mind, always suggested burly men with blond moustaches and blow-dried hair, who would at the slightest provocation start wearing velvet tuxedos and frilly shirtfronts and would then have to be forcibly restrained from commentating on snooker matches had quickly discovered they didn’t like each other at all.
Russell was a burly man. He had a blond moustache. His hair was fine and blow dried. To be fair to him though Arthur didn’t see any necessity for this beyond the sheer mental exercise of it he, Arthur, was looking pretty grim himself. A man can’t cross a hundred thousand light years, mostly in other people’s baggage compartments, without beginning to fray a little, and Arthur had frayed a lot.
She’s not a junkie, said Russell suddenly, as if he clearly thought that someone else in the car might be. She’s under sedation.
But that’s terrible, said Arthur, twisting round to look at her again. She seemed to stir slightly and her head slipped sideways on her shoulder. Her dark hair fell across her face, obscuring it.
What’s the matter with her, is she ill?
No, said Russell, merely barking mad.
What? said Arthur, horrified.
Loopy, completely bananas. I’m taking her back to the hospital and telling them to have another go. They let her out while she still thought she was a hedgehog.
A hedgehog?
Russell hooted his horn fiercely at the car that came round the corner towards them half-way on to their side of the road, making them swerve. The anger seemed to make him feel better.
Well, maybe not a hedgehog, he said after he’d settled down again. Though it would probably be simpler to deal with if she did. If somebody thinks they’re a hedgehog, presumably you just give ‘em a mirror and a few pictures of hedgehogs and tell them to sort it out for themselves, come down again when they feel better. At least medical science could deal with it, that’s the point. Seems that’s no good enough for Fenny, though.
Fenny?…
You know what I got her for Christmas?
Well, no.
“您确定她没事儿？”他再一次问到。
除去她对他有种令人动心的美丽这一事实之外，他对她的身高，年龄，发型几乎一无所知。更要命的是，他还不能询问她任何关于她的事情，因为，她目前正处于完全昏迷中。
“她只不过是嗑药嗑多了，”她的兄弟说着，耸了耸肩，没有把目光从路面上移开。
“那么就是说她没事儿，是么？”阿瑟惊慌地说。
“差不多。”他说。
“啊，”阿瑟说。“呃，”他想了一会又补充了一句。
谈话进展得惊人地糟糕。
在例行的尴尬的寒暄之后，他和拉塞尔——那个漂亮女孩的兄弟叫拉塞尔，阿瑟总认为叫这个名字的人，应当是个留金色小胡子的魁梧男，有着光亮的头发，即便面对最小的挑衅也会穿上天鹅绒燕尾服和镶边衬衣，然后别人就不得不把他从斯诺克比赛的评论中拉出来——很快就发现他们完全不喜欢对方。
拉塞尔是个魁梧男。他也有金色小胡子。而他的头发确实整洁光亮。公平地说——虽然对阿瑟并不认为这已然不再纯粹的精神考验有何必要——他，阿瑟，有些太较真了。一个穿越了十万光年的人，而且大部分时间都是在别人的行李厢里度过的人，肯定会有些不冷静，而阿瑟已经不冷静很多次了。
“她不是个毒虫，”拉塞尔突然说到，似乎他觉得车里还有别的人在听似的。“她是服用了镇静剂。”
“但这太糟了，”阿瑟说着，转过身去又看了一眼那女孩。她看起来有些发抖，头歪在了肩膀上。深色的头发遮盖了她的面庞。
“她怎么回事，病了吗？”
“不，”拉塞尔说，“她只是疯了。”
“什么？”阿瑟惊恐地说。
“脑子进水了，完全不清楚了。我正要把她带回医院让他们再治一次。他们让她出院时，她仍然认为自己是只刺猬。”
“刺猬？”
拉塞尔猛力地对前面从角落突然冲出来的车摁着喇叭，想让他们拐过去。这股怒火让他感觉好多了。
“好吧，也许不是刺猬，”他平静下来之后又说到。“虽然如果是这样的话会更好处理。如果有人觉得自己是只刺猬，那么你只要给他们一面镜子和一些刺猬的图片让他们自己看着办，等他们好些之后再说。重点是，至少医学可以处理这问题。不过看来这对芬妮没什么用。”
“芬妮......?”
“你知道我给她的圣诞礼物是什么吗？”
“呃，不知道。”