“I think he probably wants you to Scrabble with him again,” said Ford, “he’s pointing at the letters.”
“Probably spelt crzjgrdwldiwdc again, poor bastard. I keep on telling him there’s only one g in crzjgrdwldiwdc.”
The native banged on the rock again.
They looked over his shoulder.
Their eyes popped.
There amongst the jumble of letters were eight that had been laid out in a clear straight line.
They spelt two words.
The words were these:“Forty-Two.”
“Grrrurgh guh guh,” explained the native. He swept the letters angrily away and went and mooched under a nearby tree with his colleague.
Ford and Arthur stared at him. Then they stared at each other.
“Did that say what I thought it said?” they both said to each other.
“Yes,” they both said.
“Forty-two,” said Arthur.
“Forty-two,” said Ford.
Arthur ran over to the two natives.
“What are you trying to tell us?” he shouted. “What’s it supposed to mean?”
One of them rolled over on the ground, kicked his legs up in the air, rolled over again and went to sleep.
The other bounded up the tree and threw horse chestnuts at Ford Prefect. Whatever it was they had to say, they had already said it.
“You know what this means,” said Ford.
“Not entirely.”