“Make me some tea.”
“That’s right guys,” the computer sang out suddenly, “just coping with that problem right now, and wow, it’s a biggy. Be with you in a while.” It lapsed back into a silence that was only matched for sheer intensity by the silence of the three people staring at Arthur Dent.
As if to relieve the tension, the Vogons chose that moment to start firing.
The ship shook, the ship thundered. Outside, the inch thick force-shield around it blistered, crackled and spat under the barrage of a dozen 30-Megahurt Definit-Kil Photrazon Cannon, and looked as if it wouldn’t be around for long. Four minutes is how long Ford Prefect gave it. “Three minutes and fifty seconds,” he said a short while later.
“Forty-five seconds,” he added at the appropriate time. He flicked idly at some useless switches, then gave Arthur an unfriendly look.
“Dying for a cup of tea, eh?” he said. “Three minutes and forty seconds.”
“Will you stop counting!” snarled Zaphod.
“Yes,” said Ford Prefect, “in three minutes and thirty-five seconds.”