Outrageous! And done with no charm whatsoever!
But more than this, young Danbury had a nose for impending danger which had saved his two companions’ lives on more than one occasion. So even though they didn’t like him very much, he was worth his weight in lithium in a tricky situation.
And so what, it might well be asked, was this notable trio doing on Gwa’tan Qua Cest’l Potobo?
Had they come for a holiday? To enjoy the dubious pleasures of blug and a bit of the old F and F? Or could it be possible, just possible, that they were here upon some secret mission? Some psychic quest? Some investigation into an ancient mystery that would lead them into danger, peril and high adventure?
Well, yes, it could.
Danbury Collins hauled the final weighty wooden crate up the beach and sat down heavily upon it. ‘I notice,’ he said as he did so, ‘that all these boxes bear government seals.’
‘MoS,’ said Dr Harney, dropping down beside him on the sand. ‘Ministry of Serendipity, Mornington Crescent. They are funding this expedition.’
Sir John’s gaunt shadow fell across the doctor. ‘I think it might be a sound idea for us to arm ourselves with a few stout sticks,’ he said. ‘I spy a number of natives skulking amongst the palm trees. One of them is wearing a chef’s hat and another has a bag of charcoal.’
‘Just let them try something,’ said Danbury, patting at the bulge in his red cagoule. ‘I came tooled up.’
‘Is that a gun in your pocket?’ asked the doctor. ‘Or are you—’
‘My father’s service revolver. I smuggled it out in the diplomatic bag.’
‘Most enterprising.’
‘I had a “certain feeling” that it might come in handy.’
Sir John nodded approvingly. ‘I have come to rely on your “certain feelings”,’ he said. ‘The guide I have engaged should be with us in about ten minutes. He speaks pidgin English and he has arranged accommodation for us. In the meanwhile we had best be on our guard.’
‘No sweat, Sir John,’ said the psychic youth. ‘And while we’re waiting, perhaps Dr Harney would like to fill us in on all the details of what exactly we’re doing here.’
‘I would,’ said that man. ‘I would indeed.’
‘Then please do,’ said Sir John.
‘It is a most incredible business,’ said the good doctor, rising to his sandaled feet and patting the sand from his strides, ‘and has been pieced together, partly from speculation, partly from historical records and partly from physical evidence. All may not be entirely correct, but I believe I can offer an overview of the situation.
‘Let us begin with a degree of speculation. Let us envisage a super-civilization somewhere in a distant galaxy. This civilization is technologically advanced, it is benign, it is sophisticated. These folk have eradicated illness and put an end to war. There is no poverty, there is no want. They live long and prosper.’
The doctor paused on the off chance that some running gag concerning Oscar Wilde was about to be slipped in here, but as none was, he continued.
‘Utopia,’ the doctor said. ‘Or so it would appear. But disaster looms. Population growth is outstripping food production, natural resources are being depleted. In short, time is running out. It is reasonable to surmise that should our civilization continue, we will encounter these very problems and sooner rather than later.’
‘And so, what is to be done? As I said, this is a technologically advanced civilization. These people have the ability to construct spacecraft. Migration and the colonization of new worlds would seem a viable option.’
‘If they had the ability to locate these worlds,’ said Danbury. ‘Had they?’
‘No, they had not. But they had the capability to mass produce the craft. By the hundreds, by the thousands. And they found no shortage of volunteers to risk a voyage into the unknown.’
‘Your Thomas Cook and Richard Branson types,’ said Danbury.
‘Quite so. The idea was that they would be put into cryogenic suspension inside the spacecraft and then shot off into the void. The spacecraft were equipped with sensors that would scan for suns of a suitable magnitude, then automatically monitor any orbiting planets, searching for vital signs, radio emissions, favourable atmosphere, gravity, whatever.
‘If it came up trumps, the spacecraft would land and defrost its occupant. And if he found that all was well he would radio his position back to the home planet.’
‘Hum,’ said Danbury. ‘I do foresee a few flaws in this. Such as how far one would have to travel and how long the journey might take.’
