\documentstyle{book}
\author{			 Douglas Adams}

\title{	   The Restaurant at the End of the Universe}

\maketitle
\parindent=0pt
\parskip=10pt plus 10pt minus 2 pt
\sloppy
\begin {document}
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.

There is another  theory  which  states  that  this  has  already
happened.

\chapter{}

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
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 there 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.

\chapter{}

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.
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
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?''

''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
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.''

''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.

\chapter{}

''Does anyone have a kettle?'' Arthur asked as he walked on to  the
bridge, and instantly began to wonder why Trillian was yelling at
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.

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
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.

''Now. Who disturbs me at this time?'' said the small, bent,  gaunt
figure  standing  by  the  sprays  of  fern at the far end of the
bridge. His two small wispy-haired heads looked so  ancient  that
it  seemed  they  might  hold  dim  memories  of the birth of the
galaxies themselves. One lolled in sleep, but the other  squinted
sharply  at  them.  If his eyes weren't what they once were, they
must once have been diamond cutters.

Zaphod stuttered nervously for a moment. He  gave  the  intricate
little  double  nod which is the traditional Betelgeusian gesture
of familial respect.

''Oh ... er, hi Great Granddad ...'' he breathed.

The little old  figure  moved  closer  towards  them.  He  peered
through  the  dim light. He thrust out a bony finger at his great
grandson.

''Ah,'' he snapped. ''Zaphod Beeblebrox. The last of our great line.
Zaphod Beeblebrox the Nothingth.''

''The First.''

''The Nothingth,'' spat the figure.  Zaphod  hated  his  voice.  It
always  seemed  to  him  to  screech  like fingernails across the
blackboard of what he liked to think of as his soul.

He shifted awkwardly in his seat.

''Er, yeah,'' he muttered, ''Er, look, I'm really  sorry  about  the
flowers,  I  meant to send them along, but you know, the shop was
fresh out of wreaths and ...''

''You forget!'' snapped Zaphod Beeblebrox the Fourth.

''Well ...''

''Too busy. Never think of other people. The living  are  all  the
same.''

''Two minutes, Zaphod,'' whispered Ford in an awed whisper.

Zaphod fidgeted nervously.

''Yeah, but I did mean to send them,'' he said. ''And I'll write  to
my  great grandmother as well, just as soon as we get out of this
...''

''Your great  grandmother,''  mused  the  gaunt  little  figure  to
himself.

''Yeah,'' said Zaphod, ''Er, how is she? Tell you what, I'll go  and
see her. But first we've just got to ...''

''Your late great grandmother and I are very well,'' rasped  Zaphod
Beeblebrox the Fourth.

''Ah. Oh.''

''But very disappointed in you, young Zaphod ...''

''Yeah well ...'' Zaphod felt strangely powerless to take charge of
this  conversation,  and  Ford's heavy breathing at his side told
him that the seconds were ticking away fast. The  noise  and  the
shaking  had  reached terrifying proportions. He saw Trillian and
Arthur's faces white and unblinking in the gloom.

''Er, Great Grandfather ...''

''We've been following your progress with considerable despondency
...''

''Yeah, look, just at the moment you see ...''

''Not to say contempt!''

''Could you sort of listen for a moment ...''

''I mean what exactly are you doing with your life?''

''I'm being attacked by a Vogon fleet!'' cried Zaphod.  It  was  an
exaggeration,  but  it was his only opportunity so far of getting
the basic point of the exercise across.

''Doesn't surprise me in the least,'' said the  little  old  figure
with a shrug.

''Only  it's  happening  right  now  you  see,''  insisted   Zaphod
feverishly.

The spectral ancestor nodded, picked up the cup Arthur  Dent  had
brought in and looked at it with interest.

''Er ... Great Granddad ...''

''Did you know,'' interrupting the ghostly  figure,  fixing  Zaphod
with  a  stern  look,  ''that Betelgeuse Five has developed a very
slight eccentricy in its orbit?''

Zaphod didn't and found the information hard  to  concentrate  on
what with all the noise and the imminence of death and so on.

''Er, no ... look,'' he said.

''Me spinning in my grave!'' barked the ancestor.  He  slammed  the
cup  down  and pointed a quivering, stick-like see-through finger
at Zaphod.

''Your fault!'' he screeched.

''One minute thirty,'' muttered Ford, his head in his hands.

''Yeah, look Great Granddad, can you actually help because ...''

''Help?'' exclaimed the old man as if he'd been asked for a stoat.

''Yeah, help, and like, now, because otherwise ...''

''Help!'' repeated the old man as if he'd been asked for a  lightly
grilled stoat in a bun with French fries. He stood amazed.

''You go swanning your way round the Galaxy  with  your  ...''  the
ancestor  waved  a  contemptuous  hand,  ''with  your disreputable
friends, too busy to put flowers on my grave, plastic ones  would
have  done,  would  have been quite appropriate from you, but no.
Too busy. Too modern. Too sceptical  -  till  you  suddenly  find
yourself  in  a bit of a fix and come over suddenly all astrally-
minded!''

He shook his head - carefully, so as not to disturb  the  slumber
of the other one, which was already becoming restive.

''Well, I don't know, young Zaphod,'' he continued, ''I  think  I'll
have to think about this one.''

''One minute ten,'' said Ford hollowly.

Zaphod Beeblebrox the Fourth peered at him curiously.

''Why does that man keep talking in numbers?'' he said.

''Those numbers,'' said Zaphod tersely, ''are  the  time  we've  got
left to live.''

''Oh,'' said his great grandfather. He grunted to himself. ''Doesn't
apply to me, of course,'' he said and moved off to a dimmer recess
of the bridge in search of something else to poke around at.

Zaphod felt he was teetering on the edge of madness and  wondered
if he shouldn't just jump over and have done with it.

''Great Grandfather,'' he said, ''It applies to  us!  We  are  still
alive, and we are about to lose our lives.''

''Good job too.''

''What?''

''What use is your life to anyone? When I  think  of  what  you've
made of it the phrase `pig's ear' comes irresistibly to my mind.''

''But I was President of the Galaxy, man!''

''Huh,'' muttered his ancestor, ''And what kind of a job is that for
a Beeblebrox?''

''Hey, what? Only President you know! Of the whole Galaxy!''

''Conceited little megapuppy.''

Zaphod blinked in bewilderment.

''Hey, er, what are you at, man? I mean Great Grandfather.''

The hunched up little figure stalked up to his great grandson and
tapped  him sternly on the knee. This had the effect of reminding
Zaphod that he was talking to a ghost because he  didn't  feel  a
thing.

''You know and I know what being President  means,  young  Zaphod.
You  know because you've been it, and I know because I'm dead and
it gives one such a wonderfully uncluttered perspective. We  have
a saying up here. `Life is wasted on the living.'''

''Yeah,'' said Zaphod bitterly, ''very good. Very deep. Right now  I
need aphorisms like I need holes in my heads.''

''Fifty seconds,'' grunted Ford Prefect.

''Where was I?'' said Zaphod Beeblebrox the Fourth.

''Pontificating,'' said Zaphod Beeblebrox.

''Oh yes.''

''Can this guy,'' muttered Ford quietly  to  Zaphod,  ''actually  in
fact help us?''

''Nobody else can,'' whispered Zaphod.

Ford nodded despondently.

''Zaphod!'' the ghost was saying,  ''you  became  President  of  the
Galaxy for a reason. Have you forgotten?''

''Could we go into this later?''

''Have you forgotten!'' insisted the ghost.

''Yeah! Of course I forgot! I had  to  forget.  They  screen  your
brain when you get the job you know. If they'd found my head full
of tricksy ideas I'd have been right out  on  the  streets  again
with  nothing  but  a  fat pension, secretarial staff, a fleet of
ships and a couple of slit throats.''

''Ah,'' nodded the ghost in satisfaction, ''then you do remember!''

He paused for a moment.

''Good,'' he said and the noise stopped.

''Forty-eight seconds,'' said Ford. He looked again  at  his  watch
and tapped it. He looked up.

''Hey, the noise has stopped,'' he said.

A mischievous twinkle gleamed in the ghost's hard little eyes.

''I've slowed down time for a moment,'' he said, ''just for a moment
you understand. I would hate you to miss all I have to say.''

''No, you listen to me, you  see-through  old  bat,''  said  Zaphod
leaping  out  of his chair, ''A - thanks for stopping time and all
that, great, terrific, wonderful, but  B  -  no  thanks  for  the
homily, right? I don't know what this great think I'm meant to be
doing is, and it looks to me as if I was supposed  not  to  know.
And I resent that, right?

''The old me knew. The old me cared. Fine, so far so hoopy. Except
that the old me cared so much that he actually got inside his own
brain - my own brain - and locked off  the  bits  that  knew  and
cared, because if I knew and cared I wouldn't be able to do it. I
wouldn't be able to go and be President, and I wouldn't  be  able
to steal this ship, which must be the important thing.

''But this former self of mine killed himself off, didn't  he,  by
changing  my  brain? OK, that was his choice. This new me has its
own choices to make, and by a strange coincidence  those  choices
involve  not  knowing  and  not  caring  about  this  big number,
whatever it is. That's what he wanted, that's what he got.

''Except this old self of mine tried to leave himself in  control,
leaving orders for me in the bit of my brain he locked off. Well,
I don't want to know, and I don't want to hear  them.  That's  my
choice. I'm not going to be anybody's puppet, particularly not my
own.''

Zaphod banged the console in fury, oblivious  to  the  dumbfolded
looks he was attracting.

''The old me  is  dead!''  he  raved,  ''Killed  himself!  The  dead
shouldn't hang about trying to interfere with the living!''

''And yet you summon me up to help you out of a scrape,'' said  the
ghost.

''Ah,'' said Zaphod, sitting down  again,  ''well  that's  different
isn't it?''

He grinned at Trillian, weakly.

''Zaphod,'' rasped the apparition, ''I think the only reason I waste
my  breath  on  you is that being dead I don't have any other use
for it.''

''OK,'' said Zaphod, ''why don't you tell me what the big secret is.
Try me.''

''Zaphod, you knew when you were President of the Galaxy,  as  did
Yooden Vranx before you, that the President is nothing. A cipher.
Somewhere in the shadows behind is another man, being, something,
with  ultimate  power. That man, or being, or something, you must
find - the man who controls this  Galaxy,  and  -  we  suspect  -
others. Possibly the entire Universe.''

''Why?''

''Why?'' exclaimed an astonished ghost, ''Why? Look around you  lad,
does it look to you as if it's in very good hands?''

''It's alright.''

The old ghost glowered at him.

''I will not argue with you. You will simply take this ship,  this
Improbability  Drive  ship to where it is needed. You will do it.
Don't think you can escape your purpose. The Improbability  Field
controls you, you are in its grip. What's this?''

He was standing tapping at one of  the  terminals  of  Eddie  the
Shipboard Computer. Zaphod told him.

''What's it doing?''

''It is trying,'' said Zaphod with wonderful  restraint,  ''to  make
tea.''

''Good,'' said his great  grandfather,  ''I  approve  of  that.  Now
Zaphod,  ''he  said, turning and wagging a finger at him, ''I don't
know if you are really capable of succeeding in your job. I think
you will not be able to avoid it. However, I am too long dead and
too tired to care as much as I did. The  principal  reason  I  am
helping  you  now  is that I couldn't bear the thought of you and
your modern friends slouching about up here. Understood?''

''Yeah, thanks a bundle.''

''Oh, and Zaphod?''

''Er, yeah?''

''If you ever find you need help again, you  know,  if  you're  in
trouble, need a hand out of a tight corner ...''

''Yeah?''

''Please don't hesitate to get lost.''

Within the space of one second, a bolt of light flashed from  the
wizened  old  ghost's  hands to the computer, the ghost vanished,
the bridge filled with billowing smoke  and  the  Heart  of  Gold
leapt  an  unknown  distance  through  the dimensions of time and
space.

\chapter{}

Ten light years away, Gag Halfrunt jacked up his smile by several
notches.  As he watched the picture on his vision screen, relayed
across the sub-ether from the bridge of the Vogon  ship,  he  saw
the final shreds of the Heart of Gold's force-shield ripped away,
and the ship itself vanish in a puff of smoke.

Good, he thought.

The end of the last stray survivors  of  the  demolition  he  had
ordered on the planet Earth, he thought.

The final end of this dangerous (to the  psychiatric  profession)
and subversive (also to the psychiatric profession) experiment to
find the Question to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe,
and Everything, he thought.

There would be some celebration with his fellows tonight, and  in
the  morning  they would meet again their unhappy, bewildered and
highly profitable patients, secure  in  the  knowledge  that  the
Meaning  of  Life  would  not  now be, once and for all, well and
truly sorted out, he thought.

