"Shush!" said Ford. "It's carrying on."
The voice was old, courteous, almost charming, but was underscored with quite unmistakable menace.
"This is a recorded announcement," it said, "as I'm afraid we're all out at the moment. The commercial council of Magrathea thanks you for your esteemed visit ..."
("A voice from ancient Magrathea!" shouted Zaphod. "OK, OK," said Ford.)
"... but regrets," continued the voice, "that the entire planet is temporarily closed for business. Thank you. If you would care to leave your name and the address of a planet where you can be contacted, kindly speak when you hear the tone."
A short buzz followed, then silence.
"They want to get rid of us," said Trillian nervously. "What do we do?"
"It's just a recording," said Zaphod. "We keep going. Got that, computer?"
"I got it," said the computer and gave the ship an extra kick of speed.
They waited.
After a second or so came the fanfare once again, and then the voice.
"We would like to assure you that as soon as our business is resumed announcements will be made in all fashionable magazines and colour supplements, when our clients will once again be able to select from all that's best in contemporary geography." The menace in the voice took on a sharper edge. "Meanwhile we thank our clients for their kind interest and would ask them to leave. Now."
Arthur looked round the nervous faces of his companions.
"Well, I suppose we'd better be going then, hadn't we?" he suggested.
"Shhh!" said Zaphod. "There's absolutely nothing to be worried about."
"Then why's everyone so tense?"