‘Exactly. And it was understood that most of the spacecraft would probably speed on for ever and ever. But the future of their civilization depended upon it. What other option did they have? And if one single astronaut were to strike it lucky, then all the rest would have died in a worthy cause.’
‘A noble enterprise,’ said Danbury. ‘And did one strike it lucky?’
‘Yes, one did. His spacecraft came upon a golden sun lighting up a circlet of planets, and amongst these planets it found one that was perfect. The one we call Earth.’
‘I had a “certain feeling” this would be the case.’
‘Our chap’s spacecraft drops down onto Earth. He defrosts, but, oh calamity, one hundred thousand years have passed, his civilization is gone into dust and he is all alone.’
‘How sad.’
‘There’s worse.’
‘There’s worse?’
‘Far worse. Our chap is damaged, both mentally and physically. Cryogenic suspension is an untried science. No-one can predict what will happen to a being that is deep frozen for a thousand years, let alone one hundred thousand. Our chap went in as a benign adventurer, he has emerged as a crippled psychopathic monster.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘And he has developed powers.’
‘What powers?’
‘Telepathic powers. Although the freezing had damaged his physical brain, his mind had developed over the long years. He was now capable of imposing his thoughts physically upon others. He could hurt them with his mind. Inflict mental and physical anguish upon them. Force them to do his bidding.’
‘I don’t like the sound of that one bit.’
‘I’m sure you don’t. But nevertheless it was true. In fact all over the world we have evidence of this being’s existence. Works of monumental masonry dating back to the megalithic period. He forced thousands into his service, driving them with mental torment to achieve his ends. Our old friend Stonehenge for example. Massive stones dragged for many miles across rugged terrain. Not dragged there by choice, or at the bidding of a priesthood. Dragged by his slaves and hoisted into place to provide a shelter for him.’
‘And he survived. He lived for centuries. Carnac, the pyramids; all his doing, the work of his will. People were cattle to him; he drove them until they died.’
‘Why didn’t they revolt?’
‘How could they revolt? His will was too strong. The mental control he exerted, the pain he could inflict was too great. Unbearable. None could stand against him.’
‘So what happened to this tyrannical monster?’
‘Mu,’ said Dr Harney.
‘Meow,’ said Danbury Collins.
‘Not mew, you stupid boy, Mu! The lost continent of Mu. It went down, like Atlantis. Natural catastrophe.’
‘Cat-astrophe,’ said Danbury, ‘ha ha ha.’
‘Smack him,’ said Sir John. ‘I find it helps if he gets silly.’
Dr Harney smacked the psychic youth and Danbury made a sour face. ‘So he went down with Mu,’ he said. ‘Then that is that and a good thing too.’
‘It is not the end of the story.’
‘It’s enough for me,’ said the lad. ‘Down with Mu will do for me.’
‘I will, however, tell you the rest. What I have told you so far regarding his rule on Earth has been pieced together from ancient texts and hieroglyphics. Allow me to quote to you from one of the last:
‘And as the ground shook and the temple fell The God did enter into His shield. And His shield was as a seven-pointed star and at its heart a tomb of ice. And the shield did close upon The God and did rise into the heavens.
‘So he took off in search of other worlds to conquer.
‘But the heavens were troubled and all about a storm did rage. And The God fell once more to earth a great way off and never was He seen again.’
‘Crash bang wallop,’ said Danbury, ‘and a good thing too.’
‘There’s a little bit more.’
‘Go on then.’
‘And the people that did dwell behind, those who had served The God, did cry out in a loud voice, saying, “ Good riddance,” and did bare their bottoms in the direction of His passing and make with gestures that were lewd and most profane.’
‘As well they might.’
‘Agreed,’ said the doctor. ‘And there for the most part you have it. Part conjecture, part historical account.’
‘I recall,’ said Danbury, ‘that you mentioned “partly physical evidence”. By that did you mean the monumental architecture?’
