Volume 2 - The Restaurant At The End Of The Universe

by Douglas Adams

  The moment of uncertainty passed—his eyes flicked like whips over his audience.

  “And,” he roared, “we interrogated a gazelle!”

  He flipped his Kill-O-Zap smartly under his arm and marched off through the pandemonium that had now erupted throughout the ecstatic crowd. A few steps was all he managed before he was caught up and carried shoulder high for a lap of honor around the clearing.

  Ford sat and idly tapped a couple of stones together.

  “So what else have you done?” he inquired after the celebrations had died down.

  “We have started a culture,” said the marketing girl.

  “Oh yes?” said Ford.

  “Yes. One of our film producers is already making a fascinating documentary about the indigenous cavemen of the area.”

  “They’re not cavemen.”

  “They look like cavemen.”

  “Do they live in caves?”

  “Well …”

  “They live in huts.”

  “Perhaps they’re having their caves redecorated,” called out a wag from the crowd.

  Ford rounded on him angrily.

  “Very funny,” he said, “but have you noticed that they’re dying out?”

  On their journey back, Ford and Arthur had come across two derelict villages and the bodies of many natives in the woods, where they had crept away to die. Those that still lived seemed stricken and listless, as if they were suffering from some disease of the spirit rather than the body. They moved sluggishly and with an infinite sadness. Their future had been taken away from them.

  “Dying out!” repeated Ford. “Do you know what that means?”

  “Er … we shouldn’t sell them any life insurance?” called out the wag again.

  Ford ignored him, and appealed to the whole crowd.

  “Can you try and understand,” he said, “that it’s just since we’ve arrived here that they’ve started dying out!”

  “In fact that comes over terribly well in this film,” said the marketing girl, “and just gives it that poignant twist which is the hallmark of the really great documentary. The producer’s very committed.”

  “He should be,” muttered Ford.

  “I gather,” said the girl, turning to address the Captain who was beginning to nod off, “that he wants to make one about you next, Captain.”

  “Oh really?” he said, coming to with a start. “That’s awfully nice.”

  “He’s got a very strong angle on it, you know, the burden of responsibility, the loneliness of command.…”

  The Captain hummed and hahed about this for a moment.

  “Well, I wouldn’t overstress that angle, you know,” he said finally. “One’s never alone with a rubber duck.”

  He held the duck aloft and it got an appreciative round from the crowd.

  All this while, the management consultant had been sitting in stony silence, his fingertips pressed to his temples to indicate that he was waiting and would wait all day if it was necessary.

  At this point he decided he would not wait all day after all, he would merely pretend that the last half hour hadn’t happened.

  He rose to his feet.

  “If,” he said tersely, “we could for a moment move on to the subject of fiscal policy …”

  “Fiscal policy!” whooped Ford Prefect. “Fiscal policy!”

  The management consultant gave him a look that only a lungfish could have copied.

  “Fiscal policy …” he repeated, “that is what I said.”

  “How can you have money,” demanded Ford, “if none of you actually produces anything? It doesn’t grow on trees you know.”

  “If you would allow me to continue …” Ford nodded dejectedly.

  “Thank you. Since we decided a few weeks ago to adopt the leaf as legal tender, we have, of course, all become immensely rich.”

  Ford stared in disbelief at the crowd who were murmuring appreciatively at this and greedily fingering the wads of leaves with which their track suits were stuffed.

  “But we have also,” continued the management consultant, “run into a small inflation problem on account of the high level of leaf availability, which means that, I gather, the current going rate has something like three deciduous forests buying one ship’s peanut.”

  Murmurs of alarm came from the crowd. The management consultant waved them down.

  “So in order to obviate this problem,” he continued, “and effectively revalue the leaf, we are about to embark on a massive defoliation campaign, and … er, burn down all the forests. I think you’ll all agree that’s a sensible move under the circumstances.”

  The crowd seemed a little uncertain about this for a second or two until someone pointed out how much this would increase the value of the leaves in their pockets whereupon they let out whoops of delight and gave the management consultant a standing ovation. The accountants among them looked forward to a profitable autumn.

  “You’re all mad,” explained Ford Prefect.

  “You’re absolutely barmy,” he suggested.

  “You’re a bunch of raving nutters,” he opined.

  The tide of opinion was beginning to turn against him. What had started out as excellent entertainment had now, in the crowd’s view, deteriorated into mere abuse, and since this abuse was in the main directed at them they wearied of it.

  Sensing this shift in the wind, the marketing girl turned on him.

  “Is it perhaps in order,” she demanded, “to inquire what you’ve been doing all these months then? You and that other interloper have been missing since the day we arrived.”

  “We’ve been on a journey,” said Ford. “We went to try and find out something about this planet.”

  “Oh,” said the girl archly, “doesn’t sound very productive to me.”

  “No? Well, have I got news for you, my love. We have discovered this planet’s future.”

  Ford waited for this statement to have its effect. It didn’t have any. They didn’t know what he was talking about.

  He continued.

