Текст книги "The Ultimate Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy"

Автор книги: Douglas Noel Adams

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Chapter 18

The main reception foyer was almost empty but Ford nevertheless weaved his way through it.

Zaphod grasped him firmly by the arm and maneuvered him into a cubicle standing to one side of the entrance hall.

“What are you doing to him?” asked Arthur.

“Sobering him up,” said Zaphod and pushed a coin into a slot. Lights flashed, gases swirled.

“Hi,” said Ford stepping out a moment later, “where are we going?”

“Down to the parking lot, come on.”

“What about the personnel Time Teleports?” said Ford. “Get us straight back to the Heart of Gold.”

“Yeah, but I’ve cooled on that ship. Zarniwoop can have it. I don’t want to play his games. Let’s see what we can find.”

A Sirius Cybernetics Corporation Happy Vertical People Transporter took them down deep into the substrata beneath the Restaurant. They were glad to see it had been vandalized and didn’t try to make them happy as well as take them down.

At the bottom of the shaft the elevator doors opened and a blast of cold stale air hit them.

The first thing they saw on leaving the elevator was a long concrete wall with over fifty doors in it offering lavatory facilities for all of fifty major life forms. Nevertheless, like every parking lot in the Galaxy throughout the entire history of parking lots, this parking lot smelled predominantly of impatience.

They turned a corner and found themselves on a moving catwalk that traversed a vast cavernous space that stretched off into the dim distance.

It was divided off into bays each of which contained a spaceship belonging to one of the diners upstairs, some smallish and utilitarian mass production models, others vast shining limoships, the playthings of the very rich.

Zaphod’s eyes sparkled with something that may or may not have been avarice as he passed over them. In fact it’s best to be clear on this point – avarice is definitely what it was.

“There he is,” said Trillian. “Marvin, down there.”

They looked where she was pointing. Dimly they could see a small metal figure listlessly rubbing a small rag on one remote corner of a giant silver suncruiser.

At short intervals along the moving catwalk, wide transparent tubes led down to floor level. Zaphod stepped off the catwalk into one of these and floated gently downward. The others followed. Thinking back to this later, Arthur Dent thought it was the single most enjoyable experience of his travels in the Galaxy.

“Hey, Marvin,” said Zaphod, striding over toward to him. “Hey, kid, are we pleased to see you.”

Marvin turned, and insofar as it is possible for a totally inert metal face to look reproachful, this is what it did.

“No you’re not,” he said, “no one ever is.”

“Suit yourself,” said Zaphod and turned away to ogle the ships. Ford went with him.

Only Trillian and Arthur actually went up to Marvin.

“No, really we are,” said Trillian and patted him in a way that he disliked intensely, “hanging around waiting for us all this time.”

“Five hundred and seventy-six thousand million, three thousand five hundred and seventy-nine years,” said Marvin. “I counted them.”

“Well, here we are now,” said Trillian, feeling – quite correctly in Marvin’s view – that it was a slightly foolish thing to say.

“The first ten million years were the worst,” said Marvin, “and the second ten million years, they were the worst too. The third ten million I didn’t enjoy at all. After that I went into a bit of a decline.”

He paused just long enough to make them feel they ought to say something, and then interrupted.

“It’s the people you meet in this job that really get you down,” he said and paused again.

Trillian cleared her throat.

“Is that …

“The best conversation I had was over forty million years ago,” continued Marvin.

Again the pause.

“Oh d—”

“And that was with a coffee machine.”

He waited.

“That’s a—”

“You don’t like talking to me do you?” said Marvin in a low desolate tone.

Trillian talked to Arthur instead.

Farther down the chamber Ford Prefect had found something of which he very much liked the look, several such things in fact.

“Zaphod,” he said in a quiet voice, “just look at some of these little star trolleys.…”

Zaphod looked and liked.

The craft they were looking at was in fact pretty small but extraordinary, and very much a rich kid’s toy. It was not much to look at. It resembled nothing so much as a paper dart about twenty feet long made of thin but tough metal foil. At the rear end was a small horizontal two-man cockpit. It had a tiny charm-drive engine, which was not capable of moving it at any great speed. The thing it did have, however, was a heat-sink.

