NGLND XPX

by Ian Hutson

  ‘Oh. Which belongs to whom from where?’

  ‘Yah.’

  ‘No. We speculate that the ones trailing red flame would be Russian of course.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘The bigger ones are probably United States of American – Texan I suppose.’

  ‘Dashed pretty, anyway. What are the ones that make the little “putt-putt” smoke signals soon after leaving Earth?’

  ‘Those, we think, must be the Chinese and Indian nukes – full of eastern promise but a little disappointing in the final analysis. About half of them seem to fall back to the surface and then blow up. A bit like their commercial fireworks.’

  ‘Dashed inconvenient. Fall anywhere important?’

  ‘No, mostly just France. We’ve been very lucky, really. They just explode, leave a fifty-mile wide crater and do no damage to worry about as such. Switzerland got hit but we don’t think that was an accident – several missiles landed at once. Every cuckoo clock and every over-washed self-satisfied cow-bell sporting oh but we’re neutral boor will be radioactive for the next fifty thousand years.’

  ‘Splendid. Bit of an improvement eh?’

  ‘Look, I say – we’re almost twenty-five minutes ahead of the project schedule now and Higgy and I have been desperately alone here for quite a few days, I wonder if you chaps fancy some sport?’

  Carstairs, Carstairs minor and Carruthers all look sheepish and bashful.

  ‘Well, I suppose that technically we are abroad old chap, what happens in Abroad stays abroad as they say...’

  ‘Marvellous, yes – cricket then, tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Oh gosh! Yes – cricket. That would be tickettyboo, honour of the department at stake, that sort of thing. Yes – why not indeed? It, er, well – it won’t slow down the work will it?’

  ‘Gosh no, we’re virtually automated here now. Higgsy will check the coal and the boiler before we begin and anyway, it’ll do us both good to get some fresh air after so long cooped up here in those ruddy huts.’

  They all found it a little bit difficult to sleep, partly because of the excitement about cricket the following day, partly because of the constant flashes of Earth’s nuclear armoury falling long, falling short and falling, fortunately, remarkably off-target. Carruthers whispered to Carstairs minor about the possible effects of all of the explosions but Carstairs, overhearing them, reassured them that radioactive fallout couldn’t travel through the vacuum of space, so they were all quite safe. Besides, he said, the roof of the hut was made of two layers of corrugated iron and protection against radioactivity didn’t come much finer than that. Carstairs minor quietly sucked his thumb in the shadows and Carruthers simply tried to sleep with his hand over his testicles, thus shielding them from atomic harm.

  When Higginbotham hammered the stumps into the comet there was some quite dramatic cracking, but not enough to ruin the pitch entirely. Overnight the body of ice had shrunk somewhat under the full blast of the boiler and two dozen rattling, gurgling, steaming cast-iron radiators dotted about the place. The plan seemed to be working. Carstairs won the toss so Higginbotham took to wicket-keeping, Cholmondeley to gully and Shakespeare went to square leg as per ruddy usual. Since they’d all brought their cricket whites with them (a compulsory requirement when on active duty) it all looked rather splendid.

  The first couple of overs were uneventful except that it was decided that the boundary counted as hitting the ball so hard that it went into low orbit and had to be allowed to circle the comet before being retrieved. Carstairs minor went lbw and then it was all out for just a couple of dozen, although in the low gravity a run was defined as anything from a splendid bounce from one wicket to the other or a decidedly good effort at sliding around on the ice. Carstairs stopped play when one of the rear lights of the Humber was broken by a wild shot and they all returned to the makeshift pavilion for tea and to replenish their suit oxygen supplies.

  Quiet frankly, after the Battenburg had been polished off there remained little that was playable of the wicket. The Cunning Scheme of the Science Chaps was working remarkably well. The methane-rich slush made it almost impossible to bowl anyway so everyone declared. Carruthers and Carstairs minor looked dejected, but an emergency plate of Marmite sandwiches cheered them up a little.

  Carstairs, Carstairs minor and Carruthers eventually had to leave of course, and hands were shaken, backs thumped and cheery-byes were said. Higginbotham, Cholmondeley and Shakespeare felt very sad indeed as they stood ankle-deep in the slush and puddles, watching as C, C and C put their briefcases and umbrellas into the boot of the Humber and clambered in. C sat in the back of course, as befitted the C in C, while C minor drove. The Humbers were such splendid vehicles and the roofline was quite sufficient to allow for the wearing of regulation bowlers. C fired up the rockets.

