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Mr. L. Prosser was, as they say, only human. In other words he was a carbon-based bipedal life form descended from an ape.
“Mr. Dent,” he said. “Hello? Yes?” said Arthur. “Some factual information for you. Have you any idea how much damage that bulldozer would suffer if I just let it roll straight over you?” “How much?” said Arthur. “None at all,” said Mr. Prosser, and stormed nervously off wondering why his brain was filled with a thousand hairy horsemen all shouting at him. By a curious coincidence, “None at all” is exactly how much suspicion the ape-descendant Arthur Dent had that one of his closest friends was not descended from an ape, but was in fact from a small planet somewhere in the vicinity of
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For a few seconds Ford seemed to ignore him, and stared fixedly into the sky like a rabbit trying to get run over by a car. Then suddenly he squatted down beside Arthur. “We’ve got to talk,” he said urgently. “Fine,” said Arthur, “talk.” “And drink,” said Ford. “It’s vitally important that we talk and drink. Now. We’ll go to the pub in the village.” He looked into the sky again, nervous, expectant. “Look, don’t you understand?” shouted Arthur. He pointed at Prosser. “That man wants to knock my house down!” Ford glanced at him, puzzled. “Well, he can do it while you’re away, can’t he?” he
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What a day. Ford Prefect knew that it didn’t matter a pair of dingo’s kidneys whether Arthur’s house got knocked down or not now. Arthur remained very worried. “But can we trust him?” he said. “Myself I’d trust him to the end of the Earth,” said Ford. “Oh yes,” said Arthur, “and how far’s that?” “About twelve minutes away,” said Ford, “come on, I need a drink.”
“Drink up,” said Ford, “you’ve got three pints to get through.” “Three pints?” said Arthur. “At lunchtime?” The man next to Ford grinned and nodded happily. Ford ignored him. He said, “Time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so.”
