by Tom Hourie
“I thought you said he wasn’t here.”
“Pfft,” was her only answer. I began to wonder if I should invest in some raingear since many of my recent conversations with women seemed to involve getting sprayed with saliva.
“Good to have you back,” Percy said over a best bitter in Cowans’ back room. “Pity we can’t go to the Lascar’s but I daren’t show my face around here just now.”
“Why?” I asked. “What have you done?”
“It’s not what I’ve done, it’s what you’ve done. The Rozzers keep on at me about where to find you. I keep telling them I don’t know but somehow they don’t believe me. What have you been up to anyway?”
I gave him a short rundown of Sarah’s and my escapades while we were away, ending with the return of the oscillator. My attempt at a dramatic climax fell flat yet again.
“Go back a bit,” Percy said. “Did I hear you say you did for Benny Sherman?”
“It was an accident. I was just trying to defend myself.”
“Cor, ain’t you the dark horse.” I could already hear Percy’s mind working on how he would spin the tale when it was safe to go back to the Lascar’s Head. Didn’t need no shooter our Bob. Did for Benny Sherman with his bare hands. A real American desperado that one.
“I’m sorry I got you into all this Percy.”
“No need for apologies mate. I just wish we could get rid of all these squaddies so’s I can get back to drinking at the Lascar’s instead of hiding out here.
“It’s like I said. I need to find a way to get to the roof of the British Museum.”
“No hope of that. Every public building is closed and got the army guarding it. Even some of the toffs are brassed off. They’ve had to cancel this exhibition of some old statue they borrowed from the Eyties. Hermes, I think his name was.
“Where I come from Hermes is a French company that sells expensive fashion accessories.” I smiled for a moment, remembering Mary Lou Bernstein, the trust fund anarchist.
“No, this Hermes is a bloke with little wings on his feet and nothing covering his willie.” Percy took another sip of his beer before continuing. “If you want to get on top of the museum you need to find a way to draw the soldiers off.”
I thought again about Mary Lou Bernstein. Maybe she could teach me something after all.
Chapter XXXXXVIII:
The Black Brigade Rides Again –At The Museum
“Brother Liddel, remind me one more time why we need to wear our Sunday clothes and cover our faces with scarves,” Willie Fitzgerald said.
“As soon as the army shows up, you just nip into the nearest store, take off your scarf and blend in with the crowd. They’ll never catch you.”
“Doesn’t seem right somehow, sneaking about. Still, if it’ll help get rid of these Black Shirt bastards, me and the boys are in.”
I tried to stop Sarah from coming to the museum but she wouldn’t hear of it. “If you think you can keep me away from the big moment you are sadly mistaken,” she said.
Percy had somehow managed to get hold of a Doble steam car and three gallons of khaki paint which we used to militarize the vehicle. He had also managed to get hold of a crown shoulder insignia so that I went to the museum not as a First Lieutenant but as a full Colonel.
“I have to be a Colonel,” I explained to Sarah. “How else could I justify having my own chauffeur?”
Sarah had wanted to be that chauffeur arguing that ‘there are plenty of drivers in the Women’s Army Corps’ but having already seen her driving skills in action, I convinced her to play part of the Colonel’s lady with Percy at the wheel in the uniform of a Service Corps corporal.
Willie Fitzgerald’s diversion was set for one o’clock that afternoon. By twelve forty-five we were idling on Bucknell Street keeping up steam and doing our best to ignore the glares of teamsters who had to steer their wagons around us. We were all nervous. Percy puffed on one foul-smelling Woodbine after another. Sarah fidgeted with her malachite bracelet. I checked my watch every thirty seconds.
We heard the first sounds of breaking glass at one o’clock on the button. “That’s our cue,” I said, trying to sound confident. Percy eased the throttle forward, there was a sudden hiss of steam and we were off.
The military presence at the museum consisted of a Territorial Army platoon under the command of a whiskey-nosed Sergeant and a Second Lieutenant who could not have been more than nineteen.
“Fall the men in Sergeant,” the Lieutenant said when he saw me stepping down from the running board of the Doble. There was a sudden scramble as the platoon organized itself into three ranks. “First Platoon, present arms,” the officer commanded in a high, adolescent voice. The soldiers executed a series of snappy movements which eventually brought their Lee Enfields into a vertical position in front of their rigid bodies.
“Thank you Lieutenant,” I said, attempting to sound as English as possible.
“Would you care to inspect the platoon Sir?” The subaltern said.
“If you please,” I said, in my best senior officer voice.
I spent the next few minutes walking through the khaki-clad ranks, stopping occasionally to chat with one of the men. “How are they treating you?” I asked a lance corporal with acne.
“Alright Sir, but I’ll be happy to get back to the shop.”
“The shop?”
“Butcher shop Sir.”
“Most of the men are reservists who have been called out for the emergency,” explained the Lieutenant. I noticed he was growing a moustache in an unsuccessful attempt to look older.
“Still, a very good turnout, Mister…?”
