"I bet some of the scientists here would love to get their hands on your – ahem – jewelry. If they analyzed it, then you could prove the Venusians are real."
"Analysis is so tedious, Mr. Drake. We prefer faith. The Venusians are real, and my experience is but a small part of their great plan. The Venusians are here among us with great love, and believe me, there are many more to come."
Her face tilted upwards, and she spoke in a sing-sing chant. "Their purpose is to help with this current world crisis – the agression between the Americans and the Soviets. Their influence is very great. You're going to be able to meet these people, to talk to them, as well as take part in a trip to their planet."
That was a very well rehearsed speech, Jimmy thought. He decided to change the subject. He turned to the massive instrument they were standing beside. "Nice telescope you've got here," he said.
"Our twenty-inch motor-drive reflector telescope. The range is very powerful; from here, we can see every object in the Solar System."
He gave her a crafty grin. "So what you're saying is, if I get lucky, I could see Uranus?"
She rested her hand on the scope, stroking its tubular shaft. "If you were really lucky, you could also see Mars."
Venus Jones had been creeping up on him and she was now close enough to bite. Her pale hands went to the back of his neck and angled his head up like an adjustable lamp. Too surprised to do anything, Jimmy stood still as she put her lips on his and he tasted stardust, glitter, and moonrocks, making his lips tingle and his tongue start to fizz.
After what felt like an hour of suffering in the line of duty, Jimmy detached his face from hers and leant back on the telescope.
"Phwoa," he said at last.
"You are an interesting specimen," she commented.
"So, er…am I accepted into your membership, then?"
She was suddenly very businesslike again. "We shall be in contact with you in the next few days. During that time, we shall be reviewing your…credentials…very carefully."
"You seemed impressed with them just now."
"In the meanwhile, I have a gift for you. Not membership, but a little souvenir for all our visitors." She took a small blue box from a pouch on her belt and handed it to him.
Jimmy looked down at the lightweight plastic case. "A transistor radio?"
"Keep listening," Venus said with a faraway look in her eyes. "Perhaps soon, you shall hear the voices of the stars."
The Elvis boys showed him out, and as he walked to the parking spot, he could feel their stares on his back every step of the way.
FOUR
Jimmy was between Hyde Park and Green Park, flying back to his office, when movement in his side mirrors caught his eye. Two Model S Mini Cooper aerocars had dropped out of the fast lane above, through the transition lane, and into the route reserved for bikes. He thought they might be moving in to park – but there were no aeropads here in the green belt and they made no sign of descending. Now that, he thought, was a traffic violation, and this time he was not the one responsible.
Jimmy kept cruising, and the Minis stayed behind him, one on each side. He kept glancing in the mirrors, getting more and more irritated. There was something very odd about the cars. Jimmy pressed a button on the dashboard increasing magnification in the mirrors – and with a shock, he realized what was bothering him.
The Mini Coopers were being driven by robots. He saw the boxy metal heads and the tubular arms of servo-bots – but they weren't aerocabs. Jimmy was wondering what to do, when one of the robots put its square head out of the side window and extended an arm with some kind of metal nozzle on the end. There was a brief flash, and Jimmy felt – and heard – a bolt of lethal energy sizzle past his head.
"Oh, fragg," he shouted to himself, "I'm done for!"
His first instinct was to floor the accelerator, and he zoomed ahead above Hyde Park Corner and Wellington Arch. Pointless, he thought; the Minis could easily overtake him, come up one either side, and blast him into ashes when he was between them. So he couldn't give them the chance. He kept swerving, swinging the Vespa from side to side, and the Minis followed his erratic dance, sending bolt after bolt of electric-blue plasma after him that shot past into the air.
This is useless, thought Jimmy. Sooner or later that blaster will find its mark and I'll be up in smoke, just like that geezer Primble. I've got to do something. I've got to do something.
