Volume 2 - The Restaurant At The End Of The Universe Read online

“Well, doesn’t that just take the biscuit,” said the first iguana.

  “Funny old thing, life,” said the second iguana.

  “It’s what you make it,” said the first and they lapsed back into silence. They were waiting for the greatest show in the Universe.

  “Hey, Zaphod,” said Ford, grabbing for his arm and, on account of the third Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster, missing. He pointed a swaying finger.

  “There’s an old mate of mine,” he said. “Hotblack Desiato! See the man at the platinum table with the platinum suit on?”

  Zaphod tried to follow Ford’s finger with his eyes but it made him feel dizzy. Finally he saw.

  “Oh yeah,” he said, then recognition came a moment later. “Hey,” he said, “did that guy ever make it megabig! Wow, bigger than the biggest thing ever. Other than me.”

  “Who’s he supposed to be?” asked Trillian.

  “Hotblack Desiato?” said Zaphod in astonishment. “You don’t know? You never heard of Disaster Area?”

  “No,” said Trillian, who hadn’t.

  “The biggest.” said Ford. “loudest …”

  “ … rock band in the history of …” he searched for the word.

  “ … history itself,” said Zaphod.

  “No,” said Trillian.

  “Zowee,” said Zaphod, “here we are at the End of the Universe and you haven’t even lived yet. Did you miss out.”

  He led her off to where the waiter had been waiting all this time at the table. Arthur followed them feeling very lost and alone.

  Ford waded off through the throng to renew an old acquaintance.

  “Hey, er, Hotblack,” he called out, “how you doing? Great to see you big boy, how’s the noise? You’re looking great, really very, very fat and unwell. Amazing.” He slapped the man on the back and was mildly surprised that it seemed to elicit no response. The Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters swilling around inside him told him to plunge on regardless.

  “Remember the old days?” he said. “We used to hang out, right? The Bistro Illegal, remember? Slim’s Throat Emporium? The Evildrome Boozarama, great days, eh?”

  Hotblack Desiato offered no opinion as to whether they were great days or not. Ford was not perturbed.

  “And when we were hungry we’d pose as public health inspectors, you remember that? And go around confiscating meals and drinks, right? Till we got food poisoning. Oh, and then there were the long nights of talking and drinking in those smelly rooms above the Café Lou in Gretchen Town, New Betel, and you were always in the next room trying to write songs on your ajuitar and we all hated them. And you said you didn’t care, and we said we did because we hated them so much.” Ford’s eyes were beginning to mist over.

  “And you said you didn’t want to be a star,” he continued, wallowing in nostalgia, “because you despised the star system. And we said—Hadra and Sulijoo and me—that we didn’t think you had the option. And what do you do now? You buy star systems!”

  He turned and solicited the attention of those at nearby tables.

  “Here,” he said, “is a man who buys star systems!”

  Hotblack Desiato made no attempt either to confirm or deny this fact, and the attention of the temporary audience waned rapidly.

  “I think someone’s drunk,” muttered a purple bushlike being into his wineglass.

  Ford staggered slightly, and sat down heavily on the chair facing Hotblack Desiato.

  “What’s that number you do?” he said, unwisely grabbing at a bottle for support and tipping it over—into a nearby glass as it happened. Not to waste a happy accident, he drained the glass.

  “That really huge number,” he continued, “how does it go? ‘Bwarm! Bwarm! Baderr!!’ something, and in the stage act you do it ends up with this ship crashing right into the sun, and you actually do it!”

  Ford crashed his fist into his other hand to illustrate this feat graphically. He knocked the bottle over again.

  “Ship! Sun! Wham bang!” he cried. “I mean forget lasers and stuff, you guys are into solar flares and real sunburn! Oh, and terrible songs.”

  His eyes followed the stream of liquid glugging out of the bottle onto the table. Something ought to be done about it, he thought.

