“Are they here?” he asked again, to elict a louder cheer.

He got it, as he always did.

“Ah, there they are. Well, last bids lads-and no cheating, remember this is a very solemn moment.”

He lapped up the laughter.

“And do we also have, do we have… a party of minor deities from the Halls of Asgard?”

Away to his right came a rumble of thunder. Lightning arced across the stage. A small group of hairy men with helmets sat looking very pleased with themselves, and raised their glasses to him.

Hasbeens, he thought to himself.

“Careful with that hammer, sir,” he said.

They did their trick with the lightning again. Max gave them a very thin lipped smile.

“And thirdly,” he said, “thirdly a party of Young Conservatives from Sirius B, are they here?”

A party of smartly dressed young dogs stopped throwing rolls at each other and started throwing rolls at the stage. They yapped and barked unintelligibly.

“Yes,” said Max, “well this is all your fault, you realize that?”

“And finally,” said Max, quieting the audience down and putting on his solemn face, “finally I believe we have with us here tonight, a party of believers, very devout believers, from the Church of the Second Coming of the Great Prophet Zarquon.”

There were about twenty of them, sitting right out on the edge of the floor, ascetically dressed, sipping mineral water nervously, and staying apart from the festivities. They blinked resentfully as the spotlight was turned on them.

“There they are,” said Max, “sitting there, patiently. He said he’d come again, and he’s kept you waiting a long time, so let’s hope he’s hurrying fellas, because he’s only got eight minutes left!”

The party of Zarquon’s followers sat rigid, refusing to be buffeted by the waves of uncharitable laughter which swept over them.

Max restrained his audience.

“No, but seriously though folks, seriously though, no offence meant. No, I know we shouldn’t make fun of deeply held beliefs, so I think a big hand please for the Great Prophet Zarquon…”

The audience clapped respectfully.

“… wherever he’s got to!”

He blew a kiss to the stony-faced party and returned to the centre of the stage.

He grabbed a tall stool and sat on it.

“It’s marvellous though,” he rattled on, “to see so many of you here tonight-no isn’t it though? Yes, absolutely marvellous. Because I know that so many of you come here time and time again, which I think is really wonderful, to come and watch this final end of everything, and then return home to your own eras… and raise families, strive for new and better societies, fight terrible wars for what you know to be right… it really gives one hope for the future of all lifekind. Except of course,” he waved at the blitzing turmoil above and around them, “that we know it hasn’t got one…”

Arthur turned to Ford-he hadn’t quite got this place worked out in his mind.

“Look, surely,” he said, “if the Universe is about to end… don’t we go with it?”

Ford gave him a three-Pan-Galactic-Gargle-Blaster look, in other words a rather unsteady one.

“No,” he said, “look,” he said, “as soon as you come into this dive you get held in this sort of amazing force-shielded temporal warp thing. I think.”

“Oh,” said Arthur. He turned his attention back to a bowl of soup he’d managed to get from the waiter to replace his steak.

“Look,” said Ford, “I’ll show you.”

He grabbed at a napkin off the table and fumbled hopelessly with it.

“Look,” he said again, “imagine this napkin, right, as the temporal Universe, right? And this spoon as a transductional mode in the matter curve…”

It took him a while to say this last part, and Arthur hated to interrupt him.

“That’s the spoon I was eating with,” he said.

“Alright,” said Ford, “imagine this spoon…” he found a small wooden spoon on a tray of relishes, “this spoon…” but found it rather tricky to pick up, “no, better still this fork…”

“Hey would you let go of my fork?” snapped Zaphod.

“Alright,” said Ford, “alright, alright. Why don’t we say… why don’t we say that this wine glass is the temporal Universe…”

“What, the one you’ve just knocked on the floor?”

“Did I do that?”

“Yes.”

“Alright,” said Ford, “forget that. I mean… I mean, look, do you know-do you know how the Universe actually began for a kick off?”

“Probably not,” said Arthur, who wished he’d never embarked on any of this.

“Alright,” said Ford, “imagine this. Right. You get this bath. Right. A large round bath. And it’s made of ebony.”

“Where from?” said Arthur, “Harrods was destroyed by the Vogons.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“So you keep saying.”

“Listen.”

“Alright.”

“You get this bath, see? Imagine you’ve got this bath. And it’s ebony. And it’s conical.”

“Conical?” said Arthur, “What sort of…”

“Shhh!” said Ford. “It’s conical. So what you do is, you see, you fill it with fine white sand, alright? Or sugar. Fine white sand, and/or sugar. Anything. Doesn’t matter. Sugar’s fine. And when it’s full, you pull the plug out… are you listening?”

“I’m listening.”

“You pull the plug out, and it all just twirls away, twirls away you see, out of the plughole.”

“I see.”

“You don’t see. You don’t see at all. I haven’t got to the clever bit yet. You want to hear the clever bit?”

“Tell me the clever bit.”

“I’ll tell you the clever bit.”

Ford thought for a moment, trying to remember what the clever bit was.

“The clever bit,” he said, “is this. You film it happening.”

“Clever.”

“That’s not the clever bit. This is the clever bit, I remember now that this is the clever bit. The clever bit is that you then thread the film in the projector… backwards!”

“Backwards?”

“Yes. Threading it backwards is definitely the clever bit. So then, you just sit and watch it, and everything just appears to spiral upwards out of the plughole and fill the bath. See?”

“And that’s how the Universe began is it?” said Arthur.

“No,” said Ford, “but it’s a marvellous way to relax.”

He reached for his wine glass.

“Where’s my wine glass?” he said.

“It’s on the floor.”

“Ah.”

Tipping back his chair to look for it, Ford collided with the small green waiter who was approaching the table carrying a portable telephone.

Ford excused himself to the waiter explaining that it was because he was extremely drunk.

The waiter said that that was quite alright and that he perfectly understood.

Ford thanked the waiter for his kind indulgence, attempted to tug his forelock, missed by six inches and slid under the table.

“Mr. Zaphod Beeblebrox?” inquired the waiter.

“Er, yeah?” said Zaphod, glancing up from his third steak.

“There is a phone call for you.”

“Hey, what?”

“A phone call, sir.”

“For me? Here? Hey, but who knows where I am?”

One of his minds raced. The other dawdled lovingly over the food it was still shovelling in.

“Excuse me if I carry on, won’t you?” said his eating head and carried on.

There were now so many people after him he’d lost count. He shouldn’t have made such a conspicuous entrance. Hell, why not though, he thought. How do you know you’re having fun if there’s no one watching you have it?

“Maybe someone here tipped off the Galactic Police,” said Trillian. “Everyone saw you come in.”

“You mean they want to arrest me over the phone?” said Zaphod, “Could be. I’m a pretty dangerous dude when I’m concerned.”

“Yeah,” said a voice from under the table, “you go to pieces so fast people get hit by the shrapnel.”

“Hey, what is this, Judgment Day?” snapped Zaphod.

“Do we get to see that as well?” asked Arthur nervously.

“I’m in no hurry,” muttered Zaphod, “OK, so who’s the cat on the phone?” He kicked Ford. “Hey get up there, kid,” he said to him, “I may need you.”