"Adams, Douglas - Life, the Universe, and Everything" - читать интересную книгу автора (Adams Douglas)

life in the Galaxy must be
(a) something akin to seasick - space-sick, time sick, history sick or
some such thing, and
(b) stupid.

Chapter 6

It seemed to Arthur as if the whole sky suddenly just stood aside and let
them through.
It seemed to him that the atoms of his brain and the atoms of the cosmos
were streaming through each other.
It seemed to him that he was blown on the wind of the Universe, and that
the wind was him.
It seemed to him that he was one of the thoughts of the Universe and that
the Universe was a thought of his.
It seemed to the people at Lord's Cricket Ground that another North London
restaurant had just come and gone as they so often do, and that this was
Somebody Else's Problem.
"What happened?" whispered Arthur in considerable awe.
"We took off," said Slartibartfast.
Arthur lay in startled stillness on the acceleration couch. He wasn't
certain whether he had just got space-sickness or religion.
"Nice mover," said Ford in an unsuccessful attempt to disguise the degree
to which he had been impressed by what Slartibartfast's ship had just done,
"shame about the decor."
For a moment or two the old man didn't reply. He was staring at the
instruments with the air of one who is trying to convert fahrenheit to
centigrade in his head whilst his house is burning down. Then his brow cleared
and he stared for a moment at the wide panoramic screen in front of him, which
displayed a bewildering complexity of stars streaming like silver threads
around them.
His lips moved as if he was trying to spell something. Suddenly his eyes
darted in alarm back to his instruments, but then his expression merely
subsided into a steady frown. He looked back up at the screen. He felt his own
pulse. His frown deepened for a moment, then he relaxed.
"It's a mistake to try and understand mathematics," he said, "they only
worry me. What did you say?"
"Decor," said Ford. "Pity about it."
"Deep in the fundamental heart of mind and Universe," said Slartibartfast,
"there is a reason."
Ford glanced sharply around. He clearly thought this was taking an
optimistic view of things.
The interior of the flight deck was dark green, dark red, dark brown,
cramped and moodily lit. Inexplicably, the resemblance to a small Italian
bistro had failed to end at the hatchway. Small pools of light picked out pot
plants, glazed tiles and all sorts of little unidentifiable brass things.
Rafia-wrapped bottles lurked hideously in the shadows.
The instruments which had occupied Slartibartfast's attention seemed to be
mounted in the bottom of bottles which were set in concrete.
Ford reached out and touched it.