Tales From Beyond Tomorrow: Volume One

by Catton John Paul

  The videophone screen buzzed into life and Tom's sharp, lean face snapped into view. Today he was sporting a bottle-green cashmere polo-neck and a French crop haircut – and looked, as always, severely pissed off.

  "Alright, Jimmy!" he shouted, his voice crackling from the speaker. "Listen, I've got a job on, and I've got five models going cold in the back room."

  "You lucky bastard."

  "Not that lucky, mate, they won't smile. I think they've forgotten what a smile is. So what d'you want, then?"

  "Do you know anything about the British Venusian Society?'

  "I know they're a bunch of rich nutters, and that's about it. What's up, Jimmy? You want to trade in your crappy Vespa for one of their UFOs?"

  "Ha bloody ha. I was thinking you've got an assistant, Isobel, right? Her uncle's one of those egg-heads."

  "Yeah, sure. He's a big noise in the world of cybernetics or whatever they call it."

  "He's not a member of the BVS, is he?"

  Tom sniffed. "Don't think so. The old boy's got more common sense."

  "Listen, could you spare Isobel for a couple of days? I need someone to take shots of the BVS offices in Knightsbridge. See who goes in and out, know what I mean?"

  "Surveillance job, eh? She'd like that. She could do with the extra money, as well – she's just been kicked out of her studio for not paying the rent. I could spare her, I guess, all I've got on after this is the shoot at the Switched On Gallery, Bond Street…Yeah, okay. Two days? I can't give you a discount this time, mate."

  "No problem, I'll even throw in a knicker to say thanks."

  "Done."

  Tom cut the connection without ceremony and Jimmy slipped his Parka back on, getting ready to do the rounds.

  *

  A PI needed sources of information from all over the city, and Jimmy spent most of his time working on keeping his contacts and getting more. The drinking clubs of Soho had more informative gossip than a year's worth of mags and newspapers. Even the tailors were a valuable resource; the high and mighty would often let slip something to their tailors that even their nearest and dearest wouldn't know. All the Carnaby Street retailers and salesmen knew each other, and they hung out at the same espresso palaces.

  Jimmy started out at Harry's Café on the Camden Road, where he met Brenda from the Too Much boutique. Then he flew over to the posh joints in Soho; Lederer's where they sold hydroponic snacks and continental coffee in tall glasses, and the Belgravia gaff with the stupid name of The Last Days of Pompeii, where advertising types sipped cappuccinos and nibbled cream cheese and gherkin sandwiches.

  By the time the sun went down, Jimmy had a major coffee buzz and a few interesting bits and pieces on the British Venusian Society.

  When the sun went down there were some pretty swinging clubs in London; Birdland, the Scotch, the Scene and the Marquee – but the hottest one, as far as Jimmy was concerned, was the Inferno in Covent Garden. And not because of its name, either.

  When Jimmy got through the doors the DJ was belting out Mama Julie by Terry and Jerry. He swaggered across the dance floor to the small crowd of blokes in parkas and pork pie hats propping up the bar. He bumped into some young geezer in full Navy drag, trying to dance but looking really pissed off about something. "Ain't no law against standing here, is there?" the punter snarled at him.

  "Hello, sailor," Jimmy snarled back and gave him the two-fingered salute.

  "Jimmeeeee!"

  The mates at the bar, Chaz, Tinny, Cosmo, and Maisie – who had a bit of a crush on Jimmy – were all swigging bottles of Nukey Brown Ale and shouting at each other above the music.

  "All right, Jimmy?"

  "Yeah, not bad. What's up, Chaz?"

  "Good news, mate, I'm getting the scooter out of the garage. Then I can race you on that flyin' rust-bucket of yours, mate!"

  "Anytime!"

  "Here, Jimmy." Cosmo thrust a bottle of Nukey Brown Ale into his hands and leant in close. "You won't believe what Tinny's done now."

  "What?"

  Tinny, leaning back against the bar, looked like he'd got the hump but Jimmy knew he was enjoying the attention.

  "He met this dodgy geezer in the Wellington up north, right? This guy was selling Blues so Tinny bought a quid's worth."

  "And they weren't Blues?"

  "Were they fragg! They're food pills, mate, for astronauts! E-rations and concen-tabs! They must have been part of a shipment for Moon Zero Two!"

