The Restaurant at the End of the Universe

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.”

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.