After nearly four years of total isolation he was so pleased and relieved to see Ford that he could almost cry. Ford was, on the other hand, an almost immediately annoying person.
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- Year
- 1982
- Genres
- science fiction comedy, science fiction, fantasy
Facts: Wikidata (CC0), as of 2026-07-09
A glummer look replaced the already glum look on Arthur Dent’s face. “So we’re not home and dry,” he said. “We could not even be said,” replied Ford, “to be home and vigorously toweling ourselves off.”
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A magician wandered along the beach, but no one needed him.
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Arthur had adopted his normal crisis role, which was to stand with his mouth hanging open and let it all wash over him.
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Arthur lay in startled stillness on the acceleration couch. He wasn't certain whether he had just got space-sickness or religion.
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Arthur, said Ford. "Hello? Yes?" said Arthur. "Just believe everything I tell you, and it will all be very, very simple." "Ah, well I'm not sure I believe that."
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Arthur's consciousness approached his body as from a great distance, and reluctantly. It had had some bad times in there. Slowly, nervously, it entered and settled down in to its accustomed position.
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A tall figure appeared silhouetted in the hatchway. It walked down the ramp and stood in front of Arthur. “You’re a jerk, Dent,” it said simply.
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Ford and Arthur decided just to relax and be harrowed.
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Ford looked angrily at him. “Will you listen?” he snapped. “I have been listening,” said Arthur, “but I’m not sure it’s helped.”
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Ford was practicing being sullen and getting quite good at it.
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He hoped and prayed that there wasn’t an afterlife. Then he realized there was a contradiction involved here and merely hoped that there wasn’t an afterlife.
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"I'd love to stay and help you save the Galaxy," insisted Zaphod, rising himself up on to his shoulders, "but I have the mother and father of a pair of headaches, and I feel a lot of little headaches coming on."
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It is a mistake to think you can solve any major problems just with potatoes.
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"I would like you to shut up about your towel," said Ford. "It isn't my towel," insisted Arthur, "that is the point I am trying to ..." "And the time at which I would like you to shut up about it," continued Ford in a low growl, "is now."
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My doctor says that I have a malformed public-duty gland and a natural deficiency in moral fibre, he muttered to himself, "and that I am therefore excused from saving Universes."
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“One thing,” he further added, “has suddenly ceased to lead to another” – in contradiction of which he had another drink and slid gracelessly off his chair.
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She didn’t even programme any coordinates, she hadn’t the faintest idea where she was going, she just went – a random row of dots flowing through the Universe. “Anything,” she said to herself as she left, “is better than this.”
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“That young girl,” he added unexpectedly, “is one of the least benightedly unintelligent life forms it has been my profound lack of pleasure not to be able to avoid meeting.”
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The air was clear and scented, the breeze flitted lightly through the tall grass around his cave, the birds were chirruping at each other, the butterflies were flitting about prettily, and the whole of nature seemed to be conspiring to be as pleasant as it possibly could.
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“The point is, you see,” said Ford, “that there is no point driving yourself mad trying to stop yourself from going mad. You might just as well give in and save your sanity for later.”
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The regular early morning yell of horror was the sound of Arthur Dent waking up and suddenly remembering where he was.
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“Trillian?” he said. “She’s just a kid. Cute, yeah, but temperamental. You know how it is with women. Or perhaps you don’t. I assume you don’t. If you do I don’t want to hear about it. Plug us in.”
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“We would love to stay and help,” shouted Ford, picking his way over the mangled debris, “only we’re not going to.”
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“What was that?” hissed Arthur. “Something red,” hissed Ford back at him. “Where are we?” “Er, somewhere green.” “Shapes,” muttered Arthur. “I need shapes.”
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