  “Hey, you want a drink?” he said. It began to sink into his squelching mind that something was missing from this reunion, and that the missing something was in some way connected with the fact that the fat man sitting opposite him in the platinum suit and the silvery hat had not yet said “Hi, Ford” or “Great to see you after all this time,” or in fact anything at all. More to the point he had not yet even moved.

  “Hotblack?” said Ford.

  A large meaty hand landed on his shoulder from behind and pushed him aside. He slid gracelessly off his seat and peered upward to see if he could spot the owner of this discourteous hand. The owner was not hard to spot, on account of his being something of the order of seven feet tall and not slightly built with it. In fact he was built the way one builds leather sofas, shiny, lumpy and with lots of solid stuffing. The suit into which the man’s body had been stuffed looked as if its only purpose in life was to demonstrate how difficult it was to get this sort of body into a suit. The face had the texture of an orange and the color of an apple, but there the resemblance to anything sweet ended.

  “Kid …” said a voice which emerged from the man’s mouth as if it had been having a really rough time down in his chest.

  “Er, yeah?” said Ford conversationally. He staggered back to his feet again and was disappointed that the top of his head didn’t come further up the man’s body.

  “Beat it,” said the man.

  “Oh yeah?” said Ford, wondering how wise he was being. “And who are you?”

  The man considered this for a moment. He wasn’t used to being asked this sort of question. Nevertheless, after a while he came up with an answer.

  “I’m the guy who’s telling you to beat it,” he said, “before you get it beaten for you.”

  “Now listen,” said Ford nervously—he wished his head would stop spinning, settle down and get to grips with the situation—“Now listen,” he continued, “I am one of Hotblack’s oldest friends and …”

  He glanced at Hotblack Desiato, who still hadn’t moved so much as an eyelash.

  “ … and …” said Ford again, wondering what would be a good word to say after “and.”

  The large man came up with a whole sentence to go after “and.” He said it.

  “And I am Mr. Desiato’s bodyguard,” it went, “and I am responsible for his body, and I am not responsible for yours, so take it away before it gets damaged.”

  “Now wait a minute,” said Ford.

  “No minutes!” boomed the bodyguard. “No waiting! Mr. Desiato speaks to no one!”

  “Well, perhaps you’d let him say what he thinks about the matter himself,” said Ford.

  “He speaks to no one!” bellowed the bodyguard.

  Ford glanced anxiously at Hotblack again and was forced to admit to himself that the bodyguard seemed to have the facts on his side. There was still not the slightest sign of movement, let alone keen interest in Ford’s welfare.

  “Why?” said Ford. “What’s the matter with him?”

  The bodyguard told him.

  17

  The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy notes that Disaster Area, a plutonium rock band from the Gagrakacka Mind Zones, are generally held to be not only the loudest rock band in the Galaxy, but in fact the loudest noise of any kind at all. Regular concert goers judge that the best sound balance is usually to be heard from within large concrete bunkers some thirty-seven miles from the stage, while the musicians themselves play their instruments by remote control from within a heavily insulated spaceship which stays in orbit around the planet—or more frequently around a completely different planet.

  Their songs are on the whole very simple and mostly follow the familiar theme of boy-being meets girl-being beneath a silvery moon, which then e
xplodes for no adequately explored reason.

  Many worlds have now banned their act altogether, sometimes for artistic reasons, but most commonly because the band’s public address system contravenes local strategic arms limitations treaties.

  This has not, however, stopped their earnings from pushing back the boundaries of pure hypermathematics, and their chief research accountant has recently been appointed Professor of Neomathematics at the University of Maximegalon, in recognition of both his General and his Special Theories of Disaster Area Tax Returns, in which he proves that the whole fabric of the space-time continuum is not merely curved, it is in fact totally bent.

  Ford staggered back to the table where Zaphod, Arthur and Trillian were sitting waiting for the fun to begin.

  “Gotta have some food,” said Ford.

  “Hi, Ford,” said Zaphod. “You speak to the big noise boy?”

  Ford waggled his head noncommittally.

  “Hotblack? I sort of spoke to him, yeah.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Well, not a lot really. He’s … er …”

  “Yeah?”

