by Andrew Cope
‘Oh,’ said the professor, his hopping slowing a little. ‘That’s a CAT-astrophe. Hey, everyone, I did it again,’ he said, missing the point entirely. ‘I emphasized the “cat” bit of …’
‘No,’ interrupted Sophie, ‘a catastrophe would be strapping poor old Shakespeare into this thing and it not working. Poor puss,’ she said, running her hand along Shakespeare’s back. ‘That’d be an awful thing to do.’
Shakespeare was enjoying being fussed over, but he refused to purr. I agree, he nodded. If cats were meant to fly, we’d have feathers!
‘I’ll test it,’ yapped Spud. ‘Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No it’s “Super Spud”, swooping down and grabbing sweets from children or pies from fat people, making the world a healthier place …’
‘Please stop the yapping, Agent Spud. Dogs have too much body fat. This is for cats and, from the swishing of the tail, I’m assuming Agent CAT isn’t impressed. It’s for emergencies only,’ assured the professor. ‘But you never know. In the world of baddies and spies, sometimes unexpected moments crop up.’
Well, I can’t see a moment when I jump off a tall building, swooping through the sky like super-cat, cropping up, thought Shakespeare, swishing his tail to confirm his annoyance. Although, he considered, a second thought sneaking into his mind, how about surprising a few birds by swooping from the rooftop?
‘OK,’ said Professor Cortex. ‘Let’s be a bit more “down to earth”.’ He quickly glanced around to see if anyone had noticed his clever use of language again. Lara had, shaking her doggy head just enough to show she’d got it, and it was rubbish, so he pressed on.
He pulled a book from his bag. ‘Cast your eyes over this, young Oliver,’ he said, handing the book to the youngest member of the family. ‘It’s my greatest invention yet!’
6. Rocket Science
‘It’s a book,’ said Ollie matter-of-factly.
‘I think you might find they’ve already been invented,’ said Sophie, still upset that the professor could even think about throwing her beloved cat off a tall building.
‘Designed to stimulate the olfactory and gustatory senses,’ noted the professor, waiting for the inevitable looks of confusion on the children’s faces. ‘I love reading,’ he said, rubbing his hands enthusiastically. ‘In fact, what you eventually realize is that all the best people in the world love reading. But traditional books have always stimulated the eyes, ears and hands. What I mean is that you need your eyes to read it, your ears to listen to the words as you read them and your hands to hold it. Books also have a smell, of course, but, as the world moves on and people use electronic books, that smell will die out. A bit of a shame, to be honest.’
‘Professor,’ sighed Sophie, ‘what on earth are you babbling about?’
‘I want to enhance the experience of books so you can enjoy them through all your senses,’ enthused the professor, waving his hands in a volcanic eruption. ‘Master Oliver,’ he said, grinning over the top of his spectacles, ‘what book have I given you?’
Ollie looked at the cover. ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory,’ he said, holding the book up so everyone could see.
‘Then I suggest you turn to page one.’
Ollie did as he was told and a smell of melting chocolate filled the room. ‘Wow,’ he smiled, ‘chocolate!’ The little boy flipped through a few pages, letting the aroma waft around the room.
Spud was wagging hard.
‘Olfactory means “sense of smell”,’ explained the professor. ‘So Charlie and the Chocolate Factory smells of chocolate, bringing life to the book. But that’s only half the story,’ he continued. ‘Gustatory means “sense of taste”. Lick a page, young Oliver, or maybe nibble a corner.’ He mimicked a mouse nibbling some cheese.
Spud had joined the little boy. This sounds like my kind of book, he thought, a bit of drool landing on page six.
Ollie licked a page. ‘Yum,’ he said, beaming at everyone in the room. ‘Choccy flavour.’
Spud couldn’t resist; his long tongue slapped on to page six, his eyes spinning in chocolate heaven. Lara cast a warning eye. ‘Spud,’ she woofed. ‘Dogs and chocolate don’t mix.’
Ollie had ripped out a page and was chewing it. ‘Nom,’ he said. ‘It smells and tastes of chocolate.’
‘Exactly,’ grinned the scientist. ‘Imagine how many children will want to read my brand-new “sensory stories”. Imagine when all books smell and taste, as well as pleasing the eye and ear.’