  There was a bit of a watery gurgle and then the rockets spluttered, guttered like candles in the rain and died. C gave it more choke and tried again, with success and some mechanical consistency. The underside of the Humber became a delicious rosy glow of propulsion. Unfortunately, C had left the hand-brake on so they went lots of nowhere quite quickly. The jets generated steam which bathed the Humber in a quite photogenic mist and the headlights and tail-lights had to be engaged. Fortunately, Higgy had his Ensign Ful-Vue with him and loaded and ready with a fresh roll of Kodak Kodachrome 120 so the moment was captured for the archives. C gave the Humber a little more throttle and all three of the occupants gave a cheery wave and looked forwards and upwards expectantly. To their eternal credit they all maintained these expressions of “do let’s move forwards, C old boy, as soon as you like” while the Humber melted its way slowly downwards and backwards through the crunchy-wet remains of the comet. It was rather like watching a small vessel sink gracefully while the occupants did their best to ignore the process.

  After about five anxious minutes, during which the dog peered down the hole with his head on one side, the body of the comet gave a slight hiccough as the Humber popped out of the other side and then flew away back to Earth. As take-off manoeuvres went it was a little bit unconventional, and not one of those manoeuvres recommended in the Owner’s Handbook.

  Cholmondeley slapped Higginbotham on the back. ‘Well Higgy, it looks as though our work here is almost done. We’d better start packing before we disappear in much the same way. A couple more days should see the job finished.’

  Higginbotham disappeared back inside Rorke’s Drift and began packing. He admitted to a certain uncertainty about how best to pack the remains of the kitchen.

  ‘I’m never certain how to pack up a mobile or temporary kitchen’ he said. ‘It’s a skill that has eluded me since childhood and quite blighted my life.’ Dog showed him the way. Shakespeare packed ample snacks for the journey home (in his bed) and then ate the rest. Just the food of course; the humans packed the cutlery, crockery, frying pan and the saucepan singular while Shakespeare was preoccupied with tubs of Winalot and Minced Morsels. The kettle had its own little niche in the tea-maker’s chest next to the various teapots and the tannin-infusion comestibles. There was a rack in the lid especially for the spoons and some Tupperware took Tupper-care of the biscuits that Shakespeare didn’t get to first.

  The place seemed quite bleak once they’d finished, somehow not a home any more. Cholmondeley was quite put in mind of his family’s holiday hut in the Antarctic and the many times he’d closed the door there and begun the long trek back to school for a new term.

  Higginbotham tipped the contents of the very last sack of nutty slack into the boiler and then carefully folded the hessian and chucked it on too. He felt a little bit guilty at not returning it to the coal merchant but, well – most things were already packed and the best he could have done with it anyway would be to tuck it into a corner of the car’s boot where it would probably have made everything smutty. The plan was to leave the boiler with the hot-water valves all wide open to take care of the remains of the comet and to save on weight fo
r the return journey – it hadn’t been easy persuading fully-laden Morris Travellers to leave Earth and it would be no easier to persuade them back down to Earth without fuss or serious infraction of the Highway Code. The loss of a valuable boiler and several radiators would be keenly felt in the English economy, but strapping them to the overloaded vehicles was not a viable option. Cholmondeley wished that they’d brought a larger box of Viable Options with them.

  With the last luggage-strap secured on the roof-racks and the engines ticking over and almost fully off choke one final round of inspection seemed somehow appropriate – like backing out of one’s country seat on bankruptcy and feeling that there should have been more to pack, somehow.

  Comet LooksLikeABigBuggerToMeCyril was not the comet it had once been. The radiators of the cunning heating system had done their work magnificently, and most of the comet now trailed itself, if you see what I mean – it only existed now as a much reduced ball of dirty slush dragging the steamed-off remains of what it once was. The best analogy is perhaps that of a Hollywooden starlet in her retirement, a vestige of what she had once been pre-forties, and towing a smutty history.

