The Restaurant at the End of the Universe [36]
"This," he said, "really is the absolute end, the final chilling desolation, in which the whole majestic sweep of creation becomes extinct. This ladies and gentlemen is the proverbial 'it'."
He dropped his voice still lower. In the stillness, a fly would not have dared cleat its throat.
"After this," he said, "there is nothing. Void. Emptiness. Oblivion. Absolute nothing ..."
His eyes glittered again — or did they twinkle?"
"Nothing ... except of course for the sweet trolley, and a fine selection of Aldebaran liqueurs!"
The band gave him a musical sting. He wished they wouldn't, he didn't need it, not an artist of his calibre. He could play the audience like his own musical instrument. They were laughing with relief. He followed on.
"And for once," he cried cheerily, "you don't need to worry about having a hangover in the morning — because there won't be any more mornings!"
He beamed at his happy, laughing audience. He glanced up at the sky, going through the same dead routine every night, but his glance was only for a fraction of a second. He trusted it to do its job, as one professional trusts another.
"And now," he said, strutting about the stage, "at the risk of putting a damper on the wonderful sense of doom and futility here this evening, I would like to welcome a few parties."
He pulled a card from his pocket.
"Do we have ..." he put up a hand to hold back the cheers, "Do we have a party here from the Zansellquasure Flamarion Bridge Club from beyond the Vortvoid of Qvarne? Are they here?"
A rousing cheer came from the back, but he pretended not to hear. He peered around trying to find them.
"Are they here?" he asked again, to elict a louder cheer.
He got it, as he always did.
"Ah, there they are. Well, last bids lads — and no cheating, remember this is a very solemn moment."
He lapped up the laughter.
"And do we also have, do we have ... a party of minor deities from the Halls of Asgard?"
Away to his right came a rumble of thunder. Lightning arced across the stage. A small group of hairy men with helmets sat looking very pleased with themselves, and raised their glasses to him.
Hasbeens, he thought to himself.
"Careful with that hammer, sir," he said.
They did their trick with the lightning again. Max gave them a very thin lipped smile.
"And thirdly," he said, "thirdly a party of Young Conservatives from Sirius B, are they here?"
A party of smartly dressed young dogs stopped throwing rolls at each other and started throwing rolls at the stage. They yapped and barked unintelligibly.
"Yes," said Max, "well this is all your fault, you realize that?"
"And finally," said Max, quieting the audience down and putting on his solemn face, "finally I believe we have with us here tonight, a party of believers, very devout believers, from the Church of the Second Coming of the Great Prophet Zarquon."
There were about twenty of them, sitting right out on the edge of the floor, ascetically dressed, sipping mineral water nervously, and staying apart from the festivities. They blinked resentfully as the spotlight was turned on them.
"There they are," said Max, "sitting there, patiently. He said he'd come again, and he's kept you waiting a long time, so let's hope he's hurrying fellas, because he's only got eight minutes left!"
The party of Zarquon's followers sat rigid, refusing to be buffeted by the waves of uncharitable laughter which swept over them.
Max restrained his audience.
"No, but seriously though folks, seriously though, no offence meant. No, I know we shouldn't make fun of deeply held beliefs, so I think a big hand please for the Great Prophet Zarquon ..."
The audience clapped respectfully.
"... wherever he's got to!"
He blew a kiss to the stony-faced party and returned to the centre of the stage.
He grabbed a tall stool and sat on it.