The Restaurant at the End of the Universe

The ship shook, the ship thundered. Outside, the inch thick force-shield around it blistered, crackled and spat under the barrage of a dozen 30-Megahurt Definit-Kil Photrazon Cannon, and looked as if it wouldn’t be around for long. Four minutes is how long Ford Prefect gave it."Three minutes and fifty seconds,” he said a short while later.

“Forty-five seconds,” he added at the appropriate time. He flicked idly at some useless switches, then gave Arthur an unfriendly look.

“Dying for a cup of tea, eh?” he said. “Three minutes and forty seconds.”

“Will you stop counting!” snarled Zaphod.

“Yes,” said Ford Prefect, “in three minutes and thirty-five seconds.”

Aboard the Vogon ship, Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz was puzzled. He had expected a chase, he had expected an exciting grapple with tractor beams, he had expected to have to use the specially installed Sub-Cyclic Normality Assert-i-Tron to counter the Heart of Gold’s Infinite Improbability Drive, but the Sub-Cyclic Normality Assert-i-Tron lay idle as the Heart of Gold just sat there and took it.

A dozen 30-Megahurt Definit-Kil Photrazon Cannon continued to blaze away at the Heart of Gold, and still it just sat there and took it.

He tested every sensor at his disposal to see if there was any subtle trickery afoot, but no subtle trickery was to be found.

He didn’t know about the tea of course.

Nor did he know exactly how the occupants of the Heart of Gold were spending the last three minutes and thirty seconds of life they had left to spend.

Quite how Zaphod Beeblebrox arrived at the idea of holding a seance at this point is something he was never quite clear on.

Obviously the subject of death was in the air, but more as something to be avoided than harped upon.

Possibly the horror that Zaphod experienced at the prospect of being reunited with his deceased relatives led on to the thought that they might just feel the same way about him and, what’s more, be able to do something about helping to postpone this reunion.

Or again it might just have been one of the strange promptings that occasionally surfaced from that dark area of his mind that he had inexplicably locked off prior to becoming President of the Galaxy.

“You want to talk to your great grandfather?” boggled Ford.

“Yeah.”

“Does it have to be now?”

The ship continued to shake and thunder. The temperature was rising. The light was getting dimmer—all the energy the computer didn’t require for thinking about tea was being pumped into the rapidly fading force-field.

“Yeah!” insisted Zaphod. “Listen Ford, I think he may be able to help us.”

“Are you sure you mean think? Pick your words with care.”

“Suggest something else we can do.”

“Er, well…”

“OK, round the central console. Now. Come on! Trillian, Monkeyman, move.”

They clustered round the central console in confusion, sat down and, feeling exceptionally foolish, held hands. With his third hand Zaphod turned off the lights.

Darkness gripped the ship.

Outside, the thunderous roar of the Definit-Kil cannon continued to rip at the force-field.

“Concentrate,” hissed Zaphod, “on his name.”

“What is it?” asked Arthur.

“Zaphod Beeblebrox the Fourth.”

“What?”

“Zaphod Beeblebrox the Fourth. Concentrate!”

“The Fourth?”

“Yeah. Listen, I’m Zaphod Beeblebrox, my father was Zaphod Beeblebrox the Second, my grandfather Zaphod Beeblebrox the Third…”

“What?”

“There was an accident with a contraceptive and a time machine. Now concentrate!”

“Three minutes,” said Ford Prefect.

“Why,” said Arthur Dent, “are we doing this?”

“Shut up,” suggested Zaphod Beeblebrox.

Trillian said nothing. What, she thought, was there to say?

The only light on the bridge came from two dim red triangles in a far corner where Marvin the Paranoid Android sat slumped, ignoring all and ignored by all, in a private and rather unpleasant world of his own.

Round the central console four figures hunched in tight concentration trying to blot from their minds the terrifying shuddering of the ship and the fearful roar that echoed through it.

They concentrated.

Still they concentrated.

And still they concentrated.

The seconds ticked by.

On Zaphod’s brow stood beads of sweat, first of concentration, then of frustration and finally of embarrassment.

At last he let out a cry of anger, snatched back his hands from Trillian and Ford and stabbed at the light switch.

“Ah, I was beginning to think you’d never turn the lights on,” said a voice. “No, not too bright please, my eyes aren’t what they once were.”

Four figures jolted upright in their seats. Slowly they turned their heads to look, though their scalps showed a distinct propensity to try and stay in the same place.