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“How did we get here?” he asked, shivering slightly. “We hitched a lift,” said Ford. “Excuse me?” said Arthur. “Are you trying to tell me that we just stuck out our thumbs and some green bug-eyed monster stuck his head out and said, Hi fellas, hop right in. I can take you as far as the Basingstoke roundabout?” “Well,” said Ford, “the Thumb's an electronic sub-Etha signaling device, the roundabout's at Barnard's Star six light years away, but otherwise, that's more or less right.” “And the bug-eyed monster?” “Is green, yes.” “Fine,” said Arthur, “when can I get home?” “You can't,” said Ford Prefect, and found the light switch. “Shade your eyes…” he said, and turned it on. Even Ford was surprised. A Renault drove by, and its driver made frantic and complex signals to the trudging figure to indicate that he would have been delighted to give the figure a lift, only he couldn't this time because he wasn't going in the direction that the figure wanted to go, whatever direction that might be, and he was sure the figure would understand. He concluded the signalling with a cheery thumbs-up sign, as if to say that he hoped the figure felt really fine about being cold and almost terminally wet, and he would catch him the next time around. The figure trudged on. A Fiat passed and did exactly the same as the Renault “Good grief,” said Arthur, “is this really the interior of a flying saucer?” Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz heaved his unpleasant green body round the control bridge. He always felt vaguely irritable after demolishing populated planets. He wished that someone would come and tell him that it was all wrong so that he could shout at them and feel better. He flopped as heavily as he could on to his control seat in the hope that it would break and give him something to be genuinely angry about, but it only gave a complaining sort of creak.

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