Sometimes weird things happen! When I recently browsed through the
disk version of my favorite book "Mostly harmless", the MBI-virus
stroke!!! Unfortunately, this virus became very widespread in the
last years and protection from it is only possible on the user level.
After that I had forty-two bad sectors on my disk and the remaining
text had been garbled. Although the chance that the remaining text
makes sense is infinitely improbable, I am printing a part of it here:

Word hurled himself at the door of the editor-in-chief's office,
tucked himself into a tight ball as the frame splintered and
gave way, rolled rapidly across the floor to where the drinks
trolley laden with some of the Galaxy's most potent and expen-
sive beverages habitually stood, seized hold of the trolley and,
using it to give himself cover, trundled it and himself across the
main exposed part of the office floor to where the valuable and
extremely rude statue of Lester Chaykin and the Octopus stood, and took
shelter behind it. Meanwhile the little security robot, entering at
chest height, was suicidally delighted to draw gunfire away from
Word.
  
That, at least, was the plan, and a necessary one. The current
editor-in-chief, Stevyar-zil-Wozzo, was a dangerously unbalanced
man who took a homicidal view of contributing staff turning up in
his office without new, proofed software, and had a battery
of laser guided guns linked to special scanning devices in the door
frame to deter anybody who was merely bringing extremely good
reasons why they hadn't written any. Thus was a high level of
output maintained.
  
Unfortunately the drinks trolley wasn't there.
  
Word hurled himself desperately sideways and somersaulted
towards the statue of Lester and the Octopus, which also wasn't
there. He rolled and hurtled around the room in a kind of random
panic, tripped, span, hit the window, which fortunately was built
to withstand rocket attacks, rebounded, and fell in a bruised and
winded heap behind a smart grey crushed leather sofa, which
hadn't been there before.
  
After a few seconds he slowly peeked up above the top of the
sofa. As well as there being no drinks trolley and no Lester and
the Octopus, there had also been a startling absence of gunfire.
He frowned. This was all utterly wrong.
  
`Mr Prefect, I assume,' said a voice.
  
The voice came from a smooth-faced individual behind a
large ceramo-teak-bonded desk. Stevyar-zil-Wozzo may well have
been a hell of an individual, but no one, for a whole variety of
reasons, would ever have called him smooth-faced. This was not
Stevyar-zil-Wozzo.
  
`I assume from the manner of your entrance that you do not
have new material for the, er, Pear SG III, at the moment,' said the
smooth-faced individual. He was sitting with his elbows resting
on the table and holding his fingertips together in a manner
which, inexplicably, has never been made a capital offence.
  
`I've been busy,' said Word, rather weakly. He staggered
to his feet, brushing himself down. Then he thought, what the
hell was he saying things weakly for? He had to get on top of
this situation. He had to find out who the hell this person was,
and he suddenly thought of a way of doing it.
  
`Who the hell are you?, he demanded.
  
`I am your new editor-in-chief. That is, if we decide to
retain your services. My name is Bigg Gatt.' He didn't put his
hand out. He just added, `What have you done to that security
robot?'
  
The little robot was rolling very, very slowly round the ceiling
and moaning quietly to itself.
  
`I've made it very happy,' snapped Word. `It's a kind of
mission I have. Where's Stevyar? More to the point, where's
his drinks trolley?'
  
`Mr zil-Wozzo is no longer with this organisation. His drinks
trolley is, I imagine, helping to console him for this fact.'
  
`Organisation?' yelled Word. `Organisation? What a bloody
stupid word for a set-up like this!'
  
`Precisely our sentiments. Under-structured, over-resourced,
under-managed, over-inebriated. And that,' said Gatt, `was just
the editor.'
  
`I'll do the jokes,' snarled Word.
  
`No,' said Gatt. `You will do the Winbug 5.0 software.'
  
He tossed a piece of plastic on to the desk in front of
him. Word did not move to pick it up.
  
`You what?' said Word.
  
`No. Me Gatt. You Prefect. You do Winbug 5.0. Me editor.
Me sit here tell you you do Winbug 5.0 software. You get?'
  
`Winbug 5.0' said Word, too bewildered to be really
angry yet.
  
`Siddown, Prefect,' said Gatt. He swung round in his swivel
chair, got to his feet, and stood staring out at the tiny specks
enjoying the carnival twenty-three stories below.
  
`Time to get this business on its feet, Prefect,' he snapped.
  
`We at Infinite Business Management are...'
  
`You at what?'
  
`Infinite Business Management. We have bought out Pear Computing.'
  
`Infinite Business Management?'
  
`We spent millions on that name, Prefect. Start liking it
or start packing.'
  
Word shrugged. He had nothing to pack.
  
`The customer's behaviour is changing,' said Gatt. `We've got to change
with it. Go with the market. The market is moving up. New
aspirations. New technology. Our new computers are...'
  `Don't tell me about your new computers,' said Word. `I know all
your new computers. Spend half my time with them. They are the same as
the computers before them. All computers before them. Whatever. Just
the same old stuff with faster CPU's and worse operating systems.'
  
`That's the opinion of one user,' said Gatt. `That's your opinion, if
you accept it. You've got to learn to think macro-economically.
There are limitless users who hear about our computer systems from
this moment - and from this moment and from this. Millions of
them, talking to each other every instant! Every possible user of our
systems multiplies into millions of potential users! Mil-
lions and billions of happy, content computer users! You know what
that means?'
  
`You're dribbling down your chin.'
  
`Millions and billions of markets!'
  
`I see,' said Word. `So you sell Millions and billions of different
programs.'
  
`No,' said Gatt, reaching for his handkerchief and not finding
one. `Excuse me,' he said, `but this gets me so excited.' Word
handed him his towel.
  
`The reason we don't sell millions and billions of different programs,'
continued Gatt, after wiping his mouth, `is the expense. What we
do is we sell one program millions and billions of times. We exploit
the multiple nature of the computer market to cut down on
manufacturing costs. And we don't sell to penniless users.
What a stupid notion that was! Find the one section of the market
that, more or less by definition, doesn't have any money, and try
and sell to it. No. We sell to the affluent business traveller and
his graphics-addicted family members. This is the most radical,
dynamic and thrusting business venture in the entire multiple variety
of all computer systems ever.'
  
`And you want me to be its Winbug 5.0 programmer,' said Word.
  
`We would value your input.'
  
(At this point, the rest of the text became lost due to a bad sector.
I hope that I will learn sometimes in the future how the story
continues. Unfortunately there seems to be not much sense left in
it after the virus infection.)