He said, “I said it was a sort of après…”
“Yeah, and don’t you wish you hadn’t?” said Zaphod, “Ford?”
“I said it was odd.”
“Yeah, shrewd but dull, perhaps it was…”
“Perhaps,” interrupted the green blur who had by this time resolved into the shape of a small wizened dark-suited green waiter, “perhaps you would care to discuss the matter over drinks…”
“Drinks!” cried Zaphod, “that was it! See what you miss if you don’t stay alert.”
“Indeed sir,” said the waiter patiently. “If the lady and gentlemen would care to order drinks before dinner…”
“Dinner!” Zaphod exclaimed with passion, “Listen, little green person, my stomach could take you home and cuddle you all night for the mere idea.”
“… and the Universe,” concluded the waiter, determined not to be deflected on his home stretch, “will explode later for your pleasure.”
Ford’s head swivelled towards him. He spoke with feeling.
“Wow,” he said, “What sort of drinks do you serve in this place?”
The waiter laughed a polite little waiter’s laugh.
“Ah,” he said, “I think sir has perhaps misunderstood me.”
“Oh, I hope not,” breathed Ford.
The waiter coughed a polite little waiter’s cough.
“It is not unusual for our customers to be a little disoriented by the time journey,” he said, “so if I might suggest…”
“Time journey?” said Zaphod.
“Time journey?” said Ford.
“Time journey?” said Trillian.
“You mean this isn’t the afterlife?” said Arthur.
The waiter smiled a polite little waiter’s smile. He had almost exhausted his polite little waiter repertoire and would soon be slipping into his role of a rather tight lipped and sarcastic little waiter.
“Afterlife, sir?” he said, “No, sir.”
“And we’re not dead?” said Arthur.
The waiter tightened his lips.
“Aha, ha,” he said, “Sir is most evidently alive, otherwise I would not attempt to serve sir.”
In an extraordinary gesture which is pointless attempting to describe, Zaphod Beeblebrox slapped both his foreheads with two of his arms and one of his thighs with the other.
“Hey guys,” he said, “This is crazy. We finally did it. We finally got to where we were going. This is Milliways!”
“Yes, sir,” said the waiter, laying on the patience with a trowel, “this is Milliways—the Restaurant at the End of the Universe.”
“End of what?” said Arthur.
“The Universe,” repeated the waiter, very clearly and unnecessarily distinctly.
“When did that end?” said Arthur.
“In just a few minutes, sir,” said the waiter. He took a deep breath. He didn’t need to do this since his body was supplied with the peculiar assortment of gases it required for survival from a small intravenous device strapped to his leg. There are times, however, when whatever your metabolism you have to take a deep breath.
“Now, if you would care to order drinks at last,” he said, “I will then show you to your table.”
Zaphod grinned two manic grins, sauntered over to the bar and bought most of it.
Chapter 15
The Restaurant at the End of the Universe is one of the most extraordinary ventures in the entire history of catering. It has been built on the fragmented remains of… it will be built on the fragmented… that is to say it will have been built by this time, and indeed has been—
One of the major problems encountered in time travel is not that of accidentally becoming your own father or mother. There is no problem involved in becoming your own father or mother that a broadminded and well-adjusted family can’t cope with. There is also no problem about changing the course of history—the course of history does not change because it all fits together like a jigsaw. All the important changes have happened before the things they were supposed to change and it all sorts itself out in the end.
The major problem is quite simply one of grammar, and the main work to consult in this matter is Dr. Dan Streetmentioner’s Time Traveller’s Handbook of 1001 Tense Formations. It will tell you for instance how to describe something that was about to happen to you in the past before you avoided it by time-jumping forward two days in order to avoid it. The event will be described differently according to whether you are talking about it from the standpoint of your own natural time, from a time in the further future, or a time in the further past and is further complicated by the possibility of conducting conversations whilst you are actually travelling from one time to another with the intention of becoming your own father or mother.
