The Parodies Collection

by Adam Roberts

  ‘What?’

  ‘The very nature of the universe itself. Have you ever wondered,’ the ET said, as if what he were saying followed logically from his previous speeches, ‘why every hydrogen atom in the universe possesses exactly the same dimensions?’

  I looked at Linn. She looked at the Dr. The Dr looked at Linn. I looked at the Dr. Linn and the Dr looked at me. We all three looked at the ET.

  ‘No,’ I said eventually. ‘I can honestly and without fear of contradiction say, that this is not something I have ever wondered.’

  ‘It’s a puzzle, though, ain’t it?’ said the ET.

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Oh yes. Very much a puzzle. Puzzly, that’s what it is.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve lost the thread a little . . .’

  ‘Hydrogen is the simplest atom. All the other atoms, carbon and beryllium and gallagherlium and so on, they’re just variants of hydrogen mashed out by deep gravity wells and high temperature. Inside stars mostly. But what of the original hydrogen? Trillions upon trillions, trillions to the power of trillions of hydrogen atoms and every one exactly the same as all the others? It’s hard to believe, don’t you think?’

  ‘You’re imagining,’ Linn offered, ‘a universe in which some hydrogen atoms were atom-sized and some were the size of a semi-detached house?’

  ‘Not that,’ said the ET. ‘But, you know. In almost every other manifestation the universe admits of small variations. Microbes are all very small, but not every microbe is precisely the same size. Stars, planets, all differ. Even the speed of light differs depending on whether it passes near a strong gravitational field or not. All these things are different, yet every single atom of hydrogen is exactly the same size? Surely not.’

  ‘I just don’t see what you’re getting at,’ I admitted, as candidly as I could. ‘I mean, isn’t that just the way hydrogen atoms are?’

  ‘Could somebody just explain to me how we went from the Fermi Paradox to hydrogen atoms?’ put in Linn. ‘I just can’t seem to see the link.’

  ‘Bear with me,’ said the ET. ‘I’m getting round to it.’

  ‘What is the Fermi paradox anyway?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s the “For me? paradox”,’ Linn corrected me. ‘It’s called that because the observer looks around and can’t quite believe that the whole cosmos is just there for his individual benefit.’

  ‘You’re both wrong,’ said the Dr. ‘It’s the Vermin Paradox - the cosmos ought to be swarming with vermin. But the Time Gentlemen have been carefully pruning and husbanding the cosmos to keep it clean.’

  ‘What was it about hydrogen atoms?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll tell you why they’re all exactly the same size,’ said ET, sighting along the barrel of his curiously shaped weapon. ‘Because they’re the same atom.’

  ‘The same atom?’

  ‘The same atom.’

  ‘How can they be the same atom? That’s absurd. There are many trillions of them all.’

  ‘How can there even be one atom?’ said ET. ‘That’s the real question. But there was. One atom of hydrogen. It existed . . .it was the only thing that existed. It lasted through the billions upon billions of years of the cosmos. When it reached the end of time it got bounced back upon itself, lasting counterclockwise through time to the beginning. Then there were two. Then four. Then eight - all the same atom, bouncing back and forth through time. But, you see, that gives the wrong impression - because these replications did not happen one after the other in the way I’m describing here, they appeared to the external observer to happen simultaneously . This one atom, duplicated trillions of times, suddenly exploded outwards - the Big Bang. Our cosmos.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘And this is relevant because . . .?’

  ‘Because if the Time Gentlemen get their way then that simultaneity, that messy simultaneity, will be unpicked. That’s the inevitable endpoint of the TG philosophy. If you purge the cosmos of all ungrammatical and unsyntactic logic, then eventually you purge it of life. Because life is mess - life is the refusal to abide by the rules, the refusal to be constrained by restrictions. Life is evolution - and evolution is the production of parodies of previously existing forms of life! Parody is the process of growth and change! Those who take a zero tolerance approach to parody are enemies of the endless shuffling and recombination, the sometimes beautiful and sometimes alarming mutations that power existence itself. I used to be a Time Gentleman myself, policing the timeways. But then I realised: the TGs are not the answer to the problem. They are the problem.’

  ‘Well,’ said the Dr, slightly sneeringly. ‘A very pretty speech.’

  ‘Enough Doctor,’ said the ET. ‘I apologise for having to do this. Murder is never a nice thing. But perhaps you can believe that it is in the service of a higher good. If I let you live you’ll destroy the Garleks forever - and then you’ll go on to do much worse.’

  ‘I’m sorry!’ I burst out. ‘It’s my fault! I betrayed you, Doctor!’

  There was an awkward silence. Linn and the Dr both looked at me.