  “He’s spending a year dead for tax reasons. I’ve got to sit down.”

  He sat down.

  The waiter approached.

  “Would you like to see the menu?” he said. “Or would you like to meet the Dish of the Day?”

  “Huh?” said Ford.

  “Huh?” said Arthur.

  “Huh?” said Trillian.

  “That’s cool,” said Zaphod. “We’ll meet the meat.”

  In a small room in one of the arms of the Restaurant complex a tall, thin, gangling figure pulled aside a curtain and oblivion looked him in the face.

  It was not a pretty face, perhaps because oblivion had looked him in it so many times. It was too long for a start, the eyes too sunken and hooded, the cheeks too hollow, his lips were too thin and too long, and when they parted his teeth looked too much like a recently polished bay window. The hands that held the curtain were long and thin too: they were also cold. They lay lightly along the folds of the curtain and gave the impression that if he didn’t watch them like a hawk they would crawl away of their own accord and do something unspeakable in a corner.

  He let the curtain drop and the terrible light that had played on his features went off to play somewhere more healthy. He prowled around his small chamber like a mantis contemplating an evening’s preying, finally settling on a rickety chair by a trestle table, where he leafed through a few sheets of jokes.

  A bell rang.

  He pushed the thin sheaf of papers aside and stood up. His hands brushed limply over some of the one million rainbow-colored sequins with which his jacket was festooned, and he was gone through the door.

  In the Restaurant the lights dimmed, the band quickened its pace, a single spotlight stabbed down into the darkness of the stairway that led up to the center of the stage.

  Up the stairs bounded a tall brilliantly colored figure. He burst onto the stage, tripped lightly up to the microphone, removed it from its stand with one swoop of his long thin hand and stood for a moment bowing left and right to the audience, acknowledging their applause and displaying to them his bay window. He waved to his particular friends in the audience even though there weren’t any there, and waited for the applause to die down.

  He held up his hand and smiled a smile that stretched not merely from ear to ear, but seemed to extend some way beyond the mere confines of his face.

  “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen!” he cried. “Thank you very much. Thank you so much.”

  He eyed them with a twinkling eye.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “the Universe as we know it has now been in existence for over one hundred and seventy thousand million billion years and will be ending in a little over half an hour. So, welcome one and all to Milliways, the Restaurant at the End of the Universe!”

  With a gesture he deftly conjured another round of spontaneous applause. With another gesture he cut it.

  “I am your host for tonight,” he said. “My name is Max Quordlepleen …” (Everybody knew this, his act was famous throughout the known Galaxy, but he said it for the fresh applause it generated, which he acknowledged with a disclaiming smile and wave.) “ … and I’ve just come straight from the very very other End of Time, where I’ve been hosting a show at the Big Bang Burger Bar—where I can tell you we had a very exciting evening, ladies and gentlemen—and I will be with you right through this historic occasion, the End of History itself!”

  Another burst of applause died away quickly as the lights dimmed down further. On every table candles ignited themselves spontaneously, eliciting a slight gasp from all the diners and wreathing them in a thousand tiny flickering lights and a million intimate shadows. A tremor of excitement thrilled through the darkened Restaurant as the vast golden dome above them began very very slowly to dim, to darken, to fade.

  Max’s voice was hushed as he continued.

  “So, ladies and gentlemen,” he breathed, “the candles are lit, the band plays softly and as the force-shielded dome above us fades into transparency, revealing a dark and sullen sky hung heavy with the ancient light of livid swollen stars, I can see we’re all in for a fabulous evening’s apocalypse!”

  Even the soft tootling of the band faded away as stunned shock descended on all those who had not seen this sight before.

  A monstrous, grisly light poured in on them

  —a hideous light

  —a boiling, pestilential light

  —a light that would have disfigured hell.

  The Universe was coming to an end.

  For a few interminable seconds the Restaurant spun silently through the raging void. Then Max spoke again.