''Family's always embarrassing isn't it?'' said Ford to  Zaphod  as
the smoke began to clear.

He paused, then looked about.

''Where's Zaphod?'' he said.

Arthur and Trillian looked about  blankly.  They  were  pale  and
shaken and didn't know where Zaphod was.

''Marvin?'' said Ford, ''Where's Zaphod?''

A moment later he said:

''Where's Marvin?''

The robot's corner was empty.

The ship was  utterly  silent.  It  lay  in  thick  black  space.
Occasionally  it  rocked  and  swayed. Every instrument was dead,
every vision screen was dead. They  consulted  the  computer.  It
said:

''I  regret  that  I  have  been   temporarily   closed   to   all
communication. Meanwhile, here is some light music.''

They turned off the light music.

They searched every corner of the ship in increasing bewilderment
and  alarm. Everywhere was dead and silent. Nowhere was there any
trace of Zaphod or of Marvin.

One of the last areas they checked was the small bay in which the
Nutri-Matic machine was located.

On the delivery plate of the Nutri-Matic Drink Synthesizer was  a
small  tray,  on  which  sat three bone china cups and saucers, a
bone china jug of milk, a silver teapot  full  of  the  best  tea
Arthur had ever tasted, and a small printed note saying ''Wait''.

\chapter{}

Ursa Minor Beta is, some say, one of the most appalling places in
the known Universe.

Although it is excruciatingly rich, horrifyingly sunny  and  more
full  of  wonderfully  exciting  people  than a pomegranate is of
pips, it can hardly be insignificant that when a  recent  edition
of  Playbeing  magazine headlined an article with the words ''When
you are tired of Ursa Minor Beta you  are  tired  of  life'',  the
suicide rate quadrupled overnight.

Not that there are any nights on Ursa Minor Beta.

It is a West Zone planet which by an  inexplicable  and  somewhat
suspicious  freak  of topography consists almost entirely of sub-
tropical coastline. By an equally suspicious  freak  of  temporal
relastatics,  it  is nearly always Saturday afternoon just before
the beach bars close.

No adequate explanation for this has been  forthcoming  from  the
dominant  lifeforms  on  Ursa Minor Beta, who spend most of their
time attempting to achieve  spiritual  enlightenment  by  running
round  swimming  pools, and inviting Investigation Officials form
the Galactic Geo-Temporal Control Board to ''have a  nice  diurnal
anomaly''.

There is only one city on Ursa  Minor  Beta,  and  that  is  only
called  a city because the swimming pools are slightly thicker on
the ground there than elsewhere.

If you approach Light City by air - and there is no other way  of
approaching  it,  no roads, no port facilities - if you don't fly
they don't want to see you in Light City - you will  see  why  it
has  this  name. Here the sun shines brightest of all, glittering
on the  swimming  pools,  shimmering  on  the  white,  palm-lined
boulevards,  glistening  on  the healthy bronzed specks moving up
and down them, gleaming off the villas,  the  hazy  airpads,  the
beach bars and so on.

Most particularly it shines  on  a  building,  a  tall  beautiful
building  consisting  of two thirty-storey white towers connected
by a bridge half-way up their length.

The building is the home of a book, and was  built  here  on  the
proceeds  of  an  extraordinary copyright law suit fought between
the book's editors and a breakfast cereal company.

The book is a guide book, a travel book.

It is one of the most remarkable, certainly the most  successful,
books  ever  to  come out of the great publishing corporations of
Ursa Minor - more popular than Life Begins at  Five  Hundred  and
Fifty,  better selling than The Big Bang Theory - A Personal View
by Eccentrica Gallumbits (the triple breasted whore  of  Eroticon
Six)   and  more  controversial  than  Oolon  Colluphid's  latest
blockbusting title Everything You Never Wanted To Know About  Sex
But Have Been Forced To Find Out.

(And in many of the  more  relaxed  civilizations  on  the  Outer
Eastern  Rim  of  the  Galaxy,  it  has long surplanted the great
Encyclopaedia  Galactica  as  the  standard  repository  of   all
knowledge  and  wisdom,  for  though  it  has  many omissions and
contains much that is apocryphal, or at least wildly  inaccurate,
it  scores  over  the  older  and  more  pedestrian  work  in two
important respects. First, it is slightly cheaper,  and  secondly
it has the words Don't Panic printed in large friendly letters on
its cover.)

It is of course that invaluable companion for all those who  want
to  see  the  marvels  of the known Universe for less than thirty
Altairan Dollars a day - The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

If you stood with your back to the main  entrance  lobby  of  the
Guide  offices  (assuming  you had landed by now and freshened up
with a quick dip and shower) and then walked east, you would pass
along  the  leafy  shade of Life Boulevard, be amazed by the pale
golden colour of  the  beaches  stretching  away  to  your  left,
astounded  by the mind-surfers floating carelessly along two feet
above the waves as if  it  was  nothing  special,  surprised  and
eventually  slightly  irritated  by the giant palm trees that hum
toneless nothings throughout the daylight hours, in  other  words
continuously.

If you then walked to the end of Life Boulevard you  would  enter
the  Lalamatine  district  of  shops,  bolonut trees and pavement
cafes where the UM-Betans come to relax after a hard  afternoon's
relaxation  on the beach. The Lalamatine district is one of those
very few areas which doesn't enjoy a perpetual Saturday afternoon
-  it  enjoys  instead  the  cool  of  a perpetual early Saturday
evening. Behind it lie the night clubs.

If, on this particular day, afternoon, stretch of  eveningtime  -
call  it  what  you will - you had approached the second pavement
cafe on the right you would have seen  the  usual  crowd  of  UM-
Betans  chatting,  drinking,  looking  very relaxed, and casually
glancing at each other's watches to see how expensive they were.

You would also have seen a couple of rather  dishevelled  looking
hitch-hikers  from  Algol who had recently arrived on an Arcturan
Megafreighter aboard which they had been roughing it  for  a  few
days.  They  were  angry  and  bewildered  to discover that here,
within sight of the Hitch Hiker's Guide building itself, a simple
glass  of  fruit juice cost the equivalent of over sixty Altairan
dollars.

''Sell out,'' one of them said, bitterly.

If at that moment you had then looked at the next table  but  one
you  would  have  seen Zaphod Beeblebrox sitting and looking very
startled and confused.

The reason for his confusion was that five seconds earlier he had
been sitting on the bridge of the starship Heart of Gold.

''Absolute sell out,'' said the voice again.

Zaphod looked nervously out of the corners of his eyes at the two
dishevelled  hitch-hikers  at  the next table. Where the hell was
he? How had he got there? Where was his ship? His hand  felt  the
arm  of  the chair on which he was sitting, and then the table in
front of him. They seemed solid enough. He sat very still.

''How can they sit and write a guide for hitch-hikers in  a  place
like this?'' continued the voice. ''I mean look at it. Look at it!''

Zaphod was looking at it. Nice place, he thought. But where?  And
why?

He fished in his pocket for his two pairs of sunglasses.  In  the
same  pocket  he  felt  a  hard smooth, unidentified lump of very
heavy metal. He pulled it out and looked at it. He blinked at  it
in  surprise. Where had he got that? He returned it to his pocket
and put on the sunglasses, annoyed to  discover  that  the  metal
object  had  scratched  one  of the lenses. Nevertheless, he felt
much more comfortable with them on. They were a  double  pair  of
Joo  Janta  200 Super-Chromatic Peril Sensitive Sunglasses, which
had been specially designed to  help  people  develop  a  relaxed
attitude  to  danger.  At  the  first  hint  of trouble they turn
totally black and thus prevent  you  from  seeing  anything  that
might alarm you.

Apart from the scratch the lenses were  clear.  He  relaxed,  but
only a little bit.

The angry hitch-hiker  continued  to  glare  at  his  monstrously
expensive fruit juice.

''Worst thing that ever happened to  the  Guide,  moving  to  Ursa
Minor  Beta,'' he grumbled, ''they've all gone soft. You know, I've
even   heard  that   they've  created  a   whole   electronically
synthesized  Universe  in one of their offices so they can go and
research stories during the day and still go to  parties  in  the
evening. Not that day and evening mean much in this place.''

Ursa Minor Beta, thought Zaphod. At least he knew  where  he  was
now.  He assumed that this must be his great grandfather's doing,
but why?

Much to his annoyance, a thought popped into  his  mind.  It  was
very  clear  and  very distinct, and he had now come to recognize
these thoughts for what they were. His  instinct  was  to  resist
them.  They  were  the  pre-ordained promptings from the dark and
locked off parts of his mind.

He sat still and ignored the thought furiously. It nagged at him.
He ignored it. It nagged at him. He ignored it. It nagged at him.
He gave in to it.

What the hell, he thought, go with the flow. He  was  too  tired,
confused  and  hungry  to  resist.  He  didn't even know what the
thought meant.

\chapter{}

''Hello? Yes? Megadodo Publications, home  of  the  Hitch  Hiker's
Guide  to  the  Galaxy,  the  most totally remarkable book in the
whole of the known Universe, can I  help  you?''  said  the  large
pink-winged  insect into one of the seventy phones lined up along
the vast chrome expanse of the reception desk in the foyer of the
Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy offices. It fluttered its wings
and  rolled  its  eyes.  It  glared  at  all  the  grubby  people
cluttering  up  the  foyer, soiling the carpets and leaving dirty
handmarks on the upholstery. It  adored  working  for  the  Hitch
Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy, it just wished there was some way of
keeping all the hitch-hikers  away.  Weren't  they  meant  to  be
hanging  round dirty spaceports or something? It was certain that
it had read something somewhere in the book about the  importance
of  hanging  round  dirty  spaceports. Unfortunately most of them
seemed to come and hang around in this  nice  clean  shiny  foyer
after  hanging around in extremely dirty spaceports. And all they
ever did was complain. It shivered its wings.

''What?'' it said into the phone. ''Yes, I passed on your message to
Mr  Zarniwoop, but I'm afraid he's too cool to see you right now.
He's on an intergalactic cruise.''

It waved a petulant tentacle at one of the grubby people who  was
angrily  trying  to  engage  its attention. The petulant tentacle
directed the angry person to look at the notice on  the  wall  to
its left and not to interrupt an important phone call.

''Yes,'' said the insect, ''he is in his  office,  but  he's  on  an
intergalactic  cruise. Thank you so much for calling.'' It slammed
down the phone.

''Read the notice,'' it said to the angry man  who  was  trying  to
complain  about one of the more ludicrous and dangerous pieces of
misinformation contained in the book.

The Hitch  Hiker's  Guide  to  the  Galaxy  is  an  indispensable
companion  to  all those who are keen to make sense of life in an
infinitely complex and confusing Universe, for though  it  cannot
hope to be useful or informative on all matters, it does at least
make the reassuring claim, that where it is inaccurate it  is  at
least  definitely  inaccurate. In cases of major discrepancy it's
always reality that's got it wrong.

This  was  the  gist  of  the  notice.  It  said  ''The  Guide  is
definitive. Reality is frequently inaccurate.''

This has led to some interesting consequences. For instance, when
the  Editors  of the Guide were sued by the families of those who
had died as a result of taking the  entry  on  the  planet  Traal
literally  (it said ''Ravenous Bugblatter beasts often make a very
good meal for visiting tourists'' instead of ''Ravenous  Bugblatter
beasts  often  make  a very good meal of visiting tourists'') they
claimed that the first version  of  the  sentence  was  the  more
aesthetically  pleasing,  summoned  a  qualified  poet to testify
under oath that beauty was truth, truth beauty and hoped  thereby
to  prove that the guilty party was Life itself for failing to be
either beautiful or true. The judges concurred, and in  a  moving
speech  held  that Life itself was in contempt of court, and duly
confiscated it from all those there present before going  off  to
enjoy a pleasant evening's ultragolf.

Zaphod Beeblebrox entered the foyer. He strode up to  the  insect
receptionist.

''OK,'' he said, ''Where's Zarniwoop? Get me Zarniwoop.''

''Excuse me, sir?'' said the insect icily. It did not  care  to  be
addressed in this manner.

''Zarniwoop. Get him, right? Get him now.''

''Well, sir,'' snapped the fragile little creature, ''if  you  could
be a little cool about it ...''

''Look,'' said Zaphod, ''I'm up  to  here  with  cool,  OK?  I'm  so
amazingly  cool  you  could  keep  a side of meat inside me for a
month. I am so hip I have difficulty seeing over my  pelvis.  Now
will you move before you blow it?''

''Well, if you'd let me explain, sir,'' said the insect tapping the
most  petulant  of all the tentacles at its disposal, ''I'm afraid
that  isn't  possible  right  now  as  Mr  Zarniwoop  is  on   an
intergalactic cruise.''

Hell, thought Zaphod.

