He tried to toss the feedline aside, and to his surprise discovered that it was still connected to the ship.
To his utter astonishment he realized that the feedline was also humming slightly.
He stared at the ship in disbelief, and then back down at the feedline in his hands.
He tore off his jacket and threw it aside. Crawling along on his hands and knees he followed the feedline to the point where it connected with the ship. The connection was sound, and the slight humming vibration was more distinct.
His heart was beating fast. He wiped away some grime and laid an ear against the ship’s side. He could hear only a faint, indeterminate noise.
He rummaged feverishly among the debris lying on the floor all about him and found a short length of tubing and a nonbiodegradable plastic cup. Out of this he fashioned a crude stethoscope and placed it against the side of the ship.
What he heard made his brains turn somersaults.
The voice said:
“Transtellar Cruise Lines would like to apologize to passengers for the continuing delay to this flight. We are currently awaiting the loading of our complement of small lemon-soaked paper napkins for your comfort, refreshment and hygiene during the journey. Meanwhile we thank you for your patience. The cabin crew will shortly be serving coffee and biscuits again.”
Zaphod staggered backward, staring wildly at the ship.
He walked around for a few moments in a daze. In so doing he suddenly caught sight of a giant departure board still hanging, but by only one support, from the ceiling above him. It was covered with grime, but some of the figures were still discernible.
Zaphod’s eyes searched among the figures, then made some brief calculations. His eyes widened.
“Nine hundred years …” he breathed to himself. That was how late the ship was.
Two minutes later he was on board.
As he stepped out of the airlock, the air that greeted him was cool and fresh—the air conditioning was still working.
The lights were still on.
He moved out of the small entrance chamber into a short narrow corridor and stepped nervously down it.
Suddenly a door opened and a figure stepped out in front of him.
“Please return to your seat, sir,” said the android stewardess and, turning her back on him, she walked on down the corridor in front of him.
When his heart had started beating again he followed her. She opened the door at the end of the corridor and walked through.
He followed her through the door.
They were now in the passenger compartment and Zaphod’s heart stopped still again for a moment.
In every seat sat a passenger, strapped into his or her seat.
The passengers’ hair was long and unkempt, their fingernails were long, the men wore beards.
All of them were quite clearly alive—but sleeping.
Zaphod had the creeping horrors.
He walked slowly down the aisle as in a dream. By the time he was halfway down the aisle, the stewardess had reached the other end. She turned and spoke.
“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen,” she said sweetly. “Thank you for bearing with us during this slight delay. We will be taking off as soon as we possibly can. If you would like to wake up now I will serve you coffee and biscuits.”
There was a slight hum.
At that moment, all the passengers awoke.
They awoke screaming and clawing at the straps and life support systems that held them tightly in their seats. They screamed and bawled and hollered till Zaphod thought his ears would shatter.
They struggled and writhed as the stewardess patiently moved up the aisle placing a small cup of coffee and a packet of biscuits in front of each one of them.
Then one of them rose from his seat.
He turned and looked at Zaphod.
Zaphod’s skin was crawling all over his body as if it was trying to get off. He turned and ran from the bedlam.
He plunged through the door and back into the corridor.
The man pursued him.
He raced in a frenzy to the end of the corridor, through the entrance chamber and beyond. He arrived on the flight deck, slammed and bolted the door behind him. He leaned back against the door breathing hard.
Within seconds, a hand started beating on the door.
From somewhere on the flight deck a metallic voice addressed him.
“Passengers are not allowed on the flight deck. Please return to your seat, and wait for the ship to take off. Coffee and biscuits are being served. This is your autopilot speaking. Please return to your seat.”
Zaphod said nothing. He breathed hard; behind him the hand continued to knock on the door.
“Please return to your seat,” repeated the autopilot. “Passengers are not allowed on the flight deck.”
“I’m not a passenger,” panted Zaphod.
“Please return to your seat.”
“I am not a passenger!” shouted Zaphod again.
“Please return to your seat.”
“I am not a … hello, can you hear me?”
“Please return to your seat.”
“You’re the autopilot?” said Zaphod
“Yes,” said the voice from the flight console.
“You’re in charge of this ship?”
“Yes,” said the voice again, “there has been a delay. Passengers are to be kept temporarily in suspended animation, for their comfort and convenience. Coffee and biscuits are served every year, after which passengers are returned to suspended animation for their continued comfort and convenience. Departure will take place when the flight stores are complete. We apologize for the delay.”
Zaphod moved away from the door, on which the pounding now ceased. He approached the flight console.
“Delay?” he cried. “Have you seen the world outside this ship? It’s a wasteland, a desert. Civilization’s been and gone, man. There are no lemon-soaked paper napkins on the way from anywhere!”
“The statistical likelihood,” continued the autopilot primly, “is that other civilizations will arise. There will one day be lemon-soaked paper napkins. Till then there will be a short delay. Please return to your seat.”
“But …”
But at that moment the door opened. Zaphod spun around to see the man who had pursued him standing there. He carried a large briefcase. He was smartly dressed, and his hair was short. He had no beard and no long fingernails.
