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

"The Fourth?"
"Yeah. Listen, I'm Zaphod Beeblebrox, my father was Zaphod Beeblebrox the
Second, my grandfather Zaphod Beeblebrox the Third ..."
"What?"
"There was an accident with a contraceptive and a time machine. Now
concentrate!"
"Three minutes," said Ford Prefect.
"Why," said Arthur Dent, "are we doing this?"
"Shut up," suggested Zaphod Beeblebrox.
Trillian said nothing. What, she thought, was there to say?
The only light on the bridge came from two dim red triangles in a far
corner where Marvin the Paranoid Android sat slumped, ignoring all and ignored
by all, in a private and rather unpleasant world of his own.
Round the central console four figures hunched in tight concentration
trying to blot from their minds the terrifying shuddering of the ship and the
fearful roar that echoed through it.
They concentrated.
Still they concentrated.
And still they concentrated.
The seconds ticked by.
On Zaphod's brow stood beads of sweat, first of concentration, then of
frustration and finally of embarrassment.
At last he let out a cry of anger, snatched back his hands from Trillian
and Ford and stabbed at the light switch.
"Ah, I was beginning to think you'd never turn the lights on," said a
voice. "No, not too bright please, my eyes aren't what they once were."
Four figures jolted upright in their seats. Slowly they turned their heads
to look, though their scalps showed a distinct propensity to try and stay in
the same place.
"Now. Who disturbs me at this time?" said the small, bent, gaunt figure
standing by the sprays of fern at the far end of the bridge. His two small
wispy-haired heads looked so ancient that it seemed they might hold dim
memories of the birth of the galaxies themselves. One lolled in sleep, but the
other squinted sharply at them. If his eyes weren't what they once were, they
must once have been diamond cutters.
Zaphod stuttered nervously for a moment. He gave the intricate little
double nod which is the traditional Betelgeusian gesture of familial respect.
"Oh ... er, hi Great Granddad ..." he breathed.
The little old figure moved closer towards them. He peered through the dim
light. He thrust out a bony finger at his great grandson.
"Ah," he snapped. "Zaphod Beeblebrox. The last of our great line. Zaphod
Beeblebrox the Nothingth."
"The First."
"The Nothingth," spat the figure. Zaphod hated his voice. It always seemed
to him to screech like fingernails across the blackboard of what he liked to
think of as his soul.
He shifted awkwardly in his seat.
"Er, yeah," he muttered, "Er, look, I'm really sorry about the flowers, I
meant to send them along, but you know, the shop was fresh out of wreaths and
..."