"I don't know," yelled Ford, "I don't know. It sounded like a measurement of probability."
"Probability? What do you mean?"
"Probability. You know, like two to one, three to one, five to four against. It said two to the power of one hundred thousand to one against. That's pretty improbable you know."
A million-gallon vat of custard upended itself over them without warning.
"But what does it mean?" cried Arthur.
"What, the custard?"
"No, the measurement of probability!"
"I don't know. I don't know at all. I think we're on some kind of spaceship."
"I can only assume," said Arthur, "that this is not the first-class compartment."
Bulges appeared in the fabric of space-time. Great ugly bulges.
"Haaaauuurrgghhh ..." said Arthur as he felt his body softening and bending in unusual directions. "Southend seems to be melting away ... the stars are swirling ... a dustbowl ... my legs are drifting off into the sunset ... my left arm's come off too." A frightening thought struck him: "Hell," he said, "how am I going to operate my digital watch now?" He wound his eyes desperately around in Ford's direction.
"Ford," he said, "you're turning into a penguin. Stop it."
Again came the voice.
"Two to the power of seventy-five thousand to one against and falling."
Ford waddled around his pond in a furious circle. "Hey, who are you," he quacked. "Where are you? What's going on and is there any way of stopping it?"