The Cat Wore Electric Goggles

by Ian Hutson

  Britannia, recovering poise and decorum after her submissive barrel-rolls, waited at a discreet but nonetheless friendly and inviting distance from the object. The boffins recommended pausing in order to give them a chance to sniff us out. We might just as well have let Labradors and Retrievers run the show for all the antics the boffins came up with. If they’d recommended putting Britannia’s backside in the air and wiggling it about I wouldn’t have been surprised.

  After waiting for twenty-four hours with no result the Captain put a match to Britannia’s manoeuvring thrusters and took us into a slow, symbolic D.N.A. double-helix manoeuvre. We kept that up for another fruitless twenty-four hours. I found myself no longer alone in considering the aliens to be impolite to the point of sheer rudeness. Alien sensibilities be damned.

  The boffins had the radio room change their messages, concentrating a little more heavily on the guest list of the yacht Britannia and their social and official ranks. “Calling the occupants of the interplanetary artefact. We are your friends. We come in peace. We are the rulers of this system and would be pleased to receive an early reply to our communications. RSVP asap.”

  On the third day of buzzing around the artefact our messages were altered to “This is our system. Make yourselves known. Advance immediately and be recognised.” We stopped transmitting the music and the poetry and pulled the Periodic Table sheet back inside the hatchway. There was talk of blasting the aliens to atoms.

  Silence thundered all about us in the electronic aether. After dinner of the fourth evening a conference was held, at which it was decided that possibly the alien species had no concept of the notion of “inviting folk in for tea”. The boffins were prepared to give credence to the idea that perhaps it was up to us to stride through the front door, so to speak. You must remember that we were quite in terra incognita, without even the benefit of the terra.

  The difficulty there, of course, was in finding the damned front door. The artefact simply did not appear to have been built with ingress and egress as we knew it in mind. Did the aliens perhaps lack any sense of architectural function beyond blunt grandeur? Minute study of the beast revealed nothing more than occasional workmanlike hatchways such as those one had encountered in one’s Navy days.

  Manoeuvres of a very delicate nature were then undertaken and a docking, of sorts, achieved, with Britannia hovering over the disc in rather the manner of a midge hovering over a Scottish moorland, for such was our portion of gravitas and relative grandeur. We were a gold fleck against matt black.

  An airlock tunnel looking for all the world like some insanely extended strawberry-striped bathing tent arrangement was pressed up against one of these small hatches, and made airtight with some clever goo. What remained of the situation was thus a need to somehow then bound along through the tunnel, walking as though on a circus trampoline, and to disappear head first, arse last into the unlatched hatch, crawling in on one’s knees due to the restrictions of the tunnel beyond.

  The Commissaire Politique gentleman from Debrett’s was not a happy chappy but even he agreed that needs must when the devil drives. The book on court obligations for visiting aliens had yet to be written. If this hatchway was all that there was then, well, not to put too fine a point on it Your Majesties, it was all that there was, so suck your gut in, Princess, and get on with it.

  The arses of the high and the mighty disappeared into the hatchway thus. First went a dozen Guardsmen in scarlet ceremonial dress, their bearskins tucked under their arm and their instruments pushed before them. Next went the equerries, laden with the official gifts, the red carpet, the portable dais and the public address equipment. The Ladies in Waiting didn’t wait, but followed in advance. A plainly clothed, plain-speaking and plainly-minded officer from the Royal Protection Unit was allowed to precede Her Majesty and myself into the tube.

  Incidentally, I should mention that Her Majesty wore a lemon dress with contrasting blue Coco Chanel inspired trim and a hat by Musto & Hyde of Southampton. Her Majesty’s handbag was by H.J. Cave & Sons with matching shoes by Alt-Berg Ltd. Her Majesty’s knee-pads and gardening gloves were provided by Eric from ship’s cleaning stores.

