The Quanderhorn Xperimentations

by Andrew Marshall

  He didn’t actually say that last bit, but I definitely got the message.

  The old woman, clutching a brown paper package drenched with blood from her recent purchase of chitterlings, offered a single coin. ‘I’ll have a penn’orth, please, sir.’

  ‘Bugger off!’ I shouted at the top of my voice. The poor old dear clasped a hand to her heart and opened her mouth in shock, though her teeth stayed firmly clamped. I fully expected her to expire on the spot, but she recovered and scuttled away.

  ‘I say, Penetrator,’ Churchill chided, ‘that was a bit rude.’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ I blushed pathetically, ‘but you are asking me to break into the most terrifying and dangerous place on Earth. And then what am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Ahh! That’s when you employ our Secret Weapon. Here . . .’

  He fumbled in the satchel that was slung over his shoulder and produced, to my astonishment, a live, brightly coloured and rather large bird.

  ‘That would appear to be a parrot,’ I said.

  ‘It looks like an ordinary parrot,’ Churchill smiled smugly, ‘but this one has a unique talent. Some of our top boffins have spent many, many weeks and thousands of pounds training him in the art of repetition.’

  The Prime Minister seemed so thoroughly delighted with this scientific breakthrough I could hardly bear to break it to him.

  ‘Uhm . . . don’t all parrots repeat things?’

  ‘ All parrots repeat things ,’ the parrot said.

  Churchill looked at the bird as if for the first time. ‘I need to fire some of our top boffins.’

  ‘So, assuming I survive the cellar, I use this parrot to report back?’

  ‘Yes. Simply teach it your secret message, and when released, it will immediately fly back to Downing Street and repeat to me whatever you taught it.’

  ‘ Secret message ,’ the bird squawked rather loudly. It had a rather defiant look in its eye. I was beginning to have my doubts about this parrot’s character.

  At that moment, I heard a tinny wolf whistle car horn and turned to see Guuuurk parking a rather dilapidated old Ferguson-Brown Model A tractor across the road. ‘Prime Minister,’ I hissed, ‘that chap over there’s one of the Quanderhorn team.’

  ‘Quickly, then, Penetrator. And discreetly.’ He thrust the parrot at me.

  I grabbed it, turned my back and started shoving it into my trouser pocket. The parrot resisted. Vigorously.

  ‘ Awwwwk! We will fight them on the beaches , darkest hour! ’

  Churchill hissed, ‘Quickly, Penetrator!’

  ‘It’s a bit of a tight fit. And it keeps flapping around in there.’

  ‘ Awwwwk! Don’t make me beg, Clemmie! ’

  ‘The vicious fiend is trying to peck its way out again.’

  The Prime Minister winced. ‘Apologies, but they’re still working on a smaller parrot.’

  ‘You mean . . . a budgerigar?’

  Churchill frowned into the distance. ‘I may need to fire all of our top boffins.’

  ‘ Waaaarrrk! Narrrzi apparatus! ’

  In the end, I had to resort to thrusting the cursed bird down the front of my pants, then tightening my trouser belt considerably so it couldn’t escape. It flapped and squawked mightily for several seconds, and then fell into an ominous calm.

  ‘By the way,’ Churchill warned, ‘it likes monkey nuts.’

  He wasn’t wrong. It transpired the parrot had merely been positioning itself to launch its attack.

  I scanned the street with gritted teeth and tears in my eyes. Had anybody spotted the exchange?

  Guuuurk was now backing into the post office’s door. I’m pretty sure he’d seen nothing, as for some reason he was holding the ugly baby over his face.

  For a brief moment, I felt I was actually getting quite good at this espionage malarkey, when several loud gunshots rang out. One of them hit me in the shoulder.

  Through the pain, and with cat-like reactions, I spun round to shield the Prime Minister, only to find him gone, leaving behind, for some reason, the lingering smell of herring.

  His abandoned brazier was blazing away unchecked, causing chestnuts to explode and fly hither and thither quite dangerously.

  If you’ve ever tried to douse a dangerous fire with a hungry parrot imprisoned in your underwear, whilst simultaneously dodging exploding conkers and trying not to draw attention to yourself, you may begin to understand my difficulties at this point.

