We exchanged glances. Was this yet more subterfuge?
Brian, always too soft-hearted for his own good – and often everyone else’s – gently unbolted the door and gingerly pulled it open.
There Jenkins swayed, blinking in the light weakly. He stumbled to the nearest chair and collapsed into it.
‘Jenkins?’ Guuuurk asked tentatively from the back of the room, under a table.
Jenkins took out a hip flask, and took a generous slug from it. For once, he didn’t even bother to do it surreptitiously. ‘Ooh, I just had the most terrible dream.’
Q. leant over him. ‘And what was this dream exactly, Jenkins?’
‘I dreamt I’d been possessed by bodiless aliens from another galaxy.’
‘Bodiless aliens?’
‘Yes, sir. They roam the voids of space, riding meteor clusters, endlessly seeking host creatures to occupy.’
Guuuurk pretended he’d found what he’d been looking for on the floor and stood. ‘That’s just like the Martian nursery rhyme “The Beta Centaurans” . . .’ †
‘Tantalising.’ Q. straightened. ‘Such creatures are spoken of not just in Martian fable – I’ve seen them mentioned in a number of ancient alien inscriptions. It’s obviously not a mere legend, but some kind of race memory. They have different names, but always the same story: a species so advanced, they evolve beyond corporeal form, and exist only as pure thought. No pain, no death. No wants, no needs. Sounds like Heaven, doesn’t it? Unfortunately, after several rather dull millennia, they realise that spending eternity as brainwaves can’t match up to the simple pleasure of eating a crisp, juicy apple, or five minutes alone with a hoochie coochie dancer from the travelling carnival.’
Brian asked, rather naïvely, ‘But what do they do with these bodies they occupy?’
The Professor raised his eyebrows. ‘They indulge them, Nylon. They indulge in relentless hedonism. An endless orgy of feasting and, yes, rutting. They rut and eat and rut and eat and rut until the bodies are burnt-out husks.’
‘So they’re like Frenchmen, then?’ Brian asked. I don’t know if he was serious.
‘And then they hitch a ride on the next passing meteor cloud, and the whole messy business begins again.’
All of Guuuurk’s pupils dilated unnervingly at the same moment. ‘So that’s what they’re after? They want to subject our poor defenceless bodies to relentless wanton sexual abandonment?’
Q. nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. It doesn’t bear thinking about.’
‘No. No it doesn’t . . .’ Guuuurk seemed to drift off.
A faraway expression enveloped Brian’s face. ‘Hmmmmmmmm . . .’
At the mere mention of sex, the male’s power of reason immediately downs tools and goes on a wildcat strike. And woe betide any sane thoughts that try to cross the picket line.
Jenkins shook his head. ‘I tell you, Mr. Nylon, when they were inside my head, the things they was planning to do to each other . . .’ He took another belt from his flask. ‘Unrepeatable!’ He shot a not-too-subtle look in Guuuurk’s direction. The Martian looked up with sudden interest. ‘Though I may be persuaded to set them down in vivid detail in a little book, for the right consideration.’
There was a hammering on the automatic storm doors, less than three hundred yards away – the last line of defence! The chant was growing ever more frenetic.
Time to haul the transfixed cavemen back to reality. ‘Can we please focus! They’re getting very close. We have to connect the organ to the tannoy system . . .’
There was more hammering and the sound of splintering wood. Inexplicably louder now, as if suddenly in the room itself. I spun round to see Troy chopping away at the organ with the fire axe. ‘Troy! What are you doing? Stop!’
‘I’m chopping up the organ.’
‘ Don’t! ’ I pulled the emergency Flit Gun from my handbag, and drove him back. But it was too late – the organ was matchwood.
‘Ow!’ Troy wiped the tears from his eyes. ‘What was that for?’
‘Why did you do that?’
‘Imagine what the aliens could do if they got hold of it!’
‘What could they do?’
‘Well, they could . . . they might . . . Sorry – what was the question?’
‘ Apologies for the interruption ,’ the tannoy announced, ‘ but they’re through the storm doors and heading for the briefing room .’
* The other members of the crew clearly picked up a number of Guuuurkian expressions along the way.
