“Can I ask you why you want to see Mr. Zarniwoop?”
“Yeah,” said Zaphod, who was unclear on this point himself, “I told myself I had to.”
“Come again sir?”
Zaphod leaned forward, conspirationally.
“I just materialized out of thin air in one of your cafes,” he said, “as a result of an argument with the ghost of my great grandfather. No sooner had I got there that my former self, the one that operated on my brain, popped into my head and said ‘Go see Zarniwoop’. I have never heard of the cat. That is all I know. That and the fact that I’ve got to find the man who rules the Universe.”
He winked.
“Mr. Beeblebrox, sir,” said the insect in awed wonder, “you’re so weird you should be in movies.”
“Yeah,” said Zaphod patting the thing on a glittering pink wing, “and you, baby, should be in real life.”
The insect paused for a moment to recover from its agitation and then reached out a tentacle to answer a ringing phone.
A metal hand restrained it.
“Excuse me,” said the owner of the metal hand in a voice that would have made an insect of a more sentimental disposition collapse in tears.
This was not such an insect, and it couldn’t stand robots.
“Yes, sir,” it snapped, “can I help you?”
“I doubt it,” said Marvin.
“Well in that case, if you’ll just excuse me…” Six of the phones were now ringing. A million things awaited the insect’s attention.
“No one can help me,” intoned Marvin.
“Yes, sir, well…”
“Not that anyone tried of course.” The restraining metal hand fell limply by Marvin’s side. His head hung forward very slightly.
“Is that so,” said the insect tartly.
“Hardly worth anyone’s while to help a menial robot is it?”