The Greatest Show Off Earth

by Robert Rankin

  ‘No,’ said professor Merlin. ‘It’s just the way my trousers hang.’

  The banqueters erupted into mirth.

  ‘Most humorous,’ said Raymond. ‘But I refer, of course, to maps of Saturn. Street plans and the like, showing where you will be playing and where the kidnapped people are being held. Do you have such maps?’

  ‘Piles,’ said the professor, nudging Raymond in the ribs.

  ‘Careful of the suit please.’

  ‘Sorry pardon. Send me the dry-cleaning bill. Maps we do have, Raymond, and aplenty.’

  ‘And what about weapons?’

  ‘I have my trusty sword.’ Professor Merlin drew this from its shining scabbard, flourished it grandly and made thrustings and parryings amongst the pies and puddings. ‘All who meet it do so at their peril.’

  Raymond ducked the rapier as it swept past his head, nearly taking his ear off. ‘I’ll bet they do,’ he said.

  ‘They do.’ Professor Merlin examined the selection of cheeses he had shish kebabbed. ‘Anyone for afters?’

  ‘What about guns?’ Raymond enquired. ‘Do you have any big guns?’

  ‘Big guns? Siege cannons, do you mean?’ Professor Merlin tucked into cheese and biscuits.

  ‘I was thinking more about General Electric mini-guns, as it happens.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the professor. ‘You mean those really amazing rotary machine-guns, like the one Blaine had in Predator.’

  Raymond nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘No we don’t.’

  ‘Yes we do,’ said Zephyr.

  ‘Do we?’ The professor spat bicky.

  ‘If that’s what Raymond wants. Then that’s what Raymond must have.’

  ‘Yes, of course he must. So it’s all settled then.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Raymond. ‘Did I miss something? What is all settled?’

  ‘The plan of campaign.’

  ‘I did miss something.’ Raymond scratched at his head. ‘What plan of campaign?’

  ‘Fiddle-de fiddle-dum.’ The professor dusted biscuit crumbs from his chin. ‘The one you wanted the maps for. I assume it is your intention that, whilst my circus plays to a packed house and much acclaim, you rescue all the people and sneak them back to the ship.’

  ‘Oh, that plan of campaign.’ Raymond nodded slowly.

  ‘It’s not the way I’d do it,’ said the professor. ‘But I’m sure you know your own job best. A dwarf on a giant’s shoulders sees the further of the two, as I always say.’

  ‘You always say that, do you?’

  ‘Always. Except when I’m saying something else. So, now that all that’s settled, shall I introduce you to my artistes?’

  Raymond looked along the rows of eager smiling faces. ‘Why not?’ said he. ‘Now that all that’s settled.’

  ‘Jolly good.’ Professor Merlin took up the vodka bottle to pour himself a drink. But it was empty. ‘Jolly good,’ he said again. ‘Jolly good!’

  The words recalled to Raymond a certain pub back home in Bramfield. And he really truly wished that he was in it.

  And, coincidentally enough, at this precise moment . . .

  The saloon-bar door of The Jolly Gardeners swung upon its hinge and Raymond’s best friend Simon sidled in.

  He’d had a rough day, had Simon, and he really needed a quick drink before he fled the country.

  Paul the part-time barman sat at the far end of the unpatronized counter. He was filling in The Times crossword. He didn’t look up. ‘Evening, Simon,’ he said. ‘New hat?’

  ‘No!’ Simon stalked across to his favourite stool, mounted it and glared down the length of the counter. ‘It is not a new hat, because I never wear a hat. I never have worn a hat and I never will wear a hat.’

  ‘No need to get mad,’ said Paul, his eyes firmly fixed upon five across. ‘Alice’s teatime host. 3.6. Thank you.’

  ‘It’s not even funny. It’s pathetic, that’s what it is.’

  ‘Had a bad day, have you?’

  Nine down, Horrific, ten letters.

  ‘Horrendous.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Paul filled it in.

  ‘Where is Andy?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Night off. What did you want him for?’

  ‘Nothing important. Did he mention to you that I might be in?’

  Paul shrugged out a no and returned to his crossword, without asking Simon what he wanted to drink.

  Simon gazed around the otherwise empty bar. He knew perfectly well that it was Andy’s night off, otherwise he would never have dared to put his head inside the door. But he hadn’t known whether Andy had said anything to Paul about the statement he’d made to Inspector D’Eath. Obviously he hadn’t. Perhaps this was briefly a safe haven for the man on the run.