† THE RIME OF THE BETA CENTAURIANS
Translated from the Martian by the Venerable Kruunkk
Beware of the Beta Centaurans,
All children had best run and hide,
They’re looking for bodies to jump in,
And have lots of fun when inside!
They ride through the stars quite unnoticed,
Inside clouds of meteorites,
So avoid glowing rocks if they’re singing,
And sew up your earholes at nights.
Chapter Nineteen
From the journal of Brian Nylon, 2nd January, 1952 – Iteration 66
We formed a human/Martian chain and piled as much of the furniture as we could against the door, but we all knew in our hearts it wasn’t going to hold them for very long. Or, indeed, at all.
There was no other way out, except for a tiny fanlight high on the outer wall, which nobody could fit through. Although Guuuurk did try. Very vigorously.
The Professor was pacing. He suddenly whirled round and pointed at me. ‘Nylon! You say you recognised the tune on the organ.’
‘Yes. Well, I thought I did, but—’
‘Dammit, man, you have to remember!’
‘I can’t remember! I can hardly remember anything !’
‘Brian.’ Dr. Janussen gently cupped my chin with her hands and stared straight into my eyes. ‘You need to think . Where did you hear it?’
‘I don’t know!’ I wrenched her hands away in frustration. ‘I can’t remember! I lost my memory! What’s wrong with you all?’
‘You didn’t forget everything . It’s all in there, somewhere.’
Guuuurk stepped in. ‘Was it something on the radio?’
‘Yes. No. I don’t know.’
‘Dammit, Nylon! Think! ’
My head was spinning. ‘Why won’t you all leave me alone? I’m not a monkey on a string!’
‘A what?’ Dr. Janussen grabbed me again. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said I’m not a . . . That’s it! That’s the song! “Monkey on a String” by Ethel Smith, First Lady of the Hammond organ. ‘I did hear it on the radio. When I was with . . . Virginia.’
Everybody shuffled uncomfortably at the mention of Virginia. The Professor’s expression took on a very dark tone. But try as I might, I couldn’t remember much more than flashes from that afternoon on the riverbank . . . the barges chugging by . . . the two of us side by side eating watercress sandwiches . . . a portable radio the size of a small house . . . Ginny saying: ‘The tanks will blow us all apart . . .’ And then just foggy nothing. Tanks? Was she talking about the army?
‘The music, Nylon!’ Quanderhorn snapped me from my reverie. ‘You’re certain it’s identical to this “Monkey on a String”?’
I grabbed the sheet music and ran it over in my head. Identical. I nodded. ‘Note for note.’
‘Splendid!’ Quanderhorn barked. ‘All we need to do is get Housewives’ Choice to play that record over national radio. That will easily release enough people from the aliens’ thrall to quash the invasion.’
‘Trouble is, Professor,’ Jenkins’ cheeks were glowing red from his hip flask indulgence, ‘the phone lines is down, and the shortwave’s shot, an’ all. There’s no way to get a message through.’
I heard the ominous sound of a large boulder rumbling along the corridor towards us. The meteorite! It could easily be employed to batter the door in, before it imprisoned us all with its ’fluence.
There wa
s no point keeping my secret any longer. ‘I think I have something here that may help.’
Before anyone could react, I reached into my flies, fumbled about and pulled out the parrot.
There were gasps. Everyone stared.
‘What the devil is this, Nylon?’ The Professor eyed me cautiously. ‘Some kind of pornographic magic show? Because it’s scarcely the time or place.’
The parrot looked at me with distaste, blinked, then squawked: ‘ I like Gemma’s bottom! ’
The foul-beaked little rascal! I have no idea where he’d heard that. Honestly. It’s not a thing I’d say. My cheeks felt like they’d been slapped with hot flannels. ‘I-I . . . would never say that,’ I stammered.
‘Why?’ Dr. Janussen folded her arms. ‘What’s wrong with my bottom?’
‘Nothing!’ I squirmed. ‘I like it! No! I don’t like it! I mean it’s perfectly . . . it’s where it should be and it does the job. Whatever that job might be—’
‘Oh, shut up, Brian.’
I happily did.
Quanderhorn grabbed the parrot and studied it. ‘Excellent preparedness from our resident Boy Scout. Right – here’s the plan: first, we use the back of the fire axe to flatten the parrot and slide it under the door—’
‘Professor . . .’