‘No, I meant the satellite photographs from a recent geophysical survey. It was carried out by the Ministry of Serendipity to map the movements of the continental shelves and record undersea activity, volcanic and the like. Plate tectonics, you know the kind of business. Allow me to show you this.’
Dr Harney took from his case a large transparent sheet of film, not unlike an X-ray plate. ‘Take a look and tell me what you see.’
Danbury examined the sheet. ‘An area stretching from the western coastline of South America to the Tuamoto island chain. These would appear to be undersea fault-lines and we would be about . . .’
‘Here,’ said Dr Harney, pointing. ‘Now allow me to show you a blow-up of this area.’
Danbury examined this. ‘I see,’ said he. ‘We’re just here.’
‘And that?’
The lad squinted. ‘Just off the southern coast. It looks to be . . .’
‘A star with seven points.’
‘I see.’
‘It’s there, my boy. Out there.’ The doctor gestured to the open sea. ‘Half a mile away and in less than fifty feet of water. Thrown up by recent volcanic activity, and waiting . . .’
‘For us to recover it? That’s why we’re here, to recover it?’
‘Before the Americans do. Steal a march on the blighters, eh?’
‘I see.’
‘Think of the technology. This spacecraft would appear to be intact. This would make it the first ever to be recovered in one piece. The advances in technology to be gained from an examination of it are inestimable. This is a salvage operation, Danbury. This is history in the making.’
‘I see,’ said Danbury once more. ‘Now just let me get this straight. You are suggesting that we haul up an alien spacecraft and ship it back to England. An alien spacecraft that in all probability contains a mad alien in cryogenic suspension. A mad alien that, were he to get thawed out, has the mental power to control human beings. To drive them to fulfil his every wild demand. To drive them like cattle until they die. That is what we are here for.’
Dr Harney nodded. ‘Do you have a problem with that?’ he asked.
‘Well . . .’ said Danbury Collins.
6
‘Well,’ said Mr Phart-Ebum. ‘Here we are and this is it.’
Porrig looked up. ‘Oh,’ he said, and, Wow, and I mean, oh yeah! All right!’
The shop front was magnificent. All pastel colours and understated elegance. Above the broad window hung a chromium and pink enamel winged pig motif.
‘But I thought you said that it wasn’t successful.’ Porrig stared awestruck and all overwhelmed. ‘This is a Flying Pig bookshop. One of the great chain that began in Crow Street, Dublin, with the now legendary Ó Méalóid and Bacon partnership. These shops carry the finest selection of sf, paranormal, cult, occult and God-knows-what-altogether books in the world. They’re internationally famous.’
Porrig peered in through the window. Sophisticated customers, those smart young types who still read books, browsed amongst the stylish shelves. Music that could only be described as ‘cool’ came drifting through the doorway.
Porrig’s heart rose towards the heavens. He had really fallen on his feet this time. This was the big one. To own a branch of the Flying Pig chain. This was wonderful. Incredible.
‘Now, I have your key here,’ said Mr Phart-Ebum. ‘Where exactly did I put it?’
‘Never mind about the key.’ Porrig rubbed his hands together. ‘Let’s go inside and see how much money they’ve taken today.’
‘How much what?’ Mr Phart-Ebum stared at Porrig and followed the direction of his eager gaze. Then Mr Phart-Ebum began to laugh.
‘What are you laughing at?’ Porrig asked.
‘Oh. nothing. I mean, well . . . you didn’t think that . . . Oh, you did . . . Oh, I am so sorry.’
‘What?’
‘You thought that that was your bookshop. I really am so sorry.’
‘What?’
‘That isn’t yours. Yours is the one next door.’
‘What?’
‘That one there.’
Porrig stared. ‘What one where? What shop?’
‘Right here.’ Mr Phart-Ebum pointed.
‘But there isn’t any shop. Just a derelict building with posters plastered all over it.’
‘The shutters are a might gummed up, I suppose. But then they would be. No-one’s opened them for thirty years.’
Porrig’s heart went sink sink sink.
‘Ah yes,’ said Mr Phart-Ebum. ‘Here’s your key. Will I do the honours, or will you?’
