‘That must be the aforementioned trap!’ Guuuurk announced. ‘I must say, I was expecting something a little more creatively fiendish.’
The door suddenly shut behind us.
‘Yes,’ Guuuurk nodded. ‘More like that.’
I peered into the gloom. ‘No sign of the other crew.’
‘D’you think we beat them to it?’ Troy asked, hopefully.
Gemma shook her head. ‘Not yet: we’d have passed them.’
‘What if they turned off down some other passageway?’ I asked.
‘It’s a labyrinth, not a maze.’
‘Meaning?’
‘A maze has alternative paths, a labyrinth just one.’
‘Looking on the bright side,’ Guuuurk mused, ‘perhaps they fell here, at the first hurdle, and their poor, broken bodies are rotting down there in the pit.’
This thought, rather callously, cheered us up enormously.
Gemma went on: ‘Everybody keep facing the drop. We’re going to have to inch our way around the rim. I imagine the egress is somewhere on the far wall.’
We began a slow and perilous shuffle along the ledge.
‘Wait!’ Guuuurk yelled. We halted, tottering. ‘I can just about see something on the ledge ahead, with my Martian low-light vision!’
‘You never told us you had low-light vision,’ Troy protested.
‘And you never told us you had an incandescent bottom!’
‘Well, I wouldn’t have needed an incandescent bottom if you’d told us about your low-light vision-ness.’
‘And I wouldn’t have needed my low-light vision if your glowing behind actually had a few more lumens to it.’
Gemma rolled her eyes. I stepped in – this was no time for squabbling. ‘What is it you’ve spotted, Guuuurk?’
‘Don’t get your hopes up, but it looks for all the world . . . like a crisp, white fiver!’ He recklessly turned and crabbed around to it, but as he stooped, the stone he was standing on suddenly tilted . . .
I cried ‘Guuuurk! No!’ but too late; he teetered backwards and fell straight into the void before I could reach him. I almost stumbled in after him, but just managed to steady myself in time, ricking my ankle rather painfully in the process.
‘Oh no!’ Troy wailed. ‘Poor Guuuurk!’
Gemma craned over to peer into the abyss. I held her back. ‘Don’t look, Gemma. There’s no point. We’ve lost him.’
‘Yes.’ She cast her eyes down. ‘I know.’ Did I actually see a tear on her cheek? ‘He’s . . . gone.’
Troy stared at the pit in disbelief. Gemma and I hung our heads.
‘What are you doing up there!’ Guuuurk chirped from the darkness. ‘It’s only a couple of feet deep ! I’m fine.’
‘What’s down there?’ Troy asked.
‘Hard to see much, really. The floor’s strewn with something soft and downy . . .’
But there came another noise, from the far end of the pit. A sort of scuttling.
Gemma and I exchanged looks. ‘Guuuurk – get out of there,’ she yelled urgently.
‘Just a tick. I’m sure that crisp, white fiver is around somewhere . . .’
And another burst of scuttling.
Guuuurk heard it this time. ‘What’s that? There’s something down here!’
‘Guuuurk – get out of there, now !’
I got out my rope and looked for something to tie a taut-line hitch to.
‘Brian – it’s two feet deep,’ Gemma pointed out.
I mumbled an apology, and started winding the rope back up.
More scuttling now. Much more. Growing closer and closer . . .
‘Something’s coming!’ Guuuurk’s voice wailed in the dark. ‘I can see its pitiless eyes glinting in the gloom!’
‘Over here!’ I shouted desperately leaning over as far as my throbbing ankle would allow. ‘Take my hand!’
‘Great Phobos!’ There was a petrified pause. ‘It’s a duck !’
‘A what?’
‘It’s a duck! It’s a duck!’ he screamed in complete terror, and started racing aimlessly round the pit below. We could track his progress from the loud quacking noise and flapping that followed him.
Gemma was horrified. ‘ A giant duck? ’
‘Who said anything about a giant duck?’ Guuuurk yelled. ‘It’s a normal-sized duck! It’s after me! Get away! Get away!’
The quacking and scurrying and yells of terror reached manic proportions.
‘I could lure it away by throwing a piece of liver,’ Troy offered.