  Even though he was a quid worse off, Tinny couldn't help laughing with the rest. Jimmy gave the embarrassed Mod a thump on the shoulder. "Well, you'll be all right if you feel a bit peckish, won't ya? Your own Sunday roast – just add water!"

  "So what you up to, Jimmy?"

  "Taping more videophone calls from dirty old men to their tarts?"

  "Nah." Jimmy drew himself up to his full five feet six inches and put on a fake Oxbridge accent. "I ham currently on the trail of han himportant missing scientist, old boy."

  Phil let rip with a massive belch. "Like fragg you are."

  "Nah, straight up. I've been hired by his daughter, and she's a right bit of crumpet!"

  "Get in there, mate!"

  Mama Julie swerved into Rukumbine by Shenley Duffus on the turntables, and the rude boys and fly girls on the dance floor started skanking away like mad.

  "Listen," Maisie leaned over to shout into Jimmy's ear over the Blue-Beat. "I want to ask you a favor, right? There's this bloke I know at work called Jamie. Bit of a tosser, but he's all right when you get to know him. He hasn't got a girlfriend, right? He keeps bending my ear about can I fix him up with someone."

  "Well, bring him down here, then." The DJ put on Louie Louie by The Kingsmen and Jimmy started bopping up and down, itching to get on the dance floor.

  "Yeah, but he says he doesn't like clubs, does he? He wants to know some good pick-up lines."

  "So what he wants to know is, what's the knack, and how to get it? He sounds like a right po–"

  The words were drowned out by an almighty crash and a few frightened shouts and screams from the front door. Jimmy and his mates turned to look.

  Framed in the doorway by the light coming in from the cloakroom were half a dozen Rockers in full leather gear and boots, their jackets decorated with hammer and sickle. On their heads they wore not the spiky pickelhaube helmets that the other gangs favored, but Cossack-style fur urshankas.

  "Oh, fragg," Jimmy blurted out. Red Fred and the Tovaricks. Self-styled Communist trouble-makers and clueless rebel wannabees. Their leader, Red Fred, stepped out and bellowed above the music.

  "Where the fragg is Jimmy Diamond?"

  "Let's fraggin' 'ave 'em!" spat Chaz, putting his Nukie Brown down on the bar.

  "Nah, 'ang on, mate." Tinny had gone pale. "Jimmy, it's the whole gang. We'd better scarper."

  Jimmy stood, clenching his fists, torn between the urge for a rumble and the need for self-preservation. Luckily, the choice was taken out of his hands. Two of the club bouncers stepped forward, squat little machines like potato-guns in their arms. They gave off little 'pops' that Jimmy could hardly hear above the guitar and organ of the Kingsmen, but they fired white slugs that splashed and splattered against the Rockers' leather jackets. The slugs swelled outwards, expanding into creamy foam that spread around the Rockers' arms and legs, hardening as it grew.

  "Oh, fragg! Foamers!"

  "Get out and stay out!" the bouncers yelled as they dragged the immobile Rockers out through the cloakroom.

  Jimmy and his mates cheered and ordered another round of beers. "Why do those tossers hate you so much, anyway?" Dave asked.

  "Something happened at Brighton and they've never forgotten it," Jimmy said, and took a swig from the bottle. "I'll tell ya some other time."

  THREE

  "Coming up later, in this morning's news; President Kennedy meets with Harold Wilson and Alan Turing of Bletchley Park Ltd. at the Prime Minister's residence at Chequers…Professor John Brett announces his plans to
install a revolutionary new computer system in the Post Office Tower, early next year…and talks are to continue on opening up the former Northern Line as part of the new London Transport Museum; Sir Derek Camfield, leader of the main conservation group opposing the move, says, 'the Northern Line must be preserved unchanged.' But first…"

  Jimmy watched the news over a breakfast of egg, bacon, sausage, baked beans, grilled tomatoes and fried bread rustled up by the kitchen servo-bot; he was always starving the morning after a sesh. Just as he thought, there was no story on Dr. Primble's death. The Section was busy hushing it up.

  When he flew over to Tottenham Court Road, he found Georgie already waiting for him, in the corridor outside the locked door. She looked terrible. Her face was paler than yesterday and the mascara had run where she'd been crying.