  ‘Any chance of a drink?’ Simon asked. ‘Desperate man here.’

  Paul clicked his Biro and folded his newspaper. And .made his way sedately up the bar. ‘A pint of the usual?’

  ‘A large Scotch.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Paul took a glass to the optic and drew off a double measure in a slow and deliberate manner. Simon liked Paul. Most of the Jolly’s patrons liked Paul. Except for those who didn’t, of course. They didn’t like him at all. But Simon did.

  Paul was ‘all right’. Paul was tall, a thirty-something with own teeth and hair and waistline. One marriage down, girlfriend with new baby, old Lotus he could never quite afford to do up. Easy going was Paul. Unharassed. Unhurried. Marched to the beat of a different drum. That kind of thing.

  ‘Quid and a half,’ said Paul, placing Simon’s drink before him.

  ‘I have an arrangement with Andy. It’s on Raymond’s account.’

  ‘Fair enough. I’ll keep a mental note of what you drink. Save all the paperwork. Will there by anything else?’

  Simon made that ‘hhhhhhhh’ noise that you make after you’ve just drunk down a double Scotch in a single go and said, ‘Same again please.’

  ‘I thought that might be the case.’ Paul returned once more to the optic. ‘What’s the book?’ he asked over his shoulder.

  ‘Book?’

  ‘The one you’re incubating under your armpit.’

  ‘Science fiction, I think.’

  ‘Not some of that crap the Scribe writes?’

  ‘Does he write science fiction?’

  ‘Apparently.’ Paul presented Simon with another double Scotch. ‘Says he’s written dozens of books. Not that I’ve ever seen any in the shops. Let’s have a look then.’

  ‘Ah, no.’ Simon kept his elbow tight at his side. ‘First edition. Musn’t get the pages creased. Sorry.’

  ‘Please yourself. Are you going to want another, or can I get back to my crossword?’

  ‘I’m fine with this one. I have to be going in a minute. And I—’ The sound of the saloon-bar door opening caused Simon to falter in his speech and turn suddenly upon his stool. This really wasn’t the place for him to be. There were just too many potentially dangerous pub-door openers in this village. The men in grey. The boys in blue. The horticulturalist from hell. The B.E.A.S.T. terrorists from God knows where. Simon prepared himself for some more heel-taking-to.

  But it was only the Scribe.

  ‘What a coincidence,’ said Paul. ‘We were just discussing your work.’

  ‘In glowing terms, I have no doubt.’ The Scribe laboured his way across to the counter. A ponderous fellow was the Scribe. In fact, one to make Paul seem positively frenetic by comparison. This early evening he was rigged out in his full-scribing apparel. The country tweeds, the riding boots, the watch chain, the velvet cravat. A lot of pretentious bits and bobs. Middle forties, baldy front and pony-tail behind. Spreading about the waist and slightly broken about the nose. And very tight about the pocket.

  The scribe yawned. A lot of fillings from too much sweet eating.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you, Simon,’ he said. ‘Where are you going?’ he continued.

  ‘Toilet,’ said Simon, making for the door.

  ‘W
ell, don’t be too long. I wanted to buy you a drink.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Simon. ‘The toilet will keep then.’

  ‘Death-by-Cider for me, Paul, and whatever Simon was having.’

  Simon returned to his stool and watched the scribe watching Paul drawing off a double Scotch.

  ‘That’s what you were having, was it?’ The Scribe’s lip had a bit of a quiver. ‘Not your usual?’

  ‘Cheers,’ said Simon.

  Paul pulled the Scribe his pint. ‘Cheers,’ said Paul.

  ‘Cheers,’ said the Scribe, worrying his wallet. ‘Cheers it is.’

  Money changed hands and the Scribe carefully counted his change. Paul returned to his crossword. Simon flashed his teeth.

  ‘So,’ said the Scribe, settling himself down upon a bar stool.

  ‘So?’ asked Simon, with one eye on the door.

  ‘I am writing this book you see,’ said the Scribe. ‘It’s a sort of a fantasy, but to give it a sense of reality I have set it here in Bramfield. The publishers’ idea actually. They’d done some research apparently and decided that this was the ideal place. In fact, they even gave me a list of local people they wanted me to put in it. It’s not the way I usually work, but they’re paying, er, just enough for me to scrape by on, so I have to do it their way.’

