The Restaurant at the End of the Universe

They descended one of the tubes. As they approached the limoship a hatchway swung down from its side, engaged the wheels of the wheelchair and drew it inside. The bodyguard followed, and having seen his boss safely connected up to his death-support system, moved up to the small cockpit. Here he operated the remote control system which activated the autopilot in the black ship lying next to the limo, thus causing great relief to Zaphod Beeblebrox who had been trying to start the thing for over ten minutes.

The black ship glided smoothly forward out of its bay, turned, and moved down the central causeway swiftly and quietly. At the end it accelerated rapidly, flung itself into the temporal launch chamber and began the long journey back into the distant past.

The Milliways Lunch Menu quotes, by permission, a passage from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. The passage is this:

The History of every major Galactic Civilization tends to pass through three distinct and recognizable phases, those of Survival, Inquiry and Sophistication, otherwise known as the How, Why and Where phases.

For instance, the first phase is characterized by the question “How can we eat?", the second by the question “Why do we eat?” and the third by the question, “Where shall we have lunch?"

The Menu goes on to suggest that Milliways, the Restaurant at the End of the Universe, would be a very agreeable and sophisticated answer to that third question.

What it doesn’t go on to say is that though it will usually take a large civilization many thousands of years to pass through the How, Why and Where phases, small social groupings under stressful conditions can pass through them with extreme rapidity.

“How are we doing?” said Arthur Dent.

“Badly,” said Ford Prefect.

“Where are we going?” said Trillian.

“I don’t know,” said Zaphod Beeblebrox.

“Why not?” demanded Arthur Dent.

“Shut up,” suggested Zaphod Beeblebrox and Ford Prefect.

“Basically, what you’re trying to say,” said Arthur Dent, ignoring this suggestion, “is that we’re out of control.”

The ship was rocking and swaying sickeningly as Ford and Zaphod tried to wrest control from the autopilot. The engines howled and whined like tired children in a supermarket.

“It’s the wild colour scheme that freaks me,” said Zaphod whose love affair with this ship had lasted almost three minutes into the flight, “every time you try to operate one of these weird black controls that are labelled in black on a black background, a little black light lights up black to let you know you’ve done it. What is this? Some kind of galactic hyperhearse?”

The walls of the swaying cabin were also black, the ceiling was black, the seats-which were rudimentary since the only important trip this ship was designed for was supposed to be unmanned-were black, the control panel was black, the instruments were black, the little screws that held them in place were black, the thin tufted nylon floor covering was black, and when they had lifted up a corner of it they had discovered that the foam underlay also was black.

“Perhaps whoever designed it had eyes that responded to different wavelengths,” offered Trillian.

“Or didn’t have much imagination,” muttered Arthur.

“Perhaps,” said Marvin, “he was feeling very depressed.”

In fact, though they weren’t to know it, the decor had been chosen in honour of its owner’s sad, lamented, and tax-deductible condition.

The ship gave a particularly sickening lurch.

“Take it easy,” pleaded Arthur, “you’re making me space sick.”

“Time sick,” said Ford, “we’re plummeting backwards through time.”

“Thank you,” said Arthur, “now I think I really am going to be ill.”

“Go ahead,” said Zaphod, “we could do with a little colour about this place.”

“This is meant to be a polite after-dinner conversation is it?” snapped Arthur.

Zaphod left the controls for Ford to figure out, and lurched over to Arthur.

“Look, Earthman,” he said angrily, “you’ve got a job to do, right? The Question to the Ultimate Answer, right?”

“What, that thing?” said Arthur, “I thought we’d forgotten about that.”

“Not me, baby. Like the mice said, it’s worth a lot of money in the right quarters. And it’s all locked up in that head thing of yours.”

“Yes but…”

“But nothing! Think about it. The Meaning of Life! We get our fingers on that we can hold every shrink in the Galaxy up to ransom, and that’s worth a bundle. I owe mine a mint.”

Arthur took a deep breath without much enthusiasm.