Most readers get as far as the Future Semi-Conditionally Modified Subinverted Plagal Past Subjunctive Intentional before giving up: and in fact in later editions of the book all the pages beyond this point have been left blank to save on printing costs.
The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy skips lightly over this tangle of academic abstraction, pausing only to note that the term “Future Perfect” has been abandoned since it was discovered not to be.
To resume:
The Restaurant at the End of the Universe is one of the most extraordinary ventures in the entire history of catering.
It is built on the fragmented remains of an eventually ruined planet which is (wioll haven be) enclosed in a vast time bubble and projected forward in time to the precise moment of the End of the Universe.
This is, many would say, impossible.
In it, guests take (willan on-take) their places at table and eat (willan on-eat) sumptuous meals whilst watching (willing watchen) the whole of creation explode around them.
This is, many would say, equally impossible.
You can arrive (mayan arrivan on-when) for any sitting you like without prior (late fore-when) reservation because you can book retrospectively, as it were when you return to your own time. (you can have on-book haventa forewhen presooning returningwenta retrohome.)
This is, many would now insist, absolutely impossible.
At the Restaurant you can meet and dine with (mayan meetan con with dinan on when) a fascinating cross-section of the entire population of space and time.
This, it can be explained patiently, is also impossible.
You can visit it as many times as you like (mayan on-visit re-onvisiting… and so on—for further tense-corrections consult Dr. Streetmentioner’s book) and be sure of never meeting yourself, because of the embarrassment this usually causes.
This, even if the rest were true, which it isn’t, is patently impossible, say the doubters.
All you have to do is deposit one penny in a savings account in your own era, and when you arrive at the End of Time the operation of compound interest means that the fabulous cost of your meal has been paid for.
This, many claim, is not merely impossible but clearly insane, which is why the advertising executives of the star system of Bastablon came up with this slogan: “If you’ve done six impossible things this morning, why not round it off with breakfast at Milliways, the Restaurant at the End of the Universe?”
Chapter 16
At the bar, Zaphod was rapidly becoming as tired as a newt. His heads knocked together and his smiles were coming out of synch. He was miserably happy.
“Zaphod,” said Ford, “whilst you’re still capable of speech, would you care to tell me what the photon happened? Where have you been? Where have we been? Small matter, but I’d like it cleared up.”
Zaphod’s left head sobered up, leaving his right to sink further into the obscurity of drink.
“Yeah,” he said, “I’ve been around. They want me to find the man who rules the Universe, but I don’t care to meet him. I believe the man can’t cook.”
His left head watched his right head saying this and then nodded.
“True,” it said, “have another drink.”
&n
bsp; Ford had another Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster, the drink which has been described as the alcoholic equivalent of a mugging—expensive and bad for the head. Whatever had happened, Ford decided, he didn’t really care too much.
“Listen, Ford,” said Zaphod, “everything’s cool and froody.”
“You mean everything’s under control.”
“No,” said Zaphod, “I do not mean everything’s under control. That would not be cool and froody. If you want to know what happened let’s just say I had the whole situation in my pocket. OK?”
Ford shrugged.
Zaphod giggled into his drink. It frothed up over the side of the glass and started to eat its way into the marble bar top.
A wild-skinned sky-gypsy approached them and played electric violin at them until Zaphod gave him a lot of money and he agreed to go away again.
The gypsy approached Arthur and Trillian sitting in another part of the bar.
“I don’t know what this place is,” said Arthur, “but I think it gives me the creeps.”
“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 forcefield generators which protect the entire structure and the decayed planet on which it sits, and the Time Turbines which slowly rock the whole affair backwards and forwards across the crucial moment.
In the centre 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 sea shells 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 ultra-mahagony, some even of platinum, and at each a party of exotic creatures chatting amongst 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 were playing light music, at least a thousand tables was Arthur’s guess, and interspersed amongst 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 around, 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, “’cos 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 of 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…”
“Richest…” suggested Zaphod.
“… 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 elict no response. The Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters swirling round 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 bush-like being into his wine glass.
<
br /> 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 on to 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 trilby 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 upwards 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 it’s 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 colour 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.
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