Left: The panel lit up with the words Please do not press this button again. He shook himself.  [colour version]

Right: Zaphod Beeblebrox

"Oh yes," said Arthur, "and how far's that?" "About twelve minutes away," said Ford, "come on, I need a drink."  [colour version]

...he had no discernible Mongoloid characteristics, and the only vestiges left in Mr. L Prosser of his mighty ancestry were a pronounced stoutness about the turn and a predilection for little fur hats. 

Everyone beamed at him, or, at least, nearly everyone. He singled out Trillian from the crowd. Trillian was a girl that Zaphod had picked up recently whilst visiting a planet, just for fun, incognito.

"Seven and a half million years our race has waited for this Great and Hopefully Enlightening Day!" cried the cheer leader. "The Day of the Answer!" Hurrahs burst from the ecstatic crowd.

"...I demand that I may or may not be Vroomfondel!" 

"But who the devil are you?" exclaimed an outraged Fook.

"We," said Majikthise," are Philosophers." 

"Though we may not be," said Vroomfondel waving a warning finger at the programmers.

It startled him even more when just after he was awarded the Galactic Institute's Prize for Extreme Cleverness he got lynched by a rampaging mob of respectable physicists who had finally realized that the one thing they really couldn't stand was a smartass.

Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz was not a pleasant sight, even for other Vogons.

"And then I'll do it again!" yelled Arthur. "And when I've finished I will take all the little bits, and I will jump on them!" 

Arthur didn't notice that the men were running from the bulldozers; he didn't notice that Mr. Prosser was staring hectically into the sky.

"...I know you hate me."

"No I don't." 

"Yes you do, everybody does. It's part of the shape of the Universe. I only have to talk to somebody and they begin to hate me. Even robots hate me. If you just ignore me I expect I shall probably go away."

Arthur had jammed himself against the door to the cubicle, trying to hold it closed, but it was ill fitting. Tiny furry little hands were squeezing themselves through the cracks, their fingers were inkstained; tiny voices chattered insanely.

Trillian couldn't sleep. She sat on a couch and stared at a small cage which contained her last and only links with Earth - two white mice that she had insisted Zaphod let her bring.  [colour version]

"And I write novels!" chimed in the other cop. "Though I haven't had any of them published yet, so I better warn you, I'm in a meeeean mood!"

Ford's eyes popped halfway out of their sockets. "Who are these guys?" he said. 

"Dunno," said Zaphod, "I think I preferred it when they were shooting."

"Mostly harmless!" shouted Arthur.