by Darrell Pitt
During the day, he would sit behind the counter, reading and watching TV, whiling away the hours till closing time. Dying here was a very real possibility—and that was fine, too. Everything had a time and a place, and he’d had an exceptionally happy life.
How Milton had ended up owning the shop was a story in itself. He had gone to Perkins Antiques to get a clock valued. It was an unusual Art Deco piece, still working, with the face showing the correct time and date, but the switches on the back were stuck in place.
The previous owner of the shop had been an elderly man by the name of Bruce Perkins. The clock looked unusual to him too. He thought if he could get the switches working he might be able to work out their function. Perkins sat at his counter, applied some oil to them, struggled to move one—and abruptly broke the universe.
Or so it seemed to Milton at the time.
A fuzzy hole appeared on the countertop. Perkins opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a word both he and his counter started to bleed into the hole. Milton leapt back in horror.
Sprot!
The hole shrank. Milton Xanthrob stared open-mouthed into the diminishing gap. It was like looking into a tunnel. Beyond it was a tube of inky blackness ending in a smaller circle of light.
Peering at that faraway glow, Milton thought he could see patches of green vegetation and the distant counter. Behind it, Perkins was yelling. Milton made out the words ‘dinosaur’ and ‘tyrannosaurus’ before the hole disappeared.
The shop, smelling of ozone, was otherwise unchanged, barring the missing owner and counter. Milton stood there, alone and afraid, expecting to be arrested at any moment. He had, after all, been partially responsible for the disappearance of Bruce Perkins.
But nothing happened. The police did not appear. Nobody dragged Milton away to jail. Finally, he sat down on Mr Perkins’ chair until his legs stopped shaking.
An hour later a customer walked in, picked out an old vase and insisted on giving money to Milton. After some hesitation, he accepted the cash and the customer walked away a happy man.
It took him a few days, but Milton discovered both he and Perkins had a lot in common: they both loved antiques and had no family. By the end of the week Milton had purchased a new counter and hung a sign in the window for anyone who happened to be passing.
Under New Management.
That was twenty years ago. He still had in his possession an article he’d found in a magazine called Strange But True. In it was a story about a fossilised human skull wearing a pair of glasses that had been found in Arizona. Readers were invited to write in with theories regarding the bizarre discovery.
Milton, deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, did not contribute.
The people who walked into Milton’s shop on this particular day were an odd trio. The man, wearing an old trench coat, was so dishevelled Milton assumed he was a hobo. The robot woman was stunning, and could have passed for human except for the gold skin. The other woman was also good-looking, but her face had creased into a worried frown. They all wore backpacks.
After spending some time perusing the shop, they finally approached the counter. The hobo cleared his throat. ‘We’d like to dig a hole through the back of your shop,’ he said. ‘Not a big hole. Just large enough for us to fit through.’
Milton Xanthrob stared at him.
‘My ex-husband phrased that rather badly,’ the woman said, clearly embarrassed. ‘We’d like to give you some money to leave the shop for the day.’
‘Think of it as a holiday,’ the robot added.
‘Yes, that’s it,’ the ex-wife said. ‘A holiday. Somewhere you haven’t been before.’
‘We’ll look after your shop while you’re away,’ the hobo said.
Silence.
‘This doesn’t have anything to do with Mr Perkins?’ Milton asked.
The strangers exchanged glances.
‘Who?’
‘Never mind,’ Milton said. ‘Uh, where do you suggest I go?’
‘Oh, anywhere,’ the man said airily. ‘The moon is rather pleasant this time of year.’
Zeeb says:
Blake Carter may be a very good detective, but this is one of the most stupid things you will read in this book. Despite all the facilities that now exist there, including the new Lunar Disney resort, the moon is not a pleasant place to visit. A trip there makes watching Cybardian paint dry look like an action sport—and Cybardian paint takes over a century to dry.
The moon is dull. Dull, dull, dull. Truly it is one of the dullest places in the whole galaxy. Venus is far more pleasant, and you can get a package deal if you go mid-season.