  “For those of you who ever hoped to see the light at the end of the tunnel,” he said, “this is it.”

  The band struck up again.

  “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” cried Max, “I’ll be back with you again in just a moment, and meanwhile I leave you in the very capable hands of Mr. Reg Nullify and his Cataclysmic Combo. Big hand please, ladies and gentlemen, for Reg and the boys!”

  The baleful turmoil of the skies continued.

  Hesitantly the audience began to clap and after a moment or so normal conversation resumed. Max began his round of the tables, swapping jokes, shouting with laughter, earning his living.

  A large dairy animal approached Zaphod Beeblebrox’s table, a large fat meaty quadruped of the bovine type with large watery eyes, small horns and what might almost have been an ingratiating smile on its lips.

  “Good evening,” it lowed and sat back heavily on its haunches, “I am the main Dish of the Day. May I interest you in parts of my body?” It harrumphed and gurgled a bit, wriggled its hind quarters into a more comfortable position and gazed peacefully at them.

  Its gaze was met by looks of startled bewilderment from Arthur and Trillian, a resigned shrug from Ford Prefect and naked hunger from Zaphod Beeblebrox.

  “Something off the shoulder perhaps?” suggested the animal. “Braised in a white wine sauce?”

  “Er, your shoulder?” said Arthur in a horrified whisper.

  “But naturally my shoulder, sir,” mooed the animal contentedly, “nobody else’s is mine to offer.”

  Zaphod leapt to his feet and started prodding and feeling the animal’s shoulder appreciatively.

  “Or the rump is very good,” murmured the animal. “I’ve been exercising it and eating plenty of grain, so there’s a lot of good meat there.” It gave a mellow grunt, gurgled again and started to chew the cud. It swallowed the cud again.

  “Or a casserole of me perhaps?” it added.

  “You mean this animal actually wants us to eat it?” whispered Trillian to Ford.

  “Me?” said Ford, with a glazed look in his eyes. “I don’t mean anything.”

  “That’s absolutely horrible,” exclaimed Arthur, “the most revolting thing I’ve ever heard.”

&n
bsp; “What’s the problem, Earthman?” said Zaphod, now transferring his attention to the animal’s enormous rump.

  “I just don’t want to eat an animal that’s standing there inviting me to,” said Arthur. “It’s heartless.”

  “Better than eating an animal that doesn’t want to be eaten,” said Zaphod.

  “That’s not the point,” Arthur protested. Then he thought about it for a moment. “All right,” he said, “maybe it is the point. I don’t care, I’m not going to think about it now. I’ll just … er …”

  The Universe raged about him in its death throes.

  “I think I’ll just have a green salad,” he muttered.

  “May I urge you to consider my liver?” asked the animal, “it must be very rich and tender by now, I’ve been force-feeding myself for months.”

  “A green salad,” said Arthur emphatically.

  “A green salad?” said the animal, rolling his eyes disapprovingly at Arthur.

  “Are you going to tell me,” said Arthur, “that I shouldn’t have green salad?”

  “Well,” said the animal, “I know many vegetables that are very clear on that point. Which is why it was eventually decided to cut through the whole tangled problem and breed an animal that actually wanted to be eaten and was capable of saying so clearly and distinctly. And here I am.”

  It managed a very slight bow.

  “Glass of water please,” said Arthur.

  “Look,” said Zaphod, “we want to eat, we don’t want to make a meal of the issues. Four rare steaks please, and hurry. We haven’t eaten in five hundred and seventy-six thousand million years.”

  The animal staggered to its feet. It gave a mellow gurgle.

  “A very wise choice, sir, if I may say so. Very good,” it said. “I’ll just nip off and shoot myself.”

  He turned and gave a friendly wink to Arthur.

  “Don’t worry, sir,” he said, “I’ll be very humane.”

  It waddled unhurriedly off to the kitchen.

  A matter of minutes later the waiter arrived with four huge steaming steaks. Zaphod and Ford wolfed straight into them without a second’s hesitation. Trillian paused, then shrugged and started into hers.