The Most Amazing Man Who Ever Lived (The Cornelius Murphy Trilogy Book 3)

by Robert Rankin

‘You never did tell me how you broke out of the cell,’ said Tuppe. ‘I assumed, by the evidence of your person, that some degree of unpleasantness occurred.’

  ‘There was a difference of opinion,’ Cornelius explained. ‘The constables held to the view that I should remain incarcerated; I, however, did not. They heard me picking the lock and lay in wait, but I had taken the precaution of removing a section of the iron bedframe, to wield in a club-like fashion, should the necessity arise.’

  ‘Which it did.’

  ‘A contest of martial skills ensued. The final score in knockouts was Escapees 2: Constables Nil. But something is occurring up ahead.’

  And something was.

  They were on the A3 and the traffic was all coming to a standstill. The cause for this was not immediately apparent, but is it ever? Possibly two lanes were going into one. This usually causes motorists to go into a state of terminal idiocy and jam themselves fast. Why they do it is anyone’s guess, but inevitably they do.

  But then possibly it wasn’t that. Possibly it had something to do with the not altogether distant pall of smoke that was rising into the otherwise clear blue sky.

  ‘Someone’s crashed,’ said Cornelius. ‘Which is horrid at best.’

  ‘Should we get out and see if we can help?’

  ‘I was going to suggest that, Tuppe. Do either of you know any first aid?’ Cornelius asked the hitchhikers.

  ‘None at all,’ was the reply.

  ‘Leave the keys in the car,’ said Louise, ‘then if the traffic starts to move, we’ll catch you up.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Cornelius left the keys, Tuppe waved his farewells and the two struck off for the cause of the hold-up.

  It wasn’t too many cars ahead.

  ‘You know what that looks like to me?’ said Tuppe, viewing the wreckage.

  ‘Go on,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘Flying saucer,’ said Tuppe.

  ‘It does though, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It does.’

  And it did.

  And it was.

  It was one of those lightweight scoutship jobbies constructed, no doubt, from metals unknown upon this planet. And it bore an uncanny resemblance to the one which the US Airforce still insist is not housed in Hangar 27 at Muroc Air Base, Muroc Dry Lake, California.

  And here it was, crashed on the A3.

  A number of folk were gathered around it. These were of the cars at the forefront of the tailback. So to speak.

  There was a portly young man in a brown three-piece double-breaster. A leisurewear cultist with a lean-and-hungry look and a lady in a straw hat who stood knitting something grey and sock-like.

  Not perhaps everyone’s natural choice of a welcoming committee set to greet a traveller from a distant star. But there you go.

  This welcoming committee was gathered about a three-foot-sixish sort of body, decked out in a nifty-looking uniform with gold epaulettes and braided cuffs. He had a large nose fastened to a far larger head, grey in colour, Mekon in design.

  The welcoming committee was shouting. Loudly.

  ‘Shift it!’ shouted the leisurewear cultist. Making fists and bobbing up and down upon air-filled soles.

  ‘I’ve got an appointment!’ shouted the portly double-breaster, tapping a plump forefinger onto what the bloke who sold it to him in a pub had neglected to mention was a fake Rolex.

  ‘I’m not in any hurry!’ shouted the lady in the straw hat. ‘But I just like shouting.’

  The off-worlder was trying to get a word in edgeways. ‘ %^&*@¢§∞¢#¢€*^&%!’ he remarked.

  ‘That’s easy for you to say,’ said the lady in the straw hat.

  ‘Might we be of assistance?’ asked Cornelius. ‘We’re plain-clothed AA men.’

  ‘About time too,’ shouted the leisurewear cultist, bouncing from toe to heel in a step-aerobic fashion and shaking his fist at the small figure with the large grey head. ‘This joker nearly had my car off the road.’

  ‘And mine,’ shouted the wearer of the bogus Rolex. ‘And mine’s an XR3i, touring model. Top of the range.’

  ‘So’s mine,’ shouted the aerobicist. ‘And my air bag nearly inflated.’

  ‘My hazard lights came on automatically.’

  ‘So did mine.’

  ‘My anti-lock brakes applied an independently computerized pull-up torque to each of my wheels. Top of the range.’

  ‘So’s mine.’

  The off-worlder looked from one to the other of them. And he looked perplexed.

