Volume 2 - The Restaurant At The End Of The Universe by Douglas Adams

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    “Exquisite,” he said, “on a triple word score. Scores rather a lot I’m afraid.”
    The ship bumped and scattered some of the letters for the nth time.
    Trillian sighed and started to sort them out again.
    Up and down the silent corridors echoed Ford Prefect’s feet as he stalked the ship thumping dead instruments.
    Why did the ship keep shaking? he thought.
    Why did it rock and sway?
    Why could he not find out where they were?
    Where, basically, were they?
    The left-hand tower of the
Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
offices streaked through interstellar space at a speed never equaled either before or since by any other office block in the Universe.
    In a room halfway up it, Zaphod Beeblebrox strode angrily.
    Roosta sat on the edge of the desk doing some routine towel maintenance.
    “Hey, where did you say this building was flying to?” demanded Zaphod.
    “The Frogstar,” said Roosta, “the most totally evil place in the Universe.”
    “Do they have food there?” said Zaphod.
    “Food? You’re going to the Frogstar and you’re worried about whether they’ve got food?”
    “Without food I may not make it to the Frogstar.”
    Out of the window, they could see nothing but the flickering light of the force beams, and vague green streaks which were presumably the distorted shapes of the Frogstar Fighters. At this speed, space itself was invisible, and indeed unreal.
    “Here, suck this,” said Roosta, offering Zaphod his towel.
    Zaphod stared at him as if he expected a cuckoo to leap out of his forehead on a small spring.
    “It’s soaked in nutrients,” explained Roosta.
    “What are you, a messy eater or something?” said Zaphod.
    “The yellow stripes are high in protein, the green ones have vitamin B and C complexes, the little pink flowers contain wheatgerm extract.”
    Zaphod took and looked at it in amazement.
    “What are the brown stains?” he asked.
    “Bar-B-Q sauce,” said Roosta, “for when I get sick of wheatgerm.”
    Zaphod sniffed it doubtfully.
    Even more doubtfully, he sucked a corner. He spat it out again.
    “Ugh,” he stated.
    “Yes,” said Roosta, “when I’ve had to suck that end I usually need to suck the other end a bit too.”
    “Why,” asked Zaphod suspiciously, “what’s in that?”
    “Antidepressants,” said Roosta.
    “I’ve gone right off this towel, you know,” said Zaphod handing it back.
    Roosta took it back from him, swung himself off the desk, walked around it, sat in the chair and put his feet up.
    “Beeblebrox,” he said, sticking his hands behind his head, “have you any idea what’s going to happen to you on the Frogstar?”
    “They’re going to feed me?” hazarded Zaphod hopefully.
    “They’re going to feed you,” said Roosta, “into the Total Perspective Vortex!”
    Zaphod had never heard of this. He believed that he had heard of all the fun things in the Galaxy, so he assumed that the Total Perspective Vortex was not fun. He asked Roosta what it was.
    “Only,” said Roosta, “the most savage psychic torture a sentient being can undergo.”
    Zaphod nodded a resigned nod.
    “So,” he said, “no food, huh?”
    “Listen!” said Roosta urgently. “You can kill a man, destroy his body, break his spirit, but only the Total Perspective Vortex can annihilate a man’s soul! The treatment lasts seconds, but the effects last the rest of your life!”
    “You ever had a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster?” asked Zaphod sharply.
    “This is worse.”
    “Phreeow!” admitted Zaphod, much impressed.
    “Any idea why these guys might want to do this to me?” he added a moment later.
    “They believe it will be the best way of destroying you forever. They know what you’re after.”
    “Could they drop me a note and let me know as well?”
    “You know,” said Roosta, “you know, Beeblebrox. You want to meet the man who rules the Universe.”
    “Can he cook?” said Zaphod. On reflection he added:
    “I doubt if he can.