  "Something's happened," she told him outright. Jimmy quickly opened the door and beckoned her inside.

  "It's my sister Rita," she said. "She's gone missing as well."

  He waved her to a seat and sat at his desk opposite.

  "When she didn't show up for supper I called her office, and the typing pool said that after work an aerocab arrived for her. The robo-driver said it was booked by her father to pick her up, so of course she got in. And now she's disappeared…" Rita fumbled in her bag and Jimmy passed a box of Kleenex across the desk.

  "I really think you ought to call the Old Bill again, love."

  "I did. They're still thinking it's a marital dispute."

  "What, like your dad's run off with some bird and taken his other daughter with him? That's bleedin' diabolical." He immediately regretted dropping his 'posh' act, but Georgie seemed too upsent to notice. "But you're sure that's not true, yeah?"

  She shook her head vigorously. "Dad's got no reason to leave me alone. He'd call me if he could, and if he hasn't, then he must be in trouble. I'm sure it's something to do with his work. It must be."

  Jimmy rubbed his chin and lowered his voice. "Listen, there's something you ought to know. I went to Dr. Primble's lab yesterday and there were two blokes there. I'm pretty sure they were MI5. They told me I should stop asking questions about your Dad."

  She stared at him in horror, the mascara trickling down her cheeks. "You're giving up?"

  He shook his head and grinned. "Nah, course not! I told them I'd give up but I'm gonna keep on looking. The only one who can tell me to stop is you, Georgie girl. So cheer up, yeah? I'm sure he's all right. And I'm sure I can find out where he is."

  He softened his voice further. "There's one more thing, though. Does your dad have anything to do with the British Venusian Society?"

  She shook her head, almost in anger. "That bunch? Oh, they give me the willies, they do. They invited Dad to join but he said they were a bunch of crackpots."

  "You mean they wanted to…recruit him?"

  "Yeah. They were really pushy, as well. They said a man of his learning and experience was just what they needed. He told them to stuff it. Well, politely, of course. Why, do you think they've got something to do with it?"

  "I wouldn't rule anything out." Jimmy winked at her. "You leave it to me, doll. Er…Georgie."

  *

  Jimmy had three and a half day's worth of his client's retainer left, so he did what he always did when he had something to think over; he got himself measured for a new bespoke suit.

  In the old days, this would have taken a week; but now they had the robo-cutters. The tailors – Dave Wax of Hammersmith, not far from Jimmy's bachelor pad – scanned his measurements – "You've put on a bit of weight there, James, can't take it in too much or it'll split…" – and then sent it down to the robo-cutters in the basement. Jimmy walked out in a swinging dark brown suit: three buttons, side vents, sixteen-inch bottoms. A new pair of cufflinks and a skinny tie from T. M. Lewin's on Jermyn Street and he was all set.

  All set for his mission to Venus.

  The offices of the British Venusian Society were in Knightsbridge. Coming in to land, Jimmy studied himself in each of the dozen mirrors around the handlebars – he had a couple of zits breaking out, but hair and clothes-wise, he thought he looked pretty much an Ace Face – and brought the Vespa into land. To get near the building, he had to park on the visitor's aeropad and convince a tin-can valet-bot that he was there on official business. His forged Civil Service punch card helped.

  Considering the out-of-this-world nature of the occupants, the building itself looked incredibly old-fashioned; a Victorian bourgeois mansion, with a bronze plate saying BRITISH VENUSIAN SOCIETY on the pillars under the porticos. Jimmy pressed a bell, and a constipated voice answered from a metal grille.

  The big automatic doors slid open and Frankie entered the waiting room. That was pretty much what he had expected – silver statues of rockets and planets and flying saucers, and on the back wall was a huge oil-and-canvas rendition of some geezer called Adamski, superimposed against the blue-green planet itself.

  "Excuse me…do you have an appointment?"

  Jimmy turned around and eyeballed the four men who had silently entered the room behind him. They all had skin-tight, rubber-glove-thin denim jeans, black wafer-sole casuals, and cowboy shirts colored bright red. They all wore dark glasses and their hair was slicked down Rocker-style with so much oil it could have brought back a fossil-fuel revival.