  Cornelius looked at Tuppe.

  And Tuppe looked at Cornelius.

  And they both looked perplexed also.

  ‘You’re lying about having an air bag!’ shouted bogus Rolex. ‘Look at your front bumper. You clouted the back of this bloke’s flying saucer. If you had an air bag it would have inflated.’

  ‘I’ve got laser sighting,’ shouted the man, who, beneath his colourful outer garments, wore a posing pouch of crimson Lycra. ‘Housed in my side lights, they criss-cross at an acute angle ten metres beyond the bonnet, digitally map a three-dimensional image, giving speed-to-stopping ratio, as crash tested upon dummies in the advert with that woman singing, and they declared it a no-air-bag situation.’

  ‘What a lot of old poo,’ said Tuppe.

  ‘It’s not poo, it’s top of the range.’

  ‘So’s mine,’ said the Rolex. ‘And the metallic paintwork finish is baked on.’

  ‘An estate agent,’ said Tuppe.

  ‘Who?’ asked Cornelius.

  ‘The bloke with the fake Rolex.’

  ‘It’s never a fake, how dare you!’ The watch-wearer clutched at his wrist.

  ‘&()*^*&^%$¢#∞º”%,’ said the space pilot.

  ‘Quite right,’ said Tuppe.

  ‘What did he say?’ asked most present.

  ‘He says that the watch has the classic oyster face, but the numerals are in chrome and not gilt and the strap’s the wrong colour.’

  ‘His car’s the wrong colour too,’ sneered Leisurewear Lad. ‘XR3i! That’s an XR2 bog standard. He’s not an estate agent, he’s a sales rep from ASDA.’

  ‘I’m not!’ shrieked Bogus Rolex.

  ‘He is,’ agreed the lady in the straw hat.

  ‘I’m bloody not!’

  ‘You bloody are. And I should know, I’m your mother.’

  ‘You bloody aren’t!’

  ‘I bloody am too,’ the lady in the straw hat told Tuppe.

  ‘Give him a smack,’ said Tuppe. ‘That sometimes helps.’

  Hoot, Hoot, Hoot went the backed-up traffic, beginning to go Hoot, Hoot, Hoot.

  ‘^%&´†¶§∞^)*(),’ said the space pilot.

  ‘What did he say?’ Cornelius enquired.

  ‘He asked if we might take him to a place of safety, before the men from Project Grudge and MJ. 12 arrive on the scene to drag him off for debriefing and experimentation.’

  ‘I didn’t know you spoke Venusian, Tuppe.’

  ‘It’s not Venusian, it’s Romany.’

  Woo, Woo, Woo, Woo, Woo, came the sound of police car sirens.

  ‘You’d better come with us,’ said Cornelius to the crashed saucerian.

  ‘()*^&•¶§•¶§#€**^^()’said that fellow.

  Cornelius, Tuppe and The Man from Another World (1958. Directed by Hal Vernon and starring Kyle McKintock as the small town judge whose daughter falls in love with the alien) jogged down the line of backed-up traffic.

  Unfortunately, when they arrived at the place where the Cadillac Eldorado should have been, there wasn’t even a space left waiting for them.

  Thelma and Louise had nicked the car.

  11

  ‘Let go of my ear!’ wailed Norman. But the large controller (who cannot be referred to as “The Fat Controller” for copyright reasons) would not. He shook the dead boy all about by it.

  ‘Where do you think you’re off to?’ he demanded to be told.

  ‘I was . . . I mean . . . I . . . let go of my ear.’
>
  ‘What is your name?’ The plump fingers went twist, twist, twist.

  ‘Norman!’ shrieked Norman.

  ‘Jack Bradshaw’s new assistant?’

  ‘That’s me, sir, yes.

  ‘Then you should be at your desk, not wandering about, shouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Ouch.’

  ‘But you’re not.’

  ‘No, sir. Ooooh.’

  ‘Because you’re skiving, boy, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Norman readily agreed. ‘That’s it, sir. I’m sorry, sir.’

  ‘And so you should be.’ The plump fingers relaxed their grip and Norman sank down hard on his bum.

  ‘Your first day at work here and you thought you’d go walkabout.’ Norman climbed to his feet and rubbed at his fat red ear. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘Let me out of the lift, sir, and I’ll get straight back to work.’

