"Douglas Adams - 2 - The Restaurant at the End of the Universe" - читать интересную книгу автора (Adams Douglas)

"Dying for a cup of tea, eh?" he said. "Three minutes and forty seconds."
"Will you stop counting!" snarled Zaphod.
"Yes," said Ford Prefect, "in three minutes and thirty-five seconds."
Aboard the Vogon ship, Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz was puzzled. He had expected
a chase, he had expected an exciting grapple with tractor beams, he had
expected to have to use the specially installed Sub-Cyclic Normality Assert
i-Tron to counter the Heart of Gold's Infinite Improbability Drive, but the
Sub-Cyclic Normality Assert-i-Tron lay idle as the Heart of Gold just sat
there and took it.
A dozen 30-Megahurt Definit-Kil Photrazon Cannon continued to blaze away
at the Heart of Gold, and still it just sat there and took it.
He tested every sensor at his disposal to see if there was any subtle
trickery afoot, but no subtle trickery was to be found.
He didn't know about the tea of course.
Nor did he know exactly how the occupants of the Heart of Gold were
spending the last three minutes and thirty seconds of life they had left to
spend.
Quite how Zaphod Beeblebrox arrived at the idea of holding a seance at
this point is something he was never quite clear on.
Obviously the subject of death was in the air, but more as something to be
avoided than harped upon.
Possibly the horror that Zaphod experienced at the prospect of being
reunited with his deceased relatives led on to the thought that they might
just feel the same way about him and, what's more, be able to do something
about helping to postpone this reunion.
Or again it might just have been one of the strange promptings that
occasionally surfaced from that dark area of his mind that he had inexplicably
locked off prior to becoming President of the Galaxy.
"You want to talk to your great grandfather?" boggled Ford.
"Yeah."
"Does it have to be now?"
The ship continued to shake and thunder. The temperature was rising. The
light was getting dimmer - all the energy the computer didn't require for
thinking about tea was being pumped into the rapidly fading force-field.
"Yeah!" insisted Zaphod. "Listen Ford, I think he may be able to help us."
"Are you sure you mean think? Pick your words with care."
"Suggest something else we can do."
"Er, well ..."
"OK, round the central console. Now. Come on! Trillian, Monkeyman, move."
They clustered round the central console in confusion, sat down and,
feeling exceptionally foolish, held hands. With his third hand Zaphod turned
off the lights.
Darkness gripped the ship.
Outside, the thunderous roar of the Definit-Kil cannon continued to rip at
the force-field.
"Concentrate," hissed Zaphod, "on his name."
"What is it?" asked Arthur.
"Zaphod Beeblebrox the Fourth."
"What?"
"Zaphod Beeblebrox the Fourth. Concentrate!"