Douglas Adams - The restaurant at the end of the universe

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The Restaurant at the End of the Universe

by Douglas Adams

To Jane and James

with many thanks

to Geoffrey Perkins for achieving the Improbable

to Paddy Kingsland, Lisa Braun and

Alick Hale Munro for helping him

to John Lloyd for his help with the original Milliways script

to Simon Brett for starting the whole thing off

to the Paul Simon album One Trick Pony which I played

incessantly while writing this book. Five years is far too long

And with very special thanks to Jacqui Graham for infinite

patience, kindness and food in adversity

Introduction

There is a theory which states that if ever anyone discovers

exactly what the Universe is for and why it is here, it will

instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more

bizarre and inexplicable.

Another Introduction

There is another theory which states that this has already

happened.

The story so far:

In the beginning the Universe was created.

This has made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded

as a bad move.

Many races believe that it was created by some sort of God,

though the Jatravartid people of Viltvodle VI believe that the

entire Universe was in fact sneezed out of the nose of a being

called the Great Green Arkleseizure.

The Jatravartids, who live in perpetual fear of the time they

call The Coming of The Great White Handkerchief, are small blue

creatures with more than fifty arms each, who are therefore

unique in being the only race in history to have invented the

aerosol deodorant before the wheel.

However, the Great Green Arkleseizure Theory is not widely

accepted outside Viltvodle VI and so, the Universe being the

puzzling place it is, other explanations are constantly being

sought.

For instance, a race of hyperintelligent pan-dimensional beings

once built themselves a gigantic supercomputer called Deep

Thought to calculate once and for all the Answer to the Ultimate

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Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything.

For seven and a half million years, Deep Thought computed and

calculated, and in the end announced that the answer was in fact

Forty-two - and so another, even bigger, computer had to be built

to find out what the actual question was.

And this computer, which was called the Earth, was so large that

it was frequently mistaken for a planet - especially by the

strange ape-like beings who roamed its surface, totally unaware

that they were simply part of a gigantic computer program.

And this is very odd, because without that fairly simple and

obvious piece of knowledge, nothing that ever happened on the

Earth could possibly make the slightest bit of sense.

Sadly however, just before the critical moment of readout, the

Earth was unexpectedly demolished by the Vogons to make way - so

they claimed - for a new hyperspace bypass, and so all hope of

discovering a meaning for life was lost for ever.

Or so it would seem.

Two of the strange, ape-like creatures survived.

Arthur Dent escaped at the very last moment because an old friend

of his, Ford Prefect, suddenly turned out to be from a small

planet in the vicinity of Betelgeuse and not from Guildford as he

had hitherto claimed; and, more to the point, he knew how to

hitch rides on flying saucers.

Tricia McMillian - or Trillian - had skipped the planet six

months earlier with Zaphod Beeblebrox, the then President of the

Galaxy.

Two survivors.

They are all that remains of the greatest experiment ever

conducted - to find the Ultimate Question and the Ultimate Answer

of Life, the Universe, and Everything.

And, less than half a million miles from where their starship is

drifting lazily through the inky blackness of space, a Vogon ship

is moving slowly towards them.

Section 1

Like all Vogon ships it looked as if it had been not so much

designed as congealed. The unpleasant yellow lumps and edifices

which protuded from it at unsightly angles would have disfigured

the looks of most ships, but in this case that was sadly

impossible. Uglier things have been spotted in the skies, but not

by reliable witnesses.

In fact to see anything much uglier than a Vogon ship you would

have to go inside and look at a Vogon. If you are wise, however,

this is precisely what you will avoid doing because the average

Vogon will not think twice before doing something so pointlessly

hideous to you that you will wish you had never been born - or

(if you are a clearer minded thinker) that the Vogon had never

been born.

In fact, the average Vogon probably wouldn't even think once.

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They are simple-minded, thick-willed, slug-brained creatures, and

thinking is not really something they are cut out for. Anatomical

analysis of the Vogon reveals that its brain was originally a

badly deformed, misplaced and dyspeptic liver. The fairest thing

you can say about them, then, is that they know what they like,

and what they like generally involves hurting people and,

wherever possible, getting very angry.

