"I haven't done very well so far," he said. He stuck out his hand. "I'm very glad to see you again, Arthur," he added. Arthur shook his head in a sudden access of emotion and bewilderment. "I haven't seen anyone for years," he said, not anyone. I can hardly even remember how to speak. I keep forgetting words. I practise you see. I practise by talking to ... talking to ... what are those things people think you're mad if you talk to? Like George the Third." "Kings?" suggested Ford. "No, no," said Arthur. The things he used to talk to. We're surrounded by them for heaven's sake. I've planted hundreds myself. They all died. Trees! I practise by talking to trees. What's that for?" Ford still had his hand stuck out. Arthur looked at it with incomprehension. "Shake," prompted Ford. Arthur did, nervously at first, as if it might turn out to be a fish. Then he grasped it vigorously with both hands in an overwhelming flood of relief. He shook it and shook it. After a while Ford found it necessary to disengage. They climbed to the top of a nearby outcrop of rock and surveyed the scene around them. "What happened to the Golgafrinchans?" asked Ford. Arthur shrugged. "A lot of them didn't make it through the winter three years ago," he said, "and the few who remained in the spring said they needed a holiday and set off on a raft. History says that they must have survived …" "Huh," said Ford, "well well." He stuck his hands on his hips and looked round again at the empty world. Suddenly, there was about Ford a sense of energy and purpose.