Disturb you. But you may be interested to know that I am singlehandedly responsible for the evolved shape of the animal you came to know in later centuries as a giraffe. And I tried to learn to fly. Do you believe me?
Tell me, said Arthur.
I’ll tell you later. I’ll just mention that the Guide says…
The?…
Guide. The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. You remember?
Yes. I remember throwing it in the river.
Yes, said Ford, but I fished it out.
You didn’t tell me.
I didn’t want you to throw it in again.
Fair enough, admitted Arthur. It says?
What?
The Guide says?
The Guide says there is an art to flying, said Ford, or rather a knack. The knack lies in learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss. He smiled weakly. He pointed at the knees of his trousers and held his arms up to show the elbows. They were all torn and worn through. I haven’t done very well so far, he said. He stuck out his hand. I’m very glad to see you again, Arthur, he added.
Arthur shook his head in a sudden access of emotion and bewilderment.
I haven’t seen anyone for years, he said, not anyone. I can hardly even remember how to speak. I keep forgetting words. I practise you see. I practise by talking to… talking to… what are those things people think you’re mad if you talk to? Like George the Third.
Kings? suggested Ford.
No, no, said Arthur. The things he used to talk to. We’re surrounded by them for heaven’s sake. I’ve planted hundreds myself. They all died. Trees! I practise by talking to trees. What’s that for?
Ford still had his hand stuck out. Arthur looked at it with incomprehension.
Shake, prompted Ford.
Arthur did, nervously at first, as if it might turn out to be a fish. Then he grasped it vigorously with both hands in an overwhelming flood of relief. He shook it and shook it.
After a while Ford found it necessary to disengage. They climbed to the top of a nearby outcrop of rock and surveyed the scene around them.
What happened to the Golgafrinchans? asked Ford.
Arthur shrugged.