  The sheds, now virtually empty, sat in soggy foundations and frosty puddles. The boiler-house still vented smoke and steam but the pipes leading to the cast-iron radiators no longer rattled and banged as they once had while trying to warm up a much larger mass. Shakespeare’s kennel, with its cheery and whimsical faux-chimney, still lay at the nexus of a Spirograph-like creation of dog-stroll routes and sniffing routines, but there was really nobody home. The cricket pitch was a forlorn parody of the notorious nineteen-sixty-eight England versus The Inuits game, and it curved brutally now that the circumference of the comet had been so much reduced. Cholmondeley had suggested that they leave the stumps behind along with the St George’s Cross and the rather impressive collected faecal works of Shakespeare. The wooden sheds with their gay tin roofing were to remain of course, along with the plumbing and the “usual offices” – no point at all in taking those things back. Even Higginbotham’s sorry attempt at a small rose garden looked more like some sort of amateur hydroponics experiment gone awfully wrong in a bag of garden-centre potting compost.

  When the time came to have a final pee before hitting the road, to give the final salute and head back to base, Cholmondeley calculated that their best bet was simply to drive down the hole left by the chaps from the Ministry when they had departed, on that recent day when C-Senior had pointed forwards, said “make it so” and they had all slid backwards and downwards to oblivion and, eventually, the utter oblivion of the pool-car car park under Whitehall. It had grown somewhat larger of course since C, C and C had departed. Higginbotham adjusted his goggles, selected second gear (icy conditions, starting for the use of) and followed Cholmondeley into the pit.

  In the rear view mirror the dwindling comet looked more like a sinister fog-bank chasing a tiny, frightened snowball, which was mightily pleasing since only two or three weeks earlier it had looked like a vast iceberg that had farted.

  The drive home was made a tad deconvenient by the increased barrage of welcoming flares sent up by the world, who collectively assumed that the two Morris Space-Travellers spotted in long-range telescopes were merely unfortunately-shaped lethal advance guards of the main comet. In a drab concrete bunker on the outskirts of St Putinsberg an intense-looking chap in a double-storey peaked cap and odd jersey actually turned to his comrade and barked ‘Tovarisch, the Union of Soviet Capitalist Republics appears to be under attack from two extinction-level shards of comet, shaped suspiciously like vehicles from the industries of the most decadent Western Socialist Monarchy. Wake Vladimir and put the Motherland on DefConski One.’

  Cholmondeley drove with confidence but Higginbotham wasn’t so certain that switching on the windscreen wipers, keeping the windows rolled up and locking the doors was truly an effective measure against even ill-targeted and poorly-made re-purposed inter-continental ballistic missiles of a nuclear fission nature. Higginbotham looked a little balefully at the scorch-marks that were creeping over the bonnet mascot and kept his hands carefully at precisely ten to two on the thin-rimmed steering-wheel. Shakespeare, occupying the passenger seat, merely kept giving those dog-looks that mean “Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Where are we going? Is it the beach? Or the woods? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? I need a wee. Are we there yet? I’ve done a wee. Are we there yet?”

  Atmospheric re-entry was simply a matter of keeping the lighting low and dramatic and of following in Cholmondeley’s social “party-animal” wake. Higginbotham counted out loud to himself ‘Only a fool breaks the two-second rule...’ and then backed off a little more. Cholmondeley’s tail-lights were fixed red orbs almost lost in a vortex of quite sub-standard, obviously foreign atmosphere. It was distasteful of course, but the approach vector for England necessarily took them over continental air-space.

  The more that they ducked, dived, swerved and side-stepped into the atmosphere the stronger became the overtones of Gauloises, armpit-garlic, incense and coquettish damp she-goat. Bloody Europe!

  Cholmondeley got onto the radio and adjusted the throat-microphone of his leatherette helmet.

  ‘Air hair lair air traffic control. Fnarr-fnarr four four six oh niner approaching vector “B” sector ambient two two west request runway clearance three delta niner niner soonest possible two repeat two Morriser Travellerer incoming hot over.’

  ‘I say, what?’ came the reply from the control tower at RAF Binbrook.

  ‘Is the ruddy runway clear? Cholmondeley and Higginbotham, coming in to land.’

