“Ah. Oh.”
“But very disappointed in you, young Zaphod…”
“Yeah well…” Zaphod felt strangely powerless to take charge of this conversation, and Ford's heavy breathing at his side told him that the seconds were ticking away fast. The noise and the shaking had reached terrifying proportions. He saw Trillian and Arthur's faces white and unblinking in the gloom.
“Er, Great Grandfather…”
“We've been following your progress with considerable despondency…”
“Yeah, look, just at the moment you see…”
“Not to say contempt!”
“Could you sort of listen for a moment…”
“I mean what exactly are you doing with your life?”
“I'm being attacked by a Vogon fleet!” cried Zaphod. It was an exaggeration, but it was his only opportunity so far of getting the basic point of the exercise across.
“Doesn't surprise me in the least,” said the little old figure with a shrug.
“Only it's happening right now you see,” insisted Zaphod feverishly.
The spectral ancestor nodded, picked up the cup Arthur Dent had brought in and looked at it with interest.
“Er… Great Granddad…”
“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.
“You go swanning your way round the Galaxy with your…” the ancestor waved a contemptuous hand, “with your disreputable friends, too busy to put flowers on my grave, plastic ones would have done, would have been quite appropriate from you, but no. Too busy. Too modern. Too sceptical – till you suddenly find yourself in a bit of a fix and come over suddenly all astrallyminded!”
He shook his head – carefully, so as not to disturb the slumber of the other one, which was already becoming restive.
“Well, I don't know, young Zaphod,” he continued, “I think I'll have to think about this one.”
“One minute ten,” said Ford hollowly.
Zaphod Beeblebrox the Fourth peered at him curiously.
“Why does that man keep talking in numbers?” he said.
“Those numbers,” said Zaphod tersely, “are the time we've got left to live.”
“Oh,” said his great grandfather. He grunted to himself. “Doesn't apply to me, of course,” he said and moved off to a dimmer recess of the bridge in search of something else to poke around at.
Zaphod felt he was teetering on the edge of madness and wondered if he shouldn't just jump over and have done with it.
“Great Grandfather,” he said, “It applies to us! We are still alive, and we are about to lose our lives.”
“Good job too.”
“What?”
“What use is your life to anyone? When I think of what you've made of it the phrase `pig's ear' comes irresistibly to my mind.”
“But I was President of the Galaxy, man!”
“Huh,” muttered his ancestor, “And what kind of a job is that for a Beeblebrox?”
“Hey, what? Only President you know! Of the whole Galaxy!”
“Conceited little megapuppy.”
Zaphod blinked in bewilderment.
“Hey, er, what are you at, man? I mean Great Grandfather.”
The hunched up little figure stalked up to his great grandson and tapped him sternly on the knee. This had the effect of reminding Zaphod that he was talking to a ghost because he didn't feel a thing.
“You know and I know what being President means, young Zaphod. You know because you've been it, and I know because I'm dead and it gives one such a wonderfully uncluttered perspective. We have a saying up here. `Life is wasted on the living.'”
“Yeah,” said Zaphod bitterly, “very good. Very deep. Right now I need aphorisms like I need holes in my heads.”
“Fifty seconds,” grunted Ford Prefect.
“Where was I?” said Zaphod Beeblebrox the Fourth.
“Pontificating,” said Zaphod Beeblebrox.
“Oh yes.”
“Can this guy,” muttered Ford quietly to Zaphod, “actually in fact help us?”
“Nobody else can,” whispered Zaphod.
Ford nodded despondently.
“Zaphod!” the ghost was saying, “you became President of the Galaxy for a reason. Have you forgotten?”
“Could we go into this later?”
“Have you forgotten!” insisted the ghost.
“Yeah! Of course I forgot! I had to forget. They screen your brain when you get the job you know. If they'd found my head full of tricksy ideas I'd have been right out on the streets again with nothing but a fat pension, secretarial staff, a fleet of ships and a couple of slit throats.”
“Ah,” nodded the ghost in satisfaction, “then you do remember!”
He paused for a moment.
“Good,” he said and the noise stopped.
“Forty-eight seconds,” said Ford. He looked again at his watch and tapped it. He looked up.
“Hey, the noise has stopped,” he said.
A mischievous twinkle gleamed in the ghost's hard little eyes.
“I've slowed down time for a moment,” he said, “just for a moment you understand. I would hate you to miss all I have to say.”
“No, you listen to me, you see-through old bat,” said Zaphod leaping out of his chair, 'A – thanks for stopping time and all that, great, terrific, wonderful, but B – no thanks for the homily, right? I don't know what this great think I'm meant to be doing is, and it looks to me as if I was supposed not to know. And I resent that, right?
'The old me knew. The old me cared. Fine, so far so hoopy. Except that the old me cared so much that he actually got inside his own brain – my own brain – and locked off the bits that knew and cared, because if I knew and cared I wouldn't be able to do it. I wouldn't be able to go and be President, and I wouldn't be able to steal this ship, which must be the important thing.
'But this former self of mine killed himself off, didn't he, by changing my brain? OK, that was his choice. This new me has its own choices to make, and by a strange coincidence those choices involve not knowing and not caring about this big number, whatever it is. That's what he wanted, that's what he got.
“Except this old self of mine tried to leave himself in control, leaving orders for me in the bit of my brain he
