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 span 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."
"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 here 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. "Alright," 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 into 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.
Arthur stared at his feeling slightly ill.
"Hey, Earthman," said Zaphod with a malicious grin on the face that wasn't stuffing itself, "what's eating you?"
And the band played on.
All around the Restaurant people and things relaxed and chatted. The air was filled with talk of this and that, and with the mingled scents of exotic plants, extravagant foods and insidious wines. For an infinite number of miles in every direction the universal cataclysm was gathering to a stupefying climax. Glancing at his watch, Max returned to the stage with a flourish.
"And now, ladies and gentlemen," he beamed, "is everyone having one last wonderful time?"
"Yes," called out the sort of people who call out "yes" when comedians ask them if they're having a wonderful time.
"That's wonderful," enthused Max, "absolutely wonderful. And as the photon storms gather in swirling crowds around us, preparing to tear apart the last of the red hot suns, I know you're all going to settle back and enjoy with me what I know we will find all an immensely exciting and terminal experience."
He paused. He caught the audience with a glittering eye.
"Believe me, ladies and gentlemen," he said, "there's nothing penultimate about this one."
He paused again. Tonight his timing was immaculate. Time after time he had done this show, night after night. Not that the word night had any meaning here at the extremity of time. All there was the endless repetition of the final moment, as the Restaurant rocked slowly forward over the brink of time's furthest edge--and back again. This "night" was good though, the audience was writhing in the palm of his sickly hand. His voice dropped. They had to strain to hear him.
"This," he said, "really is the absolute end, the final chilling desolation, in which the whole majestic sweep of creation becomes extinct. This ladies and gentlemen is the proverbial 'it'."
He dropped his voice still lower. In the stillness, a fly would not have dared clear its throat.
"After this," he said, "there is nothing. Void. Emptiness. Oblivion. Absolute nothing..."
His eyes glittered again--or did they twinkle?
"Nothing... except of course for the sweet trolley, and a fine selection of Aldebaran liqueurs!"
The band gave him a musical sting. He wished they wouldn't, he didn't need it, not an artist of his calibre. He could play the audience like his own musical instrument. They were laughing with relief. He followed on.
"And for once," he cried cheerily, "you don't need to worry about having a hangover in the morning--because there won't be any more mornings!"
He beamed at his happy, laughing audience. He glanced up at the sky, going through the same dead routine every night, but his glance was only for a fraction of a second. He trusted it to do its job, as one professional trusts another.
"And now," he said, strutting about the stage, "at the risk of putting a damper on the wonderful sense of doom and futility here thi
s evening, I would like to welcome a few parties."
He pulled a card from his pocket.
"Do we have..." he put up a hand to hold back the cheers, "Do we have a party here from the Zansellquasure Flamarion Bridge Club from beyond the Vortvoid of Qvarne? Are they here?"
A rousing cheer came from the back, but he pretended not to hear. He peered around trying to find them.
"Are they here?" he asked again, to elict a louder cheer.
He got it, as he always did.
"Ah, there they are. Well, last bids, lads--and no cheating, remember this is a very solemn moment."
He lapped up the laughter.
"And do we also have, do we have... a party of minor deities from the Halls of Asgard?"
Away to his right came a rumble of thunder. Lightning arced across the stage. A small group of hairy men with helmets sat looking very pleased with themselves, and raised their glasses to him.
Has-beens, he thought to himself.
"Careful with that hammer, sir," he said.
They did their trick with the lightning again. Max gave them a very thin-lipped smile.
"And thirdly," he said, "thirdly a party of Young Conservatives from Sirius B, are they here?"
A party of smartly dressed young dogs stopped throwing rolls at each other and started throwing rolls at the stage. They yapped and barked unintelligibly.
"Yes," said Max, "well this is all your fault, you realize that?"
"And finally," said Max, quieting the audience down and putting on his solemn face, "finally I believe we have with us here tonight, a party of believers, very devout believers, from the Church of the Second Coming of the Great Prophet Zarquon."
