All eyes were on Ford. Some were on stalks.
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All eyes were on Ford. Some were on stalks.
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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.
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And somewhere on this good boffo stretch of coastline lay the house of this inconsolable man, a man whom many regarded as being insane. But this was only, as he would tell people, because he was.
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Grown men, he told himself, in flat contradiction of centuries of accumulated evidence about the way grown men behave, do not behave like this.
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He didn’t like to think of himself as the sort of person who giggled or sniggered, but he had to admit that he had been giggling and sniggering almost continuously for well over half an hour now.
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It’s all right. There’s nothing to see, it’s all over. None of this is actually happening.
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“I was being perfectly serious,” said Arthur. “It’s just the Universe I’m never quite sure about.”
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Life is like a grapefruit. It's sort of orangy-yellow and dimpled on the outside, wet and squidgy in the middle. It's got pips inside, too. Oh, and some people have half a one for breakfast.
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“Listen, bud,” said Ford, “if I had one Altairan dollar for every time I heard one bit of the Universe look at another bit of the Universe and say ‘That’s terrible’ I wouldn’t be sitting here like a lemon looking for a gin.”
So Long, and Thanks For All the Fish
Suddenly he realized what the answer to the problem was, and it was this, that something very weird was happening; and if something very weird was happening, he thought, he wanted it to be happening to him.
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The Census report, like most such surveys, had cost an awful lot of money and didn’t tell anybody anything they didn’t already know – except that every single person in the Galaxy had 2.4 legs and owned a hyena.
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There was a point to this story, but it has temporarily escaped the chronicler’s mind.
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"You'll have to excuse me," said Arthur. "I'm terribly happy."
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“Zaphod’s calmed down a lot you know.” “Really?” said Arthur, clustering hurriedly round Fenchurch to relieve her of the shopping. “Yeah,” said Ford, “at least one of his heads is now saner than an emu on acid.”
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