  ‘This is all most fascinating,’ said Simon, now halfway through his latest double. ‘But I really must be leaving.’

  ‘I won’t keep you long. It’s just that I wanted your advice.’

  ‘Why mine?’

  ‘Because you’re in the book.’

  ‘What?’ went Simon.

  ‘Starring role.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I wasn’t supposed to tell you. In fact, it’s all very hush-hush. No idea why, it’s only fiction after all. But I’ve got to this sticky bit in the plot and I don’t know where to take it next and I thought that if I asked you what you might do if it was in real life, well, that would give it an extra touch of authenticity.’

  ‘WHAT?’

  ‘I’ve got “what” thank you,’ called Paul along the bar. ‘It was three down, “used with a noun in requesting the identity of something”. I’m on three across now. Unit of power equal to one joule per second.’

  ‘What?’ went Simon again.

  ‘Oh WATT. I see thanks.’ Paul applied his Biro.

  ‘Extra touch of authenticity,’ said the Scribe. ‘Are you a bit deaf, or what?’

  ‘Not,’ said Simon. ‘But just let me get this straight. You are writing a fantasy set in Bramfield.’

  ‘Partly in Bramfield.’

  ‘In which I have the starring role.’

  ‘One of two starring roles.’

  ‘And who has the other, might I ask?’

  ‘You’ll never guess.’

  ‘Won’t I though?’

  ‘Raymond,’ whispered the Scribe.

  ‘Raymond. I see.’ Simon stroked at his chin and it must be said, the beginnings of a wry smile began to play about his lips. As it were and like they would. ‘Might I enquire,’ said Simon, ‘the name you have in mind for this book?’

  ‘Why do you want to know that?’

  ‘No particular reason,’ Simon lied. ‘Except, of course, so I can look out for it in the bookshops and buy lots of copies.’

  ‘Well,’ said the Scribe, ‘I’m not supposed to mention anything about any of this to anyone really.’

  ‘Yes, but you have now. And I would be very willing to help you out. In fact, it would be a real honour to feel that I had in some way helped to, how shall I put it, guide the plot in the right direction. In the strictest confidence, of course.’

  ‘The strictest confidence, yes.’

  ‘The title?’ Simon shone his smile upon the Scribe.

  ‘The Greatest Show off Earth,’ came the reply.

  ‘The Greatest Show off Earth.’ Professor Merlin bowed and curtsied, as he made the introductions to his guest.

  Raymond shook hands and returned smiles, and he wondered all the while of it. His first impressions of the banqueters had been of big broad-shouldered men and wild exotic women. But these impressions did not hold up to closer scrutiny. The ‘artistes’ all looked, well, a bit hollow-eyed and haggard.

  And they were queer fish all. Raymond had never met Siamese triplets before. Nor did he thrill to the professor’s lurid description of Aquaphagus the Human Aquarium’s speciality act. This certainly wasn’t your everyday circus.

  But then your everyday circus did not commute between the planets in a Victorian steam ship.

  Raymond met Disecto the Living Jigsaw, who could detach his limbs at will and rearrange them into whimsical compositions; Billy Balloon, who performed feats of inflatability which involved the employment of a high-pressure air-pipe and had a novel method of playing the penny whistle; Phoenix the Fireproof Fan Dancer.

  He exchanged pleasantries with walkers upon wires and swallowers of swords. Politely declined the outstretched hand of Dr Bacteria, trainer of germs, who claimed himself capable of displaying the outward signs of any terminal disease Raymond cared to mention; and received a kiss on the cheek from Lady Alostrael, whose star turn apparently consisted of summoning up the spirits of the dead whilst riding a unicycle, or was it a unicorn?

  It was all very confusing. But to Raymond, who was now making a career of confusion, it was just about ‘par for the course’.

  ‘Oh yea and verily-do,’ crooned the professor. ‘And finally, Raymond, you must meet this fellow. A performer of peerless precision. A master of pedestrian prestidigitation. The one, the only. I give you, Monsieur LaRoche.’

  ‘Monsieur LaRoche?’ Raymond now found himself being pecked upon both cheeks by a small and sallow chappie, with a tiny waxed moustache and a wandering wig.

  ‘Mon pleasure,’ said this man, clicking his heels together and offering a salute.

  ‘How about that?’ said Raymond. ‘Professor, you’ll never guess what.’

  ‘I would if the clue were, “used with a noun in requesting the identity of something”.’

