“Does it have to be now?”
The ship continued to shake and thunder. The temperature was rising. The light was getting dimmer – all the energy the computer didn’t require for thinking about tea was being pumped into the rapidly fading force-field.
“Yeah!” insisted Zaphod. “Listen Ford, I think he may be able to help us.”
“Are you sure you mean think? Pick your words with care.”
“Suggest something else we can do.”
“Er, well…”
“OK, round the central console. Now. Come on! Trillian, Monkeyman, move.”
They clustered round the central console in confusion, sat down and, feeling exceptionally foolish, held hands. With his third hand Zaphod turned off the lights.
Darkness gripped the ship.
Outside, the thunderous roar of the Definit-Kil cannon continued to rip at the force-field.
“Concentrate,” hissed Zaphod, “on his name.”
“What is it?” asked Arthur.
“Zaphod Beeblebrox the Fourth.”
“What?”