''When he's going to be back?'' he said.

''Back sir? He's in his office.''

Zaphod paused while he tried to sort this particular thought  out
in his mind. He didn't succeed.

''This cat's on an intergalactic cruise ...  in  his  office?''  He
leaned forward and gripped the tapping tentacle.

''Listen, three eyes,'' he said, ''don't you try to outweird  me.  I
get stranger things than you free with my breakfast cereal.''

''Well, just who do you think you are, honey?'' flounced the insect
quivering its wings in rage, ''Zaphod Beeblebrox or something?''

''Count the heads,'' said Zaphod in a low rasp.

The insect blinked at him. It blinked at him again.

''You are Zaphod Beeblebrox?'' it squeaked.

''Yeah,'' said Zaphod, ''but don't shout it out or they'll all  want
one.''

''The Zaphod Beeblebrox?''

''No, just a Zaphod Beeblebrox, didn't you  hear  I  come  in  six
packs?''

The insect rattled its tentacles together in agitation.

''But sir,'' it squealed, ''I just  heard  on  the  sub-ether  radio
report. It said that you were dead ...''

''Yeah, that's right,'' said Zaphod, ''I just haven't stopped moving
yet. Now. Where do I find Zarniwoop?''

''Well, sir, his office is on the fifteenth floor, but ...''

''But he's on an intergalactic cruise, yeah, yeah, how do I get to
him.''

''The newly  installed  Sirius  Cybernetics  Corporation  Vertical
People Transporters are in the far corner sir. But sir ...''

Zaphod was turning to go. He turned back.

''Yeah?'' he said.

''Can I ask you why you want to see Mr Zarniwoop?''

''Yeah,'' said Zaphod, who was unclear on this  point  himself,  ''I
told myself I had to.''

''Come again sir?''

Zaphod leaned forward, conspirationally.

''I just materialized out of thin air in one of  your  cafes,''  he
said,  ''as  a  result  of  an argument with the ghost of my great
grandfather. No sooner had I got there that my former  self,  the
one  that  operated on my brain, popped into my head and said `Go
see Zarniwoop'. I have never heard of the  cat.  That  is  all  I
know.  That  and the fact that I've got to find the man who rules
the Universe.''

He winked.

''Mr Beeblebrox, sir,'' said the insect in awed wonder, ''you're  so
weird you should be in movies.''

''Yeah,'' said Zaphod patting the thing on a glittering pink  wing,
''and you, baby, should be in real life.''

The insect paused for a moment to recover from its agitation  and
then reached out a tentacle to answer a ringing phone.

A metal hand restrained it.

''Excuse me,'' said the owner of the metal hand  in  a  voice  that
would  have  made  an  insect  of  a more sentimental disposition
collapse in tears.

This was not such an insect, and it couldn't stand robots.

''Yes, sir,'' it snapped, ''can I help you?''

''I doubt it,'' said Marvin.

''Well in that case, if you'll just excuse  me  ...''  Six  of  the
phones  were  now  ringing. A million things awaited the insect's
attention.

''No one can help me,'' intoned Marvin.

''Yes, sir, well ...''

''Not that anyone tried of course.''  The  restraining  metal  hand
fell  limply  by  Marvin's  side.  His  head  hung  forward  very
slightly.

''Is that so,'' said the insect tartly.

''Hardly worth anyone's while to help a menial robot is it?''

''I'm sorry, sir, if ...''

''I mean where's the percentage in being  kind  or  helpful  to  a
robot if it doesn't have any gratitude circuits?''

''And you don't have any?'' said the insect, who didn't seem to  be
able to drag itself out of this conversation.

''I've never had occasion to find out,'' Marvin informed it.

''Listen, you miserable heap of maladjusted metal ...''

''Aren't you going to ask me what I want?''

The insect paused. Its long thin tongue darted out and licked its
eyes and darted back again.

''Is it worth it?'' it asked.

''Is anything?'' said Marvin immediately.

''What ... do ... you ... want?''

''I'm looking for someone.''

''Who?'' hissed the insect.

''Zaphod Beeblebrox,'' said Marvin, ''he's over there.''

The insect shook with rage. It could hardly speak.

''Then why did you ask me?'' it screamed.

''I just wanted something to talk to,'' said Marvin.

''What!''

''Pathetic isn't it?''

With a grinding of gears  Marvin  turned  and  trundled  off.  He
caught  up  with  Zaphod  approaching  the elevators. Zaphod span
round in astonishment.

''Hey ... Marvin!'' he said, ''Marvin! How did you get here?''

Marvin was forced to say something which came very hard to him.

''I don't know,'' he said.

''But ...''

''One moment I was sitting in your ship  feeling  very  depressed,
and   the  next  moment  I  was  standing  here  feeling  utterly
miserable. An Improbability Field I expect.''

''Yeah,'' said Zaphod, ''I expect  my  great  grandfather  sent  you
along to keep me company.''

''Thanks a bundle grandad,'' he added to himself under his breath.

''So, how are you?'' he said aloud.

''Oh, fine,'' said Marvin, ''if you happen to like  being  me  which
personally I don't.''

''Yeah, yeah,'' said Zaphod as the elevator doors opened.

''Hello,'' said the elevator sweetly, ''I am to be your elevator for
this  trip  to  the floor of your choice. I have been designed by
the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation to take you,  the  visitor  to
the  Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy, into these their offices.
If you enjoy your ride, which will be swift and pleasurable, then
you may care to experience some of the other elevators which have
recently been installed  in  the  offices  of  the  Galactic  tax
department,  Boobiloo  Baby  Foods  and  the  Sirian State Mental
Hospital, where many ex-Sirius Cybernetics Corporation executives
will  be  delighted  to  welcome your visits, sympathy, and happy
tales of the outside world.''

''Yeah,'' said Zaphod, stepping into  it,  ''what  else  do  you  do
besides talk?''

''I go up,'' said the elevator, ''or down.''

''Good,'' said Zaphod, ''We're going up.''

''Or down,'' the elevator reminded him.

''Yeah, OK, up please.''

There was a moment of silence.

''Down's very nice,'' suggested the elevator hopefully.

''Oh yeah?''

''Super.''

''Good,'' said Zaphod, ''Now will you take us up?''

''May I ask you,'' inquired the  elevator  in  its  sweetest,  most
reasonable  voice,  ''if  you've  considered all the possibilities
that down might offer you?''

Zaphod knocked one of his  heads  against  the  inside  wall.  He
didn't  need  this,  he thought to himself, this of all things he
had no need of. He hadn't asked to be here. If he  was  asked  at
this moment where he would like to be he would probably have said
he would like to be lying  on  the  beach  with  at  least  fifty
beautiful  women and a small team of experts working out new ways
they could be nice to him, which was his usual reply. To this  he
would  probably have added something passionate on the subject of
food.

One thing he didn't want to be doing was chasing  after  the  man
who  ruled  the Universe, who was only doing a job which he might
as well keep at, because if  it  wasn't  him  it  would  only  be
someone  else.  Most  of  all he didn't want to be standing in an
office block arguing with an elevator.

''Like what other possibilities?'' he asked wearily.

''Well,'' the voice trickled on like honey  on  biscuits,  ''there's
the basement, the microfiles, the heating system ... er ...''

It paused.

''Nothing particularly  exciting,''  it  admitted,  ''but  they  are
alternatives.''

''Holy Zarquon,'' muttered Zaphod, ''did I ask for an existentialist
elevator?'' he beat his fists against the wall.

''What's the matter with the thing?'' he spat.

''It doesn't want to go up,'' said Marvin  simply,  ''I  think  it's
afraid.''

''Afraid?'' cried Zaphod, ''Of what?  Heights?  An  elevator  that's
afraid of heights?''

''No,'' said the elevator miserably, ''of the future ...''

''The future?'' exclaimed Zaphod, ''What  does  the  wretched  thing
want, a pension scheme?''

At that moment a commotion broke out in the reception hall behind
them.  From  the  walls  around  them  came the sound of suddenly
active machinery.

''We can all see into the future,'' whispered the elevator in  what
sounded like terror, ''it's part of our programming.''

Zaphod looked out  of  the  elevator  -  an  agitated  crowd  had
gathered round the elevator area, pointing and shouting.

Every elevator in the building was coming down, very fast.

He ducked back in.

''Marvin,'' he said, ''just get this elevator go up will you?  We've
got to get to Zarniwoop.''

''Why?'' asked Marvin dolefully.

''I don't know,'' said Zaphod, ''but when I find  him,  he'd  better
have a very good reason for me wanting to see him.''

Modern elevators are strange and complex  entities.  The  ancient
electric  winch and ''maximum-capacity-eight-persons'' jobs bear as
much relation to a Sirius Cybernetics Corporation Happy  Vertical
People  Transporter  as a packet of mixed nuts does to the entire
west wing of the Sirian State Mental Hospital.

This  is  because  they  operate  on  the  curios  principle   of
''defocused  temporal  perception''.  In  other words they have the
capacity to see dimly into the immediate  future,  which  enables
the  elevator to be on the right floor to pick you up even before
you  knew  you  wanted  it,  thus  eliminating  all  the  tedious
chatting,   relaxing,   and   making  friends  that  people  were
previously forced to do whist waiting for elevators.

Not unnaturally, many  elevators  imbued  with  intelligence  and
precognition   became   terribly  frustrated  with  the  mindless
business of going up and down, up and down, experimented  briefly
with  the  notion  of  going  sideways,  as a sort of existential
protest, demanded participation in  the  decision-making  process
and finally took to squatting in basements sulking.

An impoverished hitch-hiker visiting any planets  in  the  Sirius
star  system  these  days  can  pick  up  easy money working as a
counsellor for neurotic elevators.

At the fifteenth floor the elevator doors opened quickly.

''Fifteenth,'' said the elevator, ''and  remember,  I'm  only  doing
this because I like your robot.''

Zaphod and Marvin bundled out of  the  elevator  which  instantly
snapped its doors shut and dropped as fast as its mechanism would
take it.

Zaphod looked around warily. The corridor was deserted and silent
and  gave  no  clue as to where Zarniwoop might be found. All the
doors that led off the corridor were closed and unmarked.

They were standing close to the bridge which led across from  one
tower  of  the  building to the other. Through a large window the
brilliant sun of Ursa Minor Beta threw blocks of light  in  which
danced small specks of dust. A shadow flitted past momentarily.

''Left in the lurch by a lift,'' muttered Zaphod, who  was  feeling
at his least jaunty.

They both stood and looked in both directions.

''You know something?'' said Zaphod to Marvin.

''More that you can possibly imagine.''

''I'm dead certain this building  shouldn't  be  shaking,''  Zaphod
said.

It was just a light tremor through the soles of his  feet  -  and
another  one.  In  the  sunbeams  the  flecks of dust danced more
vigorously. Another shadow flitted past.

Zaphod looked at the floor.

''Either,'' he said, not very confidently, ''they've got some  vibro
system for toning up your muscles while you work, or ...''

He walked across to the window and suddenly stumbled  because  at
that  moment  his  Joo  Janta 200 Super-Chromatic Peril Sensitive
sunglasses had turned utterly black. A large shadow flitted  past
the window with a sharp buzz.

Zaphod ripped off his sunglasses, and as he did so  the  building
shook with a thunderous roar. He leapt to the window.

''Or,'' he said, ''this building's being bombed!''

Another roar cracked through the building.

''Who in the Galaxy would want  to  bomb  a  publishing  company?''
asked  Zaphod,  but  never  heard  Marvin's reply because at that
moment the building shook with another bomb attack. He  tried  to
stagger back to the elevator - a pointless manoeuvre he realized,
but the only one he could think of.

Suddenly, at the end of the corridor leading at right angles from
this  one,  he caught sight of a figure as it lunged into view, a
man. The man saw him.

''Beeblebrox, over here!'' he shouted.

Zaphod eyed him with distrust as another bomb  blast  rocked  the
building.

''No,'' called Zaphod, ''Beeblebrox over here! Who are you?''

''A friend!'' shouted back the man. He ran towards Zaphod.

''Oh yeah?'' said Zaphod, ''Anyone's friend in particular,  or  just
generally well disposed of people?''

The man raced along the corridor, the floor bucking  beneath  his
feet   like   an  excited  blanket.  He  was  short,  stocky  and
weatherbeaten and his clothes looked  as  if  they'd  been  twice
round the Galaxy and back with him in them.

''Do you know,'' Zaphod shouted in his ear when he  arrived,  ''your
building's being bombed?''

The man indicated his awareness.

It suddenly stopped being light. Glancing round at the window  to
see   why,  Zaphod  gaped  as  a  huge  sluglike,  gunmetal-green
spacecraft crept through the air  past  the  building.  Two  more
followed it.