  ‘Well why didn’t you just say so old chap? I’ll have it cleared immediately. Hang on a mo’ and don’t get your cravats in a tangle.’

  ‘Hang on to what? We’re doing eighteen-thousand miles an hour over Holland. It’s as flat as an American beer, there’s nothing to hold on to!’

  ‘Best thing if you ask me old boy, I certainly wouldn’t cross the Netherlands any slower than eighteen thousand. Why are you drinking American beer? It’s not the done thing at all you know, even when over Holland, not when you’re flying. You are flying, I take it? We only handle aircraft here you know, if you’re on a bicycle you’ll have to make your own arrangements.’

  ‘On a bicycle? A bicycle? We’re doing eighteen-thousand miles an hour! Look, the runway – is it clear?’

  ‘Will be soon enough, we’ve just sent the dog out with some of the civilians to chase the sheep off and then it’s all yours. Tea?’

  ‘”T” what?’

  ‘Tea – er – Sir?’

  ‘Tee-Ursa? What are you blathering on about, Control?’

  ‘Well, er – Sir...’

  ‘Ursa was my grandmother, my name is Cholmondely and obviously I don’t have a first name as far as you are concerned since we haven’t been introduced. Look, just please get that ruddy runway clear and put the kettle on, we’re both dying for a cuppa.’

  ‘Wilco.’

  ‘Will Coe? Do you mean Sebastian? No – Cholmondeley and Higginbotham. Do pay attention Control. Milk and two sugars.’

  ‘Very good Sir. Cow squeezing and two Alans. The sergeant is waving at me from the edge of the runway now Sir.’

  ‘I’m very happy for you both Alan, but what I need to know is, is the runway clear of cows and ready for us to land?’

  ‘Cowes Sir? I don’t think Cowes will get in the way Sir – this is Binbrook, we’re in the deepest, darkest, jungle-infested recesses of the north Sir, in Lincolnshire. Our runway is clear Sir. Would you like me to contact Cowes? I thought you were in the air Sir? We don’t deal with boats here sir, this is air traffic control.’

  ‘Air? Air?’

  ‘Hair lair but please get off this frequency, we’re trying to talk to a chap landing a boat at Cowes.’

  ‘I am me, you fool and I’m nowhere near Cowes!’

  ‘Then I really can’t recommend that you try to land there Sir – we have a clear runway here at Bi
nbrook if you’re in the air. If you’d like to try your chances you’d be most welcome – I’ll scramble the fire and first-aid services and inflate the emergency black Labrador dog. Now then Sir, have you flown before?’

  ‘Battle of Britain, Malaya, Korea, Mau-Mau, Suez, Cod War, Darfur, Aden, Falklands, Gulf, Bosnia, Kosovo, Sierra Leone, Afghanistan, Iraq, Libya, Mali and a couple of all-inclusive package holidays to Spain. Yes, I have flown before.’

  ‘Splendid, splendid. Now, look – there should be some sort of stick in front of you, probably between your knees...’

  Shakespeare sniggered and fiddled with the radio controls.

  ‘I don’t need talking down, I just need a clear ruddy runway. Is the ruddy runway clear?’

  ‘Of course it is! What do you think we are? Amateurs?’

  ‘Thank you. Why you couldn’t have said so five minutes ago is beyond me, really it is. Why do you traffic control Johnnies have to make everything so complicated?’

  Air Traffic Control licked a finger and marked another victory on the old five-bar gate in the air. Money changed hands in payment of bets won and bets lost. The victor, Victor, pressed the button on his microphone and sent his reply. ‘Roger Roger vector two two niner wind shear westerly eight knots, five general tangles and a bit of fraying clear for approach precipitation nil visibility ten miles dogger bank high near Shetland one thousand and twenty eight west Viking becoming north-easterly four northerly four or five occasionally six moderate or very good occasionally poor over.’

  Cholmondeley flipped his radio off in disgust and concentrated on landing. Shakespeare tightened his own seat-belt and wondered if he’d ever have sex with a live human leg again...

  They landed and they did so with an aplomb that only the English can muster in a crisis. Two bounces and a modicum of tyre smoke followed by a skid into spaces away from other vehicles, so as not to be over-familiarly side by side. The dust eventually settled and in the final analysis only air traffic control’s nose was broken.