There were about twenty of them, sitting right out on the edge of the floor, ascetically dressed, sipping mineral water nervously, and staying apart from the festivities. They blinked resentfully as the spotlight was turned on them.
"There they are," said Max, "sitting there, patiently. He said he'd come again, and he's kept you waiting a long time, so let's hope he's hurrying fellas, because he's only got eight minutes left!"
The party of Zarquon's followers sat rigid, refusing to be buffeted by the waves of uncharitable laughter which swept over them.
Max restrained his audience.
"No, but seriously though, folks, seriously though, no offence meant. No, I know we shouldn't make fun of deeply held beliefs, so I think a big hand please for the Great Prophet Zarquon..."
The audience clapped respectfully.
"... wherever he's got to!"
He blew a kiss to the stony-faced party and returned to the centre of the stage.
He grabbed a tall stool and sat on it.
"It's marvellous though," he rattled on, "to see so many of you here tonight--no, isn't it though? Yes, absolutely marvellous. Because I know that so many of you come here time and time again, which I think is really wonderful, to come and watch this final end of everything, and then return home to your own eras... and raise families, strive for new and better societies, fight terrible wars for what you know to be right... it really gives one hope for the future of all lifekind. Except of course"--he waved at the blitzing turmoil above and around them--"that we know it hasn't got one..."
Arthur turned to Ford--he hadn't quite got this place worked out in his mind.
"Look, surely," he said, "if the Universe is about to end... don't we go with it?"
Ford gave him a three-Pan-Galactic-Gargle-Blaster look, in other words a rather unsteady one.
"No," he said, "look," he said, "as soon as you come into this dive you get held in this sort of amazing force-shielded temporal warp thing. I think."
"Oh," said Arthur. He turned his attention back to a bowl of soup he'd managed to get from the waiter to replace his steak.
"Look," said Ford, "I'll show you."
He grabbed at a napkin off the table and fumbled hopelessly with it.
"Look," he said again, "imagine this napkin, right, as the temporal Universe, right? And this spoon as a transductional mode in the matter curve..."
It took him a while to say this last part, and Arthur hated to interrupt him.
"That's the spoon I was eating with," he said.
"Alright," said Ford, "imagine this spoon..." he found a small wooden spoon on a tray of relishes, "this spoon..." but found it rather tricky to pick up, "no, better still this fork..."
"Hey would you let go of my fork?" snapped Zaphod.
"Alright," said Ford, "alright, alright. Why don't we say... why don't we say that this wine glass is the temporal Universe..."
"What, the one you've just knocked on the floor?"
"Did I do that?"
"Yes."
"Alright," said Ford, "forget that. I mean... I mean, look, do you know--do you know how the Universe actually began for a kick off?"
"Probably not," said Arthur, who wished he'd never embarked on any of this.
"Alright," said Ford, "imagine this. Right. You get this bath. Right. A large round bath. And it's made of ebony."
"Where from?" said Arthur, "Harrods was destroyed by the Vogons."
"Doesn't matter."
"So you keep saying."
"Listen."
"Alright."
"You get this bath, see? Imagine you've got this bath. And it's ebony. And it's conical."
"Conical?" said Arthur, "What sort of..."
"Shhh!" said Ford. "It's conical. So what you do is, you see, you fill it with fine white sand, alright? Or sugar. Fine white sand, and/or sugar. Anything. Doesn't matter. Sugar's fine. And when it's full, you pull the plug out... are you listening?"
"I'm listening."
"You pull the plug out, and it all just twirls away, twirls away you see, out of the plughole."
"I see."
"You don't see. You don't see at all. I haven't got to the clever bit yet. You want to hear the clever bit?"
"Tell me the clever bit."
"I'll tell you the clever bit."
Ford thought for a moment, trying to remember what the clever bit was.
"The clever bit," he said, "is this. You film it happening."
