"Just a couple of guys we seem to have picked up in open space," she said. "Section ZZ9 Plural Z Alpha."
"Yeah, well that's a very sweet thought Trillian," complained Zaphod, "but do you really think it's wise under the circumstances? I mean, here we are on the run and everything, we must have the police of half the Galaxy after us by now, and we stop to pick up hitch hikers. OK, so ten out of ten for style, but minus several million for good thinking, yeah?"
He tapped irritably at a control panel. Trillian quietly moved his hand before he tapped anything important. Whatever Zaphod's qualities of mind might include — dash, bravado, conceit — he was mechanically inept and could easily blow the ship up with an extravagant gesture. Trillian had come to suspect that the main reason why he had had such a wild and successful life that he never really understood the significance of anything he did.
"Zaphod," she said patiently, "they were floating unprotected in open space ... you wouldn't want them to have died would you?"
"Well, you know ... no. Not as such, but ..."
"Not as such? Not die as such? But?" Trillian cocked her head on one side.
"Well, maybe someone else might have picked them up later."
"A second later and they would have been dead."
"Yeah, so if you'd taken the trouble to think about the problem a bit longer it would have gone away."
"You'd been happy to let them die?"
"Well, you know, not happy as such, but ..."
"Anyway," said Trillian, turning back to the controls, "I didn't pick them up."
"What do you mean? Who picked them up then?"
"The ship did."
"Huh?"