Дуглас Адамс - The Restaurant at the End of the Universe

“But we have also,” continued the Management Consultant, “run into a small inflation problem on account of the high level of leaf availability, which means that, I gather, the current going rate has something like three deciduous forests buying one ship’s peanut.”

Murmurs of alarm came from the crowd. The Management Consultant waved them down.

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“So in order to obviate this problem,” he continued, “and effectively revaluate the leaf, we are about to embark on a massive defoliation campaign, and. . . er, burn down all the forests. I think you’ll all agree that’s a sensible move under the circumstances.”

The crowd seemed a little uncertain about this for a second or two until someone pointed out how much this would increase the value of the leaves in their pockets whereupon they let out whoops of delight and gave the Management Consultant a standing ovation. The accountants amongst them looked forward to a profitable Autumn.

“You’re all mad,” explained Ford Prefect.

“You’re absolutely barmy,” he suggested.

“You’re a bunch of raving nutters,” he opined. The tide of opinion started to turn against him. What had started out as excellent entertainment had now, in the crowd’s view, deteriorated into mere abuse, and since this abuse was in the main directed at them they wearied of it.

Sensing this shift in the wind, the marketing girl turned on him.

“Is it perhaps in order,” she demanded, “to inquire what you’ve been doing all these months then?

You and that other interloper have been

missing since the day we arrived.”

“We’ve been on a journey,” said Ford, “We went to try and find out something about this planet.”

“Oh,” said the girl archly, “doesn’t sound very productive to me.”

“No? Well have I got news for you, my love. We have discovered this planet’s future.”

Ford waited for this statement to have its effect. It didn’t have any. They didn’t know what he was talking about.

He continued.

“It doesn’t matter a pair of fetid dingo’s kidneys what you all choose to do from now on. Burn down the forests, anything, it won’t make a scrap of difference. Your future history has already happened. Two million years you’ve got and that’s it. At the end of that time your race will be dead, gone and good riddance to you. Remember that, two million years!”

The crowd muttered to itself in annoyance. People as rich as they had suddenly become shouldn’t be obliged to listen to this sort of gibberish. Perhaps they could tip the fellow a leaf or two and he would go away. They didn’t need to bother. Ford was already stalking out of the clearing, pausing only to shake his head at Number Two who was already firing his Kill-O-Zap gun into some neighbouring trees. He turned back once.

“Two million years!” he said and laughed.

“Well,” said the Captain with a soothing smile, “still time for a few more baths. Could someone pass me the sponge? I just dropped it over the side.”

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Chapter 33

A mile or so away through the wood, Arthur Dent was too busily engrossed with what he was doing to hear Ford Prefect approach. What he was doing was rather curious, and this is what it was: on a wide flat piece of rock he had scratched out the shape of a large square, subdivided into one hundred and sixty-nine smaller squares, thirteen to a side.

Furthermore he had collected together a pile of smallish flattish stones and scratched the shape of a letter on to each. Sitting morosely round the rock were a couple of the surviving local native men whom Arthur Dent was trying to introduce the curious concept embodied in these stones. So far they had not done well. They had attempted to eat some of them, bury others and throw the rest of them away. Arthur had finally encouraged one of them to lay a couple of stones on the board he had scratched out, which was not even as far as he’d managed to get the day before. Along with the rapid deterioration in the morale of these creatures, there seemed to be a corresponding deterioration in their actual intelligence. In an attempt to egg them along, Arthur set out a number of letters on the board himself, and then tried to encourage the natives to add some more themselves.

It was not going well.

Ford watched quietly from beside a nearby tree.

“No,” said Arthur to one of the natives who had just shuffled some of the letters round in a fit of abysmal dejection, “Q scores ten you see, and it’s on a triple word score, so. . . look, I’ve explained the rules to you. . . no no, look please, put down that jawbone. . . alright, we’ll start again. And try to concentrate this time.”

Ford leaned his elbow against the tree and his hand against his head.

“What are you doing, Arthur?” he asked quietly. Arthur looked up with a start. He suddenly had a feeling that all this might look slightly foolish. All he knew was that it had worked like a dream on him when he was a child. But things were different then, or rather would be.

“I’m trying to teach the cavemen to play Scrabble,” he said. 143

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“They’re not cavemen,” said Ford.

“They look like cavemen.”

Ford let it pass. “I see,” he said.

“It’s uphill work,” said Arthur wearily, “the only word they know is grunt and they can’t spell it.”

He sighed and sat back.

“What’s that supposed to achieve?” asked Ford.

“We’ve got to encourage them to evolve! To develop!” Arthur burst out angrily. He hoped that the weary sigh and then the anger might do something to counteract the overriding feeling of foolishness from which he was currently suffering. It didn’t. He jumped to his feet.

“Can you imagine what a world would be like descended from those. . . cretins we arrived with?” he said.

“Imagine?” said Ford, rising his eyebrows. “We don’t have to imagine. We’ve seen it.”

“But. . . ” Arthur waved his arms about hopelessly.

“We’ve seen it,” said Ford, “there’s no escape.”

Arthur kicked at a stone.

“Did you tell them what we’ve discovered?” he asked.

“Hmmmm?” said Ford, not really concentrating.

“Norway,” said Arthur, “Slartibartfast’s signature in the glacier. Did you tell them?”

“What’s the point?” said Ford, “What would it mean to them?”

“Mean?” said Arthur, “Mean? You know perfectly well what it means. It means that this planet is the Earth! It’s my home! It’s where I was born!”

“Was?” said Ford.

“Alright, will be.”

“Yes, in two million years’ time. Why don’t you tell them that? Go and say to them, ‘Excuse me, I’d just like to point out that in two million years’

time I will be born just a few miles from here.’ See what they say. They’ll chase you up a tree and set fire to it.”

Arthur absorbed this unhappily.

“Face it,” said Ford, “those zeebs over there are your ancestors, not these poor creatures here.”

He went over to where the apemen creatures were rummaging listlessly with the stone letters. He shook his head. “Put the Scrabble away, Arthur,”

he said, “it won’t save the human race, because this lot aren’t going to be the human race. The human race is currently sitting round a rock on the other side of this hill making documentaries about themselves.”

Arthur winced.

“There must be something we can do,” he said. A terrible sense of

desolation thrilled through his body that he should be here, on the Earth, the Earth which had lost its future in a horrifying arbitrary catastrophe and which now seemed set to lose its past as well. 144