Knees Up Mother Earth bs-7

by Robert Rankin

  And in less time than it takes to call an ambulance for someone who has been electrocuted as a result of tampering with something electrical that they really shouldn’t have tampered with, but slightly more time than it takes to recover from such an electrocution and do the calling yourself, Norman was all cabled up with only the minimum of fingertip charring and singeing of the wig.

  “Piece of cake,” said Norman, applying himself once more to manual and keyboard. The valves hummed away nicely, projecting an amber glow through the air holes in the back of the mahogany cabinet that housed the monitor screen and making that electrical toasty smell that is oft-times referred to as ozone, but is probably Freon. And then things began to appear upon the monitor screen.

  Norman viewed these things and purred his approval.

  They all looked very exciting, but he didn’t know what they meant. They were definitely symbols of some sort, row upon row of them, travelling sedately across the screen. Mathematical symbols? Norman certainly hoped so. If he was to come up with The Big Figure, the number of it all, the very number of existence – perhaps, Norman mused, the mathematical equation that was the Universe, or even God himself – then row upon row of mathematical-looking figures doodling their way across the screen was probably as good a place as any to start.

  Norman continued with his viewing, and with his musing also. It was a private and personal kind of musing. And it ran in this fashion: perhaps, Norman’s musing went, going outright for The Big Figure was overly ambitious. It was not so much that he lacked the confidence to go for The Big Figure – far from it, Norman had every confidence in what he might personally achieve. All things were possible, to Norman’s mind. All things could be achieved if he, Norman, put his, Norman’s, mind to these things. That others thought him a dreamer did not enter into it. People were always saying that this can’t be done, and that can’t be done, and that to achieve big ends required vast organisations with vaster budgets. Norman pooh-poohed such narrow-mindedness.

  But perhaps he should take things a bit at a time on this particular project, because it was, after all, a very BIG project. And if he did manage to come up with The Big Figure before anyone else did and could patent it, it would put him in a very powerful position. A kind of King of the World position, The Big Figure giving its discoverer all but limitless power, assuming that it did actually exist and that it was actually possible to discover it. And then actually do something with it.

  Norman ceased his musing; such musing was not helpful. Such musing inspired doubt. Better just to get on with the project, find The Big Figure and then cock a snoot to the lads at The Flying Swan who had doubted his ability to do so.

  Norman consulted the manual once more. “Oh, I see,” said Norman. “It’s a computer program, loading itself up.” Pleased that he could at least understand the basic concept of what was going on, Norman left the computer to be going on with whatever it was going on with and went off to make himself a mug of tea.

  He returned, tea mug in hand, to discover that the computer had done whatever it wanted to do and now awaited his instructions.

  “All right,” said Norman, “let’s see what you can do.” And he began to type: If one man can dig a hole six foot deep and three foot square in two and a half hours, how many men would it take to make fifteen such holes in forty-five minutes?

  Norman shook his head. Surely that was too easy for a calculating machine. Multiply this figure by the area of a lean-to shed and the angle of a ship upon the horizon.

  “No,” said Norman. “I won’t know whether it gets the answer right or not. There has to be a way of testing this machine’s abilities. Oh, what’s this?”

  The computer screen now lit up with the words “TECHNICAL SPECIFICATION: TESLA BROADCAST POWER SYSTEM”.

  “I never asked for that,” said Norman. “I wonder what that might be.” There was a key marked “ENTER” upon the keyboard and Norman gave this a tap. Figures and diagrams and tracts of printed text now appeared upon the screen. Norman read the printed text and Norman’s eyebrows rose.

  “Tell me,” said Norman, “that this isn’t what it appears to be.” But there was no one present to tell Norman otherwise.

  “It’s a plan for a device,” said Norman, “that can broadcast electricity on a radio frequency, without cables. But no such device exists, surely – or ever has existed.”

