“Bar-B-Q sauce,” said Roosta, “for when I get sick of wheatgerm.”
Zaphod sniffed it doubtfully.
Even more doubtfully, he sucked a corner. He spat it out again.
“Ugh,” he stated.
“Yes,” said Roosta, “when I’ve had to suck that end I usually need to suck the other end a bit too.”
“Why,” asked Zaphod suspiciously, “what’s in that?”
“Anti-depressants,” said Roosta.
“I’ve gone right off this towel, you know,” said Zaphod handing it back.
Roosta took it back from him, swung himself off the desk, walked round it, sat in the chair and put his feet up.
“Beeblebrox,” he said, sticking his hands behind his head, “have you any idea what’s going to happen to you on the Frogstar?”
“They’re going to feed me?” hazarded Zaphod hopefully.
“They’re going to feed you,” said Roosta, “into the Total Perspective Vortex!”
Zaphod had never heard of this. He believed that he had heard of all the fun things in the Galaxy, so he assumed that the Total Perspective Vortex was not fun. He asked what it was.
“Only,” said Roosta, “the most savage psychic torture a sentient being can undergo.”
Zaphod nodded a resigned nod. “So,” he said, “no food, huh?”
“Listen!” said Roosta urgently, “you can kill a man, destroy his body, break his spirit, but only the Total Perspective Vortex can annihilate a man’s soul! The treatment lasts seconds, but the effect lasts the rest of your life!”
“You ever had a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster?” asked Zaphod sharply.
“This is worse.”
“Phreeow!” admitted Zaphod, much impressed.