''The government you deserted is out to get you,  Zaphod,''  hissed
the man, ''they've sent a squadron of Frogstar Fighters.''

''Frogstar Fighters!'' muttered Zaphod, ''Zarquon!''

''You get the picture?''

''What are Frogstar Fighters?'' Zaphod was sure he'd heard  someone
talk  about  them  when  he was President, but he never paid much
attention to official matters.

The man was pulling him back through a door. He  went  with  him.
With  a  searing  whine  a  small  black  spider-like object shot
through the air and disappeared down the corridor.

''What was that?'' hissed Zaphod.

''Frogstar Scout robot class A out looking for you,'' said the man.

''Hey yeah?''

''Get down!''

From the opposite  direction  came  a  larger  black  spider-like
object. It zapped past them.

''And that was ...?''

''A Frogstar Scout robot class B out looking for you.''

''And that?'' said Zaphod, as a third one seared through the air.

''A Frogstar Scout robot class C out looking for you.''

''Hey,'' chuckled Zaphod to himself, ''pretty stupid robots eh?''

From over the bridge came a  massive  rumbling  hum.  A  gigantic
black  shape was moving over it from the opposite tower, the size
and shape of a tank.

''Holy photon, what's that?''

''A tank,'' said the man, ''Frogstar Scout robot class D come to get
you.''

''Should we leave?''

''I think we should.''

''Marvin!'' called Zaphod.

''What do you want?''

Marvin rose from a pile of rubble further down the  corridor  and
looked at them.

''You see that robot coming towards us?''

Marvin looked at the gigantic black shape edging forward  towards
them over the bridge. He looked down at his own small metal body.
He looked back up at the tank.

''I suppose you want me to stop it,'' he said.

''Yeah.''

''Whilst you save your skins.''

''Yeah,'' said Zaphod, ''get in there!''

''Just so long,'' said Marvin, ''as I know where I stand.''

The man tugged at Zaphod's arm, and Zaphod followed him off  down
the corridor.

A point occurred to him about this.

''Where are we going?'' he said.

''Zarniwoop's office.''

''Is this any time to keep an appointment?''

''Come on.''

\chapter{}

Marvin stood at the end of the bridge corridor.  He  was  not  in
fact  a  particularly small robot. His silver body gleamed in the
dusty sunbeams and shook with the  continual  barrage  which  the
building was still undergoing.

He did, however, look pitifully small as the gigantic black  tank
rolled  to  a  halt in front of him. The tank examined him with a
probe. The probe withdrew.

Marvin stood there.

''Out of my way little robot,'' growled the tank.

''I'm afraid,'' said Marvin, ''that I've  been  left  here  to  stop
you.''

The probe extended again for a quick recheck. It withdrew again.

''You? Stop me?'' roared the tank. ''Go on!''

''No, really I have,'' said Marvin simply.

''What are you armed with?'' roared the tank in disbelief.

''Guess,'' said Marvin.

The tank's engines  rumbled,  its  gears  ground.  Molecule-sized
electronic  relays  deep in its micro-brain flipped backwards and
forwards in consternation.

''Guess?'' said the tank.

Zaphod and the as yet unnamed man lurched up one corridor, down a
second  and  along  a  third.  The building continued to rock and
judder and this puzzled  Zaphod.  If  they  wanted  to  blow  the
building up, why was it taking so long?

With difficulty they reached one of a number of totally anonymous
unmarked doors and heaved at it. With a sudden jolt it opened and
they fell inside.

All this way, thought Zaphod, all this  trouble,  all  this  not-
lying-on-the-beach-having-a-wonderful-time,   and   for  what?  A
single chair, a single desk and a  single  dirty  ashtray  in  an
undecorated  office.  The  desk, apart from a bit of dancing dust
and single, revolutionary form of paper clip, was empty.

''Where,'' said Zaphod, ''is Zarniwoop?'' feeling  that  his  already
tenuous  grasp  of the point of this whole exercise was beginning
to slip.

''He's on an intergalactic cruise,'' said the man.

Zaphod tried to size the man up. Earnest type, he thought, not  a
barrel  of  laughs.  He  probably apportioned a fair whack of his
time to running up and  down  heaving  corridors,  breaking  down
doors and making cryptic remarks in empty offices.

''Let me introduce myself,'' the man said, ''My name is Roosta,  and
this is my towel.''

''Hello Roosta,'' said Zaphod.

''Hello, towel,'' he added as Roosta held out to him a rather nasty
old flowery towel. Not knowing what to do with it, he shook it by
the corner.

Outside the window, one of  the  huge  slug-like,  gunmetal-green
spaceships growled past.

''Yes, go on,'' said Marvin to the  huge  battle  machine,  ''you'll
never guess.''

''Errmmm  ...''  said  the  machine,  vibrating  with  unaccustomed
thought, ''laser beams?''

Marvin shook his head solemnly.

''No,'' muttered the machine in  its  deep  guttural  rumble,  ''Too
obvious. Anti-matter ray?'' it hazarded.

''Far too obvious,'' admonished Marvin.

''Yes,'' grumbled the machine, somewhat abashed, ''Er ... how  about
an electron ram?''

This was new to Marvin.

''What's that?'' he said.

''One of these,'' said the machine with enthusiasm.

From its turret emerged a sharp prong which spat a single  lethal
blaze  of  light.  Behind Marvin a wall roared and collapsed as a
heap of dust. The dust billowed briefly, then settled.

''No,'' said Marvin, ''not one of those.''

''Good though, isn't it?''

''Very good,'' agreed Marvin.

''I  know,''  said  the  Frogstar  battle  machine,  after  another
moment's  consideration,  ''you must have one of those new Xanthic
Re-Structron Destabilized Zenon Emitters!''

''Nice, aren't they?'' said Marvin.

''That's what you've got?'' said the machine in considerable awe.

''No,'' said Marvin.

''Oh,'' said the machine, disappointed, ''then it must be ...''

''You're thinking along the wrong  lines,''  said  Marvin,  ''You're
failing  to  take  into  account  something  fairly  basic in the
relationship between men and robots.''

''Er, I know,'' said the battle machine, ''is it ...'' it tailed  off
into thought again.

''Just think,'' urged Marvin, ''they left me,  an  ordinary,  menial
robot,  to stop you, a gigantic heavy-duty battle machine, whilst
they ran off to save themselves. What do  you  think  they  would
leave me with?''

''Oooh, er,'' muttered the machine in alarm, ''something pretty damn
devastating I should expect.''

''Expect!'' said Marvin, ''oh yes, expect. I'll tell you  what  they
gave me to protect myself with shall I@''

''Yes, alright,'' said the battle machine, bracing itself.

''Nothing,'' said Marvin.

There was a dangerous pause.

''Nothing?'' roared the battle machine.

''Nothing at all,'' intoned Marvin  dismally,  ''not  an  electronic
sausage.''

The machine heaved about with fury.

''Well, doesn't that just take the biscuit!'' it roared,  ''Nothing,
eh? Just don't think, do they?''

''And me,'' said Marvin in a soft low voice,  ''with  this  terrible
pain in all the diodes down my left side.''

''Makes you spit, doesn't it?''

''Yes,'' agreed Marvin with feeling.

''Hell that makes me angry,'' bellowed  the  machine,  ''think  I'll
smash that wall down!''

The electron ram stabbed out another searing blaze of  light  and
took out the wall next to the machine.

''How do you think I feel?'' said Marvin bitterly.

''Just ran off and left you, did they?'' the machine thundered.

''Yes,'' said Marvin.

''I think I'll shoot down their bloody ceiling as well!'' raged the
tank.

It took out the ceiling of the bridge.

''That's very impressive,'' murmured Marvin.

''You ain't seeing nothing yet,'' promised the machine, ''I can take
out this floor too, no trouble!''

It took out the floor, too.

''Hell's bells!''  the  machine  roared  as  it  plummeted  fifteen
storeys and smashed itself to bits on the ground below.

''What a depressingly stupid machine,''  said  Marvin  and  trudged
away.

\chapter{}

''So, do we just sit here, or what?'' said Zaphod angrily, ''what do
these guys out here want?''

''You, Beeblebrox,'' said Roosta, ''they're going to take you to the
Frogstar - the most totally evil world in the Galaxy.''

''Oh, yeah?'' said Zaphod. ''They'll have to come and get me first.''

''They have come and got you,''  said  Roosta,  ''look  out  of  the
window.''

Zaphod looked, and gaped.

''The ground's going away!'' he gasped, ''where are they taking  the
ground?''

''They're taking the building,'' said Roosta, ''we're airborne.''

Clouds streaked past the office window.

Out in the open air again Zaphod could see the ring of dark green
Frogstar  Fighters  round  the  uprooted tower of the building. A
network of force beams radiated in from them and held  the  tower
in a firm grip.

Zaphod shook his head in perplexity.

''What have I done to deserve this?''  he  said,  ''I  walk  into  a
building, they take it away.''

''It's not what you've done they're worried about,''  said  Roosta,
''it's what you're going to do.''

''Well don't I get a say in that?''

''You did, years ago. You'd better hold on, we're in  for  a  fast
and bumpy journey.''

''If I ever meet myself,'' said Zaphod, ''I'll hit myself so hard  I
won't know what's hit me.''

Marvin trudged in through the door, looked at Zaphod  accusingly,
slumped in a corner and switched himself off.

On the bridge of the Heart of Gold, all was silent. Arthur stared
at  the  rack  in  front of him and thought. He caught Trillian's
eyes as she looked at him inquiringly.  He  looked  back  at  the
rack.

Finally he saw it.

He picked up five small plastic squares  and  laid  them  on  the
board that lay just in front of the rack.

The five squares had on them the five letters E, X, Q, U  and  I.
He laid them next to the letters S, I, T, E.

''Exquisite,'' he said, ''on a triple word score.  Scores  rather  a
lot I'm afraid.''

The ship bumped and scattered some of the letters for  the  'n'th
time.

Trillian sighed and started to sort them out again.

Up and down the silent corridors echoed Ford Prefect's feet as he
stalked the ship thumping dead instruments.

Why did the ship keep shaking? he thought.

Why did it rock and sway?

Why could he not find out where they were?

Where, basically, were they?

The left-hand tower of the Hitch  Hiker's  Guide  to  the  Galaxy
offices  streaked  through  interstellar  space  at a speed never
equalled either before or since by any other office block in  the
Universe.

In a room halfway up it, Zaphod Beeblebrox strode angrily.

Roosta sat on the edge of  the  desk  doing  some  routine  towel
maintenance.

''Hey, where did you say this building was  flying  to?''  demanded
Zaphod.

''The Frogstar,'' said Roosta, ''the most totally evil place in  the
Universe.''

''Do they have food there?'' said Zaphod.

''Food? You're going to the  Frogstar  and  you're  worried  about
whether they got food?''

''Without food I may not make it to the Frogstar.''

Out of the window, they could  see  nothing  but  the  flickering
light  of  the  force  beams,  and vague green streaks which were
presumably the distorted shapes of the Frogstar Fighters. At this
speed, space itself was invisible, and indeed unreal.

''Here, suck this,'' said Roosta, offering Zaphod his towel.

Zaphod stared at him as if he expected a cuckoo to  leap  out  of
his forehead on a small spring.

''It's soaked in nutrients,'' explained Roosta.

''What are you, a messy eater or something?'' said Zaphod.

''The yellow stripes are high in  protein,  the  green  ones  have
vitamin  B  and  C  complexes,  the  little  pink flowers contain
wheatgerm extracts.''

Zaphod took and looked at it in amazement.

''What are the brown stains?'' he asked.

''Bar-B-Q sauce,'' said Roosta, ''for when I get sick of wheatgerm.''

Zaphod sniffed it doubtfully.

Even more doubtfully, he sucked a corner. He spat it out again.

''Ugh,'' he stated.

''Yes,'' said Roosta, ''when I've had to suck  that  end  I  usually
need to suck the other end a bit too.''

''Why,'' asked Zaphod suspiciously, ''what's in that?''

''Anti-depressants,'' said Roosta.

''I've gone right off this towel, you know,'' said  Zaphod  handing
it back.

Roosta took it back from him, swung himself off the desk,  walked
round it, sat in the chair and put his feet up.

''Beeblebrox,'' he said, sticking his hands behind his head,  ''have
you any idea what's going to happen to you on the Frogstar?''

''They're going to feed me?'' hazarded Zaphod hopefully.

''They're going  to  feed  you,''  said  Roosta,  ''into  the  Total
Perspective Vortex!''

Zaphod had never heard of this. He believed that he had heard  of
all  the  fun  things in the Galaxy, so he assumed that the Total
Perspective Vortex was not fun. He asked what it was.

''Only,'' said Roosta, ''the most savage psychic torture a sentinent
being can undergo.''