One thing they don't like is leaving a job unfinished -

particularly this Vogon, and particularly - for various reasons -

this job.

This Vogon was Captain Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz of the Galactic

Hyperspace Planning Council, and he was it who had had the job of

demolishing the so-called "planet" Earth.

He heaved his monumentally vile body round in his ill-fitting,

slimy seat and stared at the monitor screen on which the starship

Heart of Gold was being systematically scanned.

It mattered little to him that the Heart of Gold, with its

Infinite Improbability Drive, was the most beautiful and

revolutionary ship ever built. Aesthetics and technology were

closed books to him and, had he had his way, burnt and buried

books as well.

It mattered even less to him that Zaphod Beeblebrox was aboard.

Zaphod Beeblebrox was now the ex-President of the Galaxy, and

though every police force in the Galaxy was currently pursuing

both him and this ship he had stolen, the Vogon was not

interested.

He had other fish to fry.

It has been said that Vogons are not above a little bribery and

corruption in the same way that the sea is not above the clouds,

and this was certainly true in his case. When he heard the words

"integrity" or "moral rectitude", he reached for his dictionary,

and when he heard the chink of ready money in large quantities he

reached for the rule book and threw it away.

In seeking so implacably the destruction of the Earth and all

that therein lay he was moving somewhat above and beyond the call

of his professional duty. There was even some doubt as to whether

the said bypass was actually going to be built, but the matter

had been glossed over.

He grunted a repellent grunt of satisfaction.

"Computer," he croaked, "get me my brain care specialist on the

line."

Within a few seconds the face of Gag Halfrunt appeared on the

screen, smiling the smile of a man who knew he was ten light

years away from the Vogon face he was looking at. Mixed up

somewhere in the smile was a glint of irony too. Though the Vogon

persistently referred to him as "my private brain care

specialist" there was not a lot of brain to take care of, and it

was in fact Halfrunt who was employing the Vogon. He was paying

him an awful lot of money to do some very dirty work. As one of

the Galaxy's most prominent and successful psychiatrists, he and

a consortium of his colleagues were quite prepared to spend an

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awful lot of money when it seemed that the entire future of

psychiatry might be at stake.

"Well," he said, "hello my Captain of Vogons Prostetnic, and how

are we feeling today?"

The Vogon captain told him that in the last few hours he had

wiped out nearly half his crew in a disciplinary exercise.

Halfrunt's smile did not flicker for an instant.

"Well," he said, "I think this is perfectly normal behaviour for

a Vogon, you know? The natural and healthy channelling of the

aggressive instincts into acts of senseless violence."

"That," rumbled the Vogon, "is what you always say."

"Well again," said Halfrunt, "I think that this is perfectly

normal behaviour for a psychiatrist. Good. We are clearly both

very well adjusted in our mental attitudes today. Now tell me,

what news of the mission?"

"We have located the ship."

"Wonderful," said Halfrunt, "wonderful! and the occupants?"

"The Earthman is there."

"Excellent! And ...?"

"A female from the same planet. They are the last."

"Good, good," beamed Halfrunt, "Who else?"

"The man Prefect."

"Yes?"

"And Zaphod Beeblebrox."

For an instant Halfrunt's smile flickered.

"Ah yes," he said, "I had been expecting this. It is most

regrettable."

"A personal friend?" inquired the Vogon, who had heard the

expression somewhere once and decided to try it out.

"Ah, no," said Halfrunt, "in my profession you know, we do not

make personal friends."

"Ah," grunted the Vogon, "professional detachment."

"No," said Halfrunt cheerfully, "we just don't have the knack."

He paused. His mouth continued to smile, but his eyes frowned

slightly.

"But Beeblebrox, you know," he said, "he is one of my most

profitable clients. He had personality problems beyond the dreams

of analysts."

He toyed with this thought a little before reluctantly dismissing

it.

"Still," he said, "you are ready for your task?"

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"Yes."

"Good. Destroy the ship immediately."

"What about Beeblebrox?"

"Well," said Halfrunt brightly, "Zaphod's just this guy, you

know?"

He vanished from the screen.

The Vogon Captain pressed a communicator button which connected

him with the remains of his crew.

"Attack," he said.