  Bringing up the rear and in no particular order and similarly on all fours were the Prime Minister, esteemed members of The Cabinet, the Archbishops, the favoured-poodle members of the Press and then a rag-tag trail of various scientists and experts. The Captain stayed on Britannia, naturally. Captains always stay on their ships just in case they go down unexpectedly.

  The pipe that we crawled through into the artefact remained uncomfortably restricted for some fifty yards or so - the muttering scientists conjectured that this was the thickness of the artefact’s outer hull. It then terminated abruptly at another latched service hatchway, and argument on how to proceed necessarily delayed the Grenadier musicians. I ended discussions by shouting from somewhere behind Her Majesty to bloody-well hurry up because me knees were aching and me back was killing me. The inner hatchway was opened, and the Grenadier Guards tumbled through.

  I remember there was then a horrible, horrible moment when no-one could decide how to extricate Her Majesty from the tube and lower her with dignity to the floor, some four or five feet below the level of the hatchway. The matter was resolved by a large Guardsman from rural Kent who simply looked to the horizon and lifted Her Majesty bodily, setting her safely on the decking. We all agreed that under the circumstances nothing of the kind had happened, and I told him that he need not be shot. He didn’t laugh, as I remember it, poor sod.

  When the First Sea Lord emerged from the tunnel he had been sporting a far-away look on his face and a wide grin hidden in his beard. He confided to me that the sight of Her Majesty’s buttocks as she had crawled along had moved him in a way that he hadn’t experienced since a rum-soaked Able Seaman Smith had kissed him on the fo’c’s’le during the war.

  We found ourselves in a vast chamber, and from the shape it was presumably one of the spherical, shrink-wrapped bulges of the artefact. I estimated the room to be a quarter mile from wall to wall. Where outside the artefact had been deepest deadly-dull matt black the inside was the polar opposite, bright and white and clinically shiny. The chamber might easily have been some artist’s impression of a damned futuristic train station. It was divided down its centreline with a deep groove, floating above which was a wide stream of something that may only be described as a very animated, busy-looking fog. The remainder of the chamber was given over to two semi-circle platforms serving this stream. At the extremes were open archways leading, one presumed, to other parts of the artefact, other bulges.

  More startling still was the population. All things bright and beautiful milled about, tripping over all creatures great and small. Some were of familiar configuration, some were so alien to the eye as to cause a deep frown and a mental squint in the observer. Name the combination of body shape, legs, arms, necks and heads and it was present, along with both in-bred and distant cousins that you have forgotten to mention. Each creature though was cloaked in some single element of the rainbow, or in the black total absence of light or in an excess of glowing white - like auras of varying opacity. Clothing at least, it seemed, had moved on apace, even if the hustle and bustle of the crowd had not. Was this some sort of co-operative mission to England, staffed and crewed by representatives of all developed species? It seemed so.

  Periodically this crowd rushed almost as one and launched themselves bodily into the stream of fog while yet others popped out of the fog in the opposite direction onto the platform. Perhaps this was how they moved about their vast spacecraft? We must have gained entry to a service area of some sort but, whatever it was, it would have to do. The meeting was met. The show must go on!

  The Grenadiers quickly set up the red carpet and the dais, fluffed up their bearskins and enjoyed a quick few bars of tune-up. In some odd, alien notion of ceremony, a few of the passers-by during the brief tune-up session left small, uniformly shaped tokens on the ground in fro
nt of the Grenadiers. They did so without slowing and without making eye contact, almost as though it were just a reflex action.

  Her Majesty and I organised ourselves at the podium. A semi-circle of London’s finest jostled for position behind. One had to constantly remind oneself that this was not an address at the Mansion House or the State Opening of Parliament. This was a case of doing the best one could under the circumstances, for the sake of Crown and England. I challenge anybody to have put on a finer display of due decorum, pomp and ceremony under such difficult, not to say unusual circumstances.