  ‘Yes, I mean, no. I mean, Monsieur LaRoche. When I escaped on Venus, it was because I remembered my chum Simon telling me about a Victorian circus performer called LaRoche. He invented this act where he got inside a metal ball and rolled up this spiral track. How about that, eh?’ Raymond beamed down at the little Frenchman and shook him warmly by the hand. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you,’ he said. ‘Are you related to the original LaRoche? Was he an ancestor, your great great grandfather or something?’

  LaRoche looked Raymond up and down. ‘I am LaRoche,’ quoth he. ‘I am ze original LaRoche. Inventor of ze internally perambulated sphere. I am ze Sisyphus of Circusdom.’

  ‘You mean the original act is still in the family. Brilliant.’

  ‘I mean I am the LaRoche.’

  ‘Yes, but not the real one. The real one performed over one hundred years ago.’

  ‘Not ze reel one?’

  ‘Let us move on,’ said the professor. ‘I don’t believe you’ve met—’

  ‘Not ze reeeeel one?’ The Frenchman stamped his foot. ‘He is saying that I’m not ze real LaRoche.’

  ‘Well, you’re not,’ said Raymond.

  ‘Pooh poohs.’ LaRoche pulled a kid glove from his pocket and slapped Raymond across the face with it.

  ‘Slap!’ it went.

  ‘I say,’ said Raymond.

  ‘You say?’ cried the Sisyphus of Circusdom. ‘You say? You say I am not ze original LaRoche. That is what you say.’

  ‘I do,’ said Raymond.

  ‘He does!’ The Frenchman stamped the other foot. ‘He spit upon my good name. He drag my reputation through ze horse’s manure.’

  ‘Now you’re being silly,’ Raymond said.

  ‘Silly! Now he say I stone bonker.’ ‘Slap,’ went the glove again.

  ‘Stop that,’ said Raymond. ‘I only said.’

  ‘I hear what you say. You say my sister do it for money with ze sai
lor boys.’

  ‘I never said any such thing.’

  ‘Slap,’ went the glove for a third time.

  ‘I’m warning you,’ said Raymond.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ said Monsieur LaRoche.

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ said Professor Merlin, stepping into the verbiage with some of his own. ‘Let us have no ambivalence here. Contrariety leads to contradistinction. Dispute to discord and discord to inharmonious circumstance.’

  ‘This pig start it,’ LaRoche protested. ‘He insult me. He wee wee upon my shoes and do a jobby in my wife’s handbag.’

  ‘I never did.’

  ‘Slap,’ went the glove.

  ‘Right,’ said Raymond, taking off his jacket and handing it to Professor Merlin. ‘One more slap and you’re—’

  ‘What am I?’ LaRoche made a continental gesture.

  ‘You’re a dead frog,’ said Raymond.

  ‘Frog!’ LaRoche threw up his hands. ‘Frog he call me. He use ze “F” word in front of ze ladies. My honour, she must be satisfied.’

  ‘Look,’ said Raymond, rather loudly, ‘I’m sorry. But you can’t be the original LaRoche. The original LaRoche was born in 1857. I’ve seen pictures.’

  ‘Hear him?’ The little Frenchman appealed to his fellow artistes. ‘Now he say he have photographs of my mother giving birth to me. Filthy pervert. My pistols someone. Now take that.’

  And with no further words spoken, Monsieur LaRoche kicked Raymond in the ankle.

  ‘Ouch!’ went Raymond, clutching at his leg and hopping wildly about.

  And, ‘Ouch!’ went Dr Bacteria, as Raymond hopped heavily on to his foot.

  And, ‘Eeeeeek!’ went Lady Alostrael, as Dr Bacteria fell backwards off his chair, dragging a section of tablecloth with him and dislodging a bowl of punch into her lap.

  And,’Oooooh!’ went Billy Balloon, as Lady Alostrael elbowed him in the face, while trying to duck the avalanche of food that was careening after the punch bowl.

  And, ‘My suit!’ cried Raymond, as cakes and ale went all down his trousers.

  And, ‘Urgh!’ went Professor Merlin, as Raymond took a mighty swing at LaRoche, missed and brought him down instead.

  And then things got somewhat confused.

  They’re a tight-knit bunch are circus folk. Have to be. It’s a very hard life on the road. So they all look after each other. And they live by a code. Which to the outsider means, offend one and you offend all.