Ben was licking the book. But he looked unsure. ‘So you’ve invented a book that smells and tastes of chocolate. I’m not sure I get the point.’
‘The point, Master Benjamin,’ said the professor, rolling his eyes in frustration, ‘is that it’s not just chocolate. All books can come alive. You can use my invention for any flavour and smell. It doesn’t have to be just chocolate. The Secret Garden will be roses and fresh air. James and the Giant Peach …’
‘You could make that smell of giants,’ interrupted Ollie.
‘Or peaches,’ corrected the professor. ‘That might work better.’
The family were silent for a minute, brains whirring.
Spud was wagging so hard his body was rocking. I hope he does a Peppa Pig one, thought the puppy. A spicy bacon-flavoured book. Yum!
‘A couple of problems spring to mind,’ snorted Sophie. ‘First of all, won’t kids just eat the books instead of reading them? I don’t think a book needs to be a snack.’
‘Well, yes,’ flustered the professor. ‘That is a possibility.’
‘And I’d avoid Winnie the Pooh,’ suggested Ollie. ‘That might put children off reading forever!’
‘Quite,’ smiled the professor. He took a deep breath and puffed out his chest, trying to hide the deflation he felt on the inside. Maybe I’m too old, he thought. He cast his mind back to the wonderful inventions of the past. He looked at Spud licking at the chocolate book. And it’s come to this. A chocolate book and a Lycra catsuit. He shook his head and exhaled, his shoulders sagging. Rocket science it isn’t.
Eddie put on his extra-magnified spectacles and studied his calculations one last time. ‘Rocket science,’ he chuckled, ‘my favourite subject.’ His merry band of ancient volunteers didn’t know much about the Past Master. If they’d been able to access the Internet, they would have found out he was a war veteran, aeroplane engineer, scientist and inventor. He was proof that age was no restriction on ideas.
His tweezers rummaged through the small mound of diamonds, searching for the best one. He chose the largest and dropped it into place. He wasn’t just working on an invention. He was planning a revolution. Eddie had spent forty-five years as an engineer and, although his hands were a bit wobbly, his brain was in fantastic shape. He’d started out designing and building aeroplane engines. After the Second World War he’d been part of a top-secret government project that was involved with advanced weaponry. His team had built the world’s first laser gun. It sat, unused, in an underground bunker. But the brainpower behind it had been put to very good use.
His team watched as the Past Master checked the drawing on the table in front of him. It showed a detailed diagram of a new type of weapon, something the team knew as the time machine. Eddie chose another diamond, a small one, and fixed it into place.
He looked up at his followers and their faces lit up in matching wrinkly grins. There was a saying: ‘you can’t teach an old dog new tricks’, and it annoyed him greatly. Project GoD was staffed entirely by ‘old dogs’ and they were going to teach the world a new trick or two.
‘The Internet has changed the world,’ he told them. ‘Destroyed it completely. Everything is so fast, but nobody seems happy.’ The Past Master looked out of his office window, the top floor of the Shard, the highest workplace in Europe. London sprawled below, a frantic network of people on the go. His followers followed his pointing finger. ‘Eight million fools, rushing around,’ he said. ‘And that’s only what the eye can see. Thousands more, travelling in undergrou
nd trains, and hundreds up there.’ He cast his crooked finger up towards the aeroplanes circling Heathrow, waiting for their turn to touch down.
The Past Master knew that Project GoD was aiming higher than the clouds. He looked up into the evening sky. ‘Soon the stars will be twinkling,’ he said. ‘And that’s where we’ll be aiming, team. Project GoD, Phase Two. We’re ready to go.’
It was dusk, the fading sun reflecting off Western Europe’s tallest building. London buzzed below as the Past Master pressed a button and the north-facing roof of the Shard glided open.
The pensioners settled down to watch. ‘It doesn’t look like a time machine,’ suggested Donald, peering through his varifocals. ‘I was expecting something like the Tardis.’
The Past Master chuckled. ‘That’s because nobody’s ever invented a time machine,’ he explained. ‘The Tardis isn’t real, Donald. But this is.’
‘But wasn’t Doctor Who better in the olden days?’ interrupted Gladys. ‘When the Doctor was in black and white.’