  ‘I didn’t realise he was planning to . . . you know, kill you,’ I said, in an agony of remorse. ‘I just thought he was going to . . . I don’t know.’

  ‘What?’ snapped the Dr. ‘What did you think he was going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I wailed. ‘But you killed the only woman I ever loved!’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ the Dr snapped. ‘That woman in the helmet? You’re bonkers. I’m a Time Gentleman! Don’t you think that, once we’d sorted out these evil Garleks, I was planning to go back to the moment just before that lady was trapped inside the helmet and rescue her?’

  ‘You,’ I gulped, tears in my eyes, ‘you were?’

  ‘Of course I was! What do you think I am - heartless? It’s one of the perks of being a Time Gentleman. One of the few, I might add. You get to go back and undo your mistakes. Pop back in the TARDY, try again ’til I get it right.’

  ‘So that,’ I said, realisation dawning, ‘was why you were so blasé about her being dead?’

  ‘Nothing ever really dies,’ the Dr said. ‘Not if you’re a Time Gentleman.’

  Hope flared in my breast. ‘So we can go and get her?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Can we go back now this minute?’

  ‘Well, absolutely, yes,’ said the Dr, scratching his chin, ‘Just as soon as I get these two trivial things out of the way. Firstly the elimination of the threat posed by the most evil race of beings the galaxy has ever known. And secondly, secondly, something else, slipped my mind, what is it, oh yes, my imminent and painful death, you berk.’

  I turned to the ET. ‘Please!’ I begged him. ‘Please don’t murder the Doctor! I’m very sorry I betrayed him to you - but if you let him live he can undo some of the damage he has done. I’m sure he’s learned his lesson. You were once a Time Gentleman yourself, you say? You reformed your ways . . . why can’t you believe he can do the same?’

  ‘Why can’t I?’ said the ET. ‘Well, because I’ve lived in the future. I know how this story ends. It doesn’t end the same way every time, of course; but in every version I’ve seen the Doctor can’t be allowed to live.’

  ‘Please!’ I implored. ‘We’re talking about my only true love! I lost her once - now I discover I can get her back. Don’t take her away from me one more time!’

  ‘You need to consider the bigger picture,’ advised the ET. ‘Did you ever wonder what the initials d and r stood for?’

  ‘Well,’ I said. ‘Doctor, obviously.’

  The ET shook his lump-shaped green head. ‘Not that. Dictator. And whilst murder may be a crime, tyrannicide is not.’

  ‘Dictator,’ I said. ‘Really? Is this true, Doctor? Linn?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ the Dr admitted. ‘But it’s not as bad as it sounds. A dictator is simply somebody who dictates - who tells you the correct way of doing something. That’s all we do, we Time Gents. We just point out where people have gone wrong
. . .’

  ‘I think we’ve been talking long enough,’ said the ET. ‘Is everybody up to speed now? Does everybody understand what’s at stake? If the Doctor here lives he’ll eliminate the Garleks, bring your woman back to life, and then go on to cleanse the galaxy of all mess. If I execute him, then I’m afraid your woman stays dead. Sorry about that. But otherwise life can continue in its messy and glorious profusion, and the Fermi paradox need never bother us.’

  ‘Go on,’ said the Dictator, with sudden bravado. ‘Do your worst. Shoot me with your nasty gun! See if I care! You’re only going to hit my knee at the height you’re pointing it anyway.’

  With an agility that one would not automatically associate with his stumpy little legs the ET leapt up and landed on the tray of his Stavros-shaped TARDY. This brought him up to a level where a shot from his death-dealer would shatter the Dr’s chest and stop his brain.

  ‘Ah,’ said the Dr, in a much less bravado-y voice. ‘I see. So it’s my brain, is it?’

  ‘That’s the fatal zone,’ said the ET.

  The Dr put his hands up in the air. ‘Does this help?’ he asked.

  ‘Help?’

  ‘Help you not shoot, I mean? Look, I surrender.’

  ‘It’s no good, I’m afraid. This is goodbye, Dictator. No longer shall your kind oppress the Galaxy with your terrible grammatical correctitude—’

  ‘—ness,’ corrected the Dr, in a small voice.

  ‘Enough,’ said the ET in a sorrowful voice.

  I could not believe what was happening in front of my very eyes. ‘No,’ I cried. ‘Wait!’

  The ET pressed the muzzle of his weapon close up against the Dr’s chest, so as to be quite sure that there was no chance of the shot going wide. I had a ghastly sensation of déjà vu. There had to be some way of preventing this event.

  The ET pulled his trigger and the deadly weapon discharged. Its explosive bolt of time-energy crashed into the Dr’s torso, and he lurched backwards.

  He fell.

  He crashed to the ground amongst the rubbish of Stavros’s lab.

