The Quanderhorn Xperimentations

by Andrew Marshall

  The Prof snatches the paper off me and starts typing it into one of his Gargantua things. This one’s got a big speaker on the side. Blow me, but after a minute, it starts chittering out proper words. Now I writes down exactly what it says:

  ‘Greetings, intelligent life forms. An advanced alien species called, but you were apes. We’ll pop back in a billion years. All the very best, the Planet Seeders.

  ‘P.S. A relic which will unlock the Secret of the Eternals is buried deep in the heart of this ziggurat, for those intelligent enough to survive the labyrinth.’

  ‘Blimey, Professor,’ I says, ‘that’s more or less what Tomorrow-You exactly said.’

  The Prof says: ‘Ye-e-ess,’ all long and drawn-out and dripping with suspicion.

  He walks over to the mouth, which has now fallen still and silent, and become an entrance to Gawd knows where. He peers inside, tapping it with his knuckles.

  ‘It seems to be a kind of invitation,’ he says. ‘Perhaps we should take it up?’

  ‘Yes, but remember, Professor, begging your pardon, You also told yourself: “Whatever you do – don’t.”’

  This doesn’t sit well with the Prof. He don’t like being told what to do, even by himself.

  ‘Dammit, Jenkins, if I started not doing anything a future me told me not to do, there’d be no end to it!’ He turns and calls to the duplicates: ‘Everybody suit up: we’re all going into that ziggurat!’

  He goes to leave, then turns back and adds: ‘But mostly not me.’

  Chapter Twelve

  From Troy’s Big Bumper Drawing Book

  [PICTURE OF A STICK MAN UP TO HIS NECK IN BROWN SCRIBBLE, AND AN ARROW POINTING TO HIM, LABELLED: ‘ME!’]

  Weer crorling thru the sooers. Its grate! I cnt even smel gerk!

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lumpy the blith of Deimos, Martian Year 5972 Pink

  Secret Report to Martian Command [cont’d]

  I was quite dry and comfortable as we crawled along the sewer tunnels. What I’d forgotten, of course, is that humans, for the most part, don’t have handy suckers on their palms and knees. Ha ha ha. They were making quite a brouhaha as they scrabbled along in the aromatic unmentionableness below.

  ‘Thank you, Guuuurk,’ Brian whined, ‘for providing the perfect end to the perfect day.’

  ‘How was I to know you couldn’t crawl along the ceiling, like any respectable species?’

  ‘I could do that,’ Troy grinned, ‘but I don’t want to. I like it down here, where it’s all warm and sludgy.’

  ‘We’ve just got to put up with it,’ Dr. Janussen called. ‘It’s the only way through. Now, stop bleating and let’s move on. We must be almost adjacent to the Tube platform by now.’

  And, sure enough, Brian found a door inset into the brickwork up ahead. ‘Here!’ He waded quickly towards it. ‘This must be it!’

  He tugged open the door, and I swear to you, an absolute cascade of crockery teetered over like the Leaning Tower of Pisa in an earth tremor and positively hurled itself into the tunnel in a miasma of shattering fragments.

  ‘What the devil?’ he groaned, as sugar bowls and teapots narrowly missed his head and committed ceramic hara-kiri before our eyes.

  ‘What is it with you and crockery, Brian?’ I shook my head in disbelief. ‘Are you some sort of deranged porcelain-hater? Are you unable to pass an intact dinner service without experiencing irresistible murderous tendencies?’

  Brian simply stood there agog. Dr. Janussen pointed out a sign on the door which indicated it was the basement storage vault for Swan and Edgar’s department store. She shut it firmly and waded over to an adjacent door, this time an iron one with a London Transport roundel cast into it, and a large, rusty hatch wheel below.

  As Brian strained to turn the wheel, we all prayed it wasn’t the Underground train drivers’ canteen pantry.

  Fortunately it wasn’t.

  ‘Wow!’ Troy was wide-eyed in wonder. ‘There’s a whole spare Tube station in this cupboard!’

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Daybook of ‘Jenkins’ Jenkins, RQMS Royal Fusiliers (never formally charged), Saturday the 5th of January, 1952

  Darn dishcloths.

  While the replacement crew is off putting on their safety suits, the Prof finally asks me the question I’ve been dreading.

  ‘Do you have the photo of the cellar intruder, Jenkins?’

  There’s no getting away from it now, is there? I fishes in my pocket. ‘The envelope fell open whilst I was driving, sir.’

  ‘I imagined that might happen.’ He kept his hand held out.