‘Ooh yes,’ agreed Una. ‘It’s all crash, bang, wallop nowadays. I haven’t got a clue what’s going on. They’ve even changed the theme tune. And the old Doctor didn’t used to have a sonic screwdriver …’
‘Well, this particular time machine doesn’t work like the Tardis,’ interrupted the Past Master. ‘I’ve used my intellectual genius to rethink what time machines should look like. So, ladies and gents, quiet, please.’
The old man stood by the contraption. At the bottom it had something that looked like a lawnmower engine. Various pipes and tubes fed upwards to a rotating ball. Almost exactly like a glittery disco ball, he marvelled, except the glittery parts are diamonds.
His fingers were too arthritic to cross so he made a wish in his head instead. He turned to his elderly audience. ‘Energy,’ he began.
‘I remember that,’ rasped Albert from the back.
‘The science is simple,’ beamed the Past Master. ‘Diamonds are the toughest element on the planet. Almost impossible to destroy. I’ve been experimenting with heating them to unbelievable temperatures. While most other materials just disintegrate, I’ve found that diamonds merely keep heating up and that this heat can be focused.’ He patted the contraption. ‘And, once the energy is focused, it can be directed to a target and that target will go boom.’
His audience gasped and Margaret’s backside let out a squeak of wind in excitement. ‘Whoops, excuse me,’ she chuckled. ‘Mrs Windy Pops.’
‘We’ve taken out Wales,’ continued the Past Master, his brand-new teeth shining too whitely for an eighty-year-old. ‘Now it’s Scotland’s turn to go back in time.’ The assembled crowd of old people had fallen silent, their cups returned to their saucers, their tongues and Margaret’s backside taking a well-earned rest. This was their moment.
The Past Master knew that timing was everything. Modern communication relied on hundreds of satellites that circled the earth. Eventually his sparkly glitter ball would take out the whole of the European Union, but he’d have to wait for the satellites to be aligned. ‘I mean,’ he chuntered, as he applied a last squirt of oil to the machine, ‘we shouldn’t even have joined the European Union in the first place. They keep making us change things! And it’s about time we changed them back.’
He knew that Satellite SD6577 beamed data to and from Scotland. He’d nicknamed it the ‘McSatellite’. He’d calculated the orbit and knew that it was nearly in range. Scotland was about to lose all satellite communication. Without McSatellite, Scotland will have no Internet. No mobile phones. No Wi-Fi. No satnav. People will have to slow down. It will force people to talk to each other instead of so-called ‘social networking’. ‘Facebook,’ he tutted. ‘In my day, we didn’t have virtual friends, we had real ones. We didn’t Tweet, we chatted.’ He checked his watch, waiting for the second hand to click to the upright position.
‘I hope he hurries up,’ whispered Edna. ‘I need a wee.’
The second hand ticked into position. ‘Now!’
He’d enlisted Barry to help him start the machine. At eighty-one, Barry was one of the younger and fitter members of the Project GoD team. He yanked the cord and the lawnmower-powered engine spluttered into life. The Past Master adjusted the choke and the machine roared. He smiled at his audience before pressing a big red button and the glitter ball started to glow. He’d calculated that it’d take thirty-six seconds to warm to the correct temperature.
‘Soon the intense heat will be magnified by the diamonds at the core and the beam of light will be sufficient to take down the Scottish satellite!’
But his yell was drowned out by the lawnmower engine. The Past Master stepped back as the machine hummed and spluttered. Exactly thirty-six seconds later a narrow beam of light shot into the sky. Precision was everything. The Past Master was confident that, somewhere in space, a satellite had exploded and Scotland had been plunged back in time. He stepped forward and pulled a lever, the machine clunked to a halt, magnifying the silence. His audience looked at him expectantly.
‘Is that it?’ asked Frank. ‘I mean, how do we know if it worked?’
‘Trust me, old fellow,’ grinned the Past Master. ‘The satellite is down and Scotland is offline. It’s been transported back in time. Back to when the world was friendlier and slower. Back to a time when you could leave your back door unlocked. Back to a time when you knew who your neighbours were …’
There was enthusiastic cheering from his audience. The Past Master clenched a knuckled fist and punched the air in a silent cheer.
