The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams

two-to-the-power-of-Infinity-minus-one to one against (an irrational number that only has a conventional meaning in Improbability Physics).
    “It’s pretty low,” continued Zaphod with a slight whistle.
    “Yes,” agreed Trillian, and looked at him quizzically.
    “That’s one big whack of Improbability to be accounted for. Something pretty improbable has got to show up on the balance sheet if it’s all going to add up into a pretty sum.”
    Zaphod scribbled a few sums, crossed them out and threw the pencil away.
    “Bat’s dos, I can’t work it out.”
    “Well?”
    Zaphod knocked his two heads together in irritation and gritted his teeth.
    “Okay,” he said. “Computer!”
    The voice circuits sprang to life again.
    “Why, hello there!” they said (ticker tape, ticker tape). “All I want to do is make your day nicer and nicer and nicer . . .”
    “Yeah, well, shut up and work something out for me.”
    “Sure thing,” chattered the computer, “you want a probability forecast based on . . .”
    “Improbability data, yeah.”
    “Okay,” the computer continued. “Here’s an interesting little notion. Did you realize that most people’s lives are governed by telephone numbers?”
    A pained look crawled across one of Zaphod’s faces and on to the other one.
    “Have you flipped?” he said.
    “No, but you will when I tell you that . . .”
    Trillian gasped. She scrabbled at the buttons on the Improbability flight-path screen.
    “Telephone number?” she said. “Did that thing say
telephone
number?
”
    Numbers flashed up on the screen.
    The computer had paused politely, but now it continued.
    “What I was about to say was that . . .”
    “Don’t bother, please,” said Trillian.
    “Look, what is this?” said Zaphod.
    “I don’t know,” said Trillian, “but those aliens—they’re on the way up to the bridge with that wretched robot. Can we pick them up on any monitor cameras?”

Chapter 13
    Marvin trudged on down the corridor, still moaning. “And then of course I’ve got this terrible pain in all the diodes down my left-hand side . . .”
    “No?” said Arthur grimly as he walked along beside him. “Really?”
    “Oh yes,” said Marvin, “I mean I’ve asked for them to be replaced but no one ever listens.”
    “I can imagine.”
    Vague whistling and humming noises were coming from Ford. “Well well well,” he kept saying to himself, “Zaphod Beeblebrox . . .”
    Suddenly Marvin stopped, and held up a hand.
    “You know what’s happened now, of course?”
    “No, what?” said Arthur, who didn’t want to know.
    “We’ve arrived at another of those doors.”
    There was a sliding door let into the side of the corridor. Marvin eyed it suspiciously.
    “Well?” said Ford impatiently. “Do we go through?”
    “Do we go through?”
mimicked Marvin. “Yes. This is the entrance to the bridge. I was told to take you to the bridge. Probably the highest demand that will be made on my intellectual capacities today, I shouldn’t wonder.”
    Slowly, with great loathing, he stepped toward the door, like a hunter stalking his prey. Suddenly it slid open.
    “Thank you,”
it said,
“for making a simple door very happy.”
    Deep in Marvin’s thorax gears ground.
    “Funny,” he intoned funereally, “how just when you think life can’t possibly get any worse it suddenly does.”
    He heaved himself through the door and left Ford and Arthur staring at each other and shrugging their shoulders. From inside they heard Marvin’s voice again.
    “I suppose you’ll want to see the aliens now,” he said. “Do you want me to sit in a corner and rust, or just fall apart where I’m standing?”
    “Yeah, just show them in, would you, Marvin?” came another voice.
    Arthur looked at Ford and was astonished to see him laughing.
    “What’s . . . ?”
    “Shhh,” said Ford, “come on in.”
    He stepped through into the bridge.
    Arthur followed him in nervously and was astonished to see a man