Porrig looked up at the building. It was tiny. It was wretched. Paint hung from its front wall in scabious flakes. The upper windows were fogged by the grime of three decades. Most were broken. Pigeons cooed from roosts within.
A low and dismal groan arose from Porrig’s throat and issued through his mouth.
‘I will then,’ said the solicitor, approaching the door. A fetid mattress lay across it. The smell of urine hung in the air. Mr Phart-Ebum prodded the mattress with a polished toe-cap. ‘Best left alone, I think,’ he continued, as he eased the old key into the lock. ‘I might need a hand here getting this open.’
Porrig stood in the sunshine, shaking his head. ‘Not from me,’ he said slowly. ‘Not from me.’
‘Oh come on, Mr Naseby.’
‘No,’ said Porrig. ‘I think I’ll just stand here and bewail my lot, if that’s all right with you.’
Mr Phart-Ebum was shouldering the door. ‘It’s giving.’ he said. ‘I’ve got it open a bit.’
‘Leave it,’ said Porrig. ‘Forget it.’
‘But aren’t you anxious to take a look inside?’
‘Are you jesting? I know what will be inside. A lot of rotten, mouldy old rubbish and no doubt the floorboards will collapse and plunge me to my death.’
‘Ah,’ said the solicitor, who now had the door half open. ‘You might well have a point there.’ He tugged the key from the lock and presented it to Porrig. ‘Well, I have conducted you to the premises and given you the key. My duties are therefore concluded. Do you wish me to send the bill for my services to your home address, or will you be taking up residence here?’ Mr Phart-Ebum caught the eye of Porrig. And a bitter eye it was.
‘Just one thing,’ said the lad, ‘before you go.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘I don’t even know the name of this dead uncle of mine.’
‘You are thinking perhaps of putting up a blue plaque?’ Mr Phart-Ebum had a real smirk on.
‘Not that.’ Porrig shook his head fiercely. ‘It is just that in order to curse the soul of someone properly, you have to know their name.’
‘Indeed? Well, in all truth I don’t know his original name. He had it changed by deed poll when he first went on the stage. All I know is his professional name.’
‘Which
was?’
‘Apocalypso The Miraculous.’
Porrig choked. ‘The Miraculous?’
With a capital T in the The. He was very famous in his day. You can look him up in books.’
‘Not in this shop,’ said Porrig bitterly.
‘Well, in the one next door then.’ Mr Phart-Ebum made throat-clearing noises. ‘And so, I must be off about my business and leave you to yours.’ He took Porrig’s dangling hand between his own and shook it. And then, chuckling like a bad’n, he went on his way.
Porrig gave a deep and heart-felt sigh. He should never have got his hopes up really. Good things never came in his direction. He was just one of life’s losers, doomed ever to disappointment and blows to the skull.
Porrig squinted in through the half-open door. It looked pretty grim in there. Dark and dank and quite without a welcome.
Was it worth a look inside, or should he just get back on the train and go home?
‘Home,’ said Porrig. ‘I don’t think I can take any more.’ He turned the old key on the palm of his hand. He would lock the place up and go home. He could call Mr Phart-Ebum later. Tell him to put the building on the market. Property was always worth something, even if you just knocked it down and levelled the ground for a car-park.
Porrig stepped nimbly over the mattress and tugged at the ancient door. It was all jammed up with rubbish now and Porrig fought to close it. The door seemed disinclined to close. ‘I am an open door now,’ it seemed to say, ‘and I will stay that way.’
‘Oh no you won’t.’ Porrig struggled and strained and sweated and swore. And then he slipped upon something unspeakable and plunged headlong through the doorway.
Porrig now found himself lying face down on the floor. A sad and sorry sight was he. A glum and gloomy grizzler. Porrig thrashed his legs about and drummed his fists on the floor. Only the previous night his mother had behaved in a similar fashion. She, however, had been all convulsed with laughter. Porrig now knew why that was. Porrig thrashed and Porrig drummed, but laughter wasn’t in it.
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