"Clever."
"That's not the clever bit. This is the clever bit, I remember now that this is the clever bit. The clever bit is that you then thread the film in the projector... backwards!"
"Backwards?"
"Yes. Threading it backwards is definitely the clever bit. So then, you just sit and watch it, and everything just appears to spiral upwards out of the plughole and fill the bath. See?"
"And that's how the Universe began is it?" said Arthur.
"No," said Ford, "but it's a marvellous way to relax."
He reached for his wine glass.
"Where's my wine glass?" he said.
"It's on the floor."
"Ah."
Tipping back his chair to look for it, Ford collided with the small green waiter who was approaching the table carrying a portable telephone.
Ford excused himself to the waiter explaining that it was because he was extremely drunk.
The waiter said that that was quite alright and that he perfectly understood.
Ford thanked the waiter for his kind indulgence, attempted to tug his forelock, missed by six inches and slid under the table.
"Mr. Zaphod Beeblebrox?" inquired the waiter.
"Er, yeah?" said Zaphod, glancing up from his third steak.
"There is a phone call for you."
"Hey, what?"
"A phone call, sir."
"For me? Here? Hey, but who knows where I am?"
One of his minds raced. The other dawdled lovingly over the food it was still shovelling in.
"Excuse me if I carry on, won't you?" said his eating head and carried on.
There were now so many people after him he'd lost count. He shouldn't have made such a conspicuous entrance. Hell, why not though, he thought. How do you know you're having fun if there's no one watching you have it?
"May
be someone here tipped off the Galactic Police," said Trillian. "Everyone saw you come in."
"You mean they want to arrest me over the phone?" said Zaphod, "Could be. I'm a pretty dangerous dude when I'm concerned."
"Yeah," said a voice from under the table, "you go to pieces so fast people get hit by the shrapnel."
"Hey, what is this, Judgment Day?" snapped Zaphod.
"Do we get to see that as well?" asked Arthur nervously.
"I'm in no hurry," muttered Zaphod, "OK, so who's the cat on the phone?" He kicked Ford. "Hey get up there, kid," he said to him, "I may need you."
"I am not," said the waiter, "personally acquainted with the metal gentlemen in question, sir..."
"Metal?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you say metal?"
"Yes, sir. I said that I am not personally acquainted with the metal gentleman in question..."
"OK, carry on."
"But I am informed that he has been awaiting your return for a considerable number of millennia. It seems you left here somewhat precipitately."
"Left here?" said Zaphod, "are you being strange? We only just arrived here."
"Indeed, sir," persisted the waiter doggedly, "but before you arrived here, sir, I understand that you left here."
Zaphod tried this in one brain, then in the other.
"You're saying," he said, "that before we arrived here, we left here?"
This is going to be a long night, thought the waiter.
"Precisely, sir," he said.
"Put your analyst on danger money, baby," advised Zaphod.
"No, wait a minute," said Ford, emerging above table level again, "where exactly is here?"
"To be absolutely exact sir, it is Frogstar World B."
"But we just left there," protested Zaphod, "we left there and came to the Restaurant at the End of the Universe."
"Yes, sir," said the waiter, feeling that he was now into the home stretch and running well, "the one was constructed on the ruins of the other."
"Oh," said Arthur brightly, "you mean we've travelled in time but not in space."
"Listen you semi-evolved simian," cut in Zaphod, "go climb a tree will you?"
Arthur bristled.
"Go bang your heads together four-eyes," he advised Zaphod.
"No, no," the waiter said to Zaphod, "your monkey has got it right, sir."
Arthur stuttered in fury and said nothing apposite, or indeed coherent.
"You jumped forward... I believe five hundred and seventy-six thousand million years whilst staying in exactly the same place," explained the waiter. He smiled. He had a wonderful feeling that he had finally won through against what had seemed to be insuperable odds.
The Restaurant at the End of the Universe Page 9