  I finally got the disaster under control. Exhausted, bruised, reeking of smouldering tweed, and my poor jinglebells pitted with peck marks, I began to limp back to the complex.

  I glanced up the street, and could have sworn I spotted Dr. Janussen walking (with a rather peculiar stumpy gait!) into the hairdresser’s, of all places. Curious. She hadn’t struck me as a preening sort of woman, and I’d thought she’d said she was staying at the lab. No, it definitely was her. Fortunately, her back was towards me. Still, I pulled my jacket lapels over my face instinctively as I passed the salon window. Which is why I didn’t notice the open drain till I fell down it.

  Chapter Ten

  Booday the argth of Phobos, Martian Year 5972 Pink

  Secret Report to Martian Command, by Guuuurk [cont’d]

  I parked up with a playful toot of the two-tone novelty horn, simulating a human ‘wolf whistle’, and instantly regretted it. Brian was on the other side of the road with a street vendor. He appeared to be buying a large coloured chicken for lunch. He’s a delightful chap, but absolutely rotten at lying. I really didn’t want him accidently blowing my cover with an ill-judged remark. Thinking quickly, I ducked behind a nearby water company warning sign, which bore the legend ‘DANGER! OPEN GRATE’, when I spotted Dr. Janussen crossing the road and heading for the hairdresser’s, which I realised to my horror was right behind me.

  As luck would have it, at that precise moment everybody’s head turned towards the rather alarming sound of gunshots. It turned out merely to be chestnuts overheating on a brazier. This was my chance.

  I glanced around and spotted a small pig someone had left in a rather ornate wheelbarrow nearby. I hurled the sign aside and snatched up the porker. Using it to hide my face, I backed carefully into the post office, triggering its delightful tinkling bell. I set down the piglet and smacked it to send it squealing on its way, then stepped up to the counter.

  As usual, the repugnant old harpy, Mrs. Wiggonby the postmistress, was behind the counter in her moth-eaten wrap-over pinny. Normally, she would be gaily dangling envelopes over the spout of her merrily boiling kettle, but on this occasion she just seemed to be staring fixedly into the middle distance.

  ‘Hail, well met and good morning, Mrs. Wiggonby. And may I say, you’re looking particularly ravishing this morning.’

  Now this sort of greeting would ordinarily spark a little bit of jolly flirtatious banter. But today, she merely rotated her head in my direction.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ she said, rather slowly and in a dull monotone. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘It’s me, Mrs. Wiggonby: Edith Sitwell.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course, Mr. Sitwell,’ she said, but without a glint of recognition.

  I peered at her more intently. Her eyes seemed rather glazed, and the pupils were dilated to an extraordinary extent. ‘Doris, are you feeling all right?’

  ‘I have never felt more perfect in my life,’ she said oddly, in the same monotone.

  I shrugged. I would never completely understand Terraneans, and never, ever their unfathomable females. ‘Glad to hear it. Now, I was wondering: I see you sell Air Mail letters and registered letters, but do you have any French letters?’ I raised my top two eyebrows hopefully.

  But she merely responded: ‘Would you like to see my glowing meteorite, Mr. Sitwell?’

  Ah! So we were back to the flirting. Clearly, that was some sort of saucy human innuendo. However, it would be caddish to lead the poor homely creature on. ‘I should tell you, Doris—’ I smiled ki
ndly ‘—I do prefer my women to be very slightly less repulsive.’

  ‘I really think you ought to see my glowing meteorite. It’s just around the back here. It’s quite magnificent.’

  Clearly, she’d not taken my subtle hint. ‘I’m sure it is, old thing, but, er, I am in rather a hurry this morning . . .’ I backed out towards the door. ‘So nice to have seen you . . .’

  Then, through the door pane I spotted the Professor over the road, angrily peeling Troy off a large strip of flypaper in the fishmonger’s window. Strange. Hadn’t he said he was going to stay in his office? I couldn’t risk him learning I was out of the compound. Again. The only other egress was through the rear. This of course meant taking up Mrs. Wiggonby’s rather frightening offer. Whatever it was.

  ‘On the other hand, perhaps I will just take a quick look at this glowing meteorite of yours.’ There was no getting out of it now.

