"Adams, Douglas - Young Zaphod Plays It Safe" - читать интересную книгу автора (Adams Douglas)

The craft which wasn't a lobster dived direct to a depth of two
hundred feet, and hung there in the heavy blueness, while vast masses of
water swayed about it. High above, where the water was magically clear,
a brilliant formation of fish flashed away. Below, where the light had
difficulty reaching the colour of the water sank to a dark and savage
blue.
Here, at two hundred feet, the sun streamed feebly. A large, silk
skinned sea-mammal rolled idly by, inspecting the craft with a kind of
half-interest, as if it had half expected to find something of this kind
round about here, and then it slid on up and away towards the rippling
light.
The craft waited here for a minute or two, taking readings, and then
descended another hundred feet. At this depth it was becoming seriously
dark. After a moment or two the internal lights of the craft shut down,
and in the second or so that passed before the main external beams
suddenly stabbed out, the only visible light came from a small hazily
illuminated pink sign which read The Beeblebrox Salvage and Really Wild
Stuff Corporation.
The huge beams switched downwards, catching a vast shoal of silver
fish, which swiveled away in silent panic.
In the dim control room which extended in a broad bow from the
craft's blunt prow, four heads were gathered round a computer display
that was analysing the very, very faint and intermittent signals that
were[?] emanating from deep on the sea bed.
"That's it," said the owner of one of the heads finally.
"Can we be quite sure?" said the owner of another of the heads.
"One hundred per cent positive," replied the owner of the first head.
"You're one hundred per cent positive that the ship which is crashed
on the bottom of this ocean is the ship which you said you were one
hundred per cent positive could one hundred per cent positively never
crash?" said the owner of the two remaining heads. "Hey," he put up two
of his hands, "I'm only asking."
The two officials from the Safety and Civil Reassurance
Administration responded to this with a very cold stare, but the man
with the odd, or rather the even number of heads, missed it. He flung
himself back on the pilot couch, opened a couple of beers - one for
himself and the other also for himself - stuck his feet on the console
and said "Hey, baby" through the ultra-glass at a passing fish.
"Mr. Beeblebrox...," began the shorter and less reassuring of the two
officials in a low voice.
"Yup?" said Zaphod, rapping a suddenly empty can down on some of the
more sensitive instruments, "you ready to dive? Let's go."
"Mr. Beeblebrox, let us make one thing perfectly clear..."
"Yeah let's," said Zaphod, "How about this for a start. Why don't you
just tell me what's really on this ship."
"We have told you," said the official. "By-products."
Zaphod exchanged weary glances with himself.
"By-products," he said. "By-products of what?"
"Processes." said the official.