The Restaurant at the End of the Universe - Douglas Adams [36]
A matter of minutes later the waiter arrived with four huge steaming steaks. Zaphod and Ford wolfed straight into them without a second’s hesitation. Trillian paused, then shrugged and started into hers.
Arthur stared at his feeling slightly ill.
“Hey, Earthman,” said Zaphod with a malicious grin on the face that wasn’t stuffing itself, “what’s eating you?”
And the band played on.
All around the Restaurant people and things relaxed and chatted. The air was filled with talk of this and that, and with the mingled scents of exotic plants, extravagant foods and insidious wines. For an infinite number of miles in every direction the universal cataclysm was gathering to a stupefying climax. Glancing at his watch, Max returned to the stage with a flourish.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” he beamed, “is everyone having one last wonderful time?”
“Yes,” called out the sort of people who call out “yes” when comedians ask them if they’re having a wonderful time.
“That’s wonderful,” enthused Max, “absolutely wonderful. And as the photon storms gather in swirling crowds around us, preparing to tear apart the last of the red hot suns, I know you’re all going to settle back and enjoy with me what I know we will all find an immensely exciting and terminal experience.”
He paused. He caught the audience with a glittering eye.
“Believe me, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “there is nothing penultimate about this one.”
He paused again. Tonight his timing was immaculate. Time after time he had done this show, night after night. Not that the word night had any meaning here at the extremity of time. All there was was the endless repetition of the final moment, as the Restaurant rocked slowly forward over the brink of time’s farthest edge—and back again. This “night” was good though, the audience was writhing in the palm of his sickly hand. His voice dropped. They had to strain to hear him.
“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 clear 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 desserts and a fine selection of Aldebaran liqueurs!”
The band gave him a music sting. He wished they wouldn’t, he didn’t need it, not an artist of his caliber. 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 death 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 elicit 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.
Has-beens,