‘Or Mars,’ the robot suggested. ‘Mars is nice.’
‘Here’s some money.’ The ex-wife reached into her pocket and pulled out a plastic card. ‘Spend some.’
Milton Xanthrob nervously made his way to the door.
‘We’ll look after the store,’ the robot promised.
‘Everything’s priced,’ Milton said. ‘Just hand out a receipt.’ He appeared thoughtful. ‘I might go to the moon.’
Zeeb says:
Which is probably the second most stupid thing you’ll read in this book…
‘That was easier than I expected,’ Blake said, breathing a sigh of relief after Milton left.
‘Poor man,’ Astrid said. ‘Mustn’t get out much.’
‘We’re probably doing him a favour,’ Nicki said.
‘Except for the hole in his wall,’ Blake said.
They went to a storage room in the back where they found a kitchenette and rows of shelves stacked with antiques.
‘This looks pretty organised,’ Astrid said.
‘It does,’ Nicki agreed, grabbing a shelf, pulling it over and destroying a thousand years of history.
‘Nicki!’ Blake yelled. ‘What the sprot are you doing?’
‘Was that stuff valuable?’
‘That little man is going to hate us,’ Astrid said.
‘I’ve been hated before,’ Nicki said. ‘I survived.’
Blake rapped on the wall. ‘You’re sure this is where we go through?’ he asked Nicki.
‘Definitely. Beyond this wall lies a disused elevator that’ll take us down to a tunnel. We can follow that all the way to a cavern under the GADO complex.’
‘I wonder how we should break through.’
Nicki pushed back her hair. ‘Fortunately,’ she said, ‘I’m trained in twenty-two different forms of martial arts.’
‘So?’ Astrid frowned.
‘I can generate a one-inch punch that will easily knock a hole in the wall.’
‘We could also just use our blasters,’ Blake said. ‘A single shot at high intensity—’
‘And rob me of the opportunity to show off?’ Nicki said. ‘No way.’
She drew her right arm back, focused, took a deep breath and slammed her fist into the wall. A torrent of water burst through the gap, knocking Nicki over and demolishing another shelf.
‘Hmm,’ Nicki said, pushing debris aside. ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’
Zeeb says:
Strangely, this expression has been used many times over the centuries, mostly by people of science. Faraday used it when he discovered electromagnetic induction, Archimedes when he overflowed his bath and Marju Rastor said it when he invented the quantum drive.
One of the more unfortunate times these words were uttered came about when Janck Ontono discovered material transmutation. The Mantaris scientist had been struggling for decades to find a way to turn one object into another.
On this particular day, he was attempting to turn an apple into a lemon. The apple had been sitting in his multi-nucleonic transmutation device for over an hour with nothing happening. Finally, he made a minor adjustment to the radioactive bombardment, and something strange started to occur.
Something very strange.
Everything began to take on a yellow hue. Not just the apple—everything. Including the transmut
ation device, Ontono himself, and the room around him.
‘I wasn’t expecting that,’ he murmured.
A second later, the planet Mantaris turned into an enormous lemon floating in space. There was even a green bit sticking out from where the planet’s north pole used to be.
This was all very unfortunate for two reasons. First, ‘I wasn’t expecting that’ are not great famous last words for a ten-million-year-old civilisation. And second, while it’s really wonderful to be handed a lemon in life and turn it into lemonade, you really need a planet to do it.
‘Nicki!’ Blake yelled as more water spurted through the hole. ‘I thought you said the tunnel was behind here?’
‘I did,’ she replied. ‘I don’t think this is the right wall.’ She spent the next few minutes pulling over shelves and punching holes in walls before turning to the others and yelling, ‘I’ve found it! The elevator shaft is here!’
‘Great,’ Astrid said nervously.
While Nicki made the hole bigger so they could climb through, Astrid glanced back to the shop behind them. It did not look very much like the organised little storeroom they had entered only a few minutes earlier. Most of what had been on the shelves was now swimming in a foot of water.
