‘X-One-Zero! I said pick that up!’
Brian thrust out his chest. ‘ No ,’ he insisted firmly.
‘No?’ Bad Guuuurk repeated, incredulous.
‘No.’ Brian was quite calm and steady now. ‘I’m not going to do it.’
‘Then,’ the Martian said, quite matter-of-factly, ‘I shall have no option but to kill you.’
Brian met his gaze. ‘There are worse things than death.’
The Martian levelled his gun.
Brian folded his arms. ‘You can shoot me if you want, but I’ve had it up to the eyeballs with being special agent Cheaty Liar for every Tom, Dick or Bastard who asks me.’
His ersatz counterpart chided: ‘Old chap, this isn’t the moment.’
Brian stood firm. ‘It’s never the moment. There’s never any time to explain. There’s never any time to think . Enough’s enough—’
I wanted to hug him so very much right then.
‘I’m drawing a line in the sand,’ he went on, and then his eyes caught something on the floor. He frowned. ‘Actually – what is this sand? Where’s it all come from?’
There were, indeed, loose crystals of what looked like silicon drifting over our feet.
‘I don’t want to make a fuss,’ my floozy counterpart stammered, ‘but my legs seem to be crumbling . . .’ And they were!
‘Darling.’ The other Brian looked on, aghast. ‘It’s all right – take my . . .’ He peered down his empty sleeve. ‘Hang on a second: where is my hand?’
‘Hey, look.’ Duplicate Troy’s voice came from ground level. ‘I can play football with my head!’ He started playing keepy-uppy with his own cranium, yelling, ‘One – ow ! Two – ow ! Thr—’ His head fragmented into a cloud of dust, followed momentarily by the rest of him.
‘Wow!’ Troy said. ‘I wish I could do that.’ He tried to bicycle kick his own head and fell over heavily, scattering the mound of his duplicate’s remains.
The Ray Gun clattered to the floor next to him.
We all turned to the rogue Martian, or rather, what was left of him. He was already up to his waist in a pile of himself and dwindling rapidly.
‘Yes!’ he cried. ‘I’m going! I’m going to Bzingador!’ He gazed in wonder at a vision none of us could share. ‘Ahhh! I am at the Great Black Door. It opens! Yes! I see the twelve-breasted serving wenches awaiting my commands. Lord Phobos himself is gliding forth to greet me – I see the bounteous tables of cream horns and mountainous pink blancmange glimmering in the firelight . . .’ His eyes widened and his mouth sagged. ‘What? No! They’re scorning me! Something’s opening beneath my feet! It’s the Pit! It’s the Pit! They’re saying I’m a snivelling coward and repulsive turncoat!’
‘Oh, hard cheese !’ Guuuurk grimaced unconvincingly. ‘They must have muddled you up with me !’
‘I’m descending! I’m descending to the fiery pits of Croydon ! Aarrrrghhhfgh!’
Then there was nothing left of him but a mound of grit, an empty safety suit and a pair of jackboots.
I found it surprisingly distressing to see my namesake and her paramour also sinking into heaps of their own detritus. Though it was rather touching that, even at this grimmest of moments, they had eyes only for each other.
‘I loved you, Bri-Bri,’ she whispered.
‘And I you, Gem-Gem . . .’ But she had wafted away.
To my surprise, at this terrible moment, he turned his decaying head to Brian. ‘You! Come closer,’ he rasped.
Brian looked at me, shrugged, then knelt beside his dwindling form. ‘What is it, old chap?’
‘Closer still,’ the moribund duplicate croaked.
Brian put his ear to the remains of the ruined mouth. The duplicate whispered something into it, which I couldn’t hear, then he, too, was gone.
Brian was very still for a moment or two. Then he slowly stood.
‘What did he tell you, Brian?’
But Brian said nothing, just shook his head.
Guuuurk broke the spell. ‘Now, are we going to take this bucket, or are we going to stand around all day knee-deep in piles of old eczema?’
I reached up and grasped the relic’s handle. It seemed to be slightly embedded in the stone plinth. ‘I think I’m going to need some help!’ I called. Then all of a sudden, it seemed to free itself. There was an ominous click.
‘Gemma!’ Brian yelled. ‘You’ve triggered something.’
It was a trap after all!