  ‘Prepare yourself for a terrible shock, Professor,’ I warns him, when, blow me, I’m the one shocked!

  The access door behind me clangs open, and I hear someone say: ‘Wow, there’s a whole spare Tube station in this cupboard!’ which can only be young Master Quanderhorn hisself! The original one, I means, not the carbon.

  He squeezes himself through the orifice, and sure enough, the others tumble out after him. I don’t know what to say.

  ‘Master Quanderhorn, sir! And the rest of you! Bless my soul, we thought you’d all perished on the Moon.’

  The Prof’s gone deadly quiet. For a moment, I’m thinking he’s had an attack of some kind.

  ‘No, Jenkins,’ Dr. Janussen says in a voice that’s dripping acid. ‘We were in that vessel someone tried to obliterate with the Giant Space Laser.’

  ‘You wasn’t!’ I don’t know where to put meself. I mean, I’ve killed a lot of people with friendly fire over the years – who hasn’t? But this was the biggest SNAFU of ’em all. ‘What about a nice cup of char,’ I suggests, ‘and a lovely fig roll for the weary travellers?’ But there’s no deflecting the stream of venom.

  ‘Yes, Quanderhorn ,’ the Martian spits, surly as I ever seen him, ‘I think you have a few questions to answer.’

  The Prof unfreezes, sharpish, and starts fiddling with some machine or other. ‘You’re alive,’ he says, all matter-of-fact and dum-de-dum. ‘That’s most inconvenient.’

  Well, the Martian turns a colour I’ve never seen him go before and fairly bites through his cigarette holder in fury. ‘Incon venient ? Incon venient is when you’re forced to hide in your paramour’s wardrobe because her husband has unexpectedly returned from Malaya. Incon venient is when the play you wanted to go and see is banned by the Lord Chamberlain simply for featuring a nude woman in a wheelbarrow. Getting blown to your component atoms by a deadly Giant Space Laser is a little bit more than Incon-bloody- venient !’

  ‘For me, it’s inconvenient. I’ve gone to all the bother of replacing you. Or rather, upgrading you.’

  And this is what gets Mr Nylon’s goat. ‘In what way upgrading ? What makes you think we need upgrading?’ he queries, all defiant like.

  Don’t faze the Prof, though. ‘For instance, you, Nylon, I made more assertive. You comply far too easily with what other people want.’

  ‘Well,’ Mr Nylon says equitably, ‘that seems fair enough.’

  ‘It does not !’ Dr. Janussen cuts in – she’s changed her tune on him, that’s for sure. ‘It’s Brian’s humility that makes him what he is: what makes him special.’

  ‘Well, thank you, Gemma,’ he says, all beaming like a schoolboy who’s conker’s just become a twelver. ‘That’s a jolly nice thing—’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Brian,’ she snaps.

  ‘Right-ho!’

  Gemma now, is it? I wonders what went on up there on the Moon? Nocturnal manoeuvres with full kit, I shouldn’t be surprised.

  ‘Dr. Janussen,’ the Prof ploughs on regardless, ‘I made you more agreeable. None of this “having opinions” nonsense.’ Quite right, an’ all. Confuses the men.

  Dr. Janussen is dumbstruck by this. For a change, I have to say.

  ‘And Guuuurk, I dispensed with your appalling dishonesty.’

  ‘That’s a scurrilous lie!’ The Martian fishes out a cheap medallion. ‘As you can clearly see, I was recently awarded,
by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, this Empire Pedal for Consticuous Honesty. Pay no attention to the spelling. They’re terribly short-staffed at the Royal Mint, apparently.’

  ‘What about me, Pops?’ the young lad chirrups. ‘You can’t improve me .’

  ‘Ah, Troy. I magnified your intelligence a thousandfold.’

  ‘Woah! That’s more than seven!’

  ‘Unfortunately, that only amounts to a couple of extra IQ points.’

  ‘Woah! That’s more than seven!’

  Mr. Nylon is looking all bewildered and hangdog about the whole business. But I notice he’s put his hand all gentle and that on the small of Dr. Janussen’s back. And she don’t even bat it away! Least said . . .

  ‘But where does this leave us?’ he asks.

  The Prof rubs the dust off his hands and turns back. ‘Much as it pains me to say this: I’m afraid, my erstwhile colleagues, it leaves you . . . replaced.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  From the journal of Brian Nylon, 5th January, 1952 – [cont’d]

  Replaced!