At that precise moment Zaphod Beeblebrox was in his cabin

swearing very loudly. Two hours ago, he had said that they would

go for a quick bite at the Restaurant at the End of the Universe,

whereupon he had had a blazing row with the ship's computer and

stormed off to his cabin shouting that he would work out the

Improbability factors with a pencil.

The Heart of Gold's Improbability Drive made it the most powerful

and unpredictable ship in existence. There was nothing it

couldn't do, provided you knew exactly how improbable it was that

the thing you wanted it to do would ever happen.

He had stolen it when, as President, he was meant to be launching

it. He didn't know exactly why he had stolen it, except that he

liked it.

He didn't know why he had become President of the Galaxy, except

that it seemed a fun thing to be.

He did know that there were better reasons than these, but that

they were buried in a dark, locked off section of his two brains.

He wished the dark, locked off section of his two brains would go

away because they occasionally surfaced momentarily and put

strange thoughts into the light, fun sections of his mind and

tried to deflect him from what he saw as being the basic business

of his life, which was to have a wonderfully good time.

At the moment he was not having a wonderfully good time. He had

run out of patience and pencils and was feeling very hungry.

"Starpox!" he shouted.

At that same precise moment, Ford Prefect was in mid air. This

was not because of anything wrong with the ship's artificial

gravity field, but because he was leaping down the stair-well

which led to the ship's personal cabins. It was a very high jump

to do in one bound and he landed awkwardly, stumbled, recovered,

raced down the corridor sending a couple of miniature service

robots flying, skidded round the corner, burst into Zaphod's door

and explained what was on his mind.

"Vogons," he said.

A short while before this, Arthur Dent had set out from his cabin

in search of a cup of tea. It was not a quest he embarked upon

with a great deal of optimism., because he knew that the only

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source of hot drinks on the entire ship was a benighted piece of

equipment produced by the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation. It was

called a Nutri-Matic Drinks Synthesizer, and he had encountered

it before.

It claimed to produce the widest possible range of drinks

personally matched to the tastes and metabolism of whoever cared

to use it. When put to the test, however, it invariably produced

a plastic cup filled with a liquid that was almost, but nit

quite, entirely unlike tea.

He attempted to reason with the thing.

"Tea," he said.

"Share and Enjoy," the machine replied and provided him with yet

another cup of the sickly liquid.

He threw it away.

"Share and enjoy," the machine repeated and provided him with

another one.

"Share and Enjoy" is the company motto of the hugely successful

Sirius Cybernetics Corporation Complaints division, which now

covers the major land masses of three medium sized planets and is

the only part of the Corporation to have shown a consistent

profit in recent years.

The motto stands - or rather stood - in three mile high

illuminated letters near the Complaints Department spaceport on

Eadrax. Unfortunately its weight was such that shortly after it

was erected, the ground beneath the letters caved in and they

dropped for nearly half their length through the offices of many

talented young complaints executives - now deceased.

The protruding upper halves of the letters now appear, in the

local language, to read "Go stick your head in a pig", and are no

longer illuminated, except at times of special celebration.

Arthur threw away a sixth cup of the liquid.

"Listen, you machine," he said, "you claim you can synthesize any

drink in existence, so why do you keep giving me the same

undrinkable stuff?"

"Nutrition and pleasurable sense data," burbled the machine.

"Share and Enjoy."

"It tastes filthy!"

"If you have enjoyed the experience of this drink," continued the

machine, "why not share it with your friends?"

"Because," said Arthur tartly, "I want to keep them. Will you try

to comprehend what I'm telling you? That drink ..."

"That drink," said the machine sweetly, "was individually

tailored to meet your personal requirements for nutrition and

pleasure."

"Ah," said Arthur, "so I'm a masochist on diet am I?"

"Share and Enjoy."

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"Oh shut up."

"Will that be all?"

Arthur decided to give up.

"Yes," he said.

Then he decided he'd be dammed if he'd give up.

"No," he said, "look, it's very, very simple ... all I want ...

is a cup of tea. You are going to make one for me. Keep quiet and

listen."

And he sat. He told the Nutri-Matic about India, he told it about

China, he told it about Ceylon. He told it about broad leaves

drying in the sun. He told it about silver teapots. He told it

about summer afternoons on the lawn. He told it about putting in

the milk before the tea so it wouldn't get scalded. He even told

it (briefly) about the history of the East India Company.

