The Restaurant at the End of the Universe

A large meaty hand landed on his shoulder from behind and pushed him aside. He slid gracelessly off his seat and peered upwards to see if he could spot the owner of this discourteous hand. The owner was not hard to spot, on account of his being something of the order of seven feet tall and not slightly built with it. In fact he was built the way one builds leather sofas, shiny, lumpy and with lots of solid stuffing. The suit into which the man’s body had been stuffed looked as if it’s only purpose in life was to demonstrate how difficult it was to get this sort of body into a suit. The face had the texture of an orange and the colour of an apple, but there the resemblance to anything sweet ended.

“Kid…” said a voice which emerged from the man’s mouth as if it had been having a really rough time down in his chest.

“Er, yeah?” said Ford conversationally. He staggered back to his feet again and was disappointed that the top of his head didn’t come further up the man’s body.

“Beat it,” said the man.

“Oh yeah?” said Ford, wondering how wise he was being, “and who are you?”

The man considered this for a moment. He wasn’t used to being asked this sort of question. Nevertheless, after a while he came up with an answer.

“I’m the guy who’s telling you to beat it,” he said, “before you get it beaten for you.”

“Now listen,” said Ford nervously-he wished his head would stop spinning, settle down and get to grips with the situation-"Now listen,” he continued, “I am one of Hotblack’s oldest friends and…”

He glanced at Hotblack Desiato, who still hadn’t moved so much as an eyelash.

“… and…” said Ford again, wondering what would be a good word to say after “and".

The large man came up with a whole sentence to go after “and". He said it.

“And I am Mr. Desiato’s bodyguard,” it went, “and I am responsible for his body, and I am not responsible for yours, so take it away before it gets damaged.”

“Now wait a minute,” said Ford.

“No minutes!” boomed the bodyguard, “no waiting! Mr. Desiato speaks to no one!”

“Well perhaps you’d let him say what he thinks about the matter himself,” said Ford.

“He speaks to no one!” bellowed the bodyguard.

Ford glanced anxiously at Hotblack again and was forced to admit to himself that the bodyguard seemed to have the facts on his side. There was still not the slightest sign of movement, let alone keen interest in Ford’s welfare.

“Why?” said Ford, “What’s the matter with him?”

The bodyguard told him.

Chapter 17

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy notes that Disaster Area, a plutonium rock band from the Gagrakacka Mind Zones, are generally held to be not only the loudest rock band in the Galaxy, but in fact the loudest noise of any kind at all. Regular concert goers judge that the best sound balance is usually to be heard from within large concrete bunkers some thirty-seven miles from the stage, whilst the musicians themselves play their instruments by remote control from within a heavily insulated spaceship which stays in orbit around the planet-or more frequently around a completely different planet.

Their songs are on the whole very simple and mostly follow the familiar theme of boy-being meets girl-being beneath a silvery moon, which then explodes for no adequately explored reason.

Many worlds have now banned their act altogether, sometimes for artistic reasons, but most commonly because the band’s public address system contravenes local strategic arms limitations treaties.

This has not, however, stopped their earnings from pushing back the boundaries of pure hypermathematics, and their chief research accountant has recently been appointed Professor of Neomathematics at the University of Maximegalon, in recognition of both his General and his Special Theories of Disaster Area Tax Returns, in which he proves that the whole fabric of the space-time continuum is not merely curved, it is in fact totally bent.

Ford staggered back to the table where Zaphod, Arthur and Trillian were sitting waiting for the fun to begin.

“Gotta have some food,” said Ford.

“Hi, Ford,” said Zaphod, “you speak to the big noise boy?”

Ford waggled his head noncommittally.

“Hotblack? I sort of spoke to him, yeah.”

“What’d he say?”

“Well, not a lot really. He’s… er…”

“Yeah?”

“He’s spending a year dead for tax reasons. I’ve got to sit down.”

He sat down.

The waiter approached.

“Would you like to see the menu?” he said, “or would you like to meet the Dish of the Day?”

“Huh?” said Ford.

“Huh?” said Arthur.

“Huh?” said Trillian.

“That’s cool,” said Zaphod, “we’ll meet the meat.”

In a small room in one of the arms of the Restaurant complex a tall, thin, gangling figure pulled aside a curtain and oblivion looked him in the face.