Дуглас Адамс - The Restaurant at the End of the Universe

“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.

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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.

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“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.”

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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.”