The heat-sink had a mass of some two thousand billion tons and was contained within a black hole mounted in an electromagnetic field situated halfway along the length of the ship, and this heat-sink enabled the craft to be maneuvered to within a few miles of a yellow sun, there to catch and ride the solar flares that burst out from its surface.

Flare riding is one of the most exotic and exhilarating sports in existence, and those who can dare and afford to do it are among the most lionized men in the Galaxy. It is also of course stupefyingly dangerous – those who don’t die riding invariably die of sexual exhaustion at one of the Daedalus Club’s Après-Flare parties.

Ford and Zaphod looked and passed on.

“And this baby,” said Ford, “the tangerine star buggy with the black sunbusters …”

Again, the star buggy was a small ship – a totally misnamed one in fact, because the one thing it couldn’t manage was interstellar distances. Basically it was a sporty planet hopper dolled up to look like something it wasn’t. Nice lines though. They passed on.

The next one was a big one and thirty yards long – a coach-limoship and obviously designed with one aim in mind, that of making the beholder sick with envy. The paintwork and accessory detail clearly said “Not only am I rich enough to afford this ship, I am also rich enough not to take it seriously.” It was wonderfully hideous.

“Just look at it,” said Zaphod, “multicluster quark drive, perspulex running boards. Got to be a Lazlar Lyricon custom job.”

He examined every inch.

“Yes,” he said, “look, the infrapink lizard emblem on the neutrino cowling. Lazlar’s trademark. The man has no shame.”

“I was passed by one of these mothers once, out by the Axel Nebula,” said Ford. “I was going flat out and this thing just strolled past me, star drive hardly ticking over. Just incredible.”

Zaphod whistled appreciatively.

“Ten seconds later,” said Ford, “it smashed straight into the third moon of Jaglan Beta.”

“Yeah, right?”

“Amazing-looking ship though. Looks like a fish, moves like a fish, steers like a cow.”

Ford looked round the other side.

“Hey, come see,” he called out, “there’s a big mural painted on this side. A bursting sun – Disaster Area’s trademark. This must be Hotblack’s ship. Lucky old bugger. They do this terrible song you know which ends with a stuntship crashing into the sun. Meant to be an amazing spectacle. Expensive in stuntships though.”

Zaphod’s attention however was elsewhere. His attention was riveted on the ship standing next to Hotblack Desiato’s limo. His mouths hung open.

“That,” he said, “that … is really bad for the eyes.…”

Ford looked. He too stood astonished.

It was a ship of classic, simple design, like a flattened salmon, twenty yards long, very clean, very sleek. There was just one remarkable thing about it.

“It’s so … block!” said Ford Prefect. “You can hardly make out its shape … light just seems to fall into it!”

Zaphod said nothing. He had simply fallen in love.

The blackness of it was so extreme that it was almost impossible to tell how close you were standing to it.

“Your eyes just slide off it …” said Ford in wonder. It was an emotional moment. He bit his lip.

Zaphod moved forward to it, slowly, like a man possessed – or more accurately like a man who wanted to possess. His hand reached out to stroke it. His hand stopped. His hand reached out to stroke it again. His hand stopped again.

“Come and feel this surface,” he said in a hushed voice.

Ford put his hand out to feel it. His hand stopped.

“You … you can’t …” he said.

“See?” said Zaphod. “It’s just totally frictionless. This must be one mother of a mover.…”

He turned to look at Ford seriously. At least, one of his heads did – the other stayed gazing in awe at the ship.

“What do you reckon, Ford?” he said.

“You mean … er”—Ford looked over his shoulder—“you mean stroll off with it? You think we should?”

“No.”

“Nor do I.”

“But we’re going to, aren’t we?”

“How can we not?”

They gazed a little longer, till Zaphod suddenly pulled himself together.

“We better shift soon,” he said. “In a moment or so the Universe will have ended and all the Captain Creeps will be pouring down here to find their bourge-mobiles.”

“Zaphod,” said Ford.

“Yeah?”

“How do we do it?”

“Simple,” said Zaphod. He turned. “Marvin!” he called.

Slowly, laboriously and with a million little clanking and creaking noises that he had learned to simulate, Marvin turned round to answer the summons.

“Come on over here,” said Zaphod. “We’ve got a job for you.”

Marvin trudged toward them.

“I won’t enjoy it,” he said.