I froze, unsure whether to move or stay where I was. There was a swishing noise, and too late I saw the arrow heading straight for me.
And then the world was upside down.
I hit the floor, and simultaneously heard the terrible thwack of the shaft embedding itself in flesh.
I looked up to see Brian swaying with the arrowhead buried deep in his chest.
Chapter Nineteen
The Daybook of ‘Jenkins’ Jenkins, RQMS Royal Fusiliers (forcibly retired), Sunday the 6th of January, 1952
Obviously, that fake Prof ain’t going to shovel himself up, is he? I might eventually use him to grit the front steps – I reckon it’s what he would have wanted. But first things first: I has to call the real Professor and warn him about this disintegrating duplicates business.
Just as I’m reaching for it, the walkie buzzes of its own accord, and it’s Himself.
‘ Interesting development, Jenkins ,’ he says. Well, any conversation what starts off with that usually entails disinfectant and a mop. ‘ That Neanderthal Churchill has launched a squadron of lab-busting bombers, and they’re headed your way. ’
Beggar me, that’s going to need more than a mop, I thinks to myself.
And right on cue, the tocsin starts up, and that flippin’ woman announces: ‘ Lab-Busting bomber squadron six minutes away .’
‘But what about your Alien Arctic Cat of Immense Power, sir? Have you got it yet?’
‘ I’m afraid we’ve completely lost communications with the ziggurat. But I have every confidence those excellent improved duplicates will get it to us in time. ’
‘Ah. That’s what I was wanting to tell you, sir,’ I says. ‘There ma-a-a-ay be a problem in that department.’
‘ What sort of problem, man? ’
I looks at the sack of dust beside me. ‘How can I put this, sir?’
‘ We don’t have time for you to search through your colourful but limited selection of similes, Jenkins. Put the other me on. ’
‘That’s just it, sir. He’s crumbled.’
‘ Crumbled? ’
‘He’s basically Harpic now.’
There’s a long pause. ‘ I see. ’
‘Chin up, sir. There’s still the Originals to rely on!’
Even saying it, my heart sinks. Poor comrade Brother Nylon. Nice enough bloke, but he stands about as much chance as Rin Tin Tin in a Korean restaurant.
Chapter Twenty
The Rational Scientific Journal of Dr. Gemini Janussen, Sunday 6th January 1952 (Again) – [cont’d]
Brian stared at the arrow buried in his chest in what looked like amused disbelief, then suddenly toppled onto his back, his shirt drenched in blood.
I scrambled over to him. ‘Brian!’ I cradled his head in my arms. ‘Don’t worry – you’re going to be all right.’
‘Of course he’s not going to be all right’ Troy exclaimed. ‘He’s got a dirty, great arrow in his chest, and he’s gushing blood all over the— Owwwwww .’ I horse-kicked him in the shins to shut him up.
Brian moaned and his eyelids fluttered.
‘Can you hear me?’ I coaxed. ‘Stay with us.’
Troy whispered loudly: ‘Nobody tell him he’s dying.’ He knelt down tenderly next to Brian, put a hand encouragingly on his shoulder and said: ‘Brian, you’re dying. Damn !’
‘He’s right, Gemma.’ Brian smiled sadly, looking down at the awful wound. ‘I’m afraid there’s no happy ending to this one.’
I blinked back a tear. What good would lachrymosity do?
He met my eyes. ‘Gemma, I have to know . . . If I’d ever mustered enough courage to ask . . . would you have married me?’
I smiled. ‘In a heartbeat, my darling.’
Brian’s voice was getting weaker. ‘I can’t feel my chest any more . . .’
‘Well,’ Guuuurk crooned, ‘just a theory, but that may be because it’s now crawling across the floor, spluttering . . .’
I glanced over. It was, indeed.
Of course – it was the bra!
Guuuurk peered warily at the stricken creature. ‘The arrow’s finally made it lose its grip! Look, there’s not even a mark on your actual chest.’
Brian sat up groggily and looked down. ‘The Living Bra! I’d forgotten I still had it on – it was so comfortable .’
‘The poor thing’s cowering behind the plinth, coughing up blood,’ Guuuurk announced, tugging on the jackboots. ‘I’ll put it out of its misery.’