  Norman now jiggled the little brass mouse about, scrolling words and diagrams and technical bits and bobs up the screen. “Patented in eighteen sixty-two,” read Norman. “Patent, the property of Charles Babbage and Nikola Tesla. Babbage! And this is a Babbage computer. A Victorian computer. This can’t be right. Although …” Norman cast his inventor’s eye over the diagrams and technical bits and bobs. “This Broadcast Power System looks as if it might actually work – it’s really a very simple system. But I’m sure there’s no record of this. There’s never been ‘broadcast electricity’. Something like that would revolutionise everything.” Norman scrolled on. Plans appeared for electric automobiles that ran without batteries, drawing their locomotive power from broadcast electricity received upon radio waves. And electric airships. And flying hansom cabs. And automata.

  “Oh my goodness,” said Norman. “The Motherlode. The works of Victorian inventors that somehow were never brought to fruition. The work of unrecognised geniuses – much like myself, in fact. And all this has lain locked away for nearly a century, waiting …” Norman paused. “Waiting for me,” he continued.

  The training session had reached its conclusion, and there had been no fatalities. No heart attacks, no mental breakdowns, very little in the way of swearing and no one so badly bruised as to need assistance when leaving the field of play.

  “You’ve all done very well,” Jim told them. “You can all take a shower, if you fancy that kind of thing, and then join myself and Mr Omally in The Stripes Bar. The first pint is on me.”

  As there were no shower enthusiasts, Jim led the sweaty team off to the bar.

  “I think that all went rather well,” said Jim when he had acquainted himself with a pint. “What do you think, John?”

  “It’s undoubtedly a new approach.” Omally settled himself on to an uncomfortable chair and supped upon his second-rate ale. “I’m even looking forward to Saturday. I can’t wait to see what Penge makes of it.”

  “Don’t forget that you’re in charge of hiring the coach,” Jim told him.

  “I’ll have a word with Big Bob Charker who runs the Historic Tour of Brentford bus. He’ll be grateful for the business and he owes me a favour or two.”

  “And the fund-raising to pay for the team’s wages?”

  “I have an idea for that. Friday night will be Benefit Night, right here in our personal pub.”

  “Tomorrow night is Friday night,” said Jim. “It will surely take powers greater than your own to organise a Benefit Night in a single day.”

  “Trust me,” said Omally. “I’m a PA.”

  Pints sank and more were ordered.

  And paid for by the members of the team.

  Omally engaged the conjoined twins in conversation, subtly steering the dialogue towards a particular area of their lives that was of particular interest to himself.

  Jim sat chatting to Ernest Muffler, whom John seemed anxious to avoid, for some reason.

  “We really can win this,” Jim told him.

  Ernest offered Jim a guarded, doubtful glance.

  “It’s true,” said Jim. “Powers greater than our own are at work to aid us to victory.”

  “Have you ever heard of a thing called a group dynamic?” Ernest asked him.

  “Is it one of those Californian things where blokes take their clothes off and hug trees in a forest?” Jim asked him in return.

  “No,” said Ernest, now offering Jim another kind of glance.

  “No,” said Jim. “I don’t mean that I … I mean, well … no, I don’t know what a group dynamic is.”

  “It’s somethin
g to do with motivating a bunch of people, getting them all to work together for a common goal, that kind of thing.”

  “That’s the kind of thing I’m trying to do,” said Jim.

  “Well, you’ll have a hard time doing it with this bunch,” said Ernest. “They’ll do what you tell them, to some extent, especially as you’re actually going to pay them, but you can’t really trust them. They’re all up to something.”

  “Everybody seems to be.” Jim took further sup upon his substandard pint. “But surely none of them will do anything to sabotage the team’s chances of success.”

  “I’m sure they’ll all try their hardest to win if they all actually turn up for the game. I did hear you say something about a Benefit Night tomorrow evening to raise money for our wages.”

  “You can consider your wages paid,” said Jim, all but finishing his substandard pint.