“Fellows Sir,” said the Lieutenant, reddening at the compliment.
“Mister Fellows, there’s a spot of bother on Oxford street. A gang of these Anarchist Johnnies have taken it on themselves to smash all the shop windows. A damned nuisance, but I wonder if you and your men would care to sort it out.”
“Sir?”
“Take your men to Oxford Street and arrest them.”
“Sir, if I may intrude, we have strict orders not to leave our post,” the Sergeant reminded the Lieutenant in a warning voice.
“Your adherence to orders is most commendable Sergeant,” I said. “But circumstances change. I will assure your superiors that you were acting under my instructions. After all, what are you accomplishing here? I would have thought a warrior such as you would relish the thought of action.”
The word “action” seemed to do the trick. The Lieutenant drew himself to full height and his face took on the resolute expression of a man asked to lead the Relief of Ladysmith.
“Have the men trail arms Sergeant,” he said. “We will move out at the double.”
Percy and I checked the main entrance as soon as they were gone, but of course it was locked.
“Take us around the block,” I said. “There has to be a loading dock of some kind.”
“What is a block?” asked Percy.
“Just drive,” I said.
Not only was there a loading dock but there was also a paved ramp leading up to it. Not that it mattered because the loading doors were locked too. Percy and I took turns ringing the call bell but there wasn’t a hint of movement inside. We were looking for an open window when we heard the sound of the Doble shifting into gear. The big car came charging down the lane like an enraged Water Buffalo with Sarah hunched over its wheel. The Doble hit the ramp hard, hurtled through the massive loading doors and kept on going until it hit a stack of packing cases. We ran inside to find Sarah still in the driver’s seat enveloped in a cloud of white vapor.
“What took you two layabouts so long?” she said, brushing wood splinters from her dress.
Chapter XXXXXIX:
Up To The Roof –Tesla’s Machine
“What did you do think you were doing?” I shouted at Sarah.
“We haven’t all day,” She said coolly. “The soldiers will be back soon.”
“Do you think
they might notice that a large car has smashed its way into the building?”
“All the more reason for us to get a move on.”
But move on to where? There is no shortage of signage in The British Museum. Washrooms, exhibits, shops, lost-and-found are all clearly marked. But there are no signs saying ‘this way to the roof.’ We hurried past Etruscan Vases, Egyptian Mummies and Suits of Armor, doing our best not to stop and gawk.
Percy was particularly struck by a wax reconstruction of a Neanderthal man, commenting “He doesn’t half look like my Uncle Bert.”
We finally found a service door next to a display of Roman coins. It didn’t lead to a staircase, that would have been too easy. Instead it opened to a ventilation shaft inset with iron rungs.
“You better go first just in case,” I said to Sarah.
“In case of what?” she said scornfully. A moment later she was on the roof urging us to “get on with it.”
The British Museum is fundamentally nothing more than a huge quadrangle centered around a central courtyard so we had only two decisions once we were on the roof. We could go east or we could go west. We chose east because the west side was clogged with scaffolding and construction material.
“What’s this particle thingamajig look like anyhow?” Percy asked after we had been walking for five minutes.
“Beats me,” I said.
“Cause we just passed a metal thing that looks like a cross between a gas works and a mushroom.”
Percy’s description of the Particle Beam Generator was as good as any. Tesla’s machine consisted of a cylindrical latticework of steel bars topped by a metal-skinned hemisphere. The device looked crude and I suspected it was a prototype. Would it still work after all this time? We would know in a moment.
Chapter XXXXXX:
Here Goes Nothing –Adventures In Relativism
There was a small wooden cubicle like a phone booth centered at the base of the tower and the only way to get to it was through a rusted-shut access door. It took all three of us to pull the door open but it finally yielded with a protesting metallic squeal.
Once inside I tried the bifold door of the cubicle. It too was stiff from disuse but grudgingly opened after a few kicks and shoves. I had half expected to find a bunch of mad scientist stuff inside but the compartment was almost empty. There was a crude wooden seat jutting from one wall facing a console consisting of nothing more than a shelf and a connection port centered between two vertical metal handles.
“How are you meant to know what you’re doing sitting inside there where you can’t see anything?” Percy asked.
“Only one way to find out,” I said. I lifted a small brass flap on the side of the translator and uncovered its connection jack. Then I removed Max’s collar from my trouser pocket and pushed one of its ends into the jack until I felt it click into place. I went into the cubicle, sat on the wooden seat and placed the translator on the shelf in front of me.
It was time for liftoff and I won’t lie to you I was scared out of my wits. What if the whole shebang went thermonuclear? Well one thing was for sure, if I was going to meet my maker I wasn’t going to do it trussed up like a Christmas turkey. I undid my Sam Brown belt and laid it on the roof outside the cubicle. Then I smiled weakly at Sarah and Percy, took a deep breath and plugged the other end of Max’s collar into the port on the wall of the booth.
Nothing happened. The only sound was the wind whistling through the tower’s steel framework.