‘No, you’re right. I’ve got a better idea.’ He studied the parrot intensely. ‘Its beak is a perfect miniature loudspeaker – if we squeeze it tightly and whistle the tune up its little anus . . .’
Much as I’d like to have seen the bird suffer thus, I felt I ought to step in. ‘That may be slightly over-elaborate, sir: the parrot is trained to fly to London and repeat whatever it’s been taught.’
‘Why didn’t you say so in the first place, you clown, instead of distracting us all with your ill-judged prestidigitation?’
‘ Mob now directly outside the room. ’
A mighty thumping began against the door. The furniture tower shuddered, but held firm.
Quanderhorn held the parrot six inches from his face. The surly psittacine was clearly sizing him up, like a boxer at a weigh-in. ‘Right, parrot, here’s the message—’
‘I must warn you, Professor, the bird is somewhat—’
‘Oh, we haven’t got time for that! Right! Message begins: This is Professor Darius Quanderhorn speaking . . .’
The parrot blinked. ‘ Professor Quanderhorn speaking .’
‘Don’t abbreviate!’ the Professor scolded. ‘Message continues. To avert subjugation of entire human race it’s imperative you instruct the incumbent presenter of Housewives’ Choice to play the following phonographic record, repeatedly and without pause: “Monkey on a String”, by Ethel Smith, brackets First Lady of the Hammond Organ close brackets. Yours et cetera, et cetera . . .’
There was a long silence.
‘Professor, that may be slightly too complicated for—’
‘ Awk! To avert subjugation of entire human race it’s imperative you instruct the incumbent presenter of Housewives’ Choice to play the following phonographic record, repeatedly and without pause: ’
‘Excellent!’ Quanderhorn beamed.
‘. . . The Runaway Train by Vernon Delhart .’
‘Get the axe.’
‘ Awk! “Monkey on a String”, by Ethel Smith .’
Quanderhorn nodded. ‘That’s better.’ He climbed on a table and released the bird through the fanlight. It perched on the outer frame for a moment, relishing its freedom. Slowly, it turned its head fully 180° to face us and squawked: ‘. . . I like Gemma’s bottom! ’ Then it spread its wings to their full span defiantly and soared away. I watched it go until it was barely a speck on the horizon.
‘Hang on,’ I said, ‘isn’t that north?’
But my words were lost under a thunderous crash as the stacked furniture collapsed spectacularly, sending shards and splinters flying all over the room.
And the door gave way.
3
50% Acrilan, 20% Cotton and 70% Anaconda
That time either has no being at all, or is only scarcely and faintly, one might suspect from this: part of it has happened and is not, while the other part is going to be but is not yet, and it is out of these that the infinite, or any given, time is composed. But it would seem impossible for a thing composed of non-beings to have any share in being.
Aristotle, Physics
Chapter One
Hansard, 2nd January, 1952 *
EMERGENCY DEBATE ON CURRENT CRISIS
HC Deb 2 January 1952 vol 552 cols 2786–8
Mr. Somerville Hastings (Barking)
Would the Prime Minister care to explain what, precisely, is being done to deal with this astonishing spate of unbridled fornication and gluttony currently enveloping the country?
Cries of ‘Hear! Hear!’.
The Parliamentary Secretary to the Board of Trade (Mr. Henry Strauss)
I share my hon. Friend’s concern. Fifteen pie shops in my constituency have been denuded in the past two hours alone!
Cries of ‘Scandal!’ and ‘Shame!’.
Mr. Speaker
Order! Order! If the hon, Ladies and Gentlemen in the back rows do not put their clothes back on and stop what they’re doing immediately, I shall be forced to eat this enormous plate of cream cakes. Ummm. Delicious.
Sir Lynn Ungoed-Thomas (Leicester North East)
Will the Prime Minister tell us when, if at all, he intends to come and see the glowing meteorite behind Westminster Post Office?
Cries of ‘Hear! Hear!’ and ‘Meteorite!’.
The Attorney General (Sir Lionel Heald)
I concur with my hon. and learned Friend. Yes or no? We must have an answer! It’s imperative that – I yield to the hon. Lady. Ooh! Honourable Lady – please keep doing that!
