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Zaphod
Beeblebrox
,
adventurer
,
ex-hippy
,
good
timer
,
(
crook
?
quite
possibly
)
,
manic
self-publicist
,
terribly
bad
at
personal
relationships
,
often
thought
to
be
completely
out
to
lunch
.
President
?
No
one
had
gone
bananas
,
not
in
that
way
at
least
.
Only
six
people
in
the
entire
Galaxy
understood
the
principle
on
which
the
Galaxy
was
governed
,
and
they
knew
that
once
Zaphod
Beeblebrox
had
announced
his
intention
to
run
as
President
it
was
more
or
less
a
fait
accompli
:
he
was
the
ideal
Presidency
fodder
[
1
]
.
What
they
completely
failed
to
understand
was
why
Zaphod
was
doing
it
.
He
banked
sharply
,
shooting
a
wild
wall
of
water
at
the
sun
.
Today
was
the
day
;
today
was
the
day
when
they
would
realize
what
Zaphod
had
been
up
to
.
Today
was
what
Zaphod
Beeblebrox
's
Presidency
was
all
about
.
Today
was
also
his
two
hundredth
birthday
,
but
that
was
just
another
meaningless
coincidence
.
As
he
skipped
his
boat
across
the
seas
of
Damogran
he
smiled
quietly
to
himself
about
what
a
wonderful
exciting
day
it
was
going
to
be
.
He
relaxed
and
spread
his
two
arms
lazily
across
the
seat
back
.
He
steered
with
an
extra
arm
he
'd
recently
fitted
just
beneath
his
right
one
to
help
improve
his
ski-boxing
.
"
Hey
,
"
he
cooed
to
himself
,
"
you
're
a
real
cool
boy
you
.
"
But
his
nerves
sang
a
song
shriller
than
a
dog
whistle
.
The
island
of
France
was
about
twenty
miles
long
,
five
miles
across
the
middle
,
sandy
and
crescent
shaped
.
In
fact
it
seemed
to
exist
not
so
much
as
an
island
in
its
own
right
as
simply
a
means
of
defining
the
sweep
and
curve
of
a
huge
bay
.
This
impression
was
heightened
by
the
fact
that
the
inner
coastline
of
the
crescent
consisted
almost
entirely
of
steep
cliffs
.
From
the
top
of
the
cliff
the
land
sloped
slowly
down
five
miles
to
the
opposite
shore
.