So. All our efforts, all the risks we had taken had been for nothing. God help Tesla if I ever got my hands around his throat.
I tried to get up but the seat was so awkwardly placed I couldn’t stand. I reached for one of the handles protruding from the shelf but I couldn’t get enough leverage so I grabbed the other one too.
A surge of raw energy pulsed through my body throwing me into spasm. Percy told me later I “looked like cousin Mabel what had the St. Vitus’ Dance.”
There are two views on what happened next, mine and everyone else’s.
As far as the rest of the world is concerned, London was rescued by its two giant guardians, Gog and Magog, who first appeared as a mist swirling around the apex of Tesla’s tower and quickly changed into two vast, cloudlike apparitions striding soundlessly across the rooftops. Now you take most cities, when people happen across a multi-story monster, they run away in terror. Think Tokyo during Godzilla season or New York when King Kong comes to visit. Londoners though, are made of sterner stuff.
“Oy,” said Percy, in the relieved tones of a besieged homesteader who has just sighted the U.S. Seventh Cavalry. “It’s Gog and Magog come to rescue us.”
Sarah’s expressions of gratitude were more restrained. “Took their time getting here, didn’t they?” she said. “Pair of bloody skivers.”
The two gigantic protectors did their duty. The watching crowds broke into spontaneous applause as Magog extended a wraithlike hand toward a Zeppelin gunship anchored over Russell Square. A flash of lighting arced from his pointing forefinger to the balloon’s mooring rope. The Zeppelin floated into the sky and drifted inland where it was soon joined by other black shapes. Seeing what was happening, the soldiers manning the outlying dirigibles winched themselves back to earth. Their job finished, Gog and Magog assumed the form of two white clouds floating over the city in an otherwise clear sky.
That is what everyone else saw. My experience was different.
Chapter XXXXXXI:
The Gardeners –An Abrupt Return
I found myself standing on a cobblestone path leading to a wrought iron double gate suspended between ivy-covered gateposts. The path was bordered by masses of hollyhocks and roses whose fragrances mingled sweetly in the warm air. There were small white flowers growing between the cobblestones and I tried not to step on them as I walked toward the gates with underwater slowness.
The gates opened silently as I approached and I found myself looking out onto a vast prairie lying before the tree-covered foothills of a far distant mountain range. A warm, dry wind caressed my face and I could hear the distant buzzing of locusts. I could just make out a tiny rainbow arching over a mist-covered waterfall spilling from a gap between the two nearest foothills. A shining river ran from the waterfall onto the grassland where it branched into a network of distributary channels.
A winding dirt road led into the distance, disappearing and reappearing with each dip and rise of the rolling landscape. A man clothed in full evening dress was sitting on milestone next to the road with his back to me, stroking a cat in his lap. The man turned as I approached and I recognized him as the magician Schrödinger, and the cat as my old nemesis, Max.
“Welcome to the Gardens of the Plain,” Schrödinger said, placing Max on his shoulder.
“I thought you were dead,” I said.
“I have indeed passed over,” he agreed.
“What about Max?”
“Max is both dead and alive.”
“And me?”
“That too is undecided.”
I was getting out of my depth. Where was Bill Fowler when I needed him? I paused for a moment to take in my new surroundings. I saw that what I had at first thought to be an unoccupied landscape was in fact teeming with life. The plain was dotted with vegetable gardens, some thriving and some going to seed. Small teams of people were cultivating each garden with antlike diligence.
“Why are those people working so hard?” I asked.
“Their very existence depends on the health of their gardens,” Schrödinger answered. “You can see for yourself the result of failure.” He pointed to an abandoned garden in the middle distance where several bleached skeletons lay amidst the withered stalks of a dead cornfield.
“Some of them are tilling new rows on the side of their garden that faces the mountains. Why don’t they put their energy into the plants they already have?”
“They will plant the new rows before the next growing season. That way the garden will move with them
on their journey to the source.”
“You mean that waterfall on the horizon? What is so important there?”
“Even if I told you, you would not understand.”
“So it is one of life’s mysteries?”
“On the contrary, it is one of death’s mysteries and your time has not yet come.”
Schrödinger placed a gentle hand on my shoulder and turned me back to face the wrought iron gates. There was a sudden tremor, almost like an earthquake. The gates transformed themselves into Tesla’s tower and the gentle hand became rough.
“Get out of there you,” said the harsh voice of Alistair Fox. I felt myself being pulled from the The Particle Beam Generator’s cubicle and pushed forward onto the roof of the British Museum where I fell face down onto the asphalt surface.
Chapter XXXXXXII:
Back On The Roof - A Subaltern’s Protest - A Firearms Mishap
I lifted myself from the asphalt and found myself once again in the presence of Second Lieutenant Fellows and his platoon of part-time warriors. Sarah and Percy were with them, manacled together and guarded by the acne-faced corporal who, more than ever, looked like he wished he was back at his butcher shop. I expected I would soon find myself similarly restrained but Alistair Fox had other plans.