  And, right on cue, they emerged from under the canvas of the makeshift tent, clad in white, one-piece protective coveralls with the hoods pushed back. It was an extraordinary shock to see their faces. The new Gemma was wearing peachy lipstick and rouge, and, unless I was mistaken, a rather heady French perfume. She’d eschewed the white wellingtons the others had donned, and instead was teetering on rather impractical if undeniably flattering heels.

  The new Troy, on the other hand, looked indistinguishable from our own: brawny and permanently bewildered. The replacement Guuuurk had a cold, reptilian look of fanatical hatred burning in all of his eyes. His features were more pinched – meaner , somehow. And was that really a Hitler moustache, or just a shadow under his nose?

  But the other Brian – that was flabbergasting. He looked exactly like me. Only, strangely, more handsome. How did he pull that off, exactly? Was it the hair? His manner? His whole bearing , perhaps?

  ‘Well, blow me down!’ he laughed rather rudely. ‘If it isn’t the bag of misshapen seconds!’

  ‘No,’ Troy shot back, ‘ you are.’

  His bulky lookalike snapped: ‘No, you are.’

  Whereupon they entered a battle of wits:

  ‘No, you are!’

  ‘No, you are!’

  ‘No, you are!’

  ‘No, you are!’

  ‘No, you are!’

  ‘No, you are!’

  ‘No, you are!’

  ‘No, you are!’

  ‘No, you are!’

  ‘No, you are!’

  ‘No, you are!’

  ‘No, you really are!’ the duplicate announced triumphantly.

  ‘Damn!’ poor Troy vented. ‘I didn’t see that one coming!’

  Gemma was regarding her fluffy double with undisguised contempt. ‘You may as well know that you’re not needed, now that we’re back. So you can just spray on another gallon of whatever perfume that is – I presume French Tart Number 9 – cake your face with even more powder if that’s remotely possible, and hobble off on those ridiculously improbable stilettos.’

  ‘Ooh, I don’t like the other me at all!’ her replica squeaked. ‘She’s so aggressive and shrew-like.’

  ‘Take no notice of her, my darling.’ My double literally patted his Gemma on the head. I waited for her inevitable retaliatory punch in his kidneys, but it never came.

  The pseudo-Guuuurk had squared up to his counterpart. His voice was flatter and more – I don’t know – robotic than our Guuuurk’s. ‘I propose,’ he droned, ‘we Martian brothers massacre all the humans and eat them, in preparation for the glorious invasion.’

  ‘Good plan,’ Guuuurk nodded indulgently. ‘Only, I have a terrible feeling they might put up a teeny-weeny bit of resistance.’

  ‘Ha!’ his counterpart snorted. ‘And if we are slaughtered in the heroic attempt, so much the better!’

  ‘Ye-e-e-s.’ Our Guuuurk carefully screwed another lavender Sobranie cocktail cigarette into his holder. ‘ Although . . . I do have a doctor’s certificate here that regrettably excuses me from suicide missions until my impetigo clears up.’

  Outraged, the new Guuuurk slapped him in the face. ‘Worm! You are a despicable turncoat and a miserable coward.’

  ‘Have you been reading my business card?’ Guuuurk enquired, I think quite seriously.

  ‘Stand aside.’ My double rather boorishly bundled our Martian friend out of his way. ‘Let the streamlined primo team-o take care of this.’ He even sounded better than me. Was he deepening his voice somehow?

  Still, boorishness like that shouldn’t be tolerated. ‘Listen, old chap, it’s not a competition, you know. Why don’t we all just shake hands and—’

  The Professor, who’d been watching the whole thing with amused fascination, abruptly piped up: ‘What if we were to make it a competition?’

  My double threw back his head and laughed like Errol Flynn in The Adventures of Robin Hood when Basil Rathbone pulls out his rapier. ‘Excellent notion, Prof! Both teams face the petrifying dangers of the ziggurat, to see which can reach the relic concealed in its heart without being horrifically butchered by the unknown terrors that undoubtedly lie within!’

  ‘Ye-e-e-es,’ Guuuurk said again, ‘ although . . . I do have another doctor’s certificate . . .’

  ‘You’re lower than a worm!’ pseudo-Guuuurk snarled.

  Troy stepped in to defend our lad. ‘No, you are!’

  ‘No, you are!’ duplicate Troy shot back.

  ‘No, you are!’

  ‘No, you are!’

  ‘No, you are!’

  ‘No, you really really are!’ the duplicate announced triumphantly.

