"Are you serious, sir?" he said in a small whisper which had the effect of silencing the pub. "You think the world's going to end?" "Yes," said Ford. "But, this afternoon?" Ford had recovered himself. He was at his flippest. "Yes," he said gaily, "in less than two minutes I would estimate." The barman couldn't believe the conversation he was having, but he couldn't believe the sensation he had just had either. "Isn't there anything we can do about it then?" he said. "No, nothing," said Ford, stuffing the peanuts into his pockets. Someone in the hushed bar suddenly laughed raucously at how stupid everyone had become. The man sitting next to Ford was a bit sozzled by now. His eyes waved their way up to Ford. "I thought," he said, "that if the world was going to end we were meant to lie down or put a paper bag over our head or something." "If you like, yes," said Ford. "That's what they told us in the army," said the man, and his eyes began the long trek back down to his whisky. "Will that help?" asked the barman. "No," said Ford and gave him a friendly smile. "Excuse me," he said, "I've got to go." With a wave, he left. The pub was silent for a moment longer, and then, embarrassingly enough, the man with the raucous laugh did it again. The girl he had dragged along to the pub with him had grown to loathe him dearly over the last hour or so, and it would probably have been a great satisfaction to her to know that in a minute and a half or so he would suddenly evaporate into a whiff of hydrogen, ozone and carbon monoxide. However, when the moment came she would be too busy evaporating herself to notice it. The barman cleared his throat. He heard himself say: "Last orders, please."