  “It doesn’t matter a pair of fetid dingo’s kidneys what you all choose to do from now on. Burn down the forests, anything, it won’t make a scrap of difference. Your future history has already happened. Two million years you’ve got and that’s it. At the end of that time your race will be dead, gone and good riddance to you. Remember that, two million years!”

  The crowd muttered to itself in annoyance. People as rich as they had suddenly become shouldn’t be obliged to listen to this sort of gibberish. Perhaps they could tip the fellow a leaf or two and he would go away.

  They didn’t need to bother. Ford was already stalking out of the clearing, pausing only to shake his head at Number Two who was already firing his Kill-O-Zap into some neighboring trees.

  He turned back once.

  “Two million years!” he said and laughed.

  “Well,” said the Captain with a soothing smile, “still time for a few more baths. Could someone pass me the sponge? I just dropped it over the side.”

  33

  A mile or so away through the wood, Arthur Dent was too busily engrossed with what he was doing to hear Ford Prefect approach.

  What he was doing was rather curious, and this is what it was: on a wide flat piece of rock he had scratched out the shape of a large square, subdivided into one hundred and sixty-nine smaller squares, thirteen to a side.

  Furthermore he had collected together a pile of smallish flattish stones and scratched the shape of a letter on to each. Sitting morosely around the rock were a couple of the surviving local native men to whom Arthur Dent was trying to introduce the curious concept embodied in these stones.

  So far they had not done well. They had attempted to eat some of them, bury others and throw the rest of them away. Arthur had finally encouraged one of them to lay a couple of stones on the board he had scratched out, which was not even as far as he’d managed to get the day before. Along with the rapid deterioration in the mora
le of these creatures, there seemed to be a corresponding deterioration in their actual intelligence.

  In an attempt to egg them along, Arthur set out a number of letters on the board himself, and then tried to encourage the natives to add some more themselves.

  It was not going well.

  Ford watched quietly from beside a nearby tree.

  “No,” said Arthur to one of the natives who had just shuffled some of the letters round in a fit of abysmal dejection, “Q scores ten you see, and it’s on a triple word score, so … look, I’ve explained the rules to you … no, no, look please, put down that jawbone … All right, we’ll start again. And try to concentrate this time.”

  Ford leaned his elbow against the tree and his hand against his head.

  “What are you doing, Arthur?” he asked quietly.

  Arthur looked up with a start. He suddenly had a feeling that all this might look slightly foolish. All he knew was that it had worked like a dream on him when he was a child. But things were different then, or rather would be.

  “I’m trying to teach the cavemen to play Scrabble,” he said.

  “They’re not cavemen,” said Ford.

  “They look like cavemen.”

  Ford let it pass.

  “I see,” he said.

  “It’s uphill work,” said Arthur wearily. “The only word they know is grunt and they can’t spell it.”

  He sighed and sat back.

  “What’s that supposed to achieve?” asked Ford.

  “We’ve got to encourage them to evolve! To develop!” Arthur burst out angrily. He hoped that the weary sigh and then the anger might do something to counteract the overriding feeling of foolishness from which he was currently suffering. It didn’t. He jumped to his feet.

  “Can you imagine what a world would be like descended from those … cretins we arrived with?” he said.

  “Imagine?” said Ford, raising his eyebrows. “We don’t have to imagine. We’ve seen it.”

  “But …” Arthur waved his arms about hopelessly.

  “We’ve seen it,” said Ford, “there’s no escape.”

  Arthur kicked at a stone.

  “Did you tell them what we’d discovered?” he asked.

  “Hmmmm?” said Ford, not really concentrating.

  “Norway,” said Arthur. “Slartibartfast’s signature in the glacier. Did you tell them?”

  “What’s the point?” said Ford. “What would it mean to them?”

  “Mean?” said Arthur. “Mean? You know perfectly well what it means. It means that this planet is the Earth! It’s my home! It’s where I was born!”

  “Was?” said Ford.

  “All right, will be.”

  “Yes, in two million years’ time. Why don’t you tell them that? Go and say to them, ’excuse me, I’d just like to point out that in two million years’ time I will be born just a few miles from here.’ See what they say. They’ll chase you up a tree and set fire to it.”

  Arthur absorbed this unhappily.

  “Face it,” said Ford, “those zeebs over there are your ancestors, not these poor creatures here.”

  He went over to where the apemen creatures were rummaging listlessly with the stone letters. He shook his head.

  “Put the Scrabble away, Arthur,” he said, “it won’t save the human race, because this lot aren’t going to be the human race. The human race is currently sitting around a rock on the other side of this hill making documentaries about themselves.”

  Arthur winced.

  “There must be something we can do,” he said. A terrible sense of desolation thrilled through his body that he should be here, on the Earth, the Earth which had lost its future in a horrifying arbitrary catastrophe and which now seemed set to lose its past as well.

  “No,” said Ford, “there’s nothing we can do. This doesn’t change the history of the Earth, you see, this is the history of the Earth. Like it or leave it, the Golgafrinchans are the people you are descended from. In two million years they get destroyed by the Vogons. History is never altered you see, it just fits together like a jigsaw. Funny old thing, life, isn’t it?”