  “And I appreciate that. But if you have a Benefit Night for the team tomorrow evening, the team will be expected to attend. It would be impolite not to. So they’ll all get pissed and have hangovers on Saturday morning.”

  “Ah,” said Jim. “I see. That’s what you’d call a dilemma, isn’t it?”

  “Happily though,” said Ernest, rising from Jim’s table and taking himself off to the toilet, “it’s your dilemma, not mine.”

  Jim now sat and stared gloomily into what was left of his substandard pint. This really was all too much. All too much of everything. Especially responsibility. Jim’s brief flirtation with responsibility had never led to a lasting relationship. Jim considered that being responsible for himself alone was a full-time job in itself. And one which, of course, left no time for any other kind of full-time job. But to have all this so suddenly and unceremoniously dumped upon his shoulders, even with all of Omally’s boasts of selfless support and the professor pulling the strings, as it were, was, Jim considered …

  All too much.

  “Those twins lead a most remarkable sex life,” said Omally, placing a newly drawn pint before Jim and settling himself into Ernest’s uncomfortable chair. “I think I might consider joining the circus.”

  “I think I might come with you,” said Jim. “I don’t think I can go through with this.”

  John patted Jim upon his sagging shoulder. “Perk up, my friend. The first day on the job is always the trickiest.”

  “And you would know this from experience, would you?”

  John Omally scratched at his curly bonce. “Well, I’ve heard it said,” said he. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually lasted for more than a single day in what they call regular employment.”

  “We’re doomed,” said Jim.

  “Now don’t start that again. We’re not doomed. We have the professor to aid us. And our own pub, Jim, don’t forget that. And when Neville finds The Swan empty tomorrow night, he’ll rue the day that he bopped us on the head.”

  “We might have to cancel the Benefit Night,” said Jim and he went on to explain why.

  John gave the matter a moment’s thought. “Have no fear,” said he. “I’ll take care of it,” and he gave his nose a significant tap. “Now, is there anything else that troubles you?”

  “Well,” said Jim, taking a big breath. “There’s …”

  “No,” said John, putting his tapping finger to Jim Pooley’s lips. “Drink your ale and stop worrying yourself. We’ll come through this and we’ll come out on top. Trust me, I’m a—”

  “I know,” said Jim. “A PA.”

  “No,” said John. “A Brentonian. And we lads can get through anything.”

  Professor Slocombe descended at length from the south stand of the football ground. Behind and beneath the stand, just along from The Stripes Bar, there existed a rude hut constructed of railways ties, daub and wattle, canvas and corrugated iron. To the first and passing glance, this curious dwelling resembled little other than a stack of debris, carelessly discarded. And to the second and third glances also. For this was the way that the Campbell preferred it. For this was the Campbell’s home.

  Professor Slocombe knocked upon a section of corrugated iron. It was a “certain” knock. There was a certain pattern to it. The section swung aside, a hand beckoned greeting and Professor Slocombe entered the Campbell’s dwelling. The Campbell closed and secured his secret door.

  “Seat yourself,” said he.

  The dwelling was spacious within. Remarkably so. And remarkable, too. Many candles lit a single gallery. The undersides of the stand seating above gabled its ceiling. Flagstones paved its floor. And then there was the Gothic. There were tapestries and hunting trophies, shields and claymores and antlered heads. The look of all and sundry of it was one of a Scottish laird’s hunting lodge. Or something to do with Highlander.

  A great fire blazed in the rough stone fireplace, but where the smoke went was anyone’s guess.

  Professor Slocombe lowered his fragile frame into a crofter’s chair before the fire. Mahatma Campbell decanted a measure of Scotch into a goatskin goblet and placed it in the scholar’s hand.

  “If I might say so,” said he, “you took your time.”

  Professor Slocombe smiled. The Campbell seated himself in a great chair opposite, took up a poker and gave the fire a stabbing with it.

  “You remain most loyal,” said Professor Slocombe. “How many years is it now?”

