The Restaurant at the End of the Universe - Douglas Adams [61]
He tried sitting on one of his hands and was intrigued by the feel of the bones of his hip.
“Fish come from far away,” he said, “or so I’m told. Or so I imagine I’m told. When the men come, or when in my mind the men come in their six black shiny ships, do they come in your mind too? What do you see, pussy?”
He looked at the cat, which was more concerned with getting the fish down as rapidly as possible than it was with these speculations.
“And when I hear their questions, do you hear questions? What do their voices mean to you? Perhaps you just think they’re singing songs to you.” He reflected on this, and saw the flaw in the supposition.
“Perhaps they are singing songs to you,” he said, “and I just think they’re asking me questions.”
He paused again. Sometimes he would pause for days, just to see what it was like.
“Do you think they came today?” he said. “I do. There’s mud on the floor, cigarettes and whisky on the table, fish on a plate for you and a memory of them in my mind. Hardly conclusive evidence I know, but then all evidence is circumstantial. And look what else they’ve left me.”
He reached over to the table and pulled some things off it.
“Crosswords, dictionaries and a calculator.”
He played with the calculator for an hour, while the cat went to sleep and the rain outside continued to pour. Eventually he put the calculator aside.
“I think I must be right in thinking they ask me questions,” he said. “To come all that way and leave all these things just for the privilege of singing songs to you would be very strange behavior. Or so it seems to me. Who can tell, who can tell.”
From the table he picked up a cigarette and lit it with a spill from the stove. He inhaled deeply and sat back.
“I think I saw another ship in the sky today,” he said at last. “A big white one. I’ve never seen a big white one, just the six black ones. And the six green ones. And the others who say they come from so far away. Never a big white one. Perhaps six small black ones can look like one big white one at certain times. Perhaps I would like a glass of whisky. Yes, that seems more likely.”
He stood up and found a glass that was lying on the floor by his mattress. He poured in a measure from his whisky bottle. He sat again.
“Perhaps some other people are coming to see me,” he said.
A hundred yards away, pelted by the torrential rain, lay the Heart of Gold.
Its hatchway opened, and three figures emerged, huddling into themselves to keep the rain off their faces.
“In there?” shouted Trillian above the noise of the rain.
“Yes,” said Zarniwoop.
“That shack?”
“Yes.”
“Weird,” said Zaphod.
“But it’s in the middle of nowhere,” said Trillian. “We must have come to the wrong place. You can’t rule the Universe from a shack.”
They hurried through the pouring rain, and arrived, wet through, at the door. They knocked. They shivered.
The door opened.
“Hello?” said the man.
“Ah, excuse me,” said Zarniwoop, “I have reason to believe…”
“Do you rule the Universe?” said Zaphod.
The man smiled at him.
“I try not to,” he said. “Are you wet?”
Zaphod looked at him in astonishment.
“Wet?” he cried. “Doesn’t it look as if we’re wet?”
“That’s how it looks to me,” said the man, “but how you feel about it might be an altogether different matter. If you find warmth makes you dry, you’d better come in.”
They went in.
They looked around the tiny shack, Zarniwoop with slight distaste, Trillian with interest, Zaphod with delight.
“Hey, er…” said Zaphod, “what’s your name?”
The man looked at them doubtfully.
“I don’t know. Why, do you think I should have one? It