  He picked up the letter Q and hurled it into a distant privet bush where it hit a young rabbit. The rabbit hurtled off in terror and didn’t stop till it was set upon and eaten by a fox which choked on one of its bones and died on the bank of a stream which subsequently washed it away.

  During the following weeks Ford Prefect swallowed his pride and struck up a relationship with a girl who had been a personnel officer on Golgafrincham, and he was terribly upset when she suddenly passed away as a result of drinking water from a pool that had been polluted by the body of a dead fox. The only moral it is possible to draw from this story is that one should never throw the letter Q into a privet bush, but unfortunately there are times when it is unavoidable.

  Like most of the really crucial things in life, this chain of events was completely invisible to Ford Prefect and Arthur Dent. They were looking sadly at one of the natives morosely pushing the other letters around.

  “Poor bloody caveman,” said Arthur.

  “They’re not …”

  “What?”

  “Oh, never mind,” said Ford.

  The wretched creature let out a pathetic howling noise and banged on the rock.

  “It’s all been a bit of a waste of time for them, hasn’t it?” said Arthur.

  “Uh uh urghhhhh,” muttered the native and banged on the rock again.

  “They’ve been outevolved by telephone sanitizers.”

  “Urgh, grr grr, gruh!” insisted the native, continuing to bang on the rock.

  “Why does he keep banging on the rock?” said Arthur.

  “I think he probably wants you to Scrabble with him again,” said Ford. “He’s pointing at the letters.”

  “Probably spelled crzjgrdwldiwdc again, poor bastard. I keep on telling him there’s only one g in crzjgrdwldiwdc.”

  The native banged on the rock again.

  They looked over his shoulder.

  Their eyes popped.

  There among the jumble of letters were eight that had been laid out in a clear straight line.

  They spelled two words.

  The words were these:

  “Forty-Two.”

  “Grrrurgh guh guh,” explained the native. He swept the letters angrily away and went and mooched under a nearby tree with his colleague.

  Ford and Arthur stared at him. Then they stared at each other.

  “Did that say what I thought it said?” they both said to each other.

  “Yes,” they both said.

  “Forty-two,” said Arthur.

  “Forty-two,” said Ford.

  Arthur ran over to the two natives.

  “What are you trying to tell us?” he shouted. “What’s it supposed to mean?”

  One of them rolled over on the ground, kicked his legs up in the air, rolled over again and went to sleep.

  The other bounded up the tree and threw horse chestnuts at Ford Prefect. Whatever it was they had to say, they had already said it.

  “You know what this means,” said Ford.

  “Not entirely.”

  “Forty-two is the number Deep Thought gave as being the Ultimate Answer.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the Earth is the computer Deep Thought designed and built to calculate the Question to the Ultimate Answer.”

  “So we are led to believe.”

  “And organic life was part of the computer matrix.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do say so. That means that these natives, these apemen are an integral part of the computer program, and that we and the Golgafrinchans are not.”

  “But the cavemen are dying out and the Golgafrinchans are obviously set to replace them.”

  “Exactly. So you do see what this means.”

  “What?”

  “Cock up,” said Ford Prefect.

  Arthur looked around him.
/>   “This planet is having a pretty bloody time of it,” he said.

  Ford puzzled for a moment.

  “Still, something must have come out of it,” he said at last, “because Marvin said he could see the Question printed in your brain wave patterns.”

  “But …”

  “Probably the wrong one, or a distortion of the right one. It might give us a clue though if we could find it. I don’t see how we can though.”

  They moped about for a bit. Arthur sat on the ground and started pulling up bits of grass, but found that it wasn’t an occupation he could get deeply engrossed in. It wasn’t grass he could believe in, the trees seemed pointless, the rolling hills seemed to be rolling to nowhere and the future seemed just a tunnel to be crawled through.

  Ford fiddled with his Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic. It was silent. He sighed and put it away.

  Arthur picked up one of the letter stones from his homemade Scrabble set. It was a T. He sighed and put it down again. The letter he put it down next to was an I. That spelled IT. He tossed another couple of letters next to them. They were an S and an H as it happened. By a curious coincidence the resulting word perfectly expressed the way Arthur was feeling about things just then. He stared at it for a moment. He hadn’t done it deliberately, it was just a random chance. His brain got slowly into first gear.

  “Ford,” he said suddenly, “look, if that Question is printed in my brain wave patterns but I’m not consciously aware of it it must be somewhere in my unconscious.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “There might be a way of bringing that unconscious pattern forward.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “Yes, by introducing some random element that can be shaped by that pattern.”

  “Like how?”

  “Like by pulling Scrabble letters out of a bag blindfolded.”

  Ford leaped to his feet.

  “Brilliant!” he said. He tugged his towel out of his satchel and with a few deft knots transformed it into a bag.

  “Totally mad,” he said, “utter nonsense. But we’ll do it because it’s brilliant nonsense. Come on, come on.”

  The sun passed respectfully behind a cloud. A few small sad raindrops fell.

  They piled together all the remaining letters and dropped them into the bag. They shook them up.