The Restaurant at the End of the Universe

The angry hitch-hiker continued to glare at his monstrously expensive fruit juice.

“Worst thing that ever happened to the Guide, moving to Ursa Minor Beta,” he grumbled, “they’ve all gone soft. You know, I’ve even heard that they’ve created a whole electronically synthesized Universe in one of their offices so they can go and research stories during the day and still go to parties in the evening. Not that day and evening mean much in this place.”

Ursa Minor Beta, thought Zaphod. At least he knew where he was now. He assumed that this must be his great grandfather’s doing, but why?

Much to his annoyance, a thought popped into his mind. It was very clear and very distinct, and he had now come to recognize these thoughts for what they were. His instinct was to resist them. They were the pre-ordained promptings from the dark and locked off parts of his mind.

He sat still and ignored the thought furiously. It nagged at him. He ignored it. It nagged at him. He ignored it. It nagged at him. He gave in to it.

What the hell, he thought, go with the flow. He was too tired, confused and hungry to resist. He didn’t even know what the thought meant.

Chapter 6

“Hello? Yes? Megadodo Publications, home of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, the most totally remarkable book in the whole of the known Universe, can I help you?” said the large pink-winged insect into one of the seventy phones lined up along the vast chrome expanse of the reception desk in the foyer of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy offices. It fluttered its wings and rolled its eyes. It glared at all the grubby people cluttering up the foyer, soiling the carpets and leaving dirty handmarks on the upholstery. It adored working for The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, it just wished there was some way of keeping all the hitch-hikers away. Weren’t they meant to be hanging round dirty spaceports or something? It was certain that it had read something somewhere in the book about the importance of hanging round dirty spaceports. Unfortunately most of them seemed to come and hang around in this nice clean shiny foyer after hanging around in extremely dirty spaceports. And all they ever did was complain. It shivered its wings.

“What?” it said into the phone. “Yes, I passed on your message to Mr. Zarniwoop, but I’m afraid he’s too cool to see you right now. He’s on an intergalactic cruise.”

It waved a petulant tentacle at one of the grubby people who was angrily trying to engage its attention. The petulant tentacle directed the angry person to look at the notice on the wall to its left and not to interrupt an important phone call.

“Yes,” said the insect, “he is in his office, but he’s on an intergalactic cruise. Thank you so much for calling.” It slammed down the phone.

“Read the notice,” it said to the angry man who was trying to complain about one of the more ludicrous and dangerous pieces of misinformation contained in the book.

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy is an indispensable companion to all those who are keen to make sense of life in an infinitely complex and confusing Universe, for though it cannot hope to be useful or informative on all matters, it does at least make the reassuring claim, that where it is inaccurate it is at least definitely inaccurate. In cases of major discrepancy it’s always reality that’s got it wrong.

This was the gist of the notice. It said “The Guide is definitive. Reality is frequently inaccurate.”

This has led to some interesting consequences. For instance, when the Editors of the Guide were sued by the families of those who had died as a result of taking the entry on the planet Traal literally (it said “Ravenous Bugblatter beasts often make a very good meal for visiting tourists” instead of “Ravenous Bugblatter beasts often make a very good meal of visiting tourists") they claimed that the first version of the sentence was the more aesthetically pleasing, summoned a qualified poet to testify under oath that beauty was truth, truth beauty and hoped thereby to prove that the guilty party was Life itself for failing to be either beautiful or true. The judges concurred, and in a moving speech held that Life itself was in contempt of court, and duly confiscated it from all those there present before going off to enjoy a pleasant evening’s ultragolf.

Zaphod Beeblebrox entered the foyer. He strode up to the insect receptionist.

“OK,” he said, “Where’s Zarniwoop? Get me Zarniwoop.”

“Excuse me, sir?” said the insect icily. It did not care to be addressed in this manner.

“Zarniwoop. Get him, right? Get him now.”

“Well, sir,” snapped the fragile little creature, “if you could be a little cool about it…”