He chased over to it and started trying to stamp it to death. It snarled and snapped back at him in wounded fury.
‘It’s a resilient little devil! Naaaaaaaaaah! It’s crawling up my leg!’
We ignored him. Brian struggled to his feet. ‘Uhm, about that getting married business . . .’
‘Ye-e-sss, well, of course I thought—’
‘Yes. So did I.’
‘It’s not that—’
‘No, no, no. Of course not.’
‘I t’s worse than the duck! It’s worse than the duck!’
‘But under the circum—’
‘Yes, yes, yes. You don’t have to say anything.’
We both looked at each other. Had we meant it?
I smiled at him gently. ‘We’ll talk about it when we get out of here. We’ll have all the time in the world.’
‘It’s on my face ! Mah muhn mah fuuuumn!’
There was a tremendous clang as Troy hit Guuuurk in the face with a shovel. The bra fell off, stone dead.
Guuuurk was clutching his bloodied nose. ‘You absolute stinker !’ he snarled.
‘You’re welcome.’ Troy picked up the bucket. ‘Hadn’t we better get this to Pops?’
As he raised the relic into the light, it seemed to glow, and that strange, ethereal polyphony resounded again.
The floor beneath us began to rumble and shake.
We staggered against each other. ‘Hang on, everybody!’ Brian yelled.
The plinth slid down into the staircase, and then the staircase rumbled and began to concertina and descend into itself.
When it came to rest, we found ourselves at ground level of the chamber, facing two great golden doors, hitherto obscured.
‘It’s the final test.’ I fought not to show my frustration. ‘We had better choose wisely.’
Chapter Twenty-One
From the journal of Brian Nylon, 6th January, 1952 – [cont’d]
‘For the love of sand!’ Guuuurk railed, dabbing his nose with his ‘E. S.’ monogrammed handkerchief. ‘We’re never going to get out of this hellhole!’
‘Nonsense,’ Gemma countered. ‘All it takes is a little intelligence.’
‘For the love of sand!’ Guuuurk repeated. ‘We’re never going to get out of this hellhole!’
Suddenly, there was an ominous sequence of sounds – hatches opening – and all around the chamber great sluices started pouring forth tons of coal-black sand.
‘I didn’t mean I literally loved sand,’ Guuuurk whined. ‘If I’d said “I like peanuts” would we all now be inundated in a cascade of salty legumes?’
We studied the doors hurriedly. They seemed infuriatingly identical.
As we watched, there was a sizzling noise, and a white-hot arc carved symbols into each of them.
When the smoke cleared we could make out on the left a horizontal crescent, and on the right, a circle. ‘The Moon and the Sun?’ I offered.
‘We have to choose quickly,’ Gemma urged. ‘Which of them is the way out?’
‘Careful,’ Guuuurk cautioned. ‘I’ve heard a lot about these types of devilish two-door conundra. The wrong one probably leads to certain death.’
The sand was ankle-high now. This was the moment for leadership. I didn’t hesitate. ‘The Sun,’ I said, stepping forward with calm conviction, ‘obviously means “outside”.’
I wrenched the great door open.
Giant towers of crockery crashed to the floor, in what was becoming a rather familiar motif. The tumbling and smashing went on for several minutes.
‘That’s not a sun, it’s a plate!’ Troy pointed out rather unnecessarily.
I looked at the others and simply screamed ‘Why!’
‘Because,’ Guuuurk said, ‘you’re a confirmed nemesis to all baked earthenware?’
‘And the other one’s not a moon!’ Gemma cried. ‘It’s a smiling mouth.’ She pushed the door lightly with her finger, and it slid silently open.
There, grimly smiling before us on the Tube platform, was Professor Darius Quanderhorn.
Chapter Twenty-Two
From the journal of Brian Nylon, 6th January, 1952 –[cont’d]
Troy held up the relic. ‘We got it, Pops! We got it!’
‘Excellent. Don’t concern yourselves with the idiot original crew. They’ll doubtless be dead by now.’
‘Actually,’ I said, ‘we are the idiot original crew. The duplicates have crumbled to dust.’
‘As I said,’ he went on without pause, ‘don’t concern yourselves with the idiot duplicate crew. They’ve probably crumbled to dust by now. We have to get that bucket to the lab immediately.’ He busied himself wiring up a strange-looking heavily modified telephone booth.
