The Japanese Devil Fish Girl and Other Unnatural Attractions

by Robert Rankin

  ‘But how—’ asked Silas Faircloud.

  ‘I have my contacts,’ said Mr Churchill. ‘An intelligence network. It is necessary to know who is whom. And whom may be trusted with what.’

  ‘All may be trusted here.’ The Prime Minister inclined his head towards Mr Churchill, and then asked, ‘And why, might I enquire, do you feel that you will garner no praise for your part in this noble enterprise?’

  The young man with the infant face produced a sheaf of papers. ‘Because the method by which we will achieve success must never be made public. For reasons which will immediately become apparent once I have explained them.’

  ‘Then please do so, sir,’ said Mr Gladstone.

  ‘Sir?’ asked Winston Churchill.

  ‘There are many ways of rewarding a servant of the Crown.’

  And Mr Churchill smiled once more. ‘Your servant, sir,’ said he. And he read from a typewritten page. ‘ “From the eight extant Martian vehicles of interplanetary transport surviving, three can be put into serviceable condition, fuelled with an equivalent to Martian propulsive fuel, stocked with compressed air and foodstuffs sufficient to—” ’

  ‘That is my report,’ said Mr Babbage. ‘How—’

  ‘How is not important.’ Mr Churchill’s smile increased in size but not in warmth. ‘Three craft can be flown to Mars. Each craft is capable of transporting five hundred soldiers of the Queen, with full packs and Royal Enfield rifles. Fifteen hundred troops against the might of an entire planet.’

  ‘British troops,’ said Mr Gladstone, proudly. ‘The finest in the world.’

  ‘In this world,’ said Mr Churchill. ‘But untrained to fight in the unknown conditions of another.’

  ‘Highly adaptable,’ said Mr Gladstone. ‘At present we have several thousand men serving in Afghanistan. Soon that errant nation will be brought to book and no more trouble will this world know from it.’

  Mr Churchill declined to comment. ‘Mars,’ said he, ‘presents us with a challenge. My solution is simple and will prove wholly effective. It will, however, garner me no praise, as I have said.’

  ‘Then please let us hear this plan,’ said Mr Gladstone, taking the opportunity to light the cigar that had been all a-quiver ’tween his moving lips.

  ‘We will send no troops,’ said Mr Churchill. Pausing to let his words take effect.

  ‘No troops?’ said Mr Babbage. ‘But then how—’

  ‘Fifteen hundred civilians,’ said Mr Churchill. ‘No full packs or Royal Enfields. Just the clothes they stand up in. Or perhaps lie.’

  ‘Please explain yourself,’ said Mr Babbage.

  ‘The Ministry of Defence has lately been experimenting with certain new forms of weaponry. Sophisticated modern weaponry that will make the bullet a thing of the past.’

  Mr Babbage groaned. ‘You speak of poison gas,’ said he. ‘I have heard rumours of this awful stuff.’

  ‘Something to do with custard, isn’t it?’ asked Silas Faircloud.

  ‘Mustard,’ said Mr Churchill. ‘Mustard gas. Hideously effective. But the Ministry is moving beyond this. In fact, regarding the Martian campaign and the Martians’ obvious susceptibility to Earthly microbes, you might term my proposal “Germ Warfare”.’

  Certain breaths were sharply taken in.

  Mr Faircloud coughed a bit and said, ‘Not very, how shall I put this, British.’

  ‘Nor indeed the method of distribution.’ Mr Churchill darted eyes about the table. ‘The fifteen hundred souls aboard the three Martian craft will be incurables. Terminal cases. Consumptives. Those suffering from whooping cough, scarlet fever, diphtheria, cholera, typhus, genital crabs—’

  ‘People don’t die from genital crabs,’ said Mr Babbage.

  ‘They do if they give them to me,’ said Mr Churchill.