Zaphod nodded a resigned nod.

''So,'' he said, ''no food, huh?''

''Listen!'' said Roosta urgently, ''you can kill a man, destroy  his
body, break his spirit, but only the Total Perspective Vortex can
annihilate a man's soul! The treatment  lasts  seconds,  but  the
effect lasts the rest of your life!''

''You ever had  a  Pan  Galactic  Gargle  Blaster?''  asked  Zaphod
sharply.

''This is worse.''

''Phreeow!'' admitted Zaphod, much impressed.

''Any idea why these guys might want to do this to me?'' he added a
moment later.

''They believe it will be the best way of destroying you for ever.
They know what you're after.''

''Could they drop me a note and let me know as well?''

''You know,'' said Roosta, ''you know, Beeblebrox. You want to  meet
the man who rules the Universe.''

''Can he cook?'' said Zaphod. On reflection he added:

''I doubt if he can. If he could cook  a  good  meal  he  wouldn't
worry about the rest of the Universe. I want to meet a cook.''

Roosta sighed heavily.

''What are you doing here anyway?'' demanded  Zaphod,  ''what's  all
this got to so with you?''

''I'm just one  of  those  who  planned  this  thing,  along  with
Zarniwoop,  along  with  Yooden  Vranx,  along  with  your  great
grandfather, along with you, Beeblebrox.''

''Me?''

''Yes, you. I was told you  had  changed,  I  didn't  realize  how
much.''

''But ...''

''I am here to do one job. I will do it before I leave you.''

''What job, man, what are you talking about?''

''I will do it before I leave you.''

Roosta lapsed into an impenetrable silence.

Zaphod was terribly glad.

\chapter{}

The air around the second planet of the Frogstar system was stale
and unwholesome.

The dank winds that swept continually over its surface swept over
salt  flats,  dried  up marshland, tangled and rotting vegetation
and the crumbling remains of ruined cities. No life moved  across
its  surface.  The ground, like that of many planets in this part
of the Galaxy, had long been deserted.

The howl of the wind was desolate enough as it gusted through the
old  decaying  houses  of  the cities; it was more desolate as it
whipped about the bottoms of the tall black  towers  that  swayed
uneasily  here  and there about the surface of this world. At the
top of these  towers  lived  colonies  of  large,  scraggy,  evil
smelling  birds, the sole survivors of the civilization that once
lived here.

The howl of the wind was at its most desolate, however,  when  it
passed  over a pimple of a place set in the middle of a wide grey
plain on the outskirts of the largest of the abandoned cities.

This pimple of a place was the thing that had earned  this  world
the  reputation  of  being  the  most  totally  evil place in the
Galaxy. From without it was simply a steel dome about thirty feet
across. From within it was something more monstrous than the mind
can comprehend.

About a hundred yards or so away, and  separated  from  it  by  a
pockmarked and blasted stretch of the most barren land imaginable
was what would probably have to be described as a landing pad  of
sorts. That is to say that scattered over a largish area were the
ungainly hulks of two or three dozen crash-landed buildings.

Flitting over and around these buildings was a mind, a mind  that
was waiting for something.

The mind directed its attention into the  air,  and  before  very
long  a  distant  speck appeared, surrounded by a ring of smaller
specks.

The larger speck was the left-hand tower  of  the  Hitch  Hiker's
Guide  to  the  Galaxy  office  building,  descending through the
stratosphere of Frogstar World B.

As it descended, Roosta suddenly  broke  the  long  uncomfortable
silence that had grown up between the two men.

He stood up and gathered his towel into a bag. He said:

''Beeblebrox, I will now do the job I was sent here to do.''

Zaphod looked up at him from where he was  sitting  in  a  corner
sharing unspoken thoughts with Marvin.

''Yeah?'' he said.

''The building  will  shortly  be  landing.  When  you  leave  the
building, do not go out of the door,'' said Roosta, ''go out of the
window.''

''Good luck,'' he added, and walked out of the  door,  disappearing
from Zaphod's life as mysteriously as he had entered it.

Zaphod leapt up and tried the door, but Roosta had already looked
it. He shrugged and returned to the corner.

Two minutes later, the building  crashlanded  amongst  the  other
wreckage. Its escort of Frogstar Fighters deactivated their force
beams and soared off into the air again, bound for Frogstar World
A,  an  altogether  more  congenial  spot.  They  never landed on
Frogstar World B. No one did. No one ever walked on  its  surface
other than the intended victims of the Total Perspective Vortex.

Zaphod was badly shaken by the crash. He lay for a while  in  the
silent  dusty  rubble to which most of the room had been reduced.
He felt that he was at the lowest ebb he had ever reached in  his
life.  He  felt  bewildered,  he  felt  lonely,  he felt unloved.
Eventually he felt he ought to get whatever it was over with.

He looked around the cracked and broken room. The wall had  split
round the door frame, and the door hung open. The window, by some
miracle was closed and unbroken. For a while he  hesitated,  then
he  thought  that  if  his  strange and recent companion had been
through all that he had been through just to tell him what he had
told  him, then there must be a good reason for it. With Marvin's
help he got the window  open.  Outside  it,  the  cloud  of  dust
aroused  by  the crash, and the hulks of the other buildings with
which this one was surrounded, effectively prevented Zaphod  from
seeing anything of the world outside.

Not that this concerned him unduly. His main concern was what  he
saw  when he looked down. Zarniwoop's office was on the fifteenth
floor. The building had landed at  a  tilt  of  about  forty-five
degrees, but still the descent looked heart-stopping.

Eventually, stung by the continuous series of contemptuous  looks
that  Marvin appeared to be giving him, he took a deep breath and
clambered out on to the steeply inclined side  of  the  building.
Marvin  followed him, and together they began to crawl slowly and
painfully down the fifteen floors that separated  them  from  the
ground.

As he crawled, the dank air and dust choked his lungs,  his  eyes
smarted and the terrifying distance down made his heads spin.

The occasional remark from Marvin of the order of  ''This  is  the
sort  of  thing  you  lifeforms  enjoy  is  it?  I ask merely for
information,'' did little to improve his state of mind.

About half-way down the  side  of  the  shattered  building  they
stopped to rest. It seemed to Zaphod as he lay there panting with
fear and exhaustion that Marvin seemed a mite more cheerful  than
usual.  Eventually  he  realized  this  wasn't so. The robot just
seemed cheerful in comparison with his own mood.

A large, scraggy black bird  came  flapping  through  the  slowly
settling  clouds  of  dust and, stretching down its scrawny legs,
landed on an inclined window ledge a couple of yards from Zaphod.
It folded its ungainly wings and teetered awkwardly on its perch.

Its wingspan must have been something like six feet, and its head
and  neck  seemed  curiously large for a bird. Its face was flat,
the beak underdeveloped, and half-way along the underside of  its
wings the vestiges of something handlike could be clearly seen.

In fact, it looked almost human.

It turned its heavy eyes on Zaphod and  clicked  its  beak  in  a
desultory fashion.

''Go away,'' said Zaphod.

''OK,'' muttered the bird morosely and flapped off  into  the  dust
again.

Zaphod watched its departure in bewilderment.

''Did that bird just talk to me?'' he asked  Marvin  nervously.  He
was  quite  prepared to believe the alternative explanation, that
he was in fact hallucinating.

''Yes,'' confirmed Marvin.

''Poor souls,'' said a deep, ethereal voice in Zaphod's ear.

Twisting round violently to find the source of the  voice  nearly
caused  Zaphod to fall off the building. He grabbed savagely at a
protruding window fitting and cut his hand on  it.  He  hung  on,
breathing heavily.

The voice had no visible source  whatever  -  there  was  no  one
there. Nevertheless, it spoke again.

''A tragic history behind them, you know. A terrible blight.''

Zaphod looked wildly about. The voice  was  deep  and  quiet.  In
other circumstances it would even be described as soothing. There
is,  however,  nothing  soothing  about  being  addressed  by   a
disembodied  voice  out of nowhere, particularly if you are, like
Zaphod Beeblebrox, not at your best  and  hanging  from  a  ledge
eight storeys up a crashed building.

''Hey, er ...'' he stammered.

''Shall I tell you their story?'' inquired the voice quietly.

''Hey, who are you?'' panted Zaphod. ''Where are you?''

''Later then, perhaps,'' murmured the voice. ''I am Gargravarr. I am
the Custodian of the Total Perspective Vortex.''

''Why can't I see ...''

''You  will  find  your  progress  down   the   building   greatly
facilitated,''  the  voice lifted, ''if you move about two yards to
your left. Why don't you try it?''

Zaphod looked and  saw  a  series  of  short  horizontal  grooves
leading  all the way down the side of the building. Gratefully he
shifted himself across to them.

''Why don't I see you again at the bottom?'' said the voice in  his
ear, and as it spoke it faded.

''Hey,'' called out Zaphod, ''Where are you ...''

''It'll only take a couple of minutes ...''  said  the  voice  very
faintly.

''Marvin,'' said Zaphod earnestly to the robot squatting dejectedly
next to him, ''Did a ... did a voice just ...''

''Yes,'' Marvin replied tersely.

Zaphod nodded. He took out his Peril Sensitive Sunglasses  again.
They  were  completely black, and by now quite badly scratched by
the unexpected metal object in his pocket. He  put  them  on.  He
would  find  his  way  down  the  building more comfortably if he
didn't actually have to look at what he was doing.

Minutes  later  he  clambered  over  the   ripped   and   mangled
foundations   of   the  building  and,  once  more  removing  his
sunglasses, he dropped to the ground.

Marvin joined him a moment or so later and lay face down  in  the
dust and rubble, from which position he seemed too disinclined to
move.

''Ah, there you are,'' said the voice  suddenly  in  Zaphod's  ear,
''excuse  me  leaving  you  like  that,  it's  just  that I have a
terrible head for heights. At least,'' it added wistfully, ''I  did
have a terrible head for heights.''

Zaphod looked around slowly and carefully, just to see if he  had
missed  something  which might be the source of the voice. All he
saw, however, was the dust, the rubble and the towering hulks  of
the encircling buildings.

''Hey, er, why can't I see you?'' he said, ''why aren't you here?''

''I am here,'' said the voice slowly, ''my body wanted to  come  but
it's  a  bit  busy  at  the moment. Things to do, people to see.''
After what seemed like a sort of ethereal  sigh  it  added,  ''You
know how it is with bodies.''

Zaphod wasn't sure about this.

''I thought I did,'' he said.

''I only hope it's gone for a rest  cure,''  continued  the  voice,
''the  way  it's  been  living  recently  it  must  be on its last
elbows.''

''Elbows?'' said Zaphod, ''don't you mean last legs?''

The  voice  said  nothing  for  a  while.  Zaphod  looked  around
uneasily.  He  didn't  know  if it was gone or was still there or
what it was doing. Then the voice spoke again.

''So, you are to be put into the Vortex, yes?''

''Er, well,'' said Zaphod with a very poor attempt at  nonchalance,
''this  cat's  in  no hurry, you know. I can just slouch about and
take in a look at the local scenery, you know?''

''Have you seen the local scenery?'' asked the voice of Gargravarr.

''Er, no.''

Zaphod clambered over the rubble, and rounded the corner  of  one
of the wrecked buildings that was obscuring his view.

He looked out at the landscape of Frogstar World B.

''Ah, OK,'' he said, ''I'll just sort of slouch about then.''

''No,'' said Gargravarr, ''the Vortex is ready for you now. You must
come. Follow me.''

''Er, yeah?'' said Zaphod, ''and how am I meant to do that?''

''I'll hum for you,'' said Gargravarr, ''follow the humming.''

A soft keening sound drifted through the air, a pale,  sad  sound
that  seemed  to  be  without  any  kind of focus. It was only by
listening very carefully that  Zaphod  was  able  to  detect  the
direction  from which it was coming. Slowly, dazedly, he stumbled
off in its wake. What else was there to do?

\chapter{}

The Universe, as has been observed before, is an unsettlingly big
place, a fact which for the sake of a quiet life most people tend
to ignore.

Many would happily move to somewhere rather smaller of their  own
devising, and this is what most beings in fact do.

For instance, in one corner of the Eastern Galactic Arm lies  the
large forest planet Oglaroon, the entire ''intelligent'' population
of which lives permanently in one fairly small  and  crowded  nut
tree. In which tree they are born, live, fall in love, carve tiny
speculative articles in the bark on  the  meaning  of  life,  the
futility  of  death  and the importance of birth control, fight a
few extremely minor wars, and  eventually  die  strapped  to  the
underside of some of the less accessible outer branches.

In fact the only Oglaroonians who ever leave their tree are those
who  are  hurled  out  of  it  for the heinous crime of wondering
whether any of the other trees might  be  capable  of  supporting
life at all, or indeed whether the other trees are anything other
than illusions brought on by eating too many Oglanuts.