“Yes, you will,” enthused Zaphod, “there’s a whole new life stretching out ahead of you.”

“Oh, not another one,” groaned Marvin.

“Will you shut up and listen!” hissed Zaphod. “This time there’s going to be exicitement and adventure and really wild things.”

“Sounds awful,” Marvin said.

“Marvin! All I’m trying to ask you …”

“I suppose you want me to open this spaceship for you?”

“What? Er … yes. Yeah, that’s right,” said Zaphod jumpily. He was keeping at least three eyes on the entrance. Time was short.

“Well, I wish you’d just tell me rather than try to engage my enthusiasm,” said Marvin, “because I haven’t got one.”

He walked on up to the ship, touched it, and a hatchway swung open.

Ford and Zaphod stared at the opening.

“Don’t mention it,” said Marvin. “Oh, you didn’t.” He trudged away again.

Arthur and Trillian clustered around.

“What’s happening?” asked Arthur.

“Look at this,” said Ford. “Look at the interior of this ship.”

“Weirder and weirder,” breathed Zaphod.

“It’s black,” said Ford. “Everything in it is just totally black.…”

In the Restaurant, things were fast approaching the moment after which there wouldn’t be any more moments.

All eyes were fixed on the dome, other than those of Hotblack Desiato’s bodyguard, which were looking intently at Hotblack Desiato, and those of Hotblack Desiato himself which the bodyguard had closed out of respect.

The bodyguard leaned forward over the table. Had Hotblack Desiato been alive, he probably would have deemed this a good moment to lean back, or even go for a short walk. His bodyguard was not a man who improved with proximity. On account of his unfortunate condition, however, Hotblack Desiato remained totally inert.

“Mr. Desiato, sir?” whispered the bodyguard. Whenever he spoke, it looked as if the muscles on either side of his mouth were clambering over each other to get out of the way.

“Mr. Desiato? Can you hear me?”

Hotblack Desiato, quite naturally, said nothing.

“Hotblack?” hissed the bodyguard.

Again, quite naturally, Hotblack Desiato did not reply. Supernaturally, however, he did.

On the table in front of him a wineglass rattled, and a fork rose an inch or so and tapped against the glass. It settled on the table again.

The bodyguard gave a satisfied grunt.

“It’s time we were going, Mr. Desiato,” muttered the bodyguard, “don’t want to get caught in the rush, not in your condition. You want to get to the next gig nice and relaxed. There was a really big audience for it. One of the best. Kakrafoon. Five hundred and seventy-six thousand and two million years ago. Had you been looking forward to it?”

The fork rose again, paused, waggled in a noncommittal sort of way and dropped again.

“Ah, come on,” said the bodyguard, “it’s going to have been great. You knocked ’em cold.” The bodyguard would have given Dr. Dan Streetmentioner an apoplectic attack.

“The black ship going into the sun always gets ’em, and the new one’s a beauty. Be real sorry to see it go. If we get on down there, I’ll set the black ship autopilot and we’ll cruise off in the limo. Okay?”

The fork tapped once in agreement, and the glass of wine mysteriously emptied itself.

The bodyguard wheeled Hotblack Desiato’s chair out of the Restaurant.

“And now,” cried Max from the center of the stage, “the moment you’ve all been waiting for!” He flung his arms into the air. Behind him, the band went into a frenzy of percussion and rolling synthochords. Max had argued with them about this but they had claimed it was in their contract that that’s what they would do. His agent would have to sort it out.

“The skies begin to boil!” he cried. “Nature collapses into the screaming void! In twenty seconds’ time, the Universe itself will be at an end! See where the light of infinity bursts in upon us!”

The hideous fury of destruction blazed about them – and at that moment a still small trumpet sounded as from an infinite distance. Max’s eyes swiveled round to glare at the band. None of them seemed to be playing a trumpet. Suddenly a wisp of smoke was swirling and shimmering on the stage next to him. The trumpet was joined by more trumpets. Over five hundred times Max had done this show, and nothing like this had ever happened before. He drew back in alarm from the swirling smoke, and as he did so, a figure slowly materialized inside, the figure of an ancient man, bearded, robed, and wreathed in light. In his eyes were stars and on his brow a golden crown.

