The little old figure moved closer towards them. He peered through the dim light. He thrust out a bony finger at his great grandson.
“Ah,” he snapped. “Zaphod Beeblebrox. The last of our great line. Zaphod Beeblebrox the Nothingth.”
“The First.”
“The Nothingth,” spat the figure. Zaphod hated his voice. It always seemed to him to screech like fingernails across the blackboard of what he liked to think of as his soul.
He shifted awkwardly in his seat.
“Er, yeah,” he muttered, “Er, look, I’m really sorry about the flowers, I meant to send them along, but you know, the shop was fresh out of wreaths and…”
“You forget!” snapped Zaphod Beeblebrox the Fourth.
“Well…”
“Too busy. Never think of other people. The living are all the same.”
“Two minutes, Zaphod,” whispered Ford in an awed whisper.
Zaphod fidgeted nervously.
“Yeah, but I did mean to send them,” he said. “And I’ll write to my great grandmother as well, just as soon as we get out of this…”
“Your great grandmother,” mused the gaunt little figure to himself.
“Yeah,” said Zaphod, “Er, how is she? Tell you what, I’ll go and see her. But first we’ve just got to…”
“Your late great grandmother and I are very well,” rasped Zaphod Beeblebrox the Fourth.
“Ah. Oh.”