  There was a brief moment of silence then, before Mr Gladstone said, ‘Dignity please, gentlemen. I allowed the “custard” remark to pass unchallenged, but if we are to descend to the humour of the music halls, I will be forced to call these proceedings to a halt.’

  ‘My apologies,’ said Mr Churchill. ‘Syphilitics, those in the advanced stages of any sexually or otherwise transmitted and transmittable terminal diseases. Three space-borne plague ships bound on a voyage of no return.’

  ‘My word,’ said Silas Faircloud. ‘I trust that I will not be recruited to this hapless jaunt.’

  ‘By no means, sir.’ The smile remained on Winston Churchill’s face. ‘At a stroke we will empty fifteen hundred beds in chronic wards. Where would be the loss, when everything, it would seem, would be the gain?’

  ‘As long as nobody knows.’ Mr Faircloud gave a little shiver. ‘It is a terrible thing. But in its way a noble thing. Viewing it dispassionately I ask myself, where would be the harm? But as a humanitarian, to sanction such a thing would be—’

  ‘Not for you to trouble yourself with.’ Mr Churchill bowed towards the Astronomer Royal. ‘I will take full responsibility. Which is to say that I will make all the necessary arrangements. We will deliver these wretches to Mars. Hopefully the Martians will not open fire upon their own ships. Once they have landed and the ports are opened, nature will take its course. I would suggest that one or two months later, during which time more Martian craft can be “back-engineered”, we will send out a contingent of Fusiliers. Hopefully they will meet with neither resistance nor indeed a single live Martian. Gentlemen, such is my proposal.’

  Mr Churchill reseated himself.

  To no applause whatsoever.

  ‘Would you care for a cigar?’ asked Mr Gladstone.

  ‘Indeed,’ replied the youthful Mr Churchill. ‘I have always wondered just what they might taste like.’

  But so it came to pass. And so to great success. Few questions were asked regarding the fifteen hundred terminally ill patients who vanished from their beds of pain. And questions asked regarding the human bodies found upon Mars, when the Queen’s Own Electric Fusiliers yomped down the gangways and onto the surface of the now lifeless planet, were capably answered in Parliament by a young buck named Churchill, who was building a reputation for himself.

  ‘I am aware,’ he stated, ‘that something I understand to be called a “Conspiracy Theory” exists regarding the human corpses found – and disposed of in a Christian manner – upon Mars. This theory states that for years prior to the Martian invasion of Earth, beings from Mars had visited this planet and abducted humans for experimental purposes that are far too horrific to dwell upon. The theory that I have lately heard, which may or may not bear credence, is that the French authorities had for years colluded with these unspeakable aliens, supplying their needs in exchange for certain advanced machinery. I have heard it stated that this intelligence came to the ears of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, who ordered that all such abominable transactions cease immediately. It was this cessation that led to the Martian attack upon England. Which led in its inevitable turn to a retaliatory attack culminating in the extermination of the vile Martians and the extension of the British Empire to Mars. God save the Queen.’

  And that was that.

  Or nearly was.

  Because it transpired that there was a degree of truth to the words spoken by Mr Churchill. Beings from other planets had indeed been visiting Earth for several decades. These visitors had not, however, been from Mars.

  They had been from Venus and from Jupiter. Two more of the four inhabited planets of this solar system. These beings came in peace and in secrecy. But when the men from Planet Earth wiped out the unsavoury Martians, the men from Venus and Jupiter presented themselves to Her Majesty the Queen. Earth joined a congress of planets and a new age of interplanetary travel and discourse began.

  That year was eighteen eighty-five, and ten years later, in this year of our Lord known as eighteen ninety-five, the Empress of Mars, its panoramic maiden joyride completed, settled down onto the landing strip of the Royal London Spaceport, at Sydenham, just to the south of the Crystal Palace. Gangways were lo
wered and Queen Victoria, Queen of England, Empress of India and Mars, cast her regal shadow onto a red carpet that extended from the airship, across the landing strip, past the Terminal One building that mirrored so perfectly the architecture of the Houses of Parliament, and all the way up the hill to the palace of crystal, where tonight would be held the concert of celebration for the tenth anniversary of Britannia’s triumph over the Martians.