  The old trout led me through the multicoloured plastic strips that dangled from the back door frame. I must admit to a certain degree of trepidation. It may come as a tremendous shock to my legion of Martian admirers that Guuuurk the Rampantly Fecund had scant knowledge of Terranean reproduction rituals. Which is to say, none at all. I got into a terrible lather that I had insufficient food supplies about me, and absolutely no murdered flora whatsoever. Moreover, my one and only dancing lesson had been a complete fiasco, when Jenkins and I spent the entire session arguing over which of us should have brought the record player.

  ‘I think I should warn you,’ I declared, ‘I’ve never done this before. I do hope you’ll take that into account . . .’

  We stepped out into a small backyard. I was surprised to see it was crowded with villagers. All of them stared at my arrival. ‘Good heavens!’ I said. ‘This is socially awkward . . .’

  And then there was a sound. I’ve made quite a study of Earth music – the enjoyment of which still eludes me – and this series of harmonic waveforms was indubitably extraterrestrial.

  The non-music was issuing from a large rock embedded in the shrubbery, which was pulsing with dazzlingly coloured light.

  Mrs. Wiggonby’s voice descended to a deeply booming timbre. ‘Look deep into the glow, Mr. Sitwell. We want you to be One of Us.’

  Slowly, quietly at first, the assembled villagers began to chant in similar low-pitched resonance: ‘One of Us . . . One of Us . . .’

  I stared into the strangely beguiling luminosity. It seemed to be calling to me. Beckoning . . . beckoning . . .

  ‘One of Us . . .’ they chanted, ‘One of Us . . .’

  Chapter Eleven

  The Rational Scientific Journal of Dr. Gemini Janussen, Wednesday 2nd January 1952 (Again)

  Jenkins gently awoke me from my nap. I must confess, I don’t recall having dropped off, but we’ve all been working long hours recently. I was surprised to find I was in my room. Normally it’s an extremely efficient, if somewhat spartan affair, but someone, for reasons unknown, had placed jars of sickly scented flowers everywhere. Moreover, there were fragrant candles burning on the mantelpiece, and cushions – hundreds of cushions – scattered over every horizontal surface. I loathe cushions. What are they for ? Where did they come from?

  Even more peculiarly, there was a note by my telephone indicating I’d booked an appointment at the hairdresser’s , of all things. What a pointless waste of time! Still, it was too late to cancel, and rather than pay for nothing, I decided to take my motor scooter into the village.

  When I took it out of the garage, I discovered to my intense horror that during the past week some practical ‘joker’ had sprayed the entire thing pink. Was there never any end to the oh-so ‘amusing’ japes the adolescent males got up to in this place?

  I parked the gaudy vehicle in the woods at the top of the hill, and hid it with bracken. I certainly wasn’t going to be seen arriving in the village on such an eyesore.

  It was only when I stepped onto the cobbles that I realised I was wearing high heels. I would never choose such an impractical item of ludicrous foot torture. I didn’t even know where they’d come from.

  I simply snapped the heels off and made my way as best I could down towards the hair salon.

  I can’t say I was surprised to see Guuuurk arrive in his rather unconvincing ‘human’ disguise, and his even less convincing ‘sports car’. He sounded his juvenile ‘wolf whistle’ horn and leapt out of his rusting wreck as if he genuinely were a jet set playboy jumping from an Aston Martin convertible.

  He spotted me, I think, but clearly didn’t want to be seen himself, because he quickly ducked behind a road sign, and skulked there for a while. I was about to go over and order him back to the lab with a flea in his ear, when I heard a series of small explosions. I turned to the source, and there was Brian, one of his sleeves on fire, trying to douse a small conflagration in a chestnut brazier. Really, he is the most useless article imaginable.

  When I turned back, Guuuurk had vanished.

  I scanned the street to see where he might be lurking, when I was surprised to spot Q. himself outside the fishmonger’s. I considered hailing him, but he was staring vacantly into the distance, clearly lost in thought, as was often his wont. Then I heard Troy calling in some sort of panic from inside the shop. Hardly surprising – it rarely took Troy more than a couple of minutes to find himself in intractable trouble, whatever he was trying to do. Hardly bothering to rouse himself from his reverie, the Professor slowly turned and marched inside.

  I glanced at the church clock. I had no time for these shenanigans. I had an appointment to keep.