  ‘I think not.’ The large controller fixed Norman with a withering gaze.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said the dead boy, weakening at the knees.

  ‘No,’ said the large controller. ‘If you wish to go walkabout, then walkabout you shall go. With me. I am on my way to inspect the relocation bays. You will accompany me.’

  ‘Good-oh,’ said Norman, without any trace of enthusiasm entering his voice.

  ‘You will learn much.’ The large controller leaned forward, stretched up and pushed the very top lift button. Way beyond Norman’s reach it was. ‘Much.’

  ‘Much,’ said Norman.

  ‘Much indeed. Many are there here who have never made my acquaintance. Many who have never known the thrill of listening to me speak. You will learn much. Very much.’

  The large controller peered down upon the red-haired youth. He was rubbing at his ear with one hand and picking his nose with a finger from the other. ‘Or probably, in your case, not very much at all.’

  After a space of time which was neither very long nor very short, but somewhere in between, the lift stopped suddenly with a clunk and a click and a ding of the bell.

  The doors opened and Norman, who was still rubbing his ear, but no longer picking his nose (he being at the rolling, preparatory-to-flicking stage), found himself staring out at something very strange indeed.

  ‘What is that out there?’ he managed in an awestruck kind of a tone.

  ‘The relocation bays.’ The large controller strode from the lift to whatever lay beyond. ‘Follow me.’

  Norman dithered. He had to get out of here. Pass on his terrible knowledge about the fatal electrical dischargings to God. Or to somebody. He had to do something.

  ‘Get a move on,’ called the large controller.

  ‘Coming,’ said Norman.

  What was out there was large and noisy. Very large and very noisy. And very brass. It was a monstrous, steam-driven, oily-smelling kind of a contrivance and there were acres of it. All in the open beneath the big black sky.

  It was all burnished flywheels and ball governors and throbbing pistons and fan belts and big round glass gauges with flickering needles and pipes going every which way and bolts and rivets and bits and bobs and all sorts. It was Jules Verne meets Isambard Kingdom Brunel round at Cecil B. De Mille’s house. The future would know it as Steampunk.

  And there really were acres of it. It spread away, a grinding and a chugging and an emitting of small steam puffs to every direction. There were gantries and catwalks in pierced cast iron and little men in boiler-suits, of the type you normally associate with steam preservation societies, bumbled about with oil cans, greasing nipples and ragging away at things.

  ‘What does it all do?’ shouted Norman above the mechanical hubbub.

  ‘It powers the big sky nozzles,’ the large controller explained in a large voice. ‘The furnaces pressure up the boilers which work the turbines that run the generators that supply the energy to the big sky nozzles.’

  ‘What do the big sky nozzles do?’ bawled Norman.

  ‘They broadcast the frequencies that you program into your Karma-scope. You have read the handbook, I trust.’

  ‘I’ve been meaning to.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll bet you have.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Never mind. Each soul exists upon a slightly different electrical frequency. You calculate this frequency by going through the procedures that Jack explained to you. Punch it into your Karmascope, which relays it directly to one of the big sky nozzles. The big sky nozzle broadcasts the frequency, the required soul is detached from the hovering throng encircling the sun, sucked up the nozzle, reprocessed and reallocated, then spat back down to Earth to its next recipient. Are you paying attention, boy?’

  Norman actually was, but his thoughts were all elsewhere.

  ‘Something on your mind?’ the large controller asked.

  ‘Does God ever come down here himself to inspect the machinery?’ Norman asked. ‘Only I was hoping to say hello to Him.’

  The withering gaze withered him once more. ‘Follow me.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Norman followed the large controller. As the big man strode on, Norman’s eyes darted to the left and right in the pathetic hope that he might spy out a sign reading STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN, or a door marked GOD’S OFFICE KNOCK AND ENTER.

  But he didn’t.

  He did come at last to a door, however. It was not the kind of door that looked as if it led to the office of God. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was a big black greasy iron door with lots of rivets and several mighty bolts.

  The large controller began to draw them. One, two, three.

  ‘What’s through there?’ Norman asked.

  ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘I’m not sure I really want to.’ Norman took a step back, but the large controller turned with quite remarkable speed considering his bulk and caught the lad once more by the ear.

  ‘I ought to be getting off to work now,’ squirmed Norman. ‘Oh please let me go.’