  Her Majesty would be greatly amused this night by the comic capers of Gilbert and Sullivan and their musical evocation of British vim and valour. The truth, although out there, would never be known to her.

  3

  The pickled Martian’s tentacles were fraying at the ends. A foul and healthless fetor filled the air. The showman’s wagon that housed this ‘Most Meritorious Unnatural Attrac tion’ trundled uncertainly upon its broad iron wheels. The constant clamour and shudderings of steam that arose from the traction engine hauling this wagon contributed no joy whatsoever to the chap in its cramped interior.

  George Fox was a lanky lad whose legs needed plenty of room. As a wagon wheel plunged into yet another pothole, George found himself flung forwards, his face all squashed against the cold glass of the pickled Martian’s tank. He swore, briefly but greatly to the point, and made an attempt to straighten himself. This attempt was met with failure and George sank back on his bottom.

  What there was to be seen of George, illuminated yet vaguely in profile by a guttering candle within a bull’s-eye lantern, looked reasonable enough. A noble profile with a striking chin. A blue eye all a-twinkle and a rather spiffing sideburn. A good head of wavy brown hair. A shirt with a collar in need of a scrub. And the costume of a showman’s assistant. Loud, that suit, very loud.

  George Fox eschewed the word ‘zany’, although this was the title his employer Professor Cagliostro Coffin had thrust upon him.

  ‘One who engenders warmth and sympathy in the growing crowd by means of gambols, pratfalls and tricks above ground. A noble craft, my boy. A noble craft.’

  A noble craft! George Fox held his fingers to his nose. He was nothing more than a clown to a shiftless trickster. And now this. George viewed the pickled alien that bobbed within its glassy prison. A gruesome creature, all tentacles and bulbous bits and bobs, its pale and scaly skin a jigsaw puzzle of autopsy stitchings.

  George’s duties had recently been extended to the care and maintenance of this hideous specimen. And George hated the pickled Martian. Not just as one of a species would hate a natural enemy, but with specific, personal malice. Somehow that dead beasty had it in for George, and George in return had it in for the beasty. He was rapidly reaching the conclusion that this line of work did not suit him and that he should seek another position, one more trimmed to the skills he possessed.

  Whatever those skills might be.

  The wagon gave another lurch and George was drenched in formalin that spilled from the Martian’s tank. He did grittings of the teeth and gave himself to loathing.

  At length, the wagon grumbled to a halt and hands threw the rear doors wide.

  ‘Sleeping?’ called the voice of the professor. ‘The life of luxury it is that you live, to be sure.’

  George made grumblings of his own and rose most carefully. The contents of the wagon were many and various and all, according to Professor Coffin, ‘of great value and irreplaceability’.

  An ‘Holistical Mirror’, in which could be viewed the reflection of all of the world and all of its people thereto.

  A stone from the Tower of Babel.

  A grimoire penned in a universal language that could be read by anyone of any race, had they the knowledge of reading or not.

  A clockwork pig of destiny, which solved mathematical conundrums and gauged the age of ladies by the shape of their unseen knees.

  The stuffed remains of not only Brutus the Canine Escapologist, but also a mermaid lately taken by fisherman off the Island of Feegee.

  All had been spoken of by Professor Coffin.

  None, however, had been viewed by George Fox.

  The boxes that housed these treasures rose to all sides of George in precarious towerings.

  George stepped warily out into the night.

  ‘Where are we?’ he asked the professor. ‘Are we where we should be?’