‘First, there are a few things we need to clear up—’
‘There’s no time to explain right now.’
I wasn’t falling for that old chestnut this time. ‘You already knew the Time Bucket was in the ziggurat, didn’t you, Professor?’
‘Yes, yes. If you must know.’ He fired up his soldering iron. ‘Six months ago, I located it using Gargantua, the subterranean X-ray surveying mole and potato planter. I realised it might be our only hope for the future if things went wrong. Now, why don’t—’
I wasn’t letting him off the hook. I held firm. ‘But the problem was – how to trigger the ziggurat?’
‘Yes!’ he snapped, irritably. ‘I realised only the presence of superior technology that doesn’t currently exist on Earth would do it. Can’t we do this later?’
Gemma stepped forward. ‘Are you saying . . . you deliberately rigged the lift to send us to the Moon, and marooned us there, so we’d pilot the Mercurian vessel back to Earth?’
‘Of course I did. No choice. Not even Nylon would have volunteered for that! And it worked! Well done everybody, but mostly—’
‘Soooooooo—’ Guuuurk menacingly selected a teal Sobranie from his musical cigarette case and screwed it violently into his holder. ‘—why did you try and blast us out of existence with the Giant Space Laser?’
A look I’ve never seen flitted across the Professor’s face. Was it . . . could it be . . . shame ? Confusion? Despair? It was impossible to read.
‘There seriously is not time to explain right now,’ he recovered. ‘That maniac Cheeuuuurchill has launched a bomber squadron to take out the laboratory. We needn’t go into detail, but if that cellar takes a bomb . . .’
Oh my Lord – the cellar ? If those tanks down there were to suffer a hit – it didn’t bear thinking about. ‘The lab? But we’ll never get anywhere near there in time.’
‘Wrong.’ The Professor smiled grimly. ‘There is just one way . . .’ He tapped the phone booth with his soldering iron.
Guuuurk dragged his hand across his face. ‘No, Professor! Please tell me that thing isn’t your notorious Not Entirely Tested Matter Transfuser Booth!’
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Daybook of ‘Jenkins’ Jenkins, RQMS Royal Fusiliers (don’t care any more), Sunday the 6th of January, 1952
That tocsin’s
still blaring away. I don’t even bother to switch it off.
I’ve jemmied open the Prof’s locked desk drawer and liberated his bottle of twenty-year-old Napoleon Brandy. I must say it’s pretty good stuff for a shortarse Frog to have knocked up. Slips down the gullet like wax off a floozy’s hairpin. I’m all comfortable now, boots off, feet up on the radiator, third tumblerful to hand and a well-filled roll-up going – no point saving any snout for later now, is there?
I’m just getting all relaxed and totally plastered-like, when that tinny voice comes over the tannoy: ‘ Lab-Busting bomber squadron five minutes away .’
I leans over to the speaker behind me and has a word. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, sweet lips,’ I breathes, all polite, ‘but I always wondered what a striking woman like yourself – I assume you’re striking, by your voice – statue- esque , I mean. That’s what I’ve always pictured – classy, but with a generous chestillage. I always wondered what you get out of a job that’s so bleeeeeding depressing ? I mean – “Two minutes to the end of the world” – “Five minutes to the bombing” – “Atomic blast in ten seconds” – don’t you ever feel the urge to announce something – well, a bit more cheerful ?’
She don’t answer me, of course. Never does. I takes another long swig of the old Dutch courage. Dutch? Don’t like ’em. Too much like the Belgians. Don’t like ’em either . . . and don’t start me off on the Luxemburgians . . .
Where was I?
Oh yes. ‘I don’t suppose,’ I says to the loudspeaker, ‘now that we do only have five – well, less than five minutes now – I don’t suppose you’d consider – not a complete cod supper – but a short romantic interlude with a extinguished decorated war hero, such as oneself – who has the greatest of respect for ladies with enormous—’
‘ Lab-Busting bomber squadron four minutes away ,’ she cuts in.
‘No? No, I thought not. No harm in asking, though.’ I adds another dribble to the tumbler, looks at it, fills it up to the top. ‘I bet if you could answer, though,’ I says, ‘you wouldn’t turn me down, would you, luv?’
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