Panic rushed through his mind like he'd swallowed a jar full of Blues and his knuckles were white where they gripped the handlebars. He looked around frantically at the main stream of metropolitan traffic above him. Ahead, the Royal Academy of Arts, the Monico Building with its huge propeller-crane, St. James Park to the south. He could crash-land the Vespa in the boating lake…
Or…
A plan suddenly formed in Jimmy's mind. He ripped the course punch-card out of its slot and kicked the scooter into maximum speed. Taking out the card would trigger an alarm at DAIR Central, so the Z Cars would be looking for him straight away – but even that would be too late. Jimmy had to take things into his own hands.
He allowed himself a quick glance over his shoulder. The Minis were still close on his tail, blank steel faces behind the windshield.
He yanked the handlebars upwards and steered the scooter dead ahead, hurtling towards the Monico building and its fifty-seven floors of reinforced concrete. He wrestled to keep the bike under control as it got closer…and closer…
Then, when he was almost at roof level, he flicked the switch to bring all of the scooter's mirrors into alignment. Fourteen mirrors lined up with the sun's rays to direct a blinding flash of light to the cars behind him. Jimmy didn't know much about robots, but he knew they had camera lenses that had to be shielded against strong sunlight. The lenses would be using filters now to adjust to the flash coming off the mirrors, but just for a couple of seconds the robots were disorientated…
And that was all Jimmy needed.
Jimmy's Vespa shot under the great metal arm of the crane and over the empty rooftop garden. One of the Minis wasn't so lucky. It clipped the crane's girders with the right edge of its bonnet, spun round, and smashed into the concrete ornamental fountain in the garden's center.
"SQUUUUUEEEEE!"
The bodywork disintegrated in an explosion of rubber, steel, glass, and robot parts, scattering across the rooftop. Jimmy gave a triumphant howl of laughter – but the second Mini was right behind him.
Shaftesbury Avenue and its monorail service rolled on beneath him, and skyscrapers flashed by on both sides. At long last, Jimmy heard the strident NEE NAW NEE NAW and saw the red light flashing on the boxlike blue Morris 5000 dropping out of the sky. Z Cars. That would sort the tin buggers out…
Until Jimmy saw the crackling bolt of power that arced between the robot's weapon and the Z Car's front grille. There was a flash, a bang that he heard even at that distance, and smoke began to pour from the damaged patrol vehicle. It lost height, heading for an emergency landing on one of the Chinatown aeropads.
Oh, fragg. Jimmy was on his own again. A lightning bolt zipped past his elbow and he looked around, trying not to panic. Water – that was the only other thing he knew of that was deadly dangerous to robots. Just about every robot came with stickers warning against getting water near any of their electrical circuits.
Jimmy swerved the Vespa south, heading towards Charing Cross and the river Thames beyond. The Mini stayed on him like a Band-Aid.
It was only then that Jimmy's panicked mind realized something; the transistor radio. If these robots had been programmed by the BVS – and after all, who else could it be? – then maybe they were homing in on the radio.
His first thought was to dig the radio out of his parka pocket and throw it away, but then something else struck him; maybe there was something in that radio that was valuable. Some piece of technology he could show the Old Bill that was proof against the BVS. And maybe they weren't homing in on the radio, but visual contact – they had plenty of
chances to take a picture of Jimmy's Ace Face when he was giving Venus the chat.
All of this went through Jimmy's head in about two seconds. He was over Charing Cross and almost at the Embankment. He told himself to stay calm and keep going. He glanced in his mirrors again; the Mini wasn't gaining, but neither was he pulling ahead.
Jimmy kicked the bike into high gear as purple-blue beams crackled around him. A burst of energy hit the spire of Shell-Mex House and it exploded in chunks of masonry and metal. Jimmy shot over the top of the building swerving and twisting so much he was almost falling out of his seat, denying his pursuers a clear shot.
Another blast crackled near his ears as he zipped past Cleopatra's Needle, then he was over the river Thames itself – and he threw the scooter sideways, hitting the kinetic dampers. His stomach lurched as he dropped straight down towards the water.
He instantly flicked the antigravity control back on. He straightened up, floating just above the river, Waterloo Bridge right in front of him. He flew under the bridge, echoes of the bike's hum and reflections of the rippled water all around him in the shade. Behind him, the Mini's headlights flared as it stayed on his tail, moving under the old weathered stone and emerging into the sunlight on the other side.
