“This,” he said, “really is the absolute end, the final chilling desolation, in which the whole majestic sweep of creation becomes extinct. This ladies and gentlemen is the proverbial `it'.”
He dropped his voice still lower. In the stillness, a fly would not have dared cleat its throat.
“After this,” he said, “there is nothing. Void. Emptiness. Oblivion. Absolute nothing…”
His eyes glittered again – or did they twinkle?'
“Nothing… except of course for the sweet trolley, and a fine selection of Aldebaran liqueurs!”
The band gave him a musical sting. He wished they wouldn't, he didn't need it, not an artist of his calibre. He could play the audience like his own musical instrument. They were laughing with relief. He followed on.
“And for once,” he cried cheerily, “you don't need to worry about having a hangover in the morning – because there won't be any more mornings!”
He beamed at his happy, laughing audience. He glanced up at the sky, going through the same dead routine every night, but his glance was only for a fraction of a second. He trusted it to do its job, as one professional trusts another.
“And now,” he said, strutting about the stage, “at the risk of putting a damper on the wonderful sense of doom and futility here this evening, I would like to welcome a few parties.”
He pulled a card from his pocket.
“Do we have…” he put up a hand to hold back the cheers, “Do we have a party here from the Zansellquasure Flamarion Bridge Club from beyond the Vortvoid of Qvarne? Are they here?”
A rousing cheer came from the back, but he pretended not to hear. He peered around trying to find them.
“Are they here?” he asked again, to elict a louder cheer.
He got it, as he always did.
“Ah, there they are. Well, last bids lads – and no cheating, remember this is a very solemn moment.”
He lapped up the laughter.
“And do we also have, do we have… a party of minor deities from the Halls of Asgard?”
Away to his right came a rumble of thunder. Lightning arced across the stage. A small group of hairy men with helmets sat looking very pleased with themselves, and raised their glasses to him.
Hasbeens, he thought to himself.
“Careful with that hammer, sir,” he said.
They did their trick with the lightning again. Max gave them a very thin lipped smile.
“And thirdly,” he said, “thirdly a party of Young Conservatives from Sirius B, are they here?”
A party of smartly dressed young dogs stopped throwing rolls at each other and started throwing rolls at the stage. They yapped and barked unintelligibly.
“Yes,” said Max, “well this is all your fault, you realize that?”
“And finally,” said Max, quieting the audience down and putting on his solemn face, “finally I believe we have with us here tonight, a party of believers, very devout believers, from the Church of the Second Coming of the Great Prophet Zarquon.”
There were about twenty of them, sitting right out on the edge of the floor, ascetically dressed, sipping mineral water nervously, and staying apart from the festivities. They blinked resentfully as the spotlight was turned on them.
“There they are,” said Max, “sitting there, patiently. He said he'd come again, and he's kept you waiting a long time, so let's hope he's hurrying fellas, because he's only got eight minutes left!”
The party of Zarquon's followers sat rigid, refusing to be buffeted by the waves of uncharitable laughter which swept over them.
Max restrained his audience.
“No, but seriously though folks, seriously though, no offence meant. No, I know we shouldn't make fun of deeply held beliefs, so I think a big hand please for the Great Prophet Zarquon…”
The audience clapped respectfully.
“… wherever he's got to!”
He blew a kiss to the stony-faced party and returned to the centre of the stage.
He grabbed a tall stool and sat on it.
“It's marvellous though,” he rattled on, “to see so many of you here tonight – no isn't it though? Yes, absolutely marvellous. Because I know that so many of you come here time and time again, which I think is really wonderful, to come and watch this final end of everything, and then return home to your own eras… and raise families, strive for new and better societies, fight terrible wars for what you know to be right… it really gives one hope for the future of all lifekind. Except of course,” he waved at the blitzing turmoil above and around them, “that we know it hasn't got one…”
Arthur turned to Ford – he hadn't quite got this place worked out in his mind.
“Look, surely,” he said, “if the Universe is about to end… don't we go with it?”
Ford gave him a three-Pan-Galactic-Gargle-Blaster look, in other words a rather unsteady one.
“No,” he said, “look,” he said, “as soon as you come into this dive you get held in this sort of amazing force-shielded temporal warp thing. I think.”
“Oh,” said Arthur. He turned his attention back to a bowl of soup he'd managed to get from the waiter to replace his steak.
“Look,” said Ford, “I'll show you.”
He grabbed at a napkin off the table and fumbled hopelessly with it.
“Look,” he said again, “imagine this napkin, right, as the temporal Universe, right? And this spoon as a transductional mode in the matter curve…”
It took him a while to say this last part, and Arthur hated to interrupt him.
“That's the spoon I was eating with,” he said.
“Alright,” said Ford, “imagine this spoon…” he found a small wooden spoon on a tray of relishes, “this spoon…” but found it rather tricky to pick up, “no, better still this fork…”
“Hey would you let go of my fork?” snapped Zaphod.
“Alright,” said Ford, “alright, alright. Why don't we say… why don't we say that this wine glass is the temporal Universe…”
“What, the one you've just knocked on the floor?”
“Did I do that?”
“Yes.”
“Alright,” said Ford, “forget that. I mean… I mean, look, do you know – do you know how the Universe actually began for a kick off?”
“Probably not,” said Arthur, who wished he'd never embarked on any of this.
“Alright,” said Ford, “imagine this. Right. You get this bath. Right. A large round bath. And it's made of ebony.”
“Where from?” said Arthur, “Harrods was destroyed by the Vogons.”
“Doesn't matter.”
“So you keep saying.”
“Listen.”
“Alright.”
“You get this bath, see? Imagine you've got this bath. And it's ebony. And it's conical.”
“Conical?” said Arthur, “What sort of…”
“Shhh!” said Ford. “It's conical. So what you do is, you see, you fill it with fine white sand, alright? Or sugar. Fine white sand, and/or sugar. Anything. Doesn't matter. Sugar's fine. And when it's full, you pull the plug out… are you listening?”
“I'm listening.”
“You pull the plug out, and it all just twirls away, twirls away you see, out of the plughole.”
“I see.”
“You don't see. You don't see at all. I haven't got to the clever bit yet. You want to hear the clever bit?”
“Tell me the clever bit.”