  With his free hand the large controller drew the final bolt and pulled upon the iron door, releasing an exhalation of fetid air. Norman fought and struggled but to no avail whatever.

  ‘I fear’, said the large controller, ‘that you have done exactly what you should not have done and discovered something that you should not have discovered.’

  ‘No,’ blubbered Norman. ‘Not me, sir.’

  ‘Yes, you sir. And so regrettably I shall have to “let you go” as they say.’

  ‘No, please wait . . . I—’ But the terrible door was now open sufficiently wide to admit the passage of one medium-sized struggler with a red Beatle cut and a grey school uniform.

  ‘Aaaaaagh!’ went Norman plummeting into darkness and downwardness.

  Slam went the terrible door and clunk, clunk, clunk, clunk went its mighty bolts an increasing distance above.

  Echoes and darkness and oblivion and a really rotten way to end your first day at work.

  Or your very existence.

  Or whatever.

  12

  ‘He says he wants to speak to someone in authority,’ said Tuppe to Cornelius as they sat a-puffing and a-panting in a barn. The small grey off-worlder with the large nose and the far larger head sat a-puffing and a-panting between them. But he did it in a different register and rhythm. As might well be expected.

  ‘Someone trustworthy,’ Tuppe continued. ‘He says he wants to speak to Erich Von Daniken.’

  ‘Oh right. Good idea. Have you asked him yet whether he brings us greetings from a distant star, and whether we should all lay down our nuclear weapons, live in peace with one another and share the wisdom of our benign space brothers?’

  ‘No,’ said Tuppe. ‘I didn’t think to. Should I ask him now?’

  ‘No, Tuppe. You see I noticed the jack-knifed low-loader that this joker’s flying saucer fell off. It had the legend DR DOVESTON’S WONDER SHOW plastered all over it. He’s part of a fairground turn, Tuppe. You should have known this, you grew up with the circus. And you said he speaks Romany’

/>   ‘Is this true?’ Tuppe asked the grey-faced big-nose.

  “ª•¶ºª¢^%+!¡€#^(+**^^,’ the grey-faced big-nose replied. In Romany.

  ‘He says it’s not true,’ said Tuppe. ‘Well, some of it is. He did fall off the back of the low-loader, but only because he crash-landed on it first.’

  ‘A likely story.’

  ‘You can be a terrible cynic at times,’ said Tuppe.

  Woo, Woo, Woo, Woo, came the sound of police car sirens once again.

  ‘We had best run again,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘I don’t know why I’m running, I’m not wanted for anything.’

  ‘You’re quite right,’ said Cornelius. ‘You stay here with ET and I’ll run on alone.’

  ‘Bosoms to that,’ said Tuppe.

  ‘^^(*)(*)^^,’said ET.

  ‘He says “Bosoms to that too”,’ Tuppe explained. ‘Let’s all run together.’

  And so run together they did.

  It was a nice day for it. Nice countryside also. Wobbly wheat and dappled hedgerows. And those spinneys that might be copses but probably turn out to be thickets when you get up close to them.

  Very nice.

  Very agrarian. And bucolic. Agrarian and bucolic. And praedial. And agrestic. That sort of thing.

  ‘Which way?’ Tuppe asked, when they had finally done with that sort of thing and reached a road.

  Cornelius was all but gone with the exhaustion. He had been carrying Tuppe on his shoulders and the little grey space man under one arm. ‘Any way,’ he gasped.

  ‘**^º∞#€•+(*%,’ said the little grey space man.

  ‘He says he can hear a car coming,’ said Tuppe.

  ‘I can’t hear anything.’ Cornelius strained his ears. ‘He can’t hear what colour it is, I suppose.’

  ‘*¶§#€¢∞ª)*^&$$^++(*)ª¶∞#€+*^+=*ª•¶∞#§ª^)***()()()()^^^**,’said the space man.

  ‘Red,’ said Tuppe.

  ‘Gettaway, Red!’ Cornelius caught his breath and hung onto it. The sound of an approaching vehicle reached his ears, it appeared above the crest of a distant hill and rushed towards him. The vehicle was a car. It was a red car.

  ‘Don’t say lucky guess,’ said Tuppe.

  ‘I wasn’t going to, I was going to say hide at the side of the road and when I give the signal get into the back seat on the passenger side.’