‘Project GoD – the “Good old Days” – here we come!’
7. Hilda and Harold
It was the Scottish children that noticed it first. ‘Mammy,’ yelled Alastair, ‘I cannie get my Xbox connection to work.’
‘OMG, Facebook’s down,’ yelled fourteen-year-old Moira from her bedroom. ‘Nightmare!’
Dad huffed into the kitchen. ‘I can’t access my work emails,’ he complained.
‘Well, it’s 8 p.m. You shouldn’t be looking at work emails anyway,’ said Mum, looking up from her laptop. ‘Oh bother, I was just watchin’ a funny cat video on YouTube and it’s frozen.’
Moira came clattering downstairs, shaking her mobile phone. ‘Rubbish phone has no signal,’ she complained, as if it was her mother’s fault.
The family assembled in the kitchen. ‘No Internet,’ moaned Dad. ‘What on earth are we going to do?’
Agent Q beckoned to Professor Cortex and whispered something in his ear. The scientist looked shocked. ‘Are you certain?’
‘Affirmative, sir,’ he said, tapping his earpiece. ‘It happened a few moments ago. Direct from MI6.’
‘Good heavens above,’ said the professor. He turned to the family and dabbed his brow with a spotty hankie. ‘Things are moving faster than I thought,’ he said, his white face worrying the children.
‘What’s up, doc?’ asked Ollie. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘You may be aware,’ said the professor, tucking his hankie back up his sleeve, ‘that Wales went offline a few hours ago.’
Mum, Dad and Shakespeare nodded. Everyone else had been having too much fun to watch the news.
‘Well, it seems that Scotland has gone too. The whole country has been blacked out. MI6 has informed me that the satellite has been blown out of orbit. I mean, one minute it was there and the next: kaboom,’ he explained, reaching for his hankie again. ‘Enemy agents for sure. Sharp minds too. This is cutting-edge weaponry. It is very serious indeed.’
‘It will be if my Xbox goes offline,’ said Ben sternly.
‘It’s more serious than your Xbox, young Benjamin,’ spluttered the professor, failing to hide his irritation. ‘It means that Wales and Scotland have been plunged back in time. Back to when computers hadn’t been invented. Back to a time before your parents were born.’
‘Crikey, back to Victorian times?’ gasped Ollie.
‘Not quite that far, Master Oliver,’ said the profes
sor, casting a weak smile towards Mrs Cook. ‘But certainly back to the 1950s or 60s. That’ll never do.’
Ben peeked at his mobile phone, reassured that there was still a signal.
The professor looked ashen with worry. ‘And I have a horrible feeling that we might be next.’
The Past Master had allocated assignments. Hilda and Harold had been chosen for the most difficult mission. It was also potentially the most rewarding with fifty diamonds on offer. If Hilda and Harold could pull this one off, the plan would be almost complete.
Bank robbers had certain stereotypical characteristics. They were sharp-minded, violent, ruthless, shouty, quick and always dressed in black. Hilda and Harold didn’t really fit the bill, although Hilda was a bit shouty (largely because she was hard of hearing) and they were dressed in black. They’d even gone so far as painting their mobility scooters black especially for this occasion.
Getting into the vault was supposed to be fairly straightforward. It was the getting out bit that was going to be difficult.
The Past Master had organized entry. Their story had been phoned through to the bank manager. She’d been told to expect an elderly couple who would be dressed in black because they’d come straight from a funeral. Their ID had been checked and the security guard had searched Hilda’s basket. He’d questioned the need for gas masks, but Harold had explained about Hilda’s condition. ‘It’s an experience my wife had in the war,’ he said. ‘The Blitz, sonny. Way before your time. If it wasn’t for us, you’d be speaking German. Poor Hilda here, she was traumatized as a young girl – wasn’t you, love? – and can’t go anywhere without a gas mask.’
The security guard had raised an eyebrow and attempted to explain that they’d have to leave the basket at reception, so Hilda had done as they’d practised. The old lady started her rapid breathing exercise. ‘She’s nearly ninety,’ explained Harold. ‘Dodgy ticker,’ he said, tapping his chest. ‘Isn’t that right, dear? You really don’t want to get her worried.’