Death could be defined as that which when mentioned over dinner could cause one person to leave the room crying and for all bar one (Zaphod Beeblebrox) to be put off their magnificent meal. A very personalised definition, admittedly, but a very applicable one even though it is based on a situation with a major misunderstanding. Marvin did not die, although it was what he dearly wished. He ceased to function, which had the desired effect, albeit temporarily. It has been asked why, in addition to Marvin's ability to switch off at any time and with the knowledge that by sticking his left arm in his right ear he could electrocute himself, Marvin never finished himself off a long time ago. Apart from the fact that his programming wouldn't allow him, he would miss out on the opportunity to continue being wretched, which he did until his body could take it no longer.

There are those who feel that Marvin's end was untimely and a bit of an anticlimax considering his eventful life full of narrow escapes, close shaves and apathetic encounters. His escape from the Disaster Area stunt ship has never been fully documented (though it can now be revealed that it wasn't as exciting as expected) and will not be disclosed here to remain within the legal boundaries that exist for that section of society with a furtive imagination. Nor can we forget the lengthy tale of how Marvin eventually ended up minus one original leg on the planet Squornshellous Zeta. However, Marvin has ceased to exist as before and will stay that way, unless something really improbable happens.

It may please those who think that this is the very end of Marvin to know that it is indirectly through Marvin that Zaphod, Ford and Arthur, not to mention Trillian, Bolo and Fenchurch, are soon to be sent on their way to save the Universe.

The scruffy mechanic idled around by the door. Eventually Zaphod opened it.

"I've brought your ship back, goes like a dream now," said the mechanic, wiping his hands on his greasy overalls, achieving nothing.

"It was going like a dream beforehand, I was hoping for a little reality to creep back into it's performance," muttered Zaphod.

"Very good, sir." The mechanic knew of Zaphod's position and wasn't going to jeopardise his by getting cocky. "We followed the service instructions down to the last detail. No unnecessary work done. We even changed the filters on the Nutri-Matic Drinks Synthesiser.

"Okay, okay. I had an estimate but let's see how it differs from the present tense expense."

"What?"

"Shee, the bill. You know, the paper with all the big numbers all over it?"

"Oh, yes, right." The mechanic took out a sheet of paper, accidentally on purpose smudging his greasy fingers across the sundries column, which contained the tip for the waiter at an incredibly expensive restaurant he had taken his girlfriend and the Heart of Gold to on a test drive, the replacement solar tiling (the original tiling didn't need replacing but the tiling on his star buggy did) and the money he lost playing Eddie the shipboard computer at electronic halma.

Zaphod signed his name twice against his Editor's expense account number on the bill as the second signature would be worth a bit in years to come and was cheaper than a tip.

"Thanks sir," humbled the mechanic. "And you won't forget the mention in the guide, will you sir?"

"We'll see after I've taken her for a spin. I'll be in touch." Zaphod shut the door. "I'm sure I get ripped off more than bog roll."

Arthur was feeding all his details into the latest gizmo from the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation, the Tailormatic. The principle was very good. By feeding in all bodily details, such as height, weight, number of limbs, etc., the Tailormatic would link up to the fashion mainframes around the Universe to consult what the latest fashions were and then synthetically create an ideal outfit. Unfortunately, it was programmed by the same man who programmed the Nutri-Matic machine and didn't always produce the goods, so to speak.

Arthur hit the enter button and the Tailormatic shook into action. Eventually, a cellophane wrapped package popped out. Once Arthur had spent five minutes removing pins and cardboard, he tried it on.

"And this is fashionable?" He asked the machine rhetorically.

"Upon my life, I've never seen anyone wear it so well," chirped the machine.

"It's not too bright?"

"Bright is in, my boy. You want to be noticed, don't you?"

"Yes, but not to be ridiculed."

"Don't be silly, I wish I could get away with wearing something like that."

"I'm more worried about being put away. And I suppose the motto Share and Enjoy applies to the clothes as well. How many people am I supposed to share this with at one time?"

"It's meant to be loose, it flows."

"So does wine, but I wouldn't go out in it."

"Well I can take it in a touch, but it would ruin the line."

''Don't bother, I'll get a second opinion.

Fenchurch was trying on one of Trillian's dresses for the wedding. Arthur charged in, muttered an embarrassed apology and walked out.

"Arthur!" She shouted. He sheepishly put his head around the door. "Come in."

"I just wanted your opinion on this." He held his arms out and turned around. What the Tailormatic had produced was a gold lame track suit-like outfit, which hung on Arthur like snow on a weeping willow. Fabulous embroidery covered the outfit and reflective prism strips had been sown in all over.

"Well you'd look better hanging from the ceiling of the night-club than on the dancefloor. No, it's really quite different." Fenchurch had trouble suppressing a laugh.

"It's supposed to be fashionable in the better places in the Universe."

"When in Rome, do...."

"I think I'll wear my jacket over it, that way I wont feel like a walking laser light show."

Fenchurch went over to him and put her arms around his waist.

"Promise me you'll behave tonight."

"I promise, we'll probably just have a few drinks," lied Arthur. He knew Ford and Zaphod had been undergoing strenuous body conditioning all day in preparation for a full frontal assault on as much alcohol as they could lay their lips on. "Will you be alright here?"

"I'll be fine, the three of us haven't stopped nattering."

There was a knock at the door. Ford popped his head around the door.

"Thought I'd find you in here," he grinned. "We're off."

"I'll see you later," said Arthur, hoping that Ford would disappear so he could kiss Fenchurch goodbye, but he had no chance.

"Enjoy yourself, but not too much." Fenchurch kissed him on the cheek and patted his behind.

Arthur followed Ford down the stairs where Zaphod was waiting. His outfit made Arthur's seem like funeral attire. The suit shimmered and changed colour in splashes like a cinema screen before the film starts, but without the nauseating effect. Bolts of harmless laser burst from the suit at random and the matching headband glowed luminously.

"It's on random at the moment, buy I'll turn it to synchro in the night club to keep time with the music," said Zaphod. "Then watch out, 'cos my suit will do the dancing for me."

"That's good, when you dance people clear a space in sympathy and for safety," said Ford.

"Hey, cool it with the jibes, I'm out for good vibes," said Zaphod. "Remember this is my night, I'm gonna do it just right."

"Are we going to get going or just talk about it?" Asked Arthur.

"Now there's someone straining at the leash," said Zaphod. "Obviously a love hungry man. We'll get going soon, monkey man. We won't use improbability drive, no point in getting there too early. We want to make a big entrance."