‘Troy, remember what I told you before,’ Gemma said gently. ‘Your liver has to stay . . .’
And together they chorused: ‘. . . on the inside !’
The screaming and quacking continued in the background:
‘It’s a duck attack! It’s a duck attack! Get away from me! No! No! It’s going to spring!’ and so on ad taedium .
‘Why on earth,’ I asked Gemma, ‘would ancient aliens set a trap with a duck ?’
She shrugged. ‘It was a billion years ago. They had no way of knowing what would emerge as the dominant species. This is probably designed to ensnare creatures who evolved from worms.’
‘For mercy’s sake, will you two stop wittering on like a pair of idle hairdressers and get me away from this vicious monster!’
‘Calm down, Guuuurk, it’s just a duck .’
He stopped suddenly, panting. ‘Oh yes. Just a duck. Of course. I don’t know what came o—’
And then there was another quack.
‘ There’s two of them! ’ He raced off again. ‘Ducks! Ducks!’
‘Shall I pull him out?’ Troy asked.
‘Two ducks! Double duck attack!’
‘No, just ignore him,’ Gemma said. ‘Troy, can you reach that handle over there?’
‘Yes,’ he replied confidently. ‘Yes. Absolutely. Absolutely.’ There was an uncomfortable pause, breached only by Guuuurk’s incessant pleas and the odd flurry of feathers. ‘The – what was it?’
‘The sticky-out thing that opens the door.’
‘A pair of ducks! A small pack of vicious ducks!’
‘You mean this ?’
‘That’s it. Pull that down.’
The stone exit door slid open.
The light it shed was enough for Guuuurk to find the ledge and finally let us haul him back onto it. ‘You saved those ducks in the nick of time,’ he panted. ‘One minute longer, and it would have been orange sauce overcoats for the evil little blighters!’
Troy had already slipped out through the portal towards the sound of cascading water, leaving us in near blackness. Gemma bundled Guuuurk out after him, then turned back to me. ‘Brian – what are you waiting for?’
There was no escaping it any longer. I hung my head. ‘Dash it all, Gemma! I didn’t want to say in front of the others, but I seem to have twisted my ankle.’
‘Don’t worry, you’ll manage—’
‘No – it’s bad. Very bad. I can’t walk at all. Don’t argue – you’re just going to have to leave me behind.’
Chapter Five
Mission log. Flight number 001, Advanced Laboratory-Blasting Squadron (‘The Lab Busters’), Wing Commander William ‘Wee Willy Winkie’ Watkins, Office Commanding. Dateline: Sunday the 6th of January, 1952 01.18 hours
This whole circus is dashed odd. Being ordered to bomb a target in one’s own backyard rather goes against the grain. I’m assured it’s in the national interest, but it still rankles. Still, ours is not to reason why.
Took off at 00.52, on the direct orders of the Old Bulldog himself, and on course to deliver payload at . . . 03.13 hours.
Wing consists of six B-29 Superfortresses, fully loaded with the old bunker-busting bangers, so they handle a tad on the reluctant side, even for a Yankee kite!
Off the record, the bloody pipers in the back are driving me bonkers! ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ played on those god-awful things is the ghastliest racket you could ever imagine.
&nb
sp; Best not to upset the Jocks, though. They’ve been nipping at the old Highland giggle water since ten. Plus, they’re all wearing kilts and none of them have their legs crossed. It’s the stuff of nightmares, I can tell you.
At least the infernal din is taking my mind off things. Chances are this whole business is nothing more than a dry run, and we’ll get the recall codes any time now.
My eyes keep flitting to the incoming message light.
The bagpipes play on.
The light remains dead.
Chapter Six
The Daybook of ‘Jenkins’ Jenkins, RQMS Royal Fusiliers (confused), Sunday the 6th of January, 1952
This other Professor, he ain’t such a bad type. He sorts out my leg in double quick time, injecting it with his quick-hardening plastic bone substitute. Then he sprays on his Experimental Insta-Skin. ’Course, me leg will be covered in fish scales from now on, but that’s the price of progress, I s’pose.
While I’m walking about a bit, testing my weight on it, he’s switched off the alarms and that, and taken a quick gander in the secret cellar bit. Never been in meself. Not without the black goggles and sound-deadening helmet. Never had no inclination to, neither. What with the noises what come out of there.
