‘What?’ snapped Mrs Wedlock, turning on her friend.3 ‘You told me that the cake was stolen by the cake thief. When I asked why there were crumbs in your beard, you pointed at a picture of a tram to distract me. Now, I put it to you, Mrs Hummock, that you scoffed the cake before I got there.’
‘Lucy,’ said Mr Inglebath. ‘Is this all true?’
Mrs Hummock looked ashamed. She looked shocked. She looked like she wished she actually were a real satellite in Earth orbit …
Anything to be away from these people.
‘Yes,’ she muttered at last, before pointing and shouting, ‘Look, a duck!’
Everyone looked (because ducks are always interesting) but there was no duck, and when they turned back she’d run off. Not at great speed, since she was a woman of late early middle age who was rather fond of cakes. But everyone was too polite to point out that they could still see her pushing through the crowds on the patio, her solar panels flapping and the radar dish on her head spinning slowly. Everybody deserves some dignity.4
‘Greta,’ said Mr Inglebath, ‘I’m sorry I ever listened to her. But what can you do?’ He shrugged his shoulders as if to say: Ah! Family! ‘I’ll expect the story on my desk first thing Monday morning. OK?’
Greta’s heart was beating fast.
She’d got the big story and she’d got her job back. Next stop, the Prilchard-Spritzer Medal, she just knew it. And then, on the first day back at school, she’d stand up in assembly and show them all the medal that she’d won in the holidays and that they hadn’t, and she’d demand an apology from the Head and that would teach them all a lesson. Ha ha!
But then she looked down at Jonathon and up at her aunt and a different feeling came over her.
‘I can’t, Mr Inglebath,’ she said sadly. ‘There are things about this story that I can’t print. People I don’t want to embarrass.’
‘You mean like DOTTY SCIENTIST BREEDS CAKE THIEF SQUIRREL WITH NUT ALLERGY?’ he asked. ‘Oh, Tabitha won’t mind, will you, Tabs?’
‘Well, maybe EMINENT SCIENTIST would read better,’ Tabitha suggested, with a smile.
Just then Jessica wobbled over (her Plumulon costume made running awkward) and said, ‘Hi, Greta. Look, I won a prize for Best TV-Inspired Alien Costume. I came second.’
‘Oh, well done, Jessica,’ said Greta. ‘What did you win?’
‘I won a cake,’ said Jessica, holding up a rather large cupcake decorated with a big silver star.
They all had a good laugh at that, even Jessica, who didn’t really understand why they were all laughing.5
1Aunt Tabitha had decided her giant vegetarian squirrel should purr, because it seemed like a good idea at the time.
2Which actually qualified as a ‘space-themed’ outfit, since Mrs Wedlock had been the first person to orbit Venus. She didn’t do that ‘flying around in space’ stuff any more, not since her hip had started playing up.
3Hari Socket didn’t know it, but he won a fiver at this moment. There’d been a sweepstake running in the town as to when Mrs Wedlock would next speak, instead of uttering her more usual tut. He was the one who had drawn the lucky year.
4It was at this point that Sophie Doodad, dressed as a large silvery robot and unbalanced by an accidental nudge from the fleeing woman, fell into the pond with a large silvery splash.
5She’d watched a lot of TV though and she knew that at the end of a certain sort of show, when the story’s over, everyone has a good laugh at something as the picture freezes and the credits start to roll. So she didn’t mind not understanding everything.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Deep Space
ROUND ABOUT NOW
THE HUGE SPACE-GOING Robot hurtled through the darkness. It had locked on to a star system just over eight light years away. The journey would take close to 846 years to complete. As it flew it hummed to itself. It had a large store of tunes to hum, twenty or thirty of them, which Harknow-Bumfurly-Histlock had composed himself, 107,242 years earlier. He thought a nice tune might lessen the robot’s boredom as it flew for long lifetimes through the emptiness of interstellar space. It didn’t lessen the boredom, since he wasn’t a very good composer, but the robots had also been programmed to appreciate his effort, so not a single one had ever beamed a complaint back towards Cestrypip.