They climbed through the hole onto the top of an elevator and lowered themselves through a roof hatch into the compartment.
‘There’s only two buttons,’ Astrid said. ‘Up and down.’
‘Down it is,’ Blake said.
He hit the button. For a moment, nothing happened.
Then they dropped like a rock.
14
Blake had always heard about people’s lives flashing before their eyes when faced with death.
This did not happen.
What he did see was a close-up of Astrid’s ankle because, with the three of them plastered against the ceiling, her foot was in his face. He wanted to say something prophetic or heroic to her, but nothing came to mind. He was busy screaming along with the others as the elevator plummeted faster than a spaceship caught in the gravity pull of a black hole.
Finally they slowed, crashing in an untidy heap on the floor.
‘That was rougher than I expected,’ Astrid said, dusting herself off. ‘Almost as bad as Blake’s driving.’
‘My driving’s not so bad,’ Blake said. ‘Once you get used to it.’
‘If you survive long enough.’
The elevator doors slid open to reveal two astonished men on the other side.
‘You’re here!’ one cried. ‘Finally!’
‘We’ve waited so long,’ the other gasped, tears in his eyes. ‘I’ll get Gastanon.’
‘Where are we?’ Blake asked.
As the second man disappeared down the corridor, the first gave them a gentle smile. ‘Ah, we know the prophets have a sense of humour,’ he said. ‘It is only that sense of humour that has kept us going all these years. Welcome to—Perfection.’
‘Really?’ Blake peered down the corridor. It didn’t look like perfection. It looked like a rather dank and gloomy corridor. ‘And who do you think we are?’
‘Another joke,’ the man said, laughing. ‘It makes the waiting more worthwhile.’
They followed him down the tunnel to a cavern the size of several football fields. It was packed with trees and plants, growing everything from apples to pumpkins to oranges. Hydroponic lights hung from the ceiling, bathing the crops in a bright, clean glow. Men and women dressed in plain grey shirts and pants toiled in the fields.
Painted in huge letters across one wall were the words: They will return.
‘What is this place?’ Astrid whispered to Blake.
‘It’s…Perfection, whatever that is.’
‘Whoever they are,’ Nicki said, ‘they’ve been here a long time.’ She pointed. ‘Those lights are Eterno bulbs, designed more than two hundred years ago. They never burn out, which is why the company went out of business.’
They were led to a house where people gazed at them in reverence and amazement. A lean man wearing a goatee cautiously approached.
‘I am Gastanon,’ he introduced himself. ‘And who is Hysteronomous? And Pythergonius and Slyvanathium?’
‘Huh?’ Blake said.
‘Which of you is which?’ Gastanon asked.
Blake, Nicki and Astrid stared at him.
‘I think you’ve got us mixed up with someone else,’ Blake finally said. ‘We’re not any kind of prophets. We’re from above.’
‘From the Promised Land,’ Gastanon said, nodding with satisfaction. ‘We know. It lies beyond the world of ultimate devastation.’
‘Which world of ultimate devastation are you referring to?’ Astrid asked. ‘Devastation is a bit rough, even for Detroit.’
Gastanon laughed. ‘You are testing us,’ he said. ‘Stories have been passed down to us about the tests.’
‘That’s right,’ Astrid said, deciding it was easier to play along. ‘We’re testing you. Now tell us what all this is about.’
‘Of course. But first we must go to the place of speaking so that all may know the truth.’
They followed Gastanon to a citadel in the middle of the fields, and climbed steps to a podium. Crowds had gathered. There had to be over ten thousand people here.
Gastanon stepped up to the microphone.
‘Is this thing on?’ he asked, tapping it. ‘Can you hear me down the back?’ A bunch of people yelled in the affirmative. ‘Wonderful. You have no doubt heard the exciting news—the Prophets have returned!’
The crowd went wild with excitement, cheering and clapping. The sound of their applause echoed about the interior of the cavern.
‘As you know,’ Gastanon continued, ‘the Prophets work in mysterious ways. They want us to relate our history before we begin our Ascension.’
