“Zowee,” said Zaphod, “here we are at the End of the Universe and you haven’t even lived yet. Did you miss out.”
He led her off to where the waiter had been waiting all this time at the table. Arthur followed them feeling very lost and alone.
Ford waded off through the throng to renew an old acquaintance.
“Hey, er, Hotblack,” he called out, “how you doing? Great to see you big boy, how’s the noise? You’re looking great, really very, very fat and unwell. Amazing.” He slapped the man on the back and was mildly surprised that it seemed to elicit no response. The Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters swirling round inside him told him to plunge on regardless.
“Remember the old days?” he said, “We used to hang out, right? The Bistro Illegal, remember? Slim’s Throat Emporium? The Evildrome Boozarama, great days eh?”
Hotblack Desiato offered no opinion as to whether they were great days or not. Ford was not perturbed.
“And when we were hungry we’d pose as public health inspectors, you remember that? And go around confiscating meals and drinks right? Till we got food poisoning. Oh, and then there were the long nights of talking and drinking in those smelly rooms above the Cafe Lou in Gretchen Town, New Betel, and you were always in the next room trying to write songs on your ajuitar and we all hated them. And you said you didn’t care, and we said we did because we hated them so much.” Ford’s eyes were beginning to mist over.
“And you said you didn’t want to be a star,” he continued, wallowing in nostalgia, “because you despised the star system. And we said, Hadra and Sulijoo and me, that we didn’t think you had the option. And what do you do now? You buy star systems!”
He turned and solicited the attention of those at nearby tables.
“Here,” he said, “is a man who buys star systems!”
Hotblack Desiato made no attempt either to confirm or deny this fact, and the attention of the temporary audience waned rapidly.
“I think someone’s drunk,” muttered a purple bush-like being into his wine glass.
Ford staggered slightly, and 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.