This was an eleventh generation Huge Space-Going Robot; that is to say, the first Huge Space-Going Robot had left Cestrypip, discovered a planet, destroyed it and built a new, second generation of Huge Space-Going Robots and sent them out into the galaxy. One of those had found a new planet, destroyed it, built a third generation of Huge Space-Going Robots and sent them, in turn, searching for new planets. And so on. This had happened ten times before the Huge Space-Going Robot had discovered the Earth, and yet its memories of Cestrypip, its dedication to the mission, its desire to please Harknow-Bumfurly-Histlock was exactly the same as if it were the Huge Space-Going Robot the Cestrypian scientist had built himself.
(The maths are simple, if mindboggling: at the present moment there are approximately 360 million Huge Space-Going Robots out there in the galaxy. Approximately sixty million have already beamed reports back to the Harknow-Bumfurly-Histlock Big Book of Galactic Facts™; the rest are humming to themselves in deep space, en route to new unexplored stars.)
Unfortunately, twenty years after the launch of the first Huge Space-Going Robots from Cestrypip, when the robot explorers were merely reaching the first edges of intergalactic space, a series of unfortunate and accidental wildfires swept across Cestrypip’s main continent.1
Whole forests of dreaming trees were burnt down (the third stage in the Cestrypian life cycle2), and an entire generation of Cestrypian children grew up without the wisdom of PE teachers. They all became fat, lazy and uncompetitive adults who died of heart disease before having a chance to put down roots. And so, within a few centuries, the entire race vanished from the face of the planet, leaving it silent and empty.
The Harknow-Bumfurly-Histlock Big Book of Galactic Facts™ was compiled by giant automated computers buried in the Croomock mountain range, powered by underground magma fields. Each time a Huge Space-Going Robot beamed a report back to the planet it was added as a new entry. Pictures were annotated, recordings were embedded in the text, facts were collated in charts and graphs.
But no one read it.
For a hundred thousand years the computers have whirred, clicked, buzzed and listened, receiving information and adding to the Harknow-Bumfurly-Histlock Big Book of Galactic Facts™ and no one has ever pressed a button beside the screen at the foot of the great Croomock mountain range and scrolled through the entries. No one. Not a single person. Zip. Zero. None.3
However, by the time the Huge Space-Going Robot reached Earth and encountered the Great Greta Zargo, another race of intelligent beings, the Lollo-Grags (who had once been pests on the pets the Cestrypippians kept), had been making their homes in the caves of Cestrypip for ten thousand years or more, popping outside each day to tend to their swaying fields of squil. They were a species on their way up, filling the ecological niche left behind by the ancient robot-builders.4
Sometime soon they might discover how to use the keyboard beside the screen at the foot of the Croomock mountain range, and they will see how amazing the universe is, how full of life, and perhaps they will find their way to the entry labelled ‘Earth’ and might catch an episode of How Hot Is My Chef? on the live stream.
Who knows what they will think then?
1Let this be a warning against dropping a smouldering flinfthod in a dry patch of squil. Remember, kids: always take your used flinfthods home with you and dispose of them carefully.
2See Chapter Two for a reminder.
3Also, no nuns.
4This was the first time in their history that they were making use of caves as houses.
POSTLOGUE
Upper Lowerbridge, England, Earth
TWO WEEKS AFTER THE PARTY
IT WAS THE night of the Prilc
hard-Spritzer Medal Award Ceremony.
Greta Zargo was wearing her smartest trousers.
Jessica Plumb was wearing her smartest trousers too.
Aunt Tabitha was with them both and was dressed in her smartest hat.
Wilf Inglebath was with them all and had polished his moustache.
After a short film about the fish pickling and packing process, Mr Prilchard mounted the stage.
‘It’s my honour,’ he said, ‘every year to present this here medal to the person what has made the most stunning bit of newspaper writing to my mind in that year what’s just gone by. I read them closely. I pay attention. I listen out for the voice what’s special, the eye what’s keen, the nose what knows a good story.
‘I owe a lot to newspapers,’ he went on. ‘It was in newspapers where the first Christmas offer for Prilchard’s Pilchards was printed up. There was a coupon you could cut out and all, and people did, you know, cut them out and brought them in and we sold many, many extra fishes that way. Oh, they were happy times.’
He smiled as he reminisced.
‘And so I swore, if ever I had an empire of fishmonger’s, I would give something back. And so, here we are, for the fourteenth annual Prilchard-Spritzer Medal Award Ceremony.’
There was a ripple of applause.