Exotic though this behaviour may seem, there is no life  form  in
the  Galaxy  which  is  not in some way guilty of the same thing,
which is why the Total Perspective Vortex is as  horrific  as  it
is.

For when you are put into the  Vortex  you  are  given  just  one
momentary   glimpse   of  the  entire  unimaginable  infinity  of
creation, and somewhere in it a tiny little marker, a microscopic
dot on a microscopic dot, which says ''You are here.''

The grey plain  stretched  before  Zaphod,  a  ruined,  shattered
plain. The wind whipped wildly over it.

Visible in the middle was the steel pimple  of  the  dome.  This,
gathered  Zaphod,  was  where  he  was  going. This was the Total
Perspective Vortex.

As he stood and gazed bleakly at it, a  sudden  inhuman  wail  of
terror  emanated  from  it as of a man having his soul burnt from
his body. It screamed above the wind and died away.

Zaphod started with fear and his blood seemed to turn  to  liquid
helium.

''Hey, what was that?'' he muttered voicelessly.

''A recording,'' said Gargravarr, ''of the last man who was  put  in
the  Vortex.  It  is  always played to the next victim. A sort of
prelude.''

''Hey, it really sounds bad ...'' stammered  Zaphod,  ''couldn't  we
maybe  slope  off  to  a party or something for a while, think it
over?''

''For all I know,'' said Gargravarr's ethereal voice, ''I'm probably
at  one. My body that is. It goes to a lot of parties without me.
Says I only get in the way. Hey ho.''

''What is all this with your body?'' said Zaphod, anxious to  delay
whatever it was that was going to happen to him.

''Well, it's ... it's busy you know,'' said Gargravarr hesitantly.

''You mean it's got a mind of its own?'' said Zaphod.

There was a long and  slightly  chilly  pause  before  Gargravarr
spoke again.

''I have to say,'' he replied eventually, ''that I find that  remark
in rather poor taste.''

Zaphod muttered a bewildered and embarrassed apology.

''No matter,'' said Gargravarr, ''you weren't to know.''

The voice fluttered unhappily.

''The truth is,'' it continued in  tones  which  suggested  he  was
trying  very hard to keep it under control, ''the truth is that we
are currently undergoing a period of legal  trial  separation.  I
suspect it will end in divorce.''

The voice was still again, leaving Zaphod with no idea of what to
say. He mumbled uncertainly.

''I think we are probably not very well suited,''  said  Gargravarr
again  at  length,  ''we  never  seemed to be happy doing the same
things. We  always  had  the  greatest  arguments  over  sex  and
fishing.  Eventually  we  tried to combine the two, but that only
led to disaster, as you can probably imagine.  And  now  my  body
refuses to let me in. It won't even see me ...''

He paused again, tragically. The wind whipped across the plain.

''It says I only inhibit it. I pointed out  that  in  fact  I  was
meant  to  inhibit it, and it said that that was exactly the sort
of smart alec remark that got right up a body's left nostril, and
so we left it. It will probably get custody of my forename.''

''Oh ...'' said Zaphod faintly, ''and what's that?''

''Pizpot,'' said the voice, ''My name is Pizpot Gargravarr. Says  it
all really doesn't it?''

''Errr ...'' said Zaphod sympathetically.

''And that is why  I,  as  a  disembodied  mind,  have  this  job,
Custodian  of the Total Perspective Vortex. No one will ever walk
on the ground of this planet. Except the victims of the Vortex  -
they don't really count I'm afraid.''

''Ah ...''

''I'll tell you the story. Would you like to hear it?''

''Er ...''

''Many years ago this was  a  thriving,  happy  planet  -  people,
cities  shops, a normal world. Except that on the high streets of
these cities there were slightly more shoe shops than  one  might
have  thought  necessary. And slowly, insidiously, the numbers of
these shoe shops were increasing.  It's  a  well  known  economic
phenomenon  but  tragic to see it in operation, for the more shoe
shops there were, the more shoes they had to make and  the  worse
and more unwearable they became. And the worse they were to wear,
the more people had to buy to keep themselves shod, and the  more
the  shops  proliferated,  until  the  whole economy of the place
passed what I believe is termed the Shoe Event  Horizon,  and  it
became  no  longer  economically possible to build anything other
than shoe shops. Result - collapse, ruin and famine. Most of  the
population  died out. Those few who had the right kind of genetic
instability mutated into birds - you've seen one of  them  -  who
cursed  their feet, cursed the ground, and vowed that none should
walk on it again. Unhappy lot. Come,  I  must  take  you  to  the
Vortex.''

Zaphod shook his head in bemusement and stumbled  forward  across
the plain.

''And you,'' he said, ''you come from this hellhole pit do you?''

''No no,'' said Gargravarr, taken aback, ''I come from the  Frogstar
World C. Beautiful place. Wonderful fishing. I flit back there in
the evenings. Though all  I  can  do  now  is  watch.  The  Total
Perspective  Vortex  is  the  only  thing on this planet with any
function. It was built here because no  one  else  wanted  it  on
their doorstep.''

At that moment another dismal scream  rent  the  air  and  Zaphod
shuddered.

''What can do that to a guy?'' he breathed.

''The Universe,''  said  Gargravarr  simply,  ''the  whole  infinite
Universe. The infinite suns, the infinite distances between them,
and yourself an invisible dot on  an  invisible  dot,  infinitely
small.''

''Hey, I'm Zaphod Beeblebrox,  man,  you  know,''  muttered  Zaphod
trying to flap the last remnants of his ego.

Gargravarr made no reply, but merely resumed his mournful humming
till  they  reached the tarnished steel dome in the middle of the
plain.

As they reached it, a door hummed open in the side,  revealing  a
small darkened chamber within.

''Enter,'' said Gargravarr.

Zaphod started with fear.

''Hey, what, now?'' he said.

''Now.''

Zaphod peered nervously inside. The chamber was  very  small.  It
was  steel-lined  and  there was hardly space in it for more than
one man.

''It ... er ... it doesn't look like any kind of  Vortex  to  me,''
said Zaphod.

''It isn't,'' said Gargravarr, ''it's just the elevator. Enter.''

With infinite trepidation Zaphod stepped into it. He was aware of
Gargravarr being in the elevator with him, though the disembodied
man was not for the moment speaking.

The elevator began its descent.

''I must get myself into  the  right  frame  of  mind  for  this,''
muttered Zaphod.

''There is no right frame of mind,'' said Gargravarr sternly.

''You really know how to make a guy feel inadequate.''

''I don't. The Vortex does.''

At the bottom of the shaft, the rear of the  elevator  opened  up
and  Zaphod stumbled out into a smallish, functional, steel-lined
chamber.

At the far side of it stood a  single  upright  steel  box,  just
large enough for a man to stand in.

It was that simple.

It connected to a small pile of components and instruments via  a
single thick wire.

''Is that it?'' said Zaphod in surprise.

''That is it.''

Didn't look too bad, thought Zaphod.

''And I get in there do I?'' said Zaphod.

''You get in there,'' said Gargravarr, ''and I'm afraid you must  do
it now.''

''OK, OK,'' said Zaphod.

He opened the door of the box and stepped in.

Inside the box he waited.

After five seconds there was a click, and the entire Universe was
there in the box with him.

\chapter{}

The Total Perspective Vortex derives its  picture  of  the  whole
Universe on the principle of extrapolated matter analyses.

To explain - since every piece of matter in the  Universe  is  in
some way affected by every other piece of matter in the Universe,
it is in theory possible to extrapolate the whole of  creation  -
every  sun,  every  planet,  their  orbits, their composition and
their economic and social history from, say, one small  piece  of
fairy cake.

The  man  who  invented  the  Total  Perspective  Vortex  did  so
basically in order to annoy his wife.

Trin Tragula - for that was his name - was a dreamer, a  thinker,
a  speculative  philosopher  or,  as  his  wife would have it, an
idiot.

And she would nag him incessantly about  the  utterly  inordinate
amount  of  time he spent staring out into space, or mulling over
the mechanics of safety pins, or doing spectrographic analyses of
pieces of fairy cake.

''Have some sense of proportion!''  she  would  say,  sometimes  as
often as thirty-eight times in a single day.

And so he built the Total Perspective Vortex - just to show her.

And into one end he plugged the whole of reality as  extrapolated
from a piece of fairy cake, and into the other end he plugged his
wife: so that when he turned it on she saw  in  one  instant  the
whole infinity of creation and herself in relation to it.

To Trin Tragula's horror, the shock  completely  annihilated  her
brain;  but  to  his  satisfaction he realized that he had proved
conclusively that if life is going to exist in a Universe of this
size,  then  the one thing it cannot afford to have is a sense of
proportion.

The door of the Vortex swung open.

From his disembodied mind Gargravarr watched dejectedly.  He  had
rather  liked  Zaphod Beeblebrox in a strange sort of way. He was
clearly a man of many qualities, even if  they  were  mostly  bad
ones.

He waited for him to flop forwards out of the box,  as  they  all
did.

Instead, he stepped out.

''Hi!'' he said.

''Beeblebrox ...'' gasped Gargravarr's mind in amazement.

''Could I have a drink please?'' said Zaphod.

''You ... you ... have been in the Vortex?'' stammered Gargravarr.

''You saw me, kid.''

''And it was working?''

''Sure was.''

''And you saw the whole infinity of creation?''

''Sure. Really neat place, you know that?''

Gargravarr's mind was reeling in astonishment. Had his body  been
with  him  it  would have sat down heavily with its mouth hanging
open.

''And you saw yourself,'' said Gargravarr, ''in relation to it all?''

''Oh, yeah, yeah.''

''But ... what did you experience?''

Zaphod shrugged smugly.

''It just told me what I knew all the time. I'm a really  terrific
and great guy. Didn't I tell you, baby, I'm Zaphod Beeblebrox!''

His gaze passed over the machinery which powered the  vortex  and
suddenly stopped, startled.

He breathed heavily.

''Hey,'' he said, ''is that really a piece of fairy cake?''

He ripped the small piece of confectionery from the sensors  with
which it was surrounded.

''If I told you how much I needed this,'' he  said  ravenously,  ''I
wouldn't have time to eat it.''

He ate it.

\chapter{}

 A short while later he was  running  across  the  plain  in  the
direction of the ruined city.

The dank air wheezed heavily  in  his  lungs  and  he  frequently
stumbled  with  the  exhaustion  he  was still feeling. Night was
beginning to fall too, and the rough ground was treacherous.

The elation of his recent experience was still with  him  though.
The  whole Universe. He had seen the whole Universe stretching to
infinity around him - everything. And with it had come the  clear
and  extraordinary knowledge that he was the most important thing
in it. Having a conceited ego is one thing. Actually  being  told
by a machine is another.

He didn't have time to reflect on this matter.

Gargravarr had told him that he would have to alert  his  masters
as  to  what  had  happened,  but that he was prepared to leave a
decent interval before doing so. Enough time for Zaphod to make a
break and find somewhere to hide.

What he was going to do he didn't know, but feeling that  he  was
the most important person in the Universe gave him the confidence
to believe that something would turn up.

Nothing else on this blighted planet could give him much  grounds
for optimism.

He ran on, and soon reached the outskirts of the abandoned city.

He walked along cracked and gaping  roads  riddled  with  scrawny
weeds,  the  holes  filled  with  rotting shoes. The buildings he
passed were so crumbled and decrepit  he  thought  it  unsafe  to
enter any of them. Where could he hide? He hurried on.

After a while the remains of a wide sweeping road  led  off  from
the  one down which he was walking, and at its end lay a vast low
building,  surrounded  with  sundry  smaller  ones,   the   whole
surrounded  by the remains of a perimeter barrier. The large main
building still seemed reasonably solid, and Zaphod turned off  to
see if it might provide him with ... well with anything.

He approached the building. Along one side of it - the  front  it
would  seem  since  it  faced  a wide concreted apron area - were
three gigantic doors, maybe sixty feet high. The far one of these
was open, and towards this, Zaphod ran.

Inside, all was gloom, dust and confusion. Giant cobwebs lay over
everything.  Part  of  the  infrastructure  of  the  building had
collapsed, part of the rear  wall  had  caved  in,  and  a  thick
choking dust lay inches over the floor.

Through the heavy gloom huge shapes loomed, covered with debris.

The  shapes  were  sometimes  cylindrical,   sometimes   bulbous,
sometimes  like  eggs,  or rather cracked eggs. Most of them were
split open or falling apart, some were mere skeletons.

They were all spacecraft, all derelict.

Zaphod wandered in frustration among the hulks. There was nothing
here  that  remotely  approached  the  serviceable. Even the mere
vibration  of  his  footsteps  caused  one  precarious  wreck  to
collapse further into itself.