  Jimmy frowned. He knew Rockers went on about Elvis and that old crap, but these geezers actually looked like Elvis. All of them. Maybe they were brothers – identical quadruplets, if that was possible. A wild thought crossed his mind; the society putting ads in the paper to find staff for the London offices. WANTED: DOGSBODY FOR MENIAL OFFICE WORK. MUST BE A SPACE CADET WITH A SCREW LOOSE AND LOOK LIKE AN OLD BORING ROCKER.

  "Good morning," Jimmy said, drawing himself up and straightening his tie. "The name is Drake. John Drake. I have a query about membership."

  "Membership is invitation only," said one of the Elvis boys, in a low monotone.

  "But I have been invited. By Doctor Radcliffe. Heard of him?"

  Jimmy saw at once that he had pressed the right button. Or maybe the wrong one. The Rockers all gave a little twitch of alarm, and turned their black insect-like shades on each other, as if they were beaming each other telepathic messages instead of speaking.

  "You had better come with us," one of them said at last.

  Jimmy was escorted politely to a door to the side, which they opened to reveal a gleaming, dome-shaped space within, looking like a cross between a dance hall and a planetarium. The door closed and Jimmy found himself alone in the echoing, weirdly lit interior.

  The center of the chamber was empty of furniture, but occupied by a massive telescope with a seat for its operator underneath. Jimmy walked over for a closer look. The scope and lens was pointed at a round plate in the ceiling that could obviously be opened when the owner wanted to gaze at the night sky.

  "Our keyhole to the wonders of space," said a throaty female voice behind him.

  Jimmy turned and recognized the President of the BVS immediately; Miss Venus Jones. She wore a minidress made out of reflective metal foil held in by a belt containing a number of pouches along its side. Her long legs were encased in skylon tights and white, knee-length PVC boots. Her platinum hair was cut in an angular bob and her face was coated in make-up that shone and glittered like stars. Her face…Jimmy's throat tightened. Her face was so gorgeous and familiar – the eyes, the pert nose, the full, pouting lips…

  Marilyn, Jimmy realized. She looked like a Marilyn Monroe statue, made out of silver and gold.

  Her silk thighs purred against each other as she walked toward the telescope.

  "Your name is Mr. John Drake?"

  Jimmy tried to imitate the Oxbridge plummy vowels from Callum and Quill that he'd heard the day before, and mixed it in with some Scots twang. "Enchante."

  "Do I know you?"

  "I don't think I'm that lucky, madam."

  She was close to Jimmy now. She let her fingers fall on the telesc
ope for a moment, as if caressing it, and then reached out to take his arm, guiding him around the chamber.

  "So you're the famous Venus Jones," Jimmy said. "This is quite an honor."

  "Venus is, of course, a nom de plume. I adopted it when I became Chairhuman of the Society."

  "So what exactly is this Society about?"

  She turned her dark-ringed eyes on him and her lashes fluttered like living things. "You mean you do not know? Perhaps you have come to investigate us. Do you think we are some kind of confidence tricksters?"

  "Oh no, er…the thought never crossed my mind."

  "Many people have spread vicious rumors and lies about us."

  Jimmy shrugged and tried to look nonchalant. Not easy when her silvery face was moving closer and closer to his, and her eyes were staring into his without blinking.

  "You spoke of Doctor Radcliffe," she said breathily. "Did he ask you to come here?"

  "He suggested I should come and look you up."

  "I find that very unlikely. We are an exclusive group, Mr. Drake, and we are very selective as to whom we allow as members. We do not welcome…" she glanced down at his chest, and the beating heart under the silk shirt, "ruffians."

  "Ah, well, that's where you're mistaken, you see," Jimmy said brightly, seeing his main chance. "I'm not a ruffian, far from it. I represent Modern Youth, see, who are very interested in your group, and have a lot to offer."

  "Such as?"

  "A young, fresh image. I mean, your membership may be wealthy, but they're still too much of the old guard. Just think of what you could accomplish if you had a hip, Mod, swinging reputation!"

  She didn't seem to be listening, and his eyes kept going to the planet-shaped brooch on her mini-dress. As she breathed, it rose and fell and winked at him.

  Venus followed his gaze. "This is a gift," she said, tapping the brooch with a long fingernail, "from the Space Brothers."

  "You mean…it's Venusian?"

  "It is shaped from a common mineral taken from their world. To them, it is just a trinket, a glass bead."