‘Four stories really caught my eye a lot this year,’ he said. ‘And they was, in no particular order, number one: SOFA, SO BAD by Fenella Windsock, about the settee what swallowed more than a remote control. Number two: THE BUNS THAT GOT AWAY by Frank Diggory, about the baker’s lorry what overturned on the dual carriageway and clogged the East Upperbridge Canal with buns and scones. Number three: THANK COD IT’S FISHMAS by Dingle D’Lacey, about how a nice bit of fish can be a cost-effective replacement for turkey or goose at the Christmas table. And number four: UPPER LOWERBRIDGE MYSTERY CAKE THIEF APPREHENDED AT SPACE PARTY BY INTREPID REPORTER by Greta Zargo, in which a squirrel was caught nicking some cakes.’
The announcement of each newspaper headline brought a little ripple of applause from the four tables scattered around the back room of Prilchard’s big shop in Upper Lowerbridge’s high street.
‘And the winner is …’ Mr Prilchard announced, ripping open a golden envelope. He left a long pause after the word ‘is’, like they always do on Dance, Baker, Dance! There was an imaginary drum roll in the air. ‘Dingle D’Lacey for THANK COD IT’S FISHMAS. Well done, Dingle.’
Greta clapped politely, even though her shoulders slumped.
If only, she thought to herself, she’d found a bigger story, a better story, something more important than a series of stolen cakes. Maybe a squirrel with a sweet tooth simply wasn’t enough. After all, she had to admit, it was hardly the end of the world, was it? But she could only write the stories that came her way, only write the ones that landed on her doorstep. She could only pick up the ends of threads she found and follow them, and if Mr Prilchard didn’t think they were interesting enough for a medal, then so be it. She realised in that moment that maybe this job wasn’t about medals and awards and showing off at school. Maybe it really was all about serving her duty to The Truth.
‘I don’t like fish,’ said Jessica. ‘It makes me burp fishy burps. I’d rather get a box of biscuits for Christmas than a trout.’
‘Do you know,’ Mr Inglebath whispered, leaning towards them as Dingle D’Lacey began his short speech of thank yous and I told you sos, ‘that’s the fourteenth year in a row a story encouraging people to buy more fish has won the Prilchard-Spritzer Medal?’
‘Oh,’ whispered Greta, sitting up straight. ‘I’m beginning to see a pattern, Mr Inglebath. I think there might be something fishy going on.’
They all laughed at that, even Jessica.
Fortunately Dingle D’Lacey had just made a joke in his acceptance speech, so it didn’t seem like they were being rude.
‘No, but seriously,’ Greta whispered, when the chuckling had died down, ‘I think I might have an idea for a new story, Mr Inglebath. An exposé on corruption in the world of journalistic prizes and fishmongery.’1
‘That’s my girl,’ said Mr Inglebath.
‘I’ve invented a telepathic pencil,’ her aunt said. ‘You hold it in your hand and it writes whatever you’re thinking. I thought it might come in handy.’
‘That’s brilliant,’ Greta said, giving her aunt a hug. ‘Thanks for believing in me.’
The four of them skipped the Prilchard-Spritzer Medal buffet, it being comprised mostly of fishcakes, and they all having had quite enough to do with cakes for the time being.
They walked out into the cool of the summer evening.
Above them a thousand stars twinkled and glittered in the deep blue sky.
Greta wondered if there was anyone out there, on a planet circling one of those stars, looking back at her. It was one of the Big Questions, wasn’t it? And one that she’d probably never know the answer to.
She did know, however, that there was a new tin of hot chocolate powder waiting for her when she got home, and a fresh packet of cheese that she could slice and put on top of some nice hot toast.
She hadn’t won the prize, but still, it wasn’t such a bad life being Greta Zargo.
1She had just remembered Clause Forty-Two (B) from her parents’ Last Will and Testament: Greta, darling, always think three times before trusting a fishmonger with your dry-cleaning.
COULD YOU BE A REPORTER LIKE GRETA?
WERE YOU PAYING ATTENTION?
TAKE THIS QUIZ AND FIND OUT!
