Volume 2 - The Restaurant At The End Of The Universe (11 page)

“Have another drink,” said Trillian. “Enjoy yourself.”

“Which?” said Arthur. “The two are mutually exclusive.”

“Poor Arthur, you’re not really cut out for this life, are you?”

“You call this life?”

“You’re beginning to sound like Marvin.”

“Marvin’s the clearest thinker I know. How do you think we make this violinist go away?”

The waiter approached.

“Your table is ready,” he said.

Seen from the outside, which it never is, the Restaurant resembles a giant glittering starfish beached on a forgotten rock. Each of its arms houses the bars, the kitchens, the force-field generators which protect the entire structure and the decayed hunk of planet on which it sits, and the Time Turbines which slowly rock the whole affair backward and forward across the crucial moment.

In the center sits the gigantic golden dome, almost a complete globe, and it was into this area that Zaphod, Ford, Arthur and Trillian now passed.

At least five tons of glitter alone had gone into it before them, and covered every available surface. The other surfaces were not available because they were already encrusted with jewels, precious seashells from Santraginus, gold leaf, mosaic tiles, lizard skins and a million unidentifiable embellishments and decorations. Glass glittered, silver shone, gold gleamed, Arthur Dent goggled.

“Wowee,” said Zaphod. “Zappo.”

“Incredible!” breathed Arthur. “The people …! The things …!”

“The things,” said Ford Prefect quietly, “are also people.”

“The people …” resumed Arthur, “the … other people …”

“The lights …!” said Trillian.

“The tables …” said Arthur.

“The clothes …!” said Trillian.

The waiter thought they sounded like a couple of bailiffs.

“The End of the Universe is very popular,” said Zaphod threading his way unsteadily through the throng of tables, some made of marble, some of rich ultramahogany, some even of platinum, and at each a party of exotic creatures chatting among themselves and studying menus.

“People like to dress up for it,” continued Zaphod. “Gives it a sense of occasion.”

The tables were fanned out in a large circle around a central stage area where a small band was playing light music, at least a thousand tables was Arthur’s guess, and interspersed among them were swaying palms, hissing fountains, grotesque statuary, in short, all the paraphernalia common to all restaurants where little expense has been spared to give the impression that no expense has been spared. Arthur glanced round, half expecting to see someone making an American Express commercial.

Zaphod lurched into Ford, who lurched back into Zaphod.

“Wowee,” said Zaphod.

“Zappo,” said Ford.

“My great-granddaddy must have really screwed up the computer’s works, you know,” said Zaphod. “I told it to take us to the nearest place to eat and it sends us to the End of the Universe. Remind me to be nice to it one day.”

He paused.

“Hey, everybody’s here you know. Everybody who was anybody.”

“Was?” said Arthur.

“At the End of the Universe you have to use the past tense a lot,” said Zaphod, “’cause everything’s been done, you know. Hi, guys,” he called out to a nearby party of giant iguana lifeforms. “How did you do?”

“Is that Zaphod Beeblebrox?” asked one iguana of another iguana.

“I think so,” replied the second iguana.

“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.

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 explodes 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.