Jimmy gunned the engine and picked up speed. The river flowed along underneath, and before him, Blackfriars Bridge, the piers, the tourist pleasure boats with people standing up to point and shout at the unlikely chase they were seeing, then Southwark Bridge, then London Bridge.
Jimmy had something in mind, but he knew it meant he'd fall off the bike – but so what? He'd lose the Vespa, but he could swim…he'd still be alive.
Unless that Mini could travel under water…
He looked back; he was at top speed again, but the Mini was gaining on him.
Now!
He wrenched the handlebars to the right; the dampers strained but held as the cycle turned ninety degrees. He flicked a switch on the dashboard, and the bike dropped lower, almost touching the water, and he locked the steering.
Antigravity engines operated by balancing electromagnetic forces. As if opposing the gravitational pull of the earth itself, the engine pushed away anything in its proximity, such as air, dirt and rubble, and in this case…water.
The Vespa's engine sent a great wave whooshing up behind it to splash onto the Mini. The robot ducked its head and arm back in immediately, but the windscreen was covered by great jets of water that blurred its view. The wipers activated in a futile attempt to keep it clear.
With the steering locked, the Vespa hurtled sideways at full speed, and Jimmy stood up in his seat. He took off his parka, judged the distance, and threw it at the Mini. The parka flapped through the air like a great khaki bird, hit the windshield, and was instantly snagged by the wipers.
Jimmy sat down again, unlocked the steering and pulled the Vespa upwards. The Mini – Jimmy's parka covering the windshield – shot by underneath, blindly careening towards Waterloo Bridge. It hit the ramparts of the bridge head-on at about sixty mph.
Jimmy heard the explosion, but didn't see it, busy with making a landing where Blackfriars Bridge met the Embankment. He hit the kinetic dampers, and dropped onto the tarmac, the random passers-by clapping and cheering in amazement.
He threw his leg over the saddle and found his legs were shaking so much, he could hardly stand up. "Don't try this at home!" he shouted to the world in general.
Then he sat down heavily on the road and waited for the nipple-heads in Z Cars to get him.
*
"Well then, Jimmy. What can I say? You've broken just about every traffic regulation in the book, and probably a few more that haven't been thought of yet."
The tiny interview room, somewhere deep in New Scotland Yard, was a windowless white cube of cigarette smoke, men in cheap suits, and coffee that tasted like mud strained through a pair of old socks. The only good thing was that DCI Barlow and DS Lynch were in charge of the investigation, and Jimmy and them went way back – in fact, Barlow was one of the people who got Jimmy his official PI license.
Jimmy spread his arms open. "Well, it weren't exactly my fault, was it?"
"We're not saying it was," Barlow said.
"For once," Lynch added.
"The whole thing was recorded by the traffic auto-cams," Barlow continued, "but we know what's going to happen. Whoever programmed those servo-bots will have covered their tracks. They'll have taken off the robot serial numbers with a blowtorch. What's more, even after your little demolition job on them, the control components will be set to self-destruct, to get rid of all the evidence. It'll take weeks for the lab boys to put them back together."
"Hang on," said Jimmy. "I know who did it! It was the BVS! Those nutcases over in Knightsbridge! I was investigating them on behalf of a client, right, and they twigged I was a gumshoe, and they set the tin can heavies on me, didn't they?"
Jimmy was treated to a rare sight; police officers who were lost for words.
Lynch turned round in his seat and signaled for the uniformed officers to leave the room.
"Switch off the tape recorder," Barlow said when they had gone.
Jimmy fidgeted nervously in his seat. "Now what?"
Barlow smiled grimly. He didn't look like the typical copper; although the harsh flourescent light made the sweat on his balding scalp gleam, his eyes were patient, and understanding. "Jimmy," he said softly, "I don't think it's a good idea to start accusing the BVS."
"Oh blimey, not you as well. Aren't you going to do something about them?"
"Do something? Yeah, we're going to do something." Lynch, his pockmarked face flushed with emotion, was not quite so understanding. "We're going to forget we had this conversation, Jimmy. And so are you."