  The plan was that after a verse of the National Anthem and a chorus of Land of Hope and Glory, Her Majesty would make a relatively short speech of welcome to the aliens. The Prime Minister would then make a slightly longer speech inviting them up to London as our honoured guests. Then the official gifts would be presented and after that, if all went well, no doubt there would be some sort of reception and the beginnings of cultural and scientific exchange. My fervent hope was that once we had attracted the right attention then they would apologise for their gaffe and show me quickly where the toilets were.

  This First Contact didn’t go quite as we had planned.

  The Grenadiers put some patriotic, moustache-curling wild gusto and curry sauce into their rendition of Elgar’s classic, and that is what then caused a mob to form. Before one could say ‘It gives me great pleasure on this most auspicious occasion...’ we were surrounded. Flashes on what I can only assume were the alien equivalent of iBox iBrownies and iKodachrome iDisposables were going off left, right and centre. Some significant number then broke through the velvet ropes and became overly familiar, taking “selfies” while hugging Her Majesty.

  Oh, don’t misunderstand me. No-one got seriously injured. I think that a few of the Grenadier Guard Band’s instruments may have been flattened in the kerfuffle as they moved to protect the Queen’s person. In the confusion Mayor Boris Johnson got two black eyes - although I suspect that those may have been the opportunistic work of his colleagues. Old Boys will be old boys, even in space. I managed a knee to the Prime Minister’s testicles myself, settling a very old score in my favour.

  The official state gifts that we had laid out ready for presentation all disappeared faster than unattended strawberries at Wimbledon. I remember looking up at one stage in the proceedings and noticing that we were being shown on some of the giant display boards, with some sort of caption running below on a ticker-tape. I suspected that we were not giving the first impression that we had hoped to give.

  A handful of smaller aliens, possibly the youngsters of some species, stood in front of us and started miming as though they were mimicking apes and monkeys. One specimen stole Her Majesty’s hat right off her head and paraded around in it, dragging knuckles and with bended knees, scratching their pits like some primitive, playful primate in a zoo.

  At that point a party of more disciplined aliens fetched up. Their glowing apparel gave the impression of a uniform of some sort, although I could not describe exactly how.

  Far from subduing the unruly crowd though they pushed us back towards the hatchway through which we had arrived! We were unceremoniously shooed out of the chamber like stray dogs! A particularly large example followed on our heels in the access tunnel and I am told that he had few reservations about prodding and pushing. Our return trip though the airlock back to Britannia was performed to the echo of the hatchway being slammed, and this time I swear I heard a lock clicking on the inside.

  Britannia’s thrusters nudged us quickly away from the vast black body of the alien artefact and from the monumental breach of protocol. Initially, chaos reigned as we checked that everyone was back aboard. We passed then through a period of some feeling of relief and afterwards entered a ship-wide silence. Indignation and resentment built. Her Majesty and I withdrew to our staterooms and the high and the mighty retreated to their various sardine-tin quarters. The scientific and the xenomorphically inclined, I am told, then engaged in intense, puzzled debate regarding what had just happened. The Captain, for want of a better idea, steered us back towards England at a dignified and stately half-speed - certainly, we were not going to be seen to rush.

  We landed quietly enough and the general Press had been encouraged to stay away, there being nothing material or positive to report to the public. The feeling was that England had organised a massive, lavish party, had invited everyone - and no-one had turned up on the night.

  Even London itself seemed muted somehow, the traffic quiet and disinclined to hoot, the pigeons wary and sensing some deflation in the popular mood. Newspapers fell back upon their alternative stories of the indecorous romantic scandals of the season. Bunting and home-made signs of welcome were packed away, seeming as tacky as Christmas decorations in January. The Royal diary, so carefully emptied of all obligation to make way for our first alien contact and admission to the business of the galaxy, began to re-fill with the dull openings of mill and factory, with hospital visit and the entertainment of the Commonwealth. Daily life for the hoi polloi returned to focus on farm and field, and on the commute to design office and engineering workshop.