Towards the rear of the  building  lay  one  old  ship,  slightly
larger  than  the others, and buried beneath even deeper piles of
dust and cobwebs. Its outline, however, seemed  unbroken.  Zaphod
approached it with interest, and as he did so, he tripped over an
old feedline.

He tried  to  toss  the  feedline  aside,  and  to  his  surprise
discovered that it was still connected to the ship.

To his utter astonishment he realized that the feedline was  also
humming slightly.

He stared at the ship in disbelief, and then  back  down  at  the
feedline in his hands.

He tore off his jacket and threw it aside. Crawling along on  his
hands  and  knees  he followed the feedline to the point where it
connected with the ship. The connection was sound, and the slight
humming vibration was more distinct.

His heart was beating fast. He wiped away some grime and laid  an
ear  against  the  ship's  side.  He  could  only  hear  a faint,
indeterminate noise.

He rummaged feverishly amongst the debris lying on the floor  all
about  him  and  found  a  short  length  of  tubing,  and a non-
biodegradable plastic cup. Out  of  this  he  fashioned  a  crude
stethoscope and placed it against the side of the ship.

What he heard made his brains turn somersaults.

The voice said:

''Transtellar Cruise Lines would like to apologize  to  passengers
for  the  continuing  delay  to  this  flight.  We  are currently
awaiting the loading of  our  complement  of  small  lemon-soaked
paper  napkins  for  your comfort, refreshment and hygiene during
the journey. Meanwhile we thank you for your patience. The  cabin
crew will shortly be serving coffee and biscuits again.''

Zaphod staggered backwards, staring wildly at the ship.

He walked around for a few moments in a  daze.  In  so  doing  he
suddenly  caught  sight of a giant departure board still hanging,
but by only one support, from  the  ceiling  above  him.  It  was
covered   with   grime,  but  some  of  the  figures  were  still
discernible.

Zaphod's eyes searched amongst the figures, then made some  brief
calculations. His eyes widened.

''Nine hundred years ...'' he breathed to  himself.  That  was  how
late the ship was.

Two minutes later he was on board.

As he stepped out of the airlock, the air that  greeted  him  was
cool and fresh - the air conditioning was still working.

The lights were still on.

He moved out of the small entrance chamber into  a  short  narrow
corridor and stepped nervously down it.

Suddenly a door opened and a figure stepped out in front of him.

''Please return to your seat sir,''  said  the  android  stewardess
and,  turning her back on him, she walked on down the corridor in
front of him.

When his heart had started beating again  he  followed  her.  She
opened the door at the end of the corridor and walked through.

He followed her through the door.

They were now in the passenger  compartment  and  Zaphod's  heart
stopped still again for a moment.

In every seat sat a passenger, strapped into his or her seat.

The passengers' hair was long and unkempt, their fingernails were
long, the men wore beards.

All of them were quite clearly alive - but sleeping.

Zaphod had the creeping horrors.

He walked slowly down the aisle as in a dream. By the time he was
half-way  down  the  aisle,  the stewardess had reached the other
end. She turned and spoke.

''Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen,'' she said  sweetly,  ''Thank
you  for  bearing  with  us  during this slight delay. We will be
taking off as soon as we possibly can. If you would like to  wake
up now I will serve you coffee and biscuits.''

There was a slight hum.

At that moment, all the passengers awoke.

They awoke screaming and clawing at their straps and life support
systems  that held them tightly in their seats. They screamed and
bawled and hollered till Zaphod thought his ears would shatter.

They struggled and writhed as the stewardess patiently  moved  up
the  aisle placing a small cup of coffee and a packet of biscuits
in front of each one of them.

Then one of them rose from his seat.

He turned and looked at Zaphod.

Zaphod's skin was crawling all over his body as if it was  trying
to get off. He turned and ran from the bedlam.

He plunged through the door and back into the corridor.

The man pursued him.

He raced in a frenzy to the end  of  the  corridor,  through  the
entrance  chamber  and  beyond.  He  arrived  on the flight deck,
slammed and bolted the door behind him. He leant back against the
door breathing hard.

Within seconds, a hand started beating on the door.

From somewhere on the flight deck a metallic voice addressed him.

''Passengers are not allowed on the flight deck. Please return  to
your seat, and wait for the ship to take off. Coffee and biscuits
are being served. This is your autopilot speaking. Please  return
to your seat.''

Zaphod said nothing. He  breathed  hard,  behind  him,  the  hand
continued to knock on the door.

''Please return to your seat,'' repeated the autopilot. ''Passengers
are not allowed on the flight deck.''

''I'm not a passenger,'' panted Zaphod.

''Please return to your seat.''

''I am not a passenger!'' shouted Zaphod again.

''Please return to your seat.''

''I am not a ... hello, can you hear me?''

''Please return to your seat.''

You're the autopilot?'' said Zaphod.

''Yes,'' said the voice from the flight console.

''You're in charge of this ship?''

''Yes,'' said the voice again, ''there has been a delay.  Passengers
are  to  be  kept  temporarily  in suspended animation, for their
comfort and convenience. Coffee and  biscuits  are  being  served
every  year,  after  which  passengers  are returned to suspended
animation for their continued comfort and convenience.  Departure
will take place when the flight stores are complete. We apologize
for the delay.''

Zaphod moved away from the door, on which the  pounding  had  now
ceased. He approached the flight console.

''Delay?'' he cried, ''Have you seen the world  outside  this  ship?
It's  a  wasteland,  a desert. Civilization's been and gone, man.
There  are  no  lemon-soaked  paper  napkins  on  the  way   from
anywhere!''

''The statistical likelihood,'' continued the autopilot primly, ''is
that  other  civilizations  will  arise.  There  will  one day be
lemon-soaked paper napkins. Till  then  there  will  be  a  short
delay. Please return to your seat.''

''But ...''

But at that moment the door opened. Zaphod span round to see  the
man  who  had  pursued  him  standing  there.  He carried a large
briefcase. He was smartly dressed, and his hair was short. He had
no beard and no long fingernails.

''Zaphod Beeblebrox,'' he said, ''My name is  Zarniwoop.  I  believe
you wanted to see me.''

Zaphod Beeblebrox wittered. His mouths said  foolish  things.  He
dropped into a chair.

''Oh man, oh man, where did you spring from?'' he said.

''I've been waiting here for you,'' he said in a businesslike tone.

He put the briefcase down and sat in another chair.

''I am glad you followed instructions,'' he  said,  ''I  was  a  bit
nervous  that  you  might  have left my office by the door rather
than the window. Then you would have been in trouble.''

Zaphod shook his heads at him and burbled.

''When  you  entered  the  door  of  my  office,  you  entered  my
electronically  synthesized  Universe,'' he explained, ''if you had
left by the door you would have been back in the  real  one.  The
artificial one works from here.''

He patted the briefcase smugly.

Zaphod glared at him with resentment and loathing.

''What's the difference?'' he muttered.

''Nothing,'' said Zarniwoop, ''they are identical. Oh - except  that
I think the Frogstar Fighters are grey in the real Universe.''

''What's going on?'' spat Zaphod.

''Simple,'' said Zarniwoop. His self assurance  and  smugness  made
Zaphod seethe.

''Very simple,'' repeated Zarniwoop, ''I discovered the  coordinated
at  which  this  man  could  be  found  -  the  man who rules the
Universe, and discovered that  his  world  was  protected  by  an
Unprobability  field.  To  protect  my  secret  -  and myself - I
retreated to the safety of this totally artificial  Universe  and
hid  myself  away  in  a  forgotten  cruise  liner. I was secure.
Meanwhile, you and I ...''

''You and I?'' said Zaphod angrily, ''you mean I knew you?''

''Yes,'' said Zarniwoop, ''we knew each other well.''

''I had no taste,'' said Zaphod and resumed a sullen silence.

''Meanwhile,  you  and  I  arranged  that  you  would  steal   the
Improbability  Drive  ship  -  the only one which could reach the
ruler's world - and bring it to me here. This you have now done I
trust,  and  I  congratulate you.'' He smiled a tight little smile
which Zaphod wanted to hit with a brick.

''Oh, and in case you  were  wondering,''  added  Zarniwoop,  ''this
Universe  was  created  specifically  for you to come to. You are
therefore the most important person in this Universe.  You  would
never,'' he said with an even more brickable smile, ''have survived
the Total Perspective Vortex in the real one. Shall we go?''

''Where?'' said Zaphod sullenly. He felt collapsed.

''To your ship. The Heart of Gold. You did bring it I trust?''

''No.''

''Where is your jacket?''

Zaphod looked at him in mystification.

''My jacket? I took it off. It's outside.''

''Good, we will go and find it.''

Zarniwoop stood up and gestured to Zaphod to follow him.

Out in the entrance chamber again, they could hear the screams of
the passengers being fed coffee and biscuits.

''It has not been a pleasant experience  waiting  for  you,''  said
Zarniwoop.

''Not pleasant for you!'' bawled Zaphod, ''How do you think ...''

Zarniwoop held up a silencing finger as the hatchway swung  open.
A few feet away from them they could see Zaphod's jacket lying in
the debris.

''A very remarkable  and  very  powerful  ship,''  said  Zarniwoop,
''watch.''

As they watched, the pocket on the  jacket  suddenly  bulged.  It
split, it ripped. The small metal model of the Heart of Gold that
Zaphod had been bewildered to discover in his pocket was growing.

It grew, it continued to grow. It reached, after two minutes, its
full size.

''At an Improbability Level,'' said Zarniwoop, ''of ... oh  I  don't
know, but something very large.''

Zaphod swayed.

''You mean I had it with me all the time?''

''Zarniwoop smiled. He lifted up his briefcase and opened it.

He twisted a single switch inside it.

''Goodbye artificial Universe,'' he said, ''hello real one!''

The scene before them shimmered briefly - and reappeared  exactly
as before.

''You see?'' said Zarniwoop, ''exactly the same.''

 ''You mean,'' repeated Zaphod tautly, ''that I had it with  me  all
the time?''

''Oh yes,'' said Zarniwoop, ''of course. That was the whole point.''

''That's it,'' said Zaphod, ''you can count me out, from  hereon  in
you  can count me out. I've had all I want of this. You play your
own games.''

''I'm afraid you cannot leave,'' said Zarniwoop, ''you are  entwined
in the Improbability field. You cannot escape.''

He smiled the smile that Zaphod had wanted to hit and  this  time
Zaphod hit it.

\chapter{}

Ford Prefect bounded up to the bridge of the Heart of Gold.

''Trillian!  Arthur!''  he  shouted,  ''it's  working!  The   ship's
reactivated!''

Trillian and Arthur were asleep on the floor.

''Come on you guys, we're going off, we're off,'' he  said  kicking
them awake.

''Hi there guys!'' twittered the computer, ''it's really great to be
back  with you again, I can tell you, and I just want to say that
...''

''Shut up,'' said Ford, ''tell us where the hell we are.''

''Frogstar World B, and man it's a dump,'' said Zaphod  running  on
to the bridge, ''hi, guys, you must be so amazingly glad to see me
you don't even find words to tell me what a cool frood I am.''

''What a what?'' said Arthur blearily, picking himself up from  the
floor and not taking any of this in.

''I know how you feel,'' said Zaphod, ''I'm  so  great  even  I  get
tongue-tied talking to myself. Hey it's good to see you Trillian,
Ford, Monkeyman. Hey, er, computer ...?''

''Hi there, Mr Beeblebrox sir, sure is a great honor to ...''

''Shut up and get us out of here, fast fast fast.''

''Sure thing, fella, where do you want to go?''

''Anywhere, doesn't matter,'' shouted Zaphod,  ''yes  it  does!''  he
said again, ''we want to go to the nearest place to eat!''

''Sure thing,'' said the computer happily and a  massive  explosion
rocket the bridge.

When Zarniwoop entered a minute or so later with a black eye,  he
regarded the four wisps of smoke with interest.

\chapter{}

Four inert bodies sank through spinning blackness.  Consciousness
had  died, cold oblivion pulled the bodies down and down into the
pit of unbeing. The roar of silence echoed dismally  around  them
and  they  sank at last into a dark and bitter sea of heaving red
that slowly engulfed them, seemingly for ever.

After what seemed an eternity the sea receded and left them lying
on  a  cold  hard  shore, the flotsam and jetsam of the stream of
Life, the Universe, and Everything.

Cold spasms shook them, lights danced  sickeningly  around  them.
The  cold  hard  shore  tipped  and span and then stood still. It
shone darkly - it was a very highly polished cold hard shore.

A green blur watched them disapprovingly.

It coughed.

''Good evening,  madam,  gentlemen,''  it  said,  ''do  you  have  a
reservation?''