"Oh yeah, alright, I gettit. Does a Cockney MI5 bloke with glasses have anything to do with this?"
"Jimmy," said Barlow. "Chasing around London on your flying pile of scrap, you know, it's not healthy for you. You're going nowhere in a hurry. It's just like Michael Miles says on TV; take the money. Don't open the box."
So that was it, Jimmy thought, as he left the New Scotland Yard public access aeropad. Nothing else for it. Time to go and see Brinsley Watson over in Notting Hill.
FIVE
Brinsley was born in Trinidad – in fact, his parents had been one of the first lot over in the Fifties, on the airship Empire Windrush. He made a living setting up sound systems for the local rude boys and their Ska parties, and he was well-known all round as being a technical genius. If there was a gadget with a transistor inside it, you could bet your bass weejuns Brinsley could fix it.
Looking well-off and relaxed in his short-sleeved checked Ben Sherman shirt and hipsters, Brinsley let Jimmy into his flat, full of Notting Hill Carnival posters and interesting aromas, and pushed a cup of tea into his hands. "Pull up a bean bag and sit down, man. How's your love life?"
"I saw you last week, mate, and nuffink's changed since then."
Brinsley sat down in the floating egg-shaped chair opposite, staring at Jimmy with an amused, knowing look.
"Well, this is not really about me love life," Jimmy said, "I'm mixed up with this bird who's having a spot o'bovver."
"Ah…" said Brinsley, looking all contented, as if he was watching the cricket. "Would this be in a professional capacity?"
"She is a client, yeah, which means that I might be in for the same kind of bovver."
"Any specific kind of bovver?"
Jimmy gave out a deep sigh. "Well, I had a bit of a rumble with some robots gone berserk a couple of hours ago."
Brinsley leaned forward, his face suddenly serious, his eyes wide and pale. "Are you saying that someone programmed robots to go after you? My word. If they're able to do that, they must be pretty heavy-duty, whoever they are."
Jimmy took the transistor radio out of his pocket and switched it on. It was tuned to Radio London, and the crackly sounds of the Small Faces squawked out into the air. They were half-way throug
h 'Grow Your Own'.
"What's that?" asked Brinsley.
"The Small Faces, innit?"
"No, I meant the machine."
"Oh! Yeah. This is something I'd like you to have a look at."
The Trinidadian stood up, pulled a toolbox from under the sofa and opened it. He switched off the radio, opened up the flimsy plastic back with a screwdriver, and put on a pair of glasses with a jeweler's eyepiece built into them.
"Well, that's unusual," Brinsley said after a while.
"What is?"
"There's a micro-monolithic circuit inside."
"What's that when it's at home, then?"
"Something that doesn't belong here. It's got nothing to do with the workings of a disposable transistor radio, that's for sure."
"So what's the point of putting something in, if it doesn't do anything?"
"Oh, it does something, all right." Brinsley took off his eyepiece-glasses and looked thoughtful. "The question is…what?"
He put the radio's back cover into place and switched it on. Jimmy recognized the riff for Anyway, Anyhow, Anywhere.
"Oh, cool! The Who!" Then he frowned as Brinsley switched off the radio again.
"Well if you've got yourself into trouble, Jimmy, would you be in the market for some hardware?"
"Well, yeah, that's what I'm tryin' to say, I suppose."
He stood up, and walked toward the back of the apartment. "You're in luck, Jimmy. This week I've knocked up a couple of new toys."
"Well, I don't want to ask you for too much. I mean, that espresso maker that fires darts out of it, mate, that's still in the garage. Have you got something a bit more…portable?"
"I have just the thing. Or several things." He brought back an attache case and carefully unlocked it.
"You see this?" He handed a badge to Jimmy emblazoned with the RAF target roundel that the Mod movement had adopted as one of its unofficial logos. "It's got a tracking device inside it. If you're wearing this, your location can be followed on the monitor, here." He held up something that looked like a walkie-talkie with a TV screen built into it.
Tales From Beyond Tomorrow: Volume One Page 13