  Still the beast hung in space above us, silent and aloof.

  The arrival just some weeks later of a wave of dull, matt black flying saucers prompted the most peculiar mix of reactions. Half of England wanted to run out and greet the aliens, not caring for the delay. The other half wished only to return their initial snub wholly intact and redoubled. Some things, such as First Contact, just can’t be done twice no matter how hard one tries. Oh, there was a desultory, unenthusiastic retrieval of official bunting, and the State welcome wagon was rolled out once more, but this time with an attitude of like it or, quite frankly, lump it.

  I took the impression upon myself that our visitors thought themselves immeasurably superior and sophisticated, that they were mixing adventurously with the natives while they took a good look around the jungle. Certainly they were not cementing a new friendship of equals. We conferred upon them licence to roam, Freedom of The City and offer of every courtesy in the land. They left our table with Faberge and Shakespeare and gold. We left our table with nought but shiny plastic gewgaws and the indigestion that comes from having been patronised to hell and back.

  In the days and weeks following, reports began to grow in number of items missing in mysterious circumstances, even reports of people unaccounted for. The incidents grew more serious and more incredible in nature. Here and there an iconic black cab disappeared without trace. Trademark red telephone kiosks seemed particularly popular thefts. The process turned quickly from isolated theft to national plundering and systematic looting. For all that we had an army, a navy, an air force and a desire to communicate and understand, we were helpless and utterly ignored. This was worse than war, worse than annihilation. This was what it is to be unworthy even of consideration. We were utterly disenfranchised on our own planet, and we were robbed blind.

  Nelson’s Column was removed, then the Albert Memorial. Our guests simply hove up in their flying saucers, sent machines to dig out the foundations and lifted the items away. The museums were quickly plundered, the art galleries emptied. The Iron Bridge over the Severn was lost, even the blocks of Stonehenge were removed. Chatsworth House was pulled apart in broad daylight, and the Army and the Royal Air Force kept entirely at bay during the outrage with no more effort than an Amazonian explorer might discourage an over-friendly native child. In an unbearable insult, Big Ben and the Palace of Westminster were removed. Left in their stead were some crates of knick-knacks and toys such as might briefly amuse a child at the seaside.

  With hindsight, I realise that we were indeed regarded entirely as some primitive jungle tribe, as wholly un. Unsanitary, unsophisticated, and having emerged unbidden, unexpected and unwelcome onto the extra-terrestrial equivalent of Finsbury Park Tube Station platform during rush hour, brandishing our spears and flaunting our nose-bones. Oogah-boogah, look at the funny, bare-arsed native trib
e, that sort of thing.

  If only that had been the all of it.

  I sit now at the side of my beloved wife, Elizabeth Alexandra Mary Windsor, Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of Her other Realms and Territories Queen, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith. The Queen is dead, long live the Queen. At the last of days we took our eternal resting place in the Throne Room of Buckingham Palace. I too will die, although not soon enough to spare me this anguish, and history will only guess that we each held the hand of the other until both our bodies failed and turned to dust, as our empire and our peoples had done before us.

  London lies quiet now, and England beyond is silent save for the sound of the breeze and the motion of the waves upon her shore. The world is no longer a green and pleasant, sceptred isle, and it awaits the recuperative ministrations of Mother Nature. Should she be able to rebuild then there may yet be enough of the human species remaining to continue, and to live again under the sun. Such tiny few of our peoples as may survive must surely have done so, if survive they did, stripped of all modern humanity, in the deep, dark spaces sealed underground, under our ruined cities and beneath our blasted, ruined fields. Who can know? For all that such a wish is worth, one hopes so. One cannot rule rats alone.

  I am told that before our armed forces died we looked just once more inside the alien artefact and that our brightest scientists concluded it was indeed some part of a mass transport system, the equivalent of an interchange station on a network linking every bright, teeming alien world to every other just as surely and as easily as we linked our city’s boroughs.