“Did you know,” interrupting the ghostly figure, fixing Zaphod with a stern look, “that Betelgeuse Five has developed a very slight eccentricy in its orbit?”
Zaphod didn’t and found the information hard to concentrate on what with all the noise and the imminence of death and so on.
“Er, no… look,” he said.
“Me spinning in my grave!” barked the ancestor. He slammed the cup down and pointed a quivering, stick-like see-through finger at Zaphod.
“Your fault!” he screeched.
“One minute thirty,” muttered Ford, his head in his hands.
“Yeah, look Great Granddad, can you actually help because…”
“Help?” exclaimed the old man as if he’d been asked for a stoat.
“Yeah, help, and like, now, because otherwise…”
“Help!” repeated the old man as if he’d been asked for a lightly grilled stoat in a bun with French fries. He stood amazed.