“Vogons!” snapped Ford, “we’re under attack!”
Arthur gibbered.
“Well what are you doing? Let’s get out of here!”
“Can’t. Computer’s jammed.”
“Jammed?”
“It says all its circuits are occupied. There’s no power anywhere in the ship.”
Ford moved away from the computer terminal, wiped a sleeve across his forehead and slumped back against the wall.
“Nothing we can do,” he said. He glared at nothing and bit his lip.
When Arthur had been a boy at school, long before the Earth had been demolished, he had used to play football. He had not been at all good at it, and his particular specialty had been scoring own goals in important matches. Whenever this happened he used to experience a peculiar tingling round the back of his neck that would slowly creep up across his cheeks and heat his brow. The image of mud and grass and lots of little jeering boys flinging it at him suddenly came vividly to his mind at this moment.
A peculiar tingling sensation at the back of his neck was creeping up across his cheeks and heating his brow.