“What’s this?” whispered Max, wild-eyed. “What’s happening?”

At the back of the Restaurant the stony-faced party from the Church of the Second Coming of the Great Prophet Zarquon leaped ecstatically to their feet chanting and crying.

Max blinked in amazement. He threw up his arms to the audience.

“A big hand please, ladies and gentlemen,” he hollered, “for the Great Prophet Zarquon! He has come! Zarquon has come again!”

Thunderous applause broke out as Max strode across the stage and handed his microphone to the Prophet.

Zarquon coughed. He peered round at the assembled gathering. The stars in his eyes twinkled uneasily. He handled the microphone with confusion.

“Er …” he said, “hello. Er, look, I’m sorry I’m a bit late. I’ve had the most ghastly time, all sorts of things cropping up at the last moment.”

He seemed nervous of the expectant awed hush. He cleared his throat.

“Er, how are we for time?” he said. “Have I just got a min—”

And so the Universe ended.

Chapter 19

One of the major selling points of that wholly remarkable travel book, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, apart from its relative cheapness and the fact that it has the words DON’T PANIC written in large friendly letters on its cover, is its compendious and occasionally accurate glossary. The statistics relating to the geo-social nature of the Universe, for instance, are deftly set out between pages nine hundred and thirty-eight thousand three hundred and twenty-four and nine hundred and thirty-eight thousand three hundred and twenty-six; and the simplistic style in which they are written is partly explained by the fact that the editors, having to meet a publishing deadline, copied the information off the back of a packet of breakfast cereal, hastily embroidering it with a few footnotes in order to avoid prosecution under the incomprehensibly tortuous Galactic Copyright laws.

It is interesting to note that a later and wilier editor sent the book backward in time through a temporal warp, and then successfully sued the breakfast cereal company for infringement of the same laws.

Here is a sample:

The Universe – some information to help you live in it.

AREA: Infinite.

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy offers this definition of the word “Infinite.”

Infinite: Bigger than the biggest thing ever and then some. Much bigger than that in fact, really amazingly immense, a totally stunning size, real “wow, that’s big,” time. Infinity is just so big that, by comparison, bigness itself looks really titchy. Gigantic multiplied by colossal multiplied by staggeringly huge is the sort of concept we’re trying to get across here.

IMPORTS. None.

It is impossible to import things into an infinite area, there being no outside to import things in from.

EXPORTS: None.

See Imports.

POPULATION: None.

It is known that there are an infinite number of worlds, simply because there is an infinite amount of space for them to be in. However, not every one of them is inhabited. Therefore, there must be a finite number of inhabited worlds. Any finite number divided by infinity is as near to nothing as makes no odds, so the average population of all the planets in the Universe can be said to be zero. From this it follows that the population of the whole Universe is also zero, and that any people you may meet from time to time are merely the products of a deranged imagination.

MONETARY UNITS: None.

In fact there are three freely convertible currencies in the Galaxy, but none of them count. The Altairian Dollar has recently collapsed, the Flainian Pobble Bead is only exchangeable for other Flainian Pobble Beads, and the Triganic Pu has its own very special problems. Its exchange rate of eight Ningis to one Pu is simple enough, but since a Ningi is a triangular rubber coin six thousand eight hundred miles along each side, no one has ever collected enough to own one Pu. Ningis are not negotiable currency, because the Galactibanks refuse to deal in fiddling small change. From this basic premise it is very simple to prove that the Galactibanks are also the product of a deranged imagination.

ART: None.

The function of art is to hold the mirror up to nature, and there simply isn’t a mirror big enough – see point one.

SEX: None.

Well, in fact there is an awful lot of this, largely because of the total lack of money, trade, banks, art or anything else that might keep all the nonexistent people of the Universe occupied.

However, it is not worth embarking on a long discussion of it now because it really is terribly complicated. For further information see Guide Chapters seven, nine, ten, eleven, fourteen, sixteen, seventeen, nineteen, twenty-one to eighty-four inclusive, and in fact most of the rest of the Guide.