“Zaphod Beeblebrox,” he said, “my name is Zarniwoop. I believe you wanted to see me.”
Zaphod Beeblebrox withered. His mouths said foolish things. He dropped into a chair.
“Oh man, oh man, where did you spring from?” he said.
“I have been waiting here for you,” he said in a businesslike tone.
He put the briefcase down and sat in another chair.
“I am glad you followed instructions,” he said. “I was a bit nervous that you might have left my office by the door rather than the window. Then you would have been in trouble.”
Zaphod shook his heads at him and burbled.
“When you entered the door of my office, you entered my electronically synthesized Universe,” he explained. “If you had left by the door you would have been back in the real one. The artificial one works from here.”
He patted his briefcase smugly.
Zaphod glared at him with resentment and loathing.
“What’s the difference?” he muttered.
“Nothing,” said Zarniwoop, “they are identical. Oh—except that I think the Frogstar Fighters are gray in the real Universe.”
“What’s going on?” spat Zaphod.
“Simple,” said Zarniwoop. His self-assurance and smugness made Zaphod seethe.
“Very simple,” repeated Zarniwoop. “I discovered the coordinates at which this man could be found—the man who rules the Universe, and discovered that his world was protected by an Unprobability Field. To protect my secret—and myself�
�I retreated to the safety of this totally artificial Universe and hid myself away in a forgotten cruise liner. I was secure. Meanwhile, you and I …”
“You and I?” said Zaphod angrily. “You mean I knew you?”
“Yes,” said Zarniwoop, “we knew each other well.”
“I had no taste,” said Zaphod and resumed a sullen silence.
“Meanwhile, you and I arranged that you would steal the Improbability Drive ship—the only one which could reach the ruler’s world—and bring it to me here. This you have now done I trust, and I congratulate you.” He smiled a tight little smile which Zaphod wanted to hit with a brick.
“Oh, and in case you were wondering,” added Zarniwoop, “this Universe was created specifically for you to come to. You are therefore the most important person in this Universe. You would never,” he said with an even more brickable smile, “have survived the Total Perspective Vortex in the real one. Shall we go?”
“Where?” said Zaphod sullenly. He felt collapsed.
“To your ship. The Heart of Gold. You did bring it, I trust?”
“No.”
“Where is your jacket?”
Zaphod looked at him in mystification.
“My jacket? I took it off. It’s outside.”
“Good, we will go and find it.”
Zarniwoop stood up and gestured to Zaphod to follow him.
Out in the entrance chamber again, they could hear the screams of the passengers being fed coffee and biscuits.
“It has not been a pleasant experience waiting for you,” said Zarniwoop.
“Not pleasant for you!” bawled Zaphod. “How do you think …?”
Zarniwoop held up a silencing finger as the hatchway swung open. A few feet away from them they could see Zaphod’s jacket lying in the debris.
“A very remarkable and very powerful ship,” said Zarniwoop. “Watch.”
As they watched, the pocket on the jacket suddenly bulged. It split, it ripped. The small metal model of the Heart of Gold that Zaphod had been bewildered to discover in his pocket was growing.
It grew, it continued to grow. It reached, after two minutes, its full size.
“At an Improbability Level,” said Zarniwoop, “of …oh I don’t know, but something very large.”
Zaphod swayed.
“You mean I had it with me all the time?”
Zarniwoop smiled. He lifted up his briefcase and opened it.
He twisted a single switch inside it.
“Goodbye artificial Universe,” he said; “hello real one!”
The scene before them shimmered briefly—and reappeared exactly as before.
“You see?” said Zarniwoop. “Exactly the same.”
“You mean,” repeated Zaphod tautly, “that I had it with me all the time?”
“Oh yes,” said Zarniwoop, “of course. That was the whole point.”
“That’s it,” said Zaphod. “You can count me out, from here on in you can count me out. I’ve had all I want of this. You play your own games.”
“I’m afraid you cannot leave,” said Zarniwoop, “you are entwined in the Improbability Field. You cannot escape.”
He smiled the smile that Zaphod had wanted to hit and this time Zaphod hit it.
Chapter 13
Ford Prefect bounded up to the bridge of the Heart of Gold.
“Trillian! Arthur!” he shouted. “It’s working! The ship’s reactivated!”
Trillian and Arthur were asleep on the floor.
“Come on, you guys, we’re going, we’re off,” he said kicking them awake.
“Hi there, guys!” twittered the computer. “It’s really great to be back with you again, I can tell you, and I just want to say that …”
“Shut up,” said Ford. “Tell us where the hell we are.”
“Frogstar World B, and man it’s a dump,” said Zaphod running onto the bridge. “Hi, guys, you must be so amazingly glad to see me you can’t even find words to tell me what a cool frood I am.”
“What a what?” said Arthur blearily, picking himself up from the floor and not taking any of this in.
“I know how you feel,” said Zaphod. “I’m so great even I get tongue-tied talking to myself. Hey it’s good to see you Trillian, Ford, Monkeyman. Hey, er, computer …”
“Hi there, Mr. Beeblebrox, sir, sure is a great honor to …”
“Shut up and get us out of here, fast fast fast.”
