In fact, though they weren’t to know it, the decor had been chosen in honour of its owner’s sad, lamented, and tax-deductible condition.
The ship gave a particularly sickening lurch.
“Take it easy,” pleaded Arthur, “you’re making me space sick.”
“Time sick,” said Ford, “we’re plummeting backwards through time.”
“Thank you,” said Arthur, “now I think I really am going to be ill.”
“Go ahead,” said Zaphod, “we could do with a little colour about this place.”
“This is meant to be a polite after-dinner conversation is it?” snapped Arthur.
Zaphod left the controls for Ford to figure out, and lurched over to Arthur.
“Look, Earthman,” he said angrily, “you’ve got a job to do, right? The Question to the Ultimate Answer, right?”
“What, that thing?” said Arthur, “I thought we’d forgotten about that.”
“Not me, baby. Like the mice said, it’s worth a lot of money in the right quarters. And it’s all locked up in that head thing of yours.”
“Yes but…”
“But nothing! Think about it. The Meaning of Life! We get our fingers on that we can hold every shrink in the Galaxy up to ransom, and that’s worth a bundle. I owe mine a mint.”
Arthur took a deep breath without much enthusiasm.
“Alright,” he said, “but where do we start? How should I know? They say the Ultimate Answer or whatever is Forty-two, how am I supposed to know what the question is? It could be anything. I mean, what’s six times seven?”
Zaphod looked at him hard for a moment. Then his eyes blazed with excitement.
“Forty-two!” he cried.
Arthur wiped his palm across his forehead.
“Yes,” he said patiently,” I know that.”
Zaphod’s faces fell.