1.Whose cake went missing first?
a)Hari Socket
b)Harknow-Bumfurly-Histlock
c)Agnes Nottin-Thisbok
2.What kind of cake was stolen from Mrs Hummock?
a)A fishcake
b)A bicycle
c)A sponge with peanut butter fondant icing
3.Who was the Swiss roll stolen from?
a)Oscar Teachbaddly
b)King Magnus III, Lord of Wind
c)Harrerf
4.How old was Greta when she solved her first case (The Riddle of the Missing Asparagus)?
a)96
b)A bicycle
c)4
5.Where was Oscar Teachbaddly’s cake before it was stolen?
a)In his stomach
b)On the arm of his armchair
c)On a pirate ship, sailing the six seas
6.What important clue did Greta find in her kitchen?
a)A bicycle
b)A few tufty grey hairs
c)King Magnus III, Lord of Bins
7.Who was Greta’s prime suspect?
a)Bertie Rustle
b)President Slightly
c)Agnes Nottin-Thisbok
8.Who was the cake thief?
a)Jonathan
b)King Magnus III, Lord of Fibs
c)Greta Zargo
9.What is Jonathan allergic to?
a)peas
b)peas and nuts
c)peanuts
10.What really happened to Mrs Hummock’s cake?
a)A bicycle
b)She ate it
c)Nothing. Nothing at all.
ANSWERS:
1. a, 2. c, 3. a, 4. c, 5. b, 6. b, 7. a, 8. a, 9. c, 10. b
PROLOGUE
Untold Miles Beneath the Earth’s Crust
FIVE MONTHS AGO (WEDNESDAY)
SOMETHING HAD WOKEN. Something ancient. Something unnamed. Something that should not have been woken.
Deep in the Earth. Beneath the deepest well, below the deepest mine, further down than the deepest potholer’s pothole. It was deep down there, down where the sleepers had slept for untold ages. Dark. Hot. Silent.
And then … scrunch, scrunch, scrunch … the shovel came digging. A simple electric shovel that had been invented by a kindly aunt to help one little girl with her gardening, and now … it had dug too deep.
Things that had dwelt in darkness, chewing slowly on sad rocks, had their world cracked open, like an egg hatching. And so they began to climb
, inching slowly up the shaft, squeezing stickily between sheer, muddy rock walls.
Above them a new world waited.
They knew nothing of sunlight, but soon it would touch them.
They knew nothing of fresh air, but soon it would surround them.
They knew nothing of people, but soon they would eat them.
And so, they climbed, and above them the world slept, unaware of the horror that approached, unaware of the threat rising from the depths, unaware that the final end had begun.
Now read on …
CHAPTER ONE
Greta Zargo’s House, Upper Lowerbridge, England, Earth
LAST SATURDAY (BREAKFAST-TIME)
WHEN GRETA ZARGO’S parents accidentally died she was left the family home, everything in it, a large bank account, two black and white posters of kittens falling over, a lifetime subscription to Paperclip World (the magazine for all paperclip enthusiasts) and a pair of trousers she’d one day grow into. Since she had only been a baby at the time, all of this was held in trust by her Aunt Tabitha until Greta’s eighth birthday.1
As soon as she turned eight Greta moved out of her aunt’s house and into her own one, just over the road. Naturally her aunt kept an eye on Greta, as often as she could, and in the three years that followed absolutely no disasters had occurred. Other than perhaps that one time when the emus stole Mr Borris’s wig and he wrote an outraged letter to the President about it. But even then, as Greta pointed out in a stiffly worded article in the school newspaper, it was a very funny-looking wig, and the President had never actually replied to Mr Borris anyway.2 So, no disasters at all. None.
This morning Greta was up early. It was the first day of the autumn school holiday and she was grumpy. Grumpy because the sun had barely made an effort outside the window to warm the world. Grumpy because the only clean socks she had were yesterday’s dirty ones. And grumpy because of the general awful earliness of the getting up.
Greta believed that the holidays were not the time for early rising. Although, to be fair, she didn’t think school days were days for early rising either. The Head, however, had sent her home with enough letters to give to herself, asking her to make sure that she was at school on time, and that several times a week she arrived at school almost in time to not quite be told off. For other children the Head would have sent letters home addressed to their parents, but, for obvious reasons, that didn’t work for Greta. She was, legally, acting in loco parentis for herself, which just means: she was her own mother or father, so far as letters home went.
Greta Zargo and the Death Robots from Outer Space Page 7