Chapter 20

The Restaurant continued existing, but everything else had stopped. Temporal relastatics held it and protected it in a nothingness that wasn’t merely a vacuum, it was simply nothing – there was nothing in which a vacuum could be said to exist. The force-shielded dome had once again been rendered opaque, the party was over, the diners were leaving, Zarquon had vanished along with the rest of the Universe, the Time Turbines were preparing to pull the Restaurant back across the brink of time in readiness for the lunch sitting, and Max Quordlepleen was back in his small curtained dressing room trying to raise his agent on the tempophone.

In the parking lot stood the black ship, closed and silent.

Into the parking lot came the late Mr. Hotblack Desiato, propelled along the moving catwalk by his bodyguard.

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 color 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 labeled 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 honor 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 backward 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 color about the place.”

“This is meant to be polite afterdinner conversation, is it?” snapped Arthur.

Zaphod left the controls to 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.

“All right,” he said, “but where do we start? How should I know? They say the Ultimate Answer or whatever is Forty-two, how am I supposed to know what the question is? It could be anything. I mean, what’s six times seven?”

Zaphod looked at him hard for a moment. Then his eyes blazed with excitement.

“Forty-two!” he cried.

Arthur wiped his palm across his forehead.

“Yes,” he said patiently, “I know that.”

Zaphod’s faces fell.

“I’m just saying the question could be anything at all,” said Arthur, “and I don’t see how I’m meant to know.”

“Because,” hissed Zaphod, “you were there when your planet did the big firework.”

“We have a thing on Earth …” began Arthur.

“Had,” corrected Zaphod.

“ … called tact. Oh, never mind. Look, I just don’t know.”

A low voice echoed dully around the cabin.

“I know,” said Marvin.

Ford called out from the controls he was still fighting a losing battle with.

“Stay out of this, Marvin,” he said. “This is organism talk.”

“It’s printed in the Earthman’s brainwave patterns,” continued Marvin, “but I don’t suppose you’ll be very interested in knowing that.”

“You mean,” said Arthur, “you mean you can see into my mind?”

“Yes,” said Marvin.

Arthur stared in astonishment.

“And …?” he said.

“It amazes me how you can manage to live in anything that small.”

“Ah,” said Arthur, “abuse.”

“Yes,” confirmed Marvin.

“Ah, ignore him,” said Zaphod, “he’s only making it up.”

“Making it up?” said Marvin, swiveling his head in a parody of astonishment. “Why should I want to make anything up? Life’s bad enough as it is without wanting to invent any more of it.”

“Marvin,” said Trillian in the gentle, kindly voice that only she was still capable of assuming in talking to this misbegotten creature, “if you knew all along, why then didn’t you tell us?”

Marvin’s head swiveled back to her.

“You didn’t ask,” he said simply.

“Well, we’re asking you now, metal man,” said Ford, turning round to look at him.

At that moment the ship suddenly stopped rocking and swaying, the engine pitch settled down to a gentle hum.

“Hey, Ford,” said Zaphod, “that sounds good. Have you worked out the controls on this boat?”

“No,” said Ford, “I just stopped fiddling with them. I reckon we just go to wherever this ship is going and get off it fast.”

“Yeah, right,” said Zaphod.

“I could tell you weren’t really interested,” murmured Marvin to himself and slumped into a corner and switched himself off.

“Trouble is,” said Ford, “that the one instrument in this whole ship that is giving any reading is worrying me. If it is what I think it is, and if it’s saying what I think it’s saying, then we’ve already gone too far back into the past. Maybe as much as two million years before our own time.”

Zaphod shrugged.

“Time is bunk,” he said.

“I wonder who this ship belongs to anyway,” said Arthur.

“Me,” said Zaphod.

“No. Who it really belongs to.”

“Really me,” insisted Zaphod. “Look, property is theft, right? Therefore theft is property. Therefore this ship is mine, okay?”

“Tell the ship that,” said Arthur. Zaphod strode over to the console.

“Ship,” he said, banging on the panels, “this is your new owner speaking to …”

He got no further. Several things happened at once.

The ship dropped out of time travel mode and reemerged into real space.

All the controls on the console, which had been shut down for the time trip, now lit up.

A large vision screen above the console winked into life revealing a wide starscape and a single very large sun dead ahead of them.

None of these things, however, were responsible for the fact that Zaphod was at the same moment hurled bodily backward against the rear of the cabin, as were all the others.

They were hurled back by a single thunderous clap of noise that thudded out of the monitor speakers surrounding the vision screen.