Ford Prefect's consciousness snapped back  like  elastic,  making
his brain smart. He looked up woozily at the green blur.

''Reservation?'' he said weakly. ''Yes, sir,'' said the green blur.

''Do you need a reservation for the afterlife?''

In so far as it is possible for a green blur to arch its eyebrows
disdainfully, this is what the green blur now did.

''Afterlife, sir?'' it said.

Arthur Dent was grappling with  his  consciousness  the  way  one
grapples with a lost bar of soap in the bath.

''Is this the afterlife?'' he stammered.

''Well I assume so,'' said Ford Prefect trying to  work  out  which
way was up. He tested the theory that it must lie in the opposite
direction from the cold hard shore on which  he  was  lying,  and
staggered to what he hoped were his feet.

''I mean,'' he said, swaying gently, ''there's no way we could  have
survived that blast is there?''

''No,'' muttered Arthur. He had raised himself on to his elbows but
it didn't seem to improve things. He slumped down again.

''No,'' said Trillian, standing up, ''no way at all.''

A dull hoarse gurgling sound came from the floor. It  was  Zaphod
Beeblebrox  attempting to speak. ''I certainly didn't survive,'' he
gurgled, ''I was a total goner. Wham bang and that was it.''

''Yeah, thanks to you,'' said Ford, ''We didn't stand a  chance.  We
must have been blown to bits. Arms, legs everywhere.''

''Yeah,'' said Zaphod struggling noisily to his feet.

''If the lady and gentlemen would like to order drinks  ...''  said
the green blur, hovering impatiently beside them.

''Kerpow, splat,'' continued Zaphod, ''instantaneously  zonked  into
our  component molecules. Hey, Ford,'' he said, identifying one of
the slowly solidifying blurs around him, ''did you get that  thing
of your whole life flashing before you?''

''You got that too?'' said Ford, ''your whole life?''

''Yeah,'' said Zaphod, ''at least I assume it was mine.  I  spent  a
lot of time out of my skulls you know.''

He looked at around him at the various shapes that were  at  last
becoming  proper  shapes  instead of vague and wobbling shapeless
shapes.

''So ...'' he said.

''So what?'' said Ford.

''So here we are,'' said Zaphod hesitantly, ''lying dead ...''

''Standing,'' Trillian corrected him.

''Er, standing dead,'' continued Zaphod, ''in this desolate ...''

''Restaurant,'' said Arthur Dent who had got to his feet and  could
now, much to his surprise, see clearly. That is to say, the thing
that surprised him was not that he could see, but what  he  could
see.

''Here we are,'' continued Zaphod doggedly, ''standing dead in  this
desolate ...''

''Five star ...'' said Trillian.

''Restaurant,'' concluded Zaphod.

''Odd isn't it?'' said Ford.

''Er, yeah.''

''Nice chandeliers though,'' said Trillian.

They looked about themselves in bemusement.

''It's not so much an afterlife,'' said Arthur,  ''more  a  sort  of
apres vie.''

The chandeliers were in fact a little on the flashy side and  the
low  vaulted  ceiling from which they hung would not, in an ideal
Universe, have been painted in  that  particular  shade  of  deep
turquoise,  and  even  if  it  had  been  it  wouldn't  have been
highlighted by concealed moodlighting. This is not,  however,  an
ideal  Universe,  as  was  further  evidenced by the eye-crossing
patterns of the inlaid marble floor, and the  way  in  which  the
fronting  for  the  eighty-yard  long  marble-topped bar had been
made. The fronting for the eighty-yard long marble-topped bar had
been  made  by stitching together nearly twenty thousand Antarean
Mosaic Lizard skins, despite the fact that  the  twenty  thousand
lizards concerned had needed them to keep their insides in.

A few smartly dressed creatures were lounging casually at the bar
or  relaxing  in the richly coloured body-hugging seats that were
deployed here and there about  the  bar  area.  A  young  Vl'Hurg
officer  and  his  green  steaming  young lady passed through the
large smoked glass doors at the far  end  of  the  bar  into  the
dazzling light of the main body of the Restaurant beyond.

Behind Arthur was a large curtained bay window. He  pulled  aside
the  corner  of  the  curtain and looked out at a landscape which
under normal circumstances would have given Arthur  the  creeping
horrors.  These  were not, however, normal circumstances, for the
thing that froze his blood and made his skin try to crawl up  his
back and off the top of his head was the sky. The sky was ...

An attendant flunkey politely drew the curtain back into place.

''All in good time, sir,'' he said.

Zaphod's eyes flashed.

''Hey, hang about you dead guys,'' he said, ''I think we're  missing
some ultra-important thing here you know. Something somebody said
and we missed it.''

Arthur was profoundly relieved to turn his attention from what he
had just seen.

He said, ''I said it was a sort of apres ...''

''Yeah, and don't you wish you hadn't?'' said Zaphod, ''Ford?''

''I said it was odd.''

''Yeah, shrewd but dull, perhaps it was ...''

''Perhaps,'' interrupted the  green  blur  who  had  by  this  time
resolved  into  the  shape  of  a small wizened dark-suited green
waiter, ''perhaps you would care to discuss the matter over drinks
...''

''Drinks!'' cried Zaphod, ''that was it! See what you  miss  if  you
don't stay alert.''

''Indeed sir,''  said  the  waiter  patiently.  ''If  the  lady  and
gentlemen would care to order drinks before dinner ...''

''Dinner!'' Zaphod exclaimed with passion,  ''Listen,  little  green
person,  my  stomach could take you home and cuddle you all night
for the mere idea.''

''... and the Universe,'' concluded the waiter, determined  not  to
be  deflected  on  his home stretch, ''will explode later for your
pleasure.''

Ford's head swivelled towards him. He spoke with feeling.

''Wow,'' he said, ''What sort of drinks do you serve in this place?''

The waiter laughed a polite little waiter's laugh.

''Ah,'' he said, ''I think sir has perhaps misunderstood me.''

''Oh, I hope not,'' breathed Ford.

The waiter coughed a polite little waiter's cough.

''It is not unusual for our customers to be a  little  disoriented
by the time journey,'' he said, ''so if I might suggest ...''

''Time journey?'' said Zaphod.

''Time journey?'' said Ford.

''Time journey?'' said Trillian.

''You mean this isn't the afterlife?'' said Arthur.

The waiter smiled a polite little waiter's smile. He  had  almost
exhausted  his  polite little waiter repertoire and would soon be
slipping into his role of a rather  tight  lipped  and  sarcastic
little waiter.

''Afterlife sir?'' he said, ''No sir.''

''And we're not dead?'' said Arthur.

The waiter tightened his lips.

''Aha, ha,'' he said, ''Sir is most  evidently  alive,  otherwise  I
would not attempt to serve sir.''

In an extraordinary gesture  which  is  pointless  attempting  to
describe,  Zaphod  Beeblebrox slapped both his foreheads with two
of his arms and one of his thighs with the other.

''Hey guys,'' he said, ''This  is  crazy.  We  finally  did  it.  We
finally got to where we were going. This is Milliways!''

''Yes sir,'' said the waiter, laying on the patience with a trowel,
''this is Milliways - the Restaurant at the End of the Universe.''

''End of what?'' said Arthur.

''The  Universe,''  repeated   the   waiter,   very   clearly   and
unnecessarily distinctly.

''When did that end?'' said Arthur.

''In just a few minutes, sir,'' said the waiter.  He  took  a  deep
breath.  He  didn't  need  to do this since his body was supplied
with the peculiar assortment of gases it  required  for  survival
from  a  small  intravenous device strapped to his leg. There are
times, however, when whatever your metabolism you have to take  a
deep breath.

''Now, if you would care to order drinks at  last,''  he  said,  ''I
will then show you to your table.''

Zaphod grinned two manic grins, sauntered over  to  the  bar  and
bought most of it.

\chapter{}

The Restaurant at the End of the Universe  is  one  of  the  most
extraordinary  ventures in the entire history of catering. It has
been built on the fragmented remains of ... it will be  built  on
the fragmented ... that is to say it will have been built by this
time, and indeed has been -

One of the major problems encountered in time travel is not  that
of  accidentally  becoming your own father or mother. There is no
problem involved in becoming your own father  or  mother  that  a
broadminded  and  well-adjusted  family can't cope with. There is
also no problem about changing the course of history - the course
of  history  does  not change because it all fits together like a
jigsaw. All the important changes have happened before the things
they  were  supposed to change and it all sorts itself out in the
end.

The major problem is quite simply one of grammar,  and  the  main
work  to  consult in this matter is Dr Dan Streetmentioner's Time
Traveller's Handbook of 1001 Tense Formations. It will  tell  you
for  instance  how to describe something that was about to happen
to you in the past before you avoided it by time-jumping  forward
two  days  in  order  to  avoid  it.  The event will be described
differently according to whether you are talking  about  it  from
the  standpoint  of  your  own  natural  time, from a time in the
further future, or a time in the  further  past  and  is  further
complicated by the possibility of conducting conversations whilst
you are actually travelling from one time  to  another  with  the
intention of becoming your own father or mother.

Most readers get as far as the Future Semi-Conditionally Modified
Subinverted Plagal Past Subjunctive Intentional before giving up:
and in fact in later editions of the book all  the  pages  beyond
this point have been left blank to save on printing costs.

The Hitch Hikers Guide to the  Galaxy  skips  lightly  over  this
tangle  of  academic  abstraction,  pausing only to note that the
term ''Future Perfect'' has been abandoned since it was  discovered
not to be.

To resume:

The Restaurant at the End of the Universe  is  one  of  the  most
extraordinary ventures in the entire history of catering.

It is built on the fragmented remains  of  an  eventually  ruined
planet  which  is (wioll haven be) enclosed in a vast time bubble
and projected forward in time to the precise moment of the End of
the Universe.

This is, many would say, impossible.

In it, guests take (willan on-take) their places at table and eat
(willan on-eat) sumptuous meals whilst watching (willing watchen)
the whole of creation explode around them.

This is, many would say, equally impossible.

You can arrive (mayan arivan on-when) for any  sitting  you  like
without  prior  (late fore-when) reservation because you can book
retrospectively, as it were when you return  to  your  own  time.
(you  can have on-book haventa forewhen presooning returningwenta
retrohome.)

This is, many would now insist, absolutely impossible.

At the Restaurant you can meet and dine with  (mayan  meetan  con
with  dinan  on  when)  a fascinating cross-section of the entire
population of space and time.

This, it can be explained patiently, is also impossible.

You can visit it as many times as you like  (mayan  on-visit  re-
onvisiting  ... and so on - for further tense-corrections consult
Dr Streetmentioner's book) and be sure of never meeting yourself,
because of the embarrassment this usually causes.

This, even if the rest were true, which  it  isn't,  is  patently
impossible, say the doubters.

All you have to do is deposit one penny in a savings  account  in
your  own  era,  and  when  you  arrive  at  the  End of Time the
operation of compound interest means that the  fabulous  cost  of
your meal has been paid for.

This, many claim, is not merely impossible  but  clearly  insane,
which  is  why  the  advertising executives of the star system of
Bastablon  came  up  with  this  slogan:  ''If  you've  done   six
impossible  things  this  morning,  why  not  round  it  off with
breakfast  at  Milliways,  the  Restaurant  at  the  End  of  the
Universe?''

\chapter{}

At the bar, Zaphod was rapidly becoming as tired as a  newt.  His
heads  knocked  together and his smiles were coming out of synch.
He was miserably happy.

''Zaphod,'' said Ford, ''whilst  you're  still  capable  of  speech,
would  you  care  to tell me what the photon happened? Where have
you been? Where have we been?  Small  matter,  but  I'd  like  it
cleared up.''

Zaphod's left head sobered up, leaving his right to sink  further
into the obscurity of drink.

''Yeah,'' he said, ''I've been around. They want me to find the  man
who  rules  the Universe, but I don't care to meet him. I believe
the man can't cook.''

His left head watched his right head saying this and then nodded.

''True,'' it said, ''have another drink.''

Ford had another Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster, the drink which has
been  described  as  the  alcoholic  equivalent  of  a  mugging -
expensive and bad for  the  head.  Whatever  had  happened,  Ford
decided, he didn't really care too much.

''Listen Ford,'' said Zaphod, ''everything's cool and froody.''

''You mean everything's under control.''

''No,'' said Zaphod, ''I do not  mean  everything's  under  control.
That  would  not  be  cool  and  froody. If you want to know what
happened let's just say I had the whole situation in  my  pocket.
OK?''

Ford shrugged.

Zaphod giggled into his drink. It frothed up over the side of the
glass and started to eat its way into the marble bar top.

A wild-skinned sky-gypsy  approached  them  and  played  electric
violin at them until Zaphod