‘The Dummies guide would be good,’ Nicki added.
Gastanon smiled serenely. ‘It began with the great cleansing, the war that devastated the surface of the Earth, leaving it uninhabitable for a million years. We, the Survivors, had already built our underground world knowing that humanity would soon face total annihilation.’
‘Who told you to do this?’ Nicki interrupted.
Gastanon laughed. ‘You are jesting, of course.’
‘Yeah, I’m jesting. I’ve never jested so much in my entire life. Now just tell me whose bright idea this was.’
‘The great Quasido Smith, of course. Our founder, our hero, the man who saved us from utter devastation.’
Taking out her datapad, Nicki started tapping keys.
‘Our ancestors gave up everything to come down here,’ Gastanon continued. ‘They carved this cavern with their bare hands. They starved so that the first crops would grow. They ruthlessly slaughtered the weakest citizens to make way for the strong. They fought tooth and nail to build a new world.
‘But build it they did. After facing starvation, conflict, internal strife and a really bad flea infestation, they finally built the ultimate community—Perfection.’
‘And where did you put it?’ Astrid asked, peering about into the distance.
‘Pardon?’
‘Where is it?’
‘Why, here, of course,’ Gastanon said. ‘This is Perfection.’
‘Oh.’
‘We have lived in complete harmony since those dark early days,’ Gastanon continued. ‘Crime is extinct and war is over. For more than a century there has been only peace.’ He paused. ‘But we have waited.’
‘I know the feeling,’ Blake muttered.
‘Quasido Smith said that one day the Prophets would arrive to lead us to the Promised Land,’ he said. ‘Now that day has arrived!’
The crowd went wild again. Many wept with joy. Some fell to their knees, thumping their chests. A couple went into convulsions.
‘Take us!’ one yelled. ‘Take us to the Promised Land!’
Another called, ‘When will we go?’
‘I want to see our ancestors!’ a man screamed. ‘Have they be
en asking about me?’
Gastanon stepped aside and indicated that Blake should take the microphone. Slowly, Blake inched towards it, clearing his throat.
‘Uh,’ he said. ‘Hello.’
It took another five minutes to calm down the crowd.
‘So,’ Blake said, finally. ‘I’ve got some good news.’
‘Tell us the good news!’ the crowd screamed.
‘Well, you see, it’s like this…’
Nicki motioned Blake out of the way. ‘What Blake’s trying to say is that there was no war. The human race didn’t go extinct. It’s chugging along fine, if you ignore the pollution, famine, overcrowding and politicians.’
The crowd stared at her.
‘There’s good stuff up there,’ she said. ‘You can travel to other planets, meet aliens from a thousand different worlds and explore unknown space.’ She paused. ‘Or if you want to stay on Earth, there are 2000 types of flavoured ice-cream, 24,000,000 television channels and food from all over the galaxy.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s kind of cool.’
Gastanon’s face had fallen. ‘You’re jesting, of course,’ he said. ‘The surface is devastated. Nothing can live up there.’
‘There are places like that,’ Astrid conceded. ‘Some of the McBurger restaurants are really unhygienic… Believe me, you don’t want to go there.’
Nicki nodded in earnest agreement. ‘But mostly it’s fine,’ she said. ‘I did a search on Quasido Smith. He was the guy who told you to live in this hole? Right?’
‘Yes,’ Gastanon said, crestfallen.
‘Turns out he was picked up for fraud in 2281 and jailed for ninety-nine years. Seems he had this scam where he convinced people the world was coming to an end. They would give him all their worldly possessions in exchange for a way to survive the apocalypse.’ Nicki sighed. ‘It sounds like your ancestors got taken for a ride.’
‘A…ride.’
‘Yeah,’ Blake said, nodding thoughtfully. ‘I remember reading about Quasido Smith in the PBI history books. He was a real scammer.’
Zeeb says:
Quasido Smith was in fact so completely without conscience that he once wheedled his own mother out of her life savings, and left her at a bus station in Portland, Oregon, never to return.