"So that's it, is it?" said the Nutri-Matic when he had finished.

"Yes," said Arthur, "that is what I want."

"You want the taste of dried leaves boiled in water?"

"Er, yes. With milk."

"Squirted out of a cow?"

"Well, in a manner of speaking I suppose ..."

"I'm going to need some help with this one," said the machine

tersely. All the cheerful burbling had dropped out of its voice

and it now meant business.

"Well, anything I can do," said Arthur.

"You've done quite enough," the Nutri-Matic informed him.

It summoned up the ship's computer.

"Hi there!" said the ship's computer.

The Nutri-Matic explained about tea to the ship's computer. The

computer boggled, linked logic circuits with the Nutri-Matic and

together they lapsed into a grim silence.

Arthur watched and waited for a while, but nothing further

happened.

He thumped it, but still nothing happened.

Eventually he gave up and wandered up to the bridge.

In the empty wastes of space, the Heart of Gold hung still.

Around it blazed the billion pinpricks of the Galaxy. Towards it

crept the ugly yellow lump of the Vogon ship.

Section 2

"Does anyone have a kettle?" Arthur asked as he walked on to the

bridge, and instantly began to wonder why Trillian was yelling at

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the computer to talk to her, Ford was thumping it and Zaphod was

kicking it, and also why there was a nasty yellow lump on the

vision screen.

He put down the empty cup he was carrying and walked over to

them.

"Hello?" he said.

At that moment Zaphod flung himself over to the polished marble

surfaces that contained the instruments that controlled the

conventional photon drive. They materialized beneath his hands

and he flipped over to manual control. He pushed, he pulled, he

pressed and he swore. The photon drive gave a sickly judder and

cut out again.

"Something up?" said Arthur.

"Hey, didja hear that?" muttered Zaphod as he leapt now for the

manual controls of the Infinite Improbability Drive, "the monkey

spoke!"

The Improbability Drive gave two small whines and then also cut

out.

"Pure history, man," said Zaphod, kicking the Improbability

Drive, "a talking monkey!"

"If you're upset about something ..." said Arthur.

"Vogons!" snapped Ford, "we're under attack!"

Arthur gibbered.

"Well what are you doing? Let's get out of here!"

"Can't. Computer's jammed."

"Jammed?"

"It says all its circuits are occupied. There's no power anywhere

in the ship."

Ford moved away from the computer terminal, wiped a sleeve across

his forehead and slumped back against the wall.

"Nothing we can do," he said. He glared at nothing and bit his

lip.

When Arthur had been a boy at school, long before the Earth had

been demolished, he had used to play football. He had not been at

all good at it, and his particular speciality had been scoring

own goals in important matches. Whenever this happened he used to

experience a peculiar tingling round the back of his neck that

would slowly creep up across his cheeks and heat his brow. The

image of mud and grass and lots of little jeering boys flinging

it at him suddenly came vividly to his mind at this moment.

A peculiar tingling sensation at the back of his neck was

creeping up across his cheeks and heating his brow.

He started to speak, and stopped.

He started to speak again and stopped again.

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Finally he managed to speak.

"Er," he said. He cleared his throat.

"Tell me," he continued, and said it so nervously that the others

all turned to stare at him. He glanced at the approaching yellow

blob on the vision screen.

"Tell me," he said again, "did the computer say what was

occupying it? I just ask out of interest ..."

Their eyes were riveted on him.

"And, er ... well that's it really, just asking."

Zaphod put out a hand and held Arthur by the scruff of the neck.

"What have you done to it, Monkeyman?" he breathed.

"Well," said Arthur, "nothing in fact. It's just that I think a

short while ago it was trying to work out how to ..."

"Yes?"

"Make me some tea."

"That's right guys," the computer sang out suddenly, "just coping

with that problem right now, and wow, it's a biggy. Be with you

in a while." It lapsed back into a silence that was only matched

for sheer intensity by the silence of the three people staring at

Arthur Dent.

As if to relieve the tension, the Vogons chose that moment to

start firing.

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

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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."

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Douglas Adams - The restaurant at the end of the universe

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