Volume 2 - The Restaurant At The End Of The Universe Read Free Page B

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 …”
    “Okay, 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 brows 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, 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 toward 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