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Arthur turned it over nervously in his hands.
“I like the cover,” he said. “Don't Panic. It's the first helpful or intelligible thing anybody's said to me all day.”
“I'll show you how it works,” said Ford. He snatched it from Arthur who was still holding it as if it was a two-week-dead lark and pulled it out of its cover.
“You press this button here you see and the screen lights up giving you the index.”
A screen, about three inches by four, lit up and characters began to flicker across the surface.
“You want to know about Vogons, so I enter that name so.” His fingers tapped some more keys. “And there we are.”
The words Vogon Constructor Fleets flared in green across the screen.
Ford pressed a large red button at the bottom of the screen and words began to undulate across it. At the same time, the book began to speak the entry as well in a still quiet measured voice. This is what the book said.
“Vogon Constructor Fleets. Here is what to do if you want to get a lift from a Vogon: forget it. They are one of the most unpleasant races in the Galaxy - not actually evil, but bad tempered, bureaucratic, officious and callous. They wouldn't even lift a finger to save their own grandmothers from the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal without orders signed in triplicate, sent in, sent back, queried, lost, found, subjected to public inquiry, lost again, and finally buried in soft peat and recycled as firelighters.
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