He emerges all ashen. ‘What in the name of all that’s holy has my maniac duplicate been up to? There are some places even science shouldn’t venture.’ he shudders. ‘I see now I didn’t create a mere duplicate: I created a dangerous monster!’
‘Begging your pardon, but the Professor told me you’re the duplicate Professor, Professor.’
‘Of course he’s saying he’s the real Professor. He lies ! I rather foolishly removed his ethics to make him more efficient!’
‘So he’s the duplicate?’
‘Yes. He trapped me in suspended animation many, many years ago.’
Well, this gets my brain in a proper spin. It makes sense, doesn’t it? Evil duplicate overpowers Original and locks him away like in The Man in the Iron Mask , starring Louis Hayward. On the other hand, this could be the evil duplicate trying to undermine the real Professor, like in The Man in the Iron Mask , starring Louis Hayward.
Whichever one he is, he’s ranting away: ‘I can’t believe he’s stored all this surplus time in these unstable conditions! It’s insanity! The slightest tremor could trigger a cataclysmic extinction event!’
Well, that might be so. On the other hand, he might be the wrong Professor. I has to be sure, somehow. ‘If you’ll just excuse me for one minute . . .’ I turns away and takes out the walkie. ‘Professor!’ I says, ‘The Professor here says he’s the real Professor.’
‘ Of course he thinks he’s the real Professor! It’s the only way he could function. ’
The other one chimes in: ‘Obviously, I programmed that one to think he’d programmed me to think I’d programmed him.’
I’m getting quite the headache now. And it’s not from the fishy smell of my leg.
‘ Look, ’ the one on the walkie barks, ‘ there’s no time to explain right now. Just shore up those defences, the pair of you. That cellar cannot be compromised. Understood? ’
‘On that we do agree,’ says the other one. ‘I just pray we’re not too late.’
Chapter Seven
Private Diary of Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill: Sunday the 6th of January, 1952 [cont’d]
Perhaps it was both disingenuous and foolish, but I was gripped by an overwhelming desire to witness Quanderhorn suffer his richly warranted come-uppance at first hand, and, as it were, in the flesh. The Germans have a word for it: Bezirksschornsteinfegermeister . Or is that the word for ‘head chimney sweep’? * No matter.
The brigand had terminated a clearly fractious walkie-talkie exchange, and was rabidly studying the printout from his transcribing machine, when suddenly he looked up and sniffed the air, like a predatory coyote. ‘Is that you over there, Mr. O’Reilly?’
And even though I was a good fifteen feet away from him, and in deep shadow, he turned slowly and looked directly at me!
‘Or should I say, Mr. Cheeuuuurch ill!’ He slurred that distinguished nine-hundred-year-old appellation in such a way as to make it sound like a Rumanian gypsy’s curse!
I returned the favour. ‘Indeed, it is I, Qu wwaaaaaa nderhorn!’
‘Did you really think that pathetic leprechaun disguise would fox me for one moment?’
‘What gave me away?’
‘The smell of herring. You’re the only person I’ve ever treated with the Experimental Insta-Skin.’
‘And I curse that Mephistophelian day I heedlessly allowed you to cause my testicles to forever shine like a stickleback. Better I had died from the shrapnel wound.’
‘If you’re trying to stop me, you’re too late, you dipsomaniac has-been.’ He held up the printout with something approaching triumph in his manner. ‘In just a few short minutes, my team will be at the heart of the ziggurat, and the powerful relic therein will be in my hands!’
‘Much good it will do you, you maniacal Bedlamite!’ I speared the end of a fresh Romeo y Julietta with a match, ignited it and inhaled, to deliver the delicious coup de grace . ‘At this very moment, a crack squadron of bagpiping bombers is en route to reduce your disreputable monster factory to ashes!’
Well, that stopped the fellow in his tracks!
But I had scant opportunity to relish my victory. I expected him to be angry, to rant and curse; perhaps even throw himself on the ground and pound the floor with his fists, like the gigantic, thwarted toddler I took him to be.
Instead he seemed to age ten years before my eyes, and something in the sinking of his shoulders chilled me to my very soul.