  Marcia was just putting the finishing touches to my trim, when her niece, Minnie, burst through the door in rather a blue funk. ‘Hey up, Dr. Janussen! They said you was in here. There’s some very queer doings over at t’post office.’

  ‘Queer how?’

  ‘People’s goin’ in there, and they en’t comin’ out again.’

  ‘Well.’ I pulled off my bib and stood up. ‘We’d best take a look, hadn’t we?’

  Chapter Twelve

  From the journal of Brian Nylon, 2nd January, 1952 – Iteration 66

  Hampered by my injuries, it took me the best part of an hour to heave myself out of the disgustingly slimy drain without further damaging the parrot buried down my underpants. On top of which, just as I had finally hauled myself almost to the top of the slippery shaft, I heard Quanderhorn walking past.

  He was saying something about ‘growing meat and the like’ in his deep voice. Surely those unidentifiable organs dangling in the butcher’s window couldn’t have been the discarded by-products of the professor’s liver-substitute experiments? I resolved to become a vegetarian. And then I remembered his vegetable experiments and despaired.

  Suddenly I caught a glimpse of Troy’s distinctive cowboy boots passing right next to my eye, and had to duck back down again into the slurry.

  Eventually I emerged, unobserved, and staggered to my feet, muttering a string of words I wouldn’t demean this journal by recording. Whereupon, in the best tradition of one of Mr. Ben Travers’ hilarious Aldwych farces, I turned to find myself face to face with a vicar.

  ‘ Oh, bugger! ’ the parrot said.

  I grinned weakly at the kindly old clergyman, who seemed nonetheless unrattled. ‘Oh, it’s Mr. Nylon,’ he beamed. ‘Would you like to come with me behind the post office and see the glowing meteorite?’

  Well, that seemed a peculiar question. ‘Uhhhm, that’s very kind of you, Vicar, but I’m afraid I have to be running along. Perhaps another time?’

  He put a surprisingly firm hand on my shoulder. ‘I really think we should do it now, together, my son.’

  I’d read about this kind of thing in the yellow press, so I tugged myself free and stepped briskly away, almost colliding with the old woman who’d tried to buy chestnuts.

  ‘Pardon me, young man. Would you help me?’

  I restrained the impulse to give her the Scout salute. (Now, that was one I did know: three fingers!) ‘
Yes, of course.’

  ‘Just take my hand and guide me to the post office to see the glowing meteorite.’

  There was something odd going on here, which I couldn’t quite get to the bottom of in my mind. I thanked the old biddy profusely and made more excuses. But before I’d gone two steps, the ear-tweaked urchin jumped in my path and shouted, ‘Here, Mister – gan wi’ us to t’post office and have a goosey at yon shiny rock.’

  ‘Ha ha,’ I fake-laughed, ‘scallywag!’ and ruffled his hair just a tad too violently. I felt a sharp tug at my trouser cuffs. The fat, ugly baby was gumming my turn-ups.

  It released me for a second, looked up, and said, ‘Goo goo muh-muh meteorite,’ then tucked into my cavalry twill again. I glanced behind me. There were a dozen or so more villagers lurching towards me in a curious, stomping half-march, as if possessed. I shuffled free of the infant and started walking briskly.

  Heart in my mouth, I gradually quickened my pace, glancing over my shoulder constantly, and unwittingly ran straight into the back of another villager. Mercifully, it was good old P.C. Mosely.

  He turned to me with concern. ‘Why, Mr. Nylon! Whatever is the matter?’

  ‘I’m sorry, officer, something rather curious seems to be happening to those villagers.’

  He looked at them with narrowed eyes and lowered his voice. ‘Yes, sir. Deeply suspicious indeed. I’ve had my eye on them for some time now. It’s my opinion they’ve been possessed by some kind of alien intelligence.’

  ‘Yes. I’m afraid that’s what I was thinking, too. The poor devils.’

  ‘Poor devils indeed, sir. Perhaps it would be wise . . .’ he snapped a handcuff over my wrist, as his voice began to drop in tone, ‘. . . if you accompanied me to the post office to see the glowing meteorite.’ He clunked the other cuff firmly over his own wrist.

  The mob was beginning to chant: ‘One of Us . . . One of Us . . .’