A rumpled flyer lands on the bar in front of her, pressed under the palm of one dubiously-ornamented hand.
The second hand holds a drink. (It is smoking. It is not, actually, a hot drink.)
The third one pushes back wild blonde hair from one forehead, clearing the way for one set of eyes to wink lasciviously.
(The other pair is staring contemplatively off into the middle distance. Or, they would be, were they not covered in pitch-black sunglasses.)
Both smiles are dazzling. The flyer says "Guided tours! Sail the Horsehead Nebula! Consult the gurus of Aberjonian IV? Marvel at the ice-planet of Forthinsia! A once in a lifetime experience! (Third trip half off)."
It's possible Zaphod doesn't precisely understand the subtleties of marketing.
"Hey, hey, hey," he says, sloping onto the bar in a jumble of limbs that someone manages to look casually, thoughtlessly, choreographed. "You like a girl who knows where her towel is."
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The second hand holds a drink. (It is smoking. It is not, actually, a hot drink.)
The third one pushes back wild blonde hair from one forehead, clearing the way for one set of eyes to wink lasciviously.
(The other pair is staring contemplatively off into the middle distance. Or, they would be, were they not covered in pitch-black sunglasses.)
Both smiles are dazzling. The flyer says "Guided tours! Sail the Horsehead Nebula! Consult the gurus of Aberjonian IV? Marvel at the ice-planet of Forthinsia! A once in a lifetime experience! (Third trip half off)."
It's possible Zaphod doesn't precisely understand the subtleties of marketing.
"Hey, hey, hey," he says, sloping onto the bar in a jumble of limbs that someone manages to look casually, thoughtlessly, choreographed. "You like a girl who knows where her towel is."