The Prime Minister
Let me assure the Attorney General: we are not standing idly by. This very afternoon, I sent a messenger to mobilise the Armed Forces, only to discover they are rogering each other senseless all over Aldershot. But to be fair, they usually are.
Mrs. Bessie Braddock (Liverpool Exchange)
But what about the meteorite?
The Prime Minister
You may go and see the meteorite if you like, Mrs. Braddock, but you’ll still be a fat ugly old cow in the morning!
Much raucous laughter and slapping of knees throughout the Chamber.
Cries of ‘Very witty, Prime Minister!’.
Lieut-Colonel Marcus Lipton (Brixton)
Has the Prime Minister yet called upon the services of the excellent Professor Quanderhorn, one wonders?
Cries of ‘Hear! Hear!’ and ‘Good old Quanderhorn!’.
The Prime Minister
I should be delighted to oblige my esteemed colleague, if he could perhaps explain how, in the absence of working telephony, I might accommodate such a request.
Lieut-Colonel Lipton
In that case, might the Prime Minister at least cheer us all up by calling Mrs. Braddock a fat ugly old cow again?
Riotous merriment for several minutes.
Loud metallic clang.
Mrs. Braddock is ejected from the Chamber for striking the Honourable Member for Brixton on the head with the Mace.
The Debate ends as Prime Minister leaves the Chamber to take charge of the developing crisis personally. He is heard to mutter: ‘That reprehensible blackguard Quanderhorn is behind this, mark my words.’
Pandemonium ensues.
* This document, a single page torn from Hansard, was pasted in a scrapbook discovered in the Quanderhorn cache. From the rather daringly ‘Gallic’ nature of certain of the snapshots in the book, we may assume it was compiled by Mr Jenkins.
Chapter Two
From Troy’s Big Bumper Drawing Book
[PICTURE OF A STICK MAN WITH BIG SCRIBBLED BLOBS ON THE TOP OF HIS ARMS, LABELLED ‘ME!’]
Ha ha ha. We’re hiding in the attick. There right underneath. They cant see us. I made a hole in the sealing. We climmed u
p. I filled the hole agen with my wax. Its grate up here. There’s stuff. There making noises down there. I dont no what there doing, but it sounds like sports. Loud sports. There going grunt grunt grunt. Its fun. I like this. Ive taken my shirt off again. Ow. Just bit my tong. Tastes nice. We played snap. I won. Hoo ray four mee! This is grate!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Chapter Three
Franday the rth of Phobos, Martian Year 5972 Pink
From the Secret Report to Martian Command, by Guuuurk. Also known as ‘Guuuurk the Fastidious’, First Archimandrave (Removed) to Krrrrgg, the Quite Cruel, Driller of Holes in Unmentionable Places
Seventeen hours!
Seventeen hours hiding in a ceiling cavity with a bunch of hapless humans, a nest of woodlice and thirteen bats. And frankly, the bats and the lice were better company.
I had managed to save the feckless crew by making a hole in the ceiling (don’t ask me how!), selflessly shooing everyone up there before myself, and persuading Quanderhorn Junior to plug the gap with some of that vile gunk he constantly secretes from a gland in some peculiar place in his body.
It’s hard to decide what the highlight of the long tedious night was: the game of seven card stud using three slices of National Loaf as cards and woodlice as poker chips (I lost every louse I had to the stupid boy), or the indoor cricket, using real bats. The pitiful squeaking alone is enough to put you off your stroke.
Oh! I had also rather cleverly remembered to rip the huge radio set from the wall (plaster and all!) and haul it up with me (what a feat of Martian muscle!). But we dared not switch it on until the stroke of 9 a.m., when the Housewives’ Choice programme began, lest the revelling mob below us were alerted to our presence.
And, heavens to Betsy, was that mob revelling.
I tried peering through a crack in the ceiling, but it didn’t offer a sufficiently wide field of vision. Whatever they were up to, they were doing it with unbridled gusto, I’ll give them that. I heard several peculiar phrases being called out repeatedly, which I couldn’t adequately translate. I made fastidious notes of them for later, intending to check them against Jenkins’ forthcoming ‘little book’. To improve my vocabulary, I mean.
The Quanderhorn Xperimentations Page 12