  ‘Aha,’ said Professor Coffin, rising on the toes of his pointy boots. ‘It is for such questions that I retain your services, young Mr Fox. We have reached our destination. The Common Fields to the East of the Sydenham Spaceport. Here, tonight, we display our pickled companion. Although—’ And here the professor took to the sniffing of young George Fox. ‘It would appear that you have been applying the contents of his tank to your good self as an evening cologne. I fear you’ll fail to attract the ladies. Best you have a wash.’

  ‘Lead me to the nearest bathhouse,’ said George, with hope in his voice.

  ‘A horse trough presents itself yonder,’ crooned Professor Coffin, singing the words as one would a music-hall ballad and performing as he did so a curious high-stepping dance.

  George Fox viewed his employer with a jaundiced eye. The professor was far from young. Sixty, perhaps? It was hard for George to tell, for he was in his teens and all men over thirty appeared quite aged.

  Sprightly, though, the professor was, and slim as a dolly mop’s promise of faithfulness. And he had charisma. A presence. And almost poetic it was.

  His face was that of Mr Punch, with a smile as wide as can be. His suit was louder than that of George, the broadcloth was Burberry. He twirled a cane with a skeleton’s head and he laughed as often as not and he called men ‘Rubes’ and trusted none except for the carnival lot. His accent was a queer one and his origins unknown. If ever asked he’d swear that all the universe were home.

  And grudgingly George was forced to admit that he liked the professor very much. Although he would never have been able to bring himself to say this out loud. For it would probably have caused great embarrassment to the both of them if he had.

  George Fox sighed, glanced in the direction of the horse trough and then set free a great and mighty gasp.

  ‘What, pray, is that?’ he enquired when he was able.

  ‘That, my boy, is the Empress of Mars.’

  Cabled to its mooring masts, the great pleasure ship filled a quarter of the horizon, its twinkling underbelly lit by naphtha spotlights and modern electrical bulbs. Although constructed by British craftsmen in the hangars of Northolt, under the strict supervision of its designer Sir Ernest Lovell, the Empress of Mars was a thing of unworldly beauty. That it was the single largest feat of engineering since the construction of the Great Pyramid had been a fact much trumpeted in Grub Street.

  George took a step back and blew out a breath. ‘It is truly the most beautiful and indeed fearsome thing that I have ever seen in my short life. And—’

  ‘Please do not say it,’ the professor said.

  ‘Say what?’ asked young George.

  ‘Say, “And one day, when I have made my fortune, I shall travel upon it.” Or some such tragic phrase.’

  ‘Ah,’ said George. ‘I say that kind of thing often, do I?’

  Professor Coffin nodded with his napper. A napper onto which he had now placed a top hat, whose fabric matched his suit. ‘Do you recall Liverpool, where I took you to the Philharmonic Dining Rooms? “One day I shall own an establishment such as this,” you said. Or in Paris, regarding that ghastly iron eyesore designed by the Frenchie, Alexandre Eiffel.’

  George had to concede that he had indeed coveted the Eiffel Tower. And if it came down to the matter of a personal lack, highlighted by the words hitherto spoken by Professor Coffin, it could be said that George lacked the natural contempt for the French that was seemingly held by all ‘good’ British folk. That Martian he hated, but the French were all right.

  ‘Sorry,’ said George, all downcast once more.

  ‘Not a bit of it, my boy.’ Professor Coffin patted George, then wiped his fingers on an oversized red
gingham hankie. ‘You have ambition. The seeds of greatness were sown within you at birth. You will achieve wonderful things. Believe me, I know such stuff.’

  ‘You really do think so?’ asked George, with hope once more in his voice.

  ‘Of course, of course. But one thing at a time. I will secure our pitch and then you must pitch our tent. And when all is neat and nice, then you will pitch to the crowd.’

  ‘Me?’ said George. ‘Me on the bally, giving the pitch to the crowd? Not you? But this is—’

  ‘An honour?’ asked Professor Coffin. ‘Think nothing of it, my boy.’

  ‘I was going to say a “royal liberty”,’ said George, ‘as you will no doubt fail to increase my wages accordingly.’