Volume 2 - The Restaurant At The End Of The Universe by Douglas Adams Page A
Authors: Douglas Adams
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sat down heavily on the chair facing Hotblack Desiato.
“What’s that number you do?” he said, unwisely grabbing at a bottle for support and tipping it over—into a nearby glass as it happened. Not to waste a happy accident, he drained the glass.
“That really huge number,” he continued, “how does it go? ‘Bwarm! Bwarm! Baderr!!’ something, and in the stage act you do it ends up with this ship crashing right into the sun, and you actually
do
it!”
Ford crashed his fist into his other hand to illustrate this feat graphically. He knocked the bottle over again.
“Ship! Sun! Wham bang!” he cried. “I mean forget lasers and stuff, you guys are into solar flares and
real
sunburn! Oh, and terrible songs.”
His eyes followed the stream of liquid glugging out of the bottle onto the table. Something ought to be done about it, he thought.
“Hey, you want a drink?” he said. It began to sink into his squelching mind that something was missing from this reunion, and that the missing something was in some way connected with the fact that the fat man sitting opposite him in the platinum suit and the silvery hat had not yet said “Hi, Ford” or “Great to see you after all this time,” or in fact anything at all. More to the point he had not yet even moved.
“Hotblack?” said Ford.
A large meaty hand landed on his shoulder from behind and pushed him aside. He slid gracelessly off his seat and peered upward to see if he could spot the owner of this discourteous hand. The owner was not hard to spot, on account of his being something of the order of seven feet tall and not slightly built with it. In fact he was built the way one builds leather sofas, shiny, lumpy and with lots of solid stuffing. The suit into which the man’s body had been stuffed looked as if its only purpose in life was to demonstrate how difficult it was to get this sort of body into a suit. The face had the texture of an orange and the color of an apple, but there the resemblance to anything sweet ended.
“Kid …” said a voice which emerged from the man’s mouth as if it had been having a really rough time down in his chest.
“Er, yeah?” said Ford conversationally. He staggered back to his feet again and was disappointed that the top of his head didn’t come further up the man’s body.
“Beat it,” said the man.
“Oh yeah?” said Ford, wondering how wise he was being. “And who are you?”
The man considered this for a moment. He wasn’t used to being asked this sort of question. Nevertheless, after a while he came up with an answer.
“I’m the guy who’s telling you to beat it,” he said, “before you get it beaten for you.”
“Now listen,” said Ford nervously—he wished his head would stop spinning, settle down and get to grips with the situation—“Now listen,” he continued, “I am one of Hotblack’s oldest friends and …”
He glanced at Hotblack Desiato, who still hadn’t moved so much as an eyelash.
“ … and …” said Ford again, wondering what would be a good word to say after “and.”
The large man came up with a whole sentence to go after “and.” He said it.
“And I am Mr. Desiato’s bodyguard,” it went, “and I am responsible for his body, and I am not responsible for yours, so take it away before it gets damaged.”
“Now wait a minute,” said Ford.
“No minutes!” boomed the bodyguard. “No waiting! Mr. Desiato speaks to no one!”
“Well, perhaps you’d let him say what he thinks about the matter himself,” said Ford.
“He speaks to no one!” bellowed the bodyguard.
Ford glanced anxiously at Hotblack again and was forced to admit to himself that the bodyguard seemed to have the facts on his side. There was still not the slightest sign of movement, let alone keen interest in Ford’s welfare.
“Why?” said Ford. “What’s the matter with him?”
The bodyguard told him.
17
The
Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
notes that Disaster Area, a
“What’s that number you do?” he said, unwisely grabbing at a bottle for support and tipping it over—into a nearby glass as it happened. Not to waste a happy accident, he drained the glass.
“That really huge number,” he continued, “how does it go? ‘Bwarm! Bwarm! Baderr!!’ something, and in the stage act you do it ends up with this ship crashing right into the sun, and you actually
do
it!”
Ford crashed his fist into his other hand to illustrate this feat graphically. He knocked the bottle over again.
“Ship! Sun! Wham bang!” he cried. “I mean forget lasers and stuff, you guys are into solar flares and
real
sunburn! Oh, and terrible songs.”
His eyes followed the stream of liquid glugging out of the bottle onto the table. Something ought to be done about it, he thought.
“Hey, you want a drink?” he said. It began to sink into his squelching mind that something was missing from this reunion, and that the missing something was in some way connected with the fact that the fat man sitting opposite him in the platinum suit and the silvery hat had not yet said “Hi, Ford” or “Great to see you after all this time,” or in fact anything at all. More to the point he had not yet even moved.
“Hotblack?” said Ford.
A large meaty hand landed on his shoulder from behind and pushed him aside. He slid gracelessly off his seat and peered upward to see if he could spot the owner of this discourteous hand. The owner was not hard to spot, on account of his being something of the order of seven feet tall and not slightly built with it. In fact he was built the way one builds leather sofas, shiny, lumpy and with lots of solid stuffing. The suit into which the man’s body had been stuffed looked as if its only purpose in life was to demonstrate how difficult it was to get this sort of body into a suit. The face had the texture of an orange and the color of an apple, but there the resemblance to anything sweet ended.
“Kid …” said a voice which emerged from the man’s mouth as if it had been having a really rough time down in his chest.
“Er, yeah?” said Ford conversationally. He staggered back to his feet again and was disappointed that the top of his head didn’t come further up the man’s body.
“Beat it,” said the man.
“Oh yeah?” said Ford, wondering how wise he was being. “And who are you?”
The man considered this for a moment. He wasn’t used to being asked this sort of question. Nevertheless, after a while he came up with an answer.
“I’m the guy who’s telling you to beat it,” he said, “before you get it beaten for you.”
“Now listen,” said Ford nervously—he wished his head would stop spinning, settle down and get to grips with the situation—“Now listen,” he continued, “I am one of Hotblack’s oldest friends and …”
He glanced at Hotblack Desiato, who still hadn’t moved so much as an eyelash.
“ … and …” said Ford again, wondering what would be a good word to say after “and.”
The large man came up with a whole sentence to go after “and.” He said it.
“And I am Mr. Desiato’s bodyguard,” it went, “and I am responsible for his body, and I am not responsible for yours, so take it away before it gets damaged.”
“Now wait a minute,” said Ford.
“No minutes!” boomed the bodyguard. “No waiting! Mr. Desiato speaks to no one!”
“Well, perhaps you’d let him say what he thinks about the matter himself,” said Ford.
“He speaks to no one!” bellowed the bodyguard.
Ford glanced anxiously at Hotblack again and was forced to admit to himself that the bodyguard seemed to have the facts on his side. There was still not the slightest sign of movement, let alone keen interest in Ford’s welfare.
“Why?” said Ford. “What’s the matter with him?”
The bodyguard told him.
17
The
Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
notes that Disaster Area, a
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