  ‘Ta ta now,’ said the ET, hopping back onto the floor. He pressed a button on the outside of his TARDY; the door opened and he scurried inside. A moment later the form of seated Stavros, whiskers and all, shimmered out of vision and disappeared.

  This broke whatever spell of inaction had been cast upon Linn and myself. We rushed over to the dead form of the Dr.

  ‘Doctor!’ I cried. It was a cry of despair.

  ‘Linn,’ I urged. ‘You must do something! Take the TARDY, go back in time, undo this terrible thing.’

  ‘I can’t,’ she said, her voice full of sorrow.

  ‘Don’t be like that . . .’

  ‘No, I mean I can’t. I really can’t. I don’t know how. I’ve got years of training before me. I’m not a Time Lady, I’m just an apprentice.’

  These were very discouraging words indeed. If Linn couldn’t operate the TARDY then the Dr was indeed dead, irrevocably. Moreover, Linn and I were both trapped there: stuck on the planet Skary, in the heart of the bunker of a criminally insane fascist Greek chef just at the moment he turned his planet over to the rule of the Garleks. Things looked bleak indeed.

  ‘Bother,’ I said.

  Then something happened that I was not expecting. The Dr sat up and said two things that sounded, to my jangled ears, rather like non sequiturs. Which is to say, sounded unlike garden pruning scissors. He said, ‘has he gone?’ And then he said. ‘Quick, help me off with my tie . . .’

  ‘Tie?’ I stammered. ‘What?’

  ‘Quick!’ he urged. ‘Quick—quick—’ He was scrabbling at his neck. ‘I had to wait until I was sure he was gone,’ he explained, as he yanked the tie to loosen it. ‘Or else I . . . there!’ The tie was loose, a snake of cloth that wriggled as the Dr flung it through the air. Then in mid-air something strange happened. The tie seemed to explode. It kinked and shreds and bits of fluff flew out from it.

  ‘What . . .?’

  An instant later a bullet caromed into the far wall. The tie, in two pieces now, fell slowly to the floor.

  ‘My TARDY tie,’ the Dr explained, getting to his feet and dusting himself off. ‘You know that space between the front and back bit of a tie? That little flat cavity?’

  ‘I have never worn a tie,’ I said, honestly enough, but feeling the oddity of my statement.

  ‘Well a tie is actually a sort of tube of cloth,’ the Dr was saying. ‘Think of a tapering tube pressed flat . . . there’s your tie. And since this was a TARDY tie, with the logo on it and everything, of course it was considerably bigger inside than it is outside. I’ve never actually measured it, but I have reason to believe it’s about a mile across from front to back.’

  ‘So when the ET shot you . . .?’

  ‘The bullet passed into my tie: it was hurtling across the cavity as I lay there. But I had to wait until the ET left, or he’d just shoot me again. It’s like towel - you remember that TARDY towel you used to dry yourself off after your dip in the North Atlantic? That was similar technology. The spaces between the strands of towelling were much much much larger than the towel itself. That was why it was so extraordinarily good at soaking up water.’

  ‘So that explains the towels,’ I said.

  Not much of a sentence, really. Considering that I’m a prose tailor, and everything.

  ‘Right!’ said the Dr with enormous vigour. ‘Let’s get on with this averting of terrible consequences, shall we? Put an end to the Garleks - nip back in time to rescue your ladylove - and get away!’

  EPILOGUE

  My relationship with Lexanco didn’t last, of course. The time I spent upon Tapov had its moments, but the main thing I learned there was that I couldn’t dance very well. Well, the two things I learned there were, (a) that I couldn’t dance very well, and (b) it’s hard to keep a woman interested in you if you are flabby and pale and badly co-ordinated when that same woman is surrounded by a whole planetful of lithe, muscular, handsome, graceful and co-ordinated males.

  Ah well.

  But that’s not what I want to talk about in this epilogue.

  You’ve now read my story, tailored out of my own prose, about my experiences with the Dr. If you’ve read it with any attention you will have spotted a variety of errors of punctuation, and the occasional grammatical solecism. If you’ve paid even closer attention you may have noticed that the story was not arranged according to the rules of sequential and chronologically-linear development. Everything that the Time Gentlemen represent.

  This was done on purpose.

  You see, I met up with the ET again. I couldn’t stop thinking about his words, to be honest; and when I met him again he was able to convince me.

  To convince me that the Time Gentlemanly obsession with rules, order and sequence is not only wrongheaded, but actively dangerous to the cosmos.

  To convince me to join him in his campaign to save the universe from the Time Gentlemen.

  And if you’ve been able to follow the story this far - if you’ve survived this dislocation of narrative - then I hope you’ll understand. Understand, and maybe join us too . . .

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