‘Prime Minister,’ he croaked with sudden deference, a look of genuine fear flooding his features. ‘There’s something you really have to know . . .’
* Yes, it is.
Chapter Eight
Outprint from Gargantua, the pocket Quanderdictoscribe. Dateline: Sunday the 6th of January, 1952 01.24 hours
NEW BRIAN: Well, we got through the Mirror Maze of Lightning Death in no time at all! I thought the Waterfall of Glue was simple, but this was really easy.
NEW GUUUURK: The Collapsing Stairway of Strangling Vines was so elementary, it wouldn’t even have duped a Venusian carpet salesman. * It’s an insult to my superior Martian intelligence.
NEW TROY: The Corridor of Huge, Dangerously Swinging Weights was great! Can we go back there?
NEW BRIAN: (CHUCKLE) All in good time, Troy. And they’ll have to come up with worse things than armies of poisonous scarabs flooding out of the walls if they’re going to stop us getting to the centre.
NEW GEMMA: Silly old aliens not as clever as my Bri-Bri.
NEW TROY: Hey! Is this another of those sticky-out thingies?
NEW BRIAN: A handle! Yes. Well done, Troy – you’re learning. Let’s go!
[SOUND OF DOOR SLIDING OPEN, THEN CLOSED]
NEW TROY: I hope there are big spikes in this one! Spikes are great!
[SOUND OF ROARING FLAMES]
NEW BRIAN: I think we’re on the final—
[SHEET ENDS]
* There are three species of Venusians: Empapaths, Cheatopaths and Aggro-paths, and only Empapaths are allowed to become salesmen, in order to ensure that customers are not ripped off or beaten up. Unfortunately, an unscrupulous Cheatopath can prey on the generosity of the Empapath salesman, and persuade the unfortunate devil not only to hand over the product for nothing, but a large portion of his salary to boot. The Aggropaths simply thrash them soundly to the same effect. It’s no coincidence that carpet sales on Venus are the lowest in the Solar System.
Chapter Nine
From the journal of Brian Nylon, 6th January, 1952 – [cont’d]
‘Those huge dangerously swinging weights nearly took my testicles off!’ Guuuurk wailed. ‘All eleven of them!’
‘Troy,’ Gemma grunted breathlessly, ‘you can turn off your bottom now. It’s light enough in here.’
&nbs
p; ‘I can’t . . . really . . . talk at the . . . moment,’ Troy rasped. ‘I’ve got strangling vines round my . . . neck.’ He began recklessly hacking at them with his Bowie knife.
Gemma turned her face to me. ‘And I absolutely refuse to carry you any further, Brian.’
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to,’ I apologised. ‘My trousers are still stuck together from the Waterfall of Glue.’
She set me down quite brusquely anyway. ‘You’ll just have to hop.’
Things had not been going quite so well between the two of us. She seemed to become less fond of me the further she carried me. I don’t know why. Well, I do know why – I really was the most hopeless article imaginable.
However, on the positive side, I discovered that, since being savagely bitten by the army of poisonous scarabs that poured out of the wall, my ankle had gone completely dead, and it had no problem holding my weight again.
I turned to assess this latest challenge we’d wandered into, and nearly jumped out of my skin.
I was face to face with my duplicate!
The ziggurat had clearly taken a toll on the wretched creature – instead of the handsome dashing hero I’d seen before, he had been reduced to a ragged, gawping, dishevelled wreck! Weak character of me, I know, but I admit to experiencing a momentary surge of triumph, to see him reduced to this beaten bewildered scarecrow.
But as I turned further, I could see several more of the pathetic soul. In fact, there were hordes of him in every direction . . .
‘We’re in a Mirror Maze,’ Gemma noted, somewhat deflating my cruel delight.
Reflections of ourselves stretched out wherever we looked, mimicking our movements in unison like some crazy dance troupe. It was almost impossible to see where, if anywhere, was the path forwards. I made to take an exploratory hop . . .
‘Nobody move!’ Gemma ordered. ‘There’s some sort of inscription etched on this mirror here.’ She used the sleeve of her cardigan to wipe the mirror closest to her, where a patch of condensation had misted its surface, revealing various pictoglyphs.
The Quanderhorn Xperimentations Page 28