“Sure thing, fella, where do you want to go?”
“Anywhere, doesn’t matter,” shouted Zaphod. “Yes it does!” he said again. “We want to go to the nearest place to eat!”
“Sure thing,” said the computer happily and a massive explosion rocked the bridge.
When Zarniwoop entered a minute or so later with a black eye, he regarded the four wisps of smoke with interest.
Chapter 14
Four inert bodies sank through spinning blackness. Consciousness had died, cold oblivion pulled the bodies down and down into the pit of unbeing. The roar of silence echoed dismally around them and they sank at last into a dark and bitter sea of heaving red that slowly engulfed them, seemingly forever.
After what seemed an eternity the sea receded and left them lying on a cold hard shore, the flotsam and jetsam of the stream of Life, the Universe and Everything.
Cold spasms shook them, lights danced sickeningly around them. The cold hard shore tipped and spun and then stood still. It shone darkly—it was a very highly polished cold hard shore.
A green blur watched them disapprovingly.
It coughed.
“Good evening, madam, gentlemen,” it said. “Do you have a reservation?”
Ford Prefect’s consciousness snapped back like elastic, making his brain smart. He looked up woozily at the green blur.
“Reservation?” he said weakly.
“Yes, sir,” said the green blur.
“Do you need a reservation for the afterlife?”
In so far as it is possible for a green blur to arch its eyebrows disdainfully, this is what the green blur now did.
“Afterlife, sir?” it said.
Arthur Dent was grappling with his consciousness the way one grapples with a lost bar of soap in the bath.
“Is this the afterlife?” he stammered.
“Well, I assume so,” said Ford Prefect trying to work out which way was up. He tested the theory that it must lie in the opposite direction from the cold hard shore on which he was lying, and staggered to what he hoped were his feet.
“I mean,” he said, swaying gently, “there’s no way we could have survived that blast is there?”
“No,” muttered Arthur. He had raised himself on to his elbows but it didn’t seem to improve things. He slumped down again.
“No,” said Trillian, standing up, “no way at all.”
A dull hoarse gurgling sound came from the floor. It was Zaphod Beeblebrox attempting to speak.
“I certainly didn’t survive,” he gurgled. “I was a total goner. Wham bang and that was it.”
“Yeah, thanks to you,” said Ford, “we didn’t stand a chance. We must have been blown to bits. Arms, legs everywhere.”
“Yeah,” said Zaphod struggling noisily to his feet.
“If the lady and gentlemen would care to order drinks …” said the green blur, hovering impatiently beside them.
“Kerpow, splat,” continued Zaphod, “instantaneously zonked into our component molecules. Hey, Ford,” he said, identifying one of the slowly solidifying blurs around him, “did you get that thing of your whole life flashing before you?”
“You got that too?” said Ford. “Your whole life?”
“Yeah,” said Zaphod, “at least I assume it was mine. I spend a lot of time out of my skulls you know.”
He looked around him at the various shapes that were at last becoming proper shapes instead of vague and wobbling shapeless shapes.
“So …” he said.
“So what?” said Ford.
“S
o here we are,” said Zaphod hesitantly, “lying dead …”
“Standing,” Trillian corrected him.
“Er, standing dead,” continued Zaphod, “in this desolate …”
“Restaurant,” said Arthur Dent who had got to his feet and could now, much to his surprise, see clearly. That is to say, the thing that surprised him was not that he could see, but what he could see.
“Here we are,” continued Zaphod doggedly, “standing dead in this desolate …”
“Five star,” said Trillian.
“Restaurant,” concluded Zaphod.
“Odd, isn’t it?” said Ford.
“Er, yeah.”
“Nice chandeliers though,” said Trillian.
They looked about themselves in bemusement.
“It’s not so much an afterlife,” said Arthur, “more a sort of après vie.”
The chandeliers were in fact a little on the flashy side and the low vaulted ceiling from which they hung would not, in an ideal Universe, have been painted in that particular shade of deep turquoise, and even if it had been it wouldn’t have been highlighted by concealed moodlighting. This is not, however, an ideal Universe, as was further evidenced by the eye-crossing patterns of the inlaid marble floor, and the way in which the fronting for the eighty-yard-long marble-topped bar had been made. The fronting for the eighty-yard-long marble-topped bar had been made by stitching together nearly twenty thousand Antarean Mosaic Lizard skins, despite the fact that the twenty thousand lizards concerned had needed them to keep their insides in.
A few smartly dressed creatures were lounging casually at the bar or relaxing in the richly colored body-hugging seats that were deployed here and there about the bar area. A young Vl’Hurg officer and his green steaming young lady passed through the large smoked glass doors at the far end of the bar into the dazzling light of the main body of the Restaurant beyond.
Behind Arthur was a large curtained bay window. He pulled aside the corner of the curtain and looked out at a bleak and dreary landscape, gray, pockmarked and dismal, a landscape which under normal circumstances would have given Arthur the creeping horrors. These were not, however, normal circumstances, for the thing that froze his blood and made his skin try to crawl up his back and off the top of his head was the sky. The sky was …
The Ultimate Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Page 24