  “Too many.” The Campbell spat into the fire. “But I keep the watch. And if this Pooley is your man, then I’ll keep a watch on him, too.”

  “I would appreciate that.” Professor Slocombe tasted the Scotch. It tasted mighty fine. “Jim is a good man. I would not want any harm to come to him.”

  “Does he know what he’s dealing with?”

  “No.” Professor Slocombe shook his head.

  “Then you’re sending him to his death.”

  “Not with you here to protect him.”

  Mahatma Campbell took up Scotch of his own and threw it down his throat. “One of them was here tonight,” he said, “in this very stadium.”

  “No.” The face of Professor Slocombe became grave. “Whilst I was here? I felt nothing.”

  “They’re cunning. And new, these – a different breed. Even blacker than the ones before.”

  “Even blacker.” Professor Slocombe’s fingers tightened around his goatskin goblet. “I shall have to be more vigilant.”

  “You’re vulnerable away from your manse. But wherever you are, I’ll not be far from your side.”

  “Protect Jim,” said the professor. “Perhaps you should go to him now.”

  “The danger has passed. But they’re watching. You shouldn’t have left it so long. If they take the football ground, then it’s the end for us all.”

  “They’ll never take the football ground,” said the professor.

  “But you could have stopped all this months ago, paid off the club’s debts. You’ve enough in your coffers.”

  “I had to wait. There are certain predestined events that have yet to occur. It is all part of my plan.”

  “And this clown Pooley, he is part of your plan?”

  “We will only have one chance at this.” Professor Slocombe turned his goblet between his slender fingers and considered the flames of the raucous fire. “You and I both know the date.”

  “It’s written into my very soul,” said the Campbell. “To know in advance the date of the Apocalypse is a sombre enough matter by any reckoning.”

  Professor Slocombe put a finger to his lips. “Hush,” said he. “Not even here.”

  “I can speak here well enough, Professor, there’s none that can hear me but yourself.”

  “I would prefer that our conversation remained, how shall I put this, cryptic and enigmatic”

  The Campbell spat once more into the fire. “Perhaps in some Hollywood thriller or mystery novel, but I am a plain man and I speak plain words.”

  “You may look like man,” said Professor Slocombe, “but you and I both know that you are not one.”

  “B
e that as it may. But I, like you, am sworn to serve and protect this borough. The forces that seek to destroy it are beyond the ken of the normal Brentonian, who goes about his business in ignorance of their very existence.”

  “And that is how it will remain. As it always has been and as it always will be.”

  “Secrets, secrets, secrets. It’s always secrets.”

  “Magic must always remain secret, the preserve of the few – for good or evil.”

  “You should tell the world, Professor, all that you know.”

  “And the world would not believe me, but in telling all, my powers would be dissipated. But not so those of our mutual enemy. The King of Darkness thrives upon disbelief. You know that, Campbell.”

  “You could at least warn the people somehow.”

  “No.” Professor Slocombe arose from his chair, his ancient limbs click-clacking. “The football ground and what lies beneath it must remain untouched. I will play my part in seeing that this remains so. And you will play your part also.”

  “As I always have,” said the Campbell. “I am sworn to serve you.”

  “I know that. And if we achieve our ends without anyone else being aware of our genuine motives, so much the better. Brentford retains its football ground and a team that might go on to further success. And the Powers of Darkness are forestalled until another day.”

  “And the Apocalypse?” the Campbell asked.

  “Postponed,” said Professor Slocombe. “Indefinitely.”

  “I certainly hope you’re right.”

  “I enjoin with your hopes.”

  John Omally zipped up his trousers. As the bog in The Stripes Bar had been flooded – something to do with Billy Bustard, apparently – John had slipped out to make his ablutions elsewhere.

  And he had been doing so against this old pile of corrugated iron and debris beneath the south stand when he’d heard these muffled voices.

  And so, whilst peeing, he had pressed his ear to the corrugated iron and overheard a certain private conversation.