  ‘Damn!’ poor Troy vented. ‘How does he keep doing that?’

  ‘Professor, you can’t allow this,’ my Gemma protested calmly. ‘It’s beyond childish.’

  ‘Well,’ ‘Errol’ grinned – even his teeth were whiter! It was really irritating. ‘If you Old bods are too lily-livered to do it, we New Improved bods’ll go in alone.’

  ‘No!’ Troy snapped, eying his duplicate with loathing. ‘I want to beat me, and beat me hard. I want to show everybody what a useless idiot I really am.’

  The Professor sighed. ‘Very well, both teams will go in, and the winners will get to keep their positions.’

  ‘And the losers?’ the new me asked, before Gemma could object again.

  ‘Good point,’ the Professor conceded. ‘We can’t have two sets of you wandering around willy-nilly. It could cause all manner of misunderstandings.’

  ‘Fine.’ My double raised an arrogant eyebrow. Surely he hadn’t actually been tweezing that? ‘In the unlikely event we lose ,’ he chuckled, ‘my whole team will voluntarily enter the Obliteration Chamber.’

  Obliteration Chamber? I’d never heard of any Obliteration Chamber.

  What else did this other ‘me’ know that I didn’t?

  It occurred to me for the first time that this other incarnation of myself might have access to my entire memory. The answers to everything .

  ‘Oh, Brian,’ the lacy, frothy version of Gemma swooned, ‘you’re so heroic !’

  I saw my Gemma looking at me meaningfully. Well, I’d show them who was heroic. ‘And if we lose,’ I announced defiantly, ‘so will we!’

  ‘Nooooooo!’ Gemma screamed, punching me rather effectively in the kidneys. ‘You idiot !’

  ‘Excellent!’ The Professor nodded, and having suddenly registered the rather extended tea break in which the navvies were still indulging, he wandered off to gently berate them.

  ‘To the death, then,’ he remarked casually, over his shoulder. ‘Get your safety suits from Jenkins, and let battle commence!’

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Daybook of ‘Jenkins’ Jenkins, RQMS Royal Fusiliers (innocent until proven), Saturday the 5th of Janury, 1952 [cont’d]

  Well, what a how’s-your-father! Mr. Guuuurk doesn’t look none too pleased by
this battle-to-the-death development, as they all walks behind me towards the changing tent.

  All hissy quiet-like, he goes: ‘Brian, are you insane ? If we don’t get hideously killed in the Ziggurat of Certain Death, we have to step into the Obliteration Chamber . I can’t be obliterated! Not at my time of life – I’m a despicable turncoat and a miserable coward!’

  Which is true. I picked up his business cards from the printer’s.

  ‘Sorry. I just don’t know what came over me.’ Mr. Nylon is genuine upset. ‘That so-called “duplicate” of me jolly well gives me the pip!’

  Dr. Janussen is made of sterner stuff. ‘Oh, what’s the point of worrying, anyway? We’re up against an insectoid meathead, a Martian Nazi, Captain Loves-Himself and his flibbertigibbet girly-girly girlfriend. Quite honestly, if we can’t beat that lot, we deserve to be obliterated.’

  The relief on Mr. Nylon’s face! I swear he’s more worried about her reaction than he is about facing oblivionisation!

  Then Master Troy chirps: ‘Where do we buy these Cigarettes of Certain Death? They sound great! Mine are just filter-tips.’

  Dr. J. begins to patiently explain as they all steps through the tent flap. I looks around furtive, like, and sure enough, the Prof’s off down the far end of the platform, busy herding the navvies. I clears my throat pointedly before Mr. Nylon follows the others. ‘Ahem. Could I possibly have a quick private?’

  ‘What is it, Jenkins?’

  ‘It’s about a certain photograph, sir. Here.’

  I hands him the dreaded envelope. He looks puzzled, but then he slides out the photo, and he gets my drift, quick enough.

  ‘My goodness!’ he exclaims, a bit too loud for comfort.

  ‘You were the intruder in the cellar, sir. It was you.’

  ‘Yes, well . . . Um, I can explain that—’ He starts his usual blathering.

  ‘No, don’t, sir. You’re a truly terrible liar, begging your pardon.’

  ‘Well, that . . . That’s true enough.’

  ‘We both know you’re a spy.’ Well, I have seen men suddenly go deathly pale – usually because of those giant leeches that lurk down the khazi in the Burmese jungle – but Mr. Nylon beats ’em all. He looks like an albino dipped in icing sugar at the North Pole, singing ‘White Christmas’.