Interior of tank, special telephone handset being snatched up.
Train wheels.
Passengers.
Handset smashing into Commander-in-Chief’s temple.
Tank’s POV of approaching train.
Train’s POV of tank.
Eyes of Sir John.
Eyes of adjutant.
Sir John’s feet on brake.
Adjutant’s hands gripping tank controls.
Train wheels skidding.
Tank tracks whirling.
Eyes of Sir John.
Eyes of adjutant.
People falling.
Sir John’s hand going up to face.
Skidding wheels.
Whirling tracks.
Falling people.
And medium shot as train tears past tank, missing it by inches and grinds and grinds and grinds and grinds to a halt.
And cut!
And print.
‘Nice one everybody. That’s a wrap.’
21
Printouts spewed from computer machines, telephones rang and smart-looking women in tight-fitting suits marched up and down. Men in white coats drank coffee from plastic cups and Augustus Naseby lurked in a corner.
It was all go at the Ministry of Serendipity.
A man in a white coat named Albert (he had named the coat himself, after Queen Victoria’s beloved husband), poked Augustus with a stick.
‘Oi!’ said that man, ‘who do you think you’re poking?’
‘Damn thing doesn’t work,’ said the man with the coat called Albert.
‘What is it, anyway?’
‘Divining rod, sir. I got it out of the stores.’
Augustus Naseby sighed in a manner much favoured by his son. ‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Trying to locate the escape pod, sir. You know, the emergency escape pod that was built into the underground system by the Victorian magicians we deny all knowledge of. The escape pod you sent me to find and prepare.’
‘Sssh,’ went Augustus, with finger at his lips. ‘We don’t want to go causing panic, now do we?’
‘Absolutely not, sir.’
‘Let’s have a look at the thing.’ Augustus snatched the stick and gave it an all-over peering. ‘Didn’t it come with any instructions?’
‘Just this little booklet, sir.’ The man pulled this from a pocket in Albert; Augustus pulled it from him.
“‘Thank you for buying The H. G. Wells 1900 Emergency Escape Pod,” ’ he read. “‘The HGW 1900 supersedes all previous escape pods, having the full brass fittings of The Verne and the black Gothic leather interior of The Poe. Blah blah blah blah—” ’
“‘Blah”?’ asked the man.
‘“Blah”,’ said Augustus. ‘Look, man, there’s a map here of how to get to the pod and there are full instructions for firing it up and getting it launched.’
‘I would assume so, yes, sir.’
‘So why didn’t you just read the booklet?’
‘Not authorized to, sir. Ouch!’
Augustus Naseby raised the stick and struck the man once more.
‘Ouch!’ cried the man once more. And, ‘Ouch!’ he cried once more once more as Augustus hit him once more.
‘The stick works all right,’ said Augustus, ‘You just weren’t using it properly.’
‘Sir,’ said another man in a white coat called Brian (the man’s name was Brian, the coat was called Phil). ‘Sir, there’s a lot of news coming in from Croydon.’
‘Tell me the worst,’ said Augustus.
‘Well,’ said the man, ‘the worst is that my wife has left me for the postman, which probably means that I won’t get all my letters del…Why are you looking at me like that, sir? Ouch!’
‘Croydon,’ said Augustus. ‘Just tell us about Croydon.’
‘This was in Croydon. Ouch!’
‘It does work well, doesn’t it?’ said the man with the coat called Albert. ‘Can I have a go?’
Augustus handed him the stick.
‘Just you dare,’ said Brian.
‘Tell me the news from Croydon or I will shoot you dead,’ said Augustus, drawing out a pistol.
‘Well, sir, it was really exciting. The train was rushing along and the tanks were lined up on the track and the Commander-in-Chief was parked on the actual track in his special tank and he was firing and the train was rushing forward and he was firing and the train was rushing forward and ouch!’
‘Nice shot,’ said Augustus.
Brian rubbed his head. ‘Sir John Rimmer was on the train and he managed to stop it safely.’
‘Bravo, Sir John.’
‘But the monster wasn’t on the train. It was in the last carriage and that was detached from the train somewhat earlier. The monster got off at a village called Bramfield.’
‘And how do you know that?’
‘Street surveillance cameras, sir. Most towns and villages are now fitted with them. Crime prevention, we like to call it. Sounds a bit better than “Big Brother is watching you”, but it amounts to the same thing.’
‘Go on then.’
‘Right sir. The monster had itself installed in a furniture van and continued its journey towards London up the A24.’
Augustus made heart-clutching movements with his non-gun-toting hand. ‘It’s coming to get me. Prepare the pod, we’re going to escape.’
‘Can I come too?’ asked Brian.
Augustus made a thoughtful face and then shot Brian dead. ‘No,’ he said, ‘there won’t be room for three.’
‘Three for London, cabbie,’ said the old bloke.
The cabbie leaned out of his window and looked the old bloke up and down. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said, ‘but this cab’s taken. Tart from London, actually. Nice legs, I reckon I’m onto a promise there.’
The old bloke leaned down to the cabbie and whispered certain words into his ear: explicit details regarding the punishments that would be dealt out in the event of non-compliance.
‘Hop in,’ said the cabbie.
The three hopped in and the cabbie drove off at a breakneck speed. Porrig settled down to read Apocalypso’s book of magic. The old bloke spoke sternly to Rippington.
‘What have you been up to?’ he asked.
‘Porrig made me take him to Omega 666. He said he’d torture me.’
The old bloke shook his head. ‘You took him to help him. I knew you would. But this is not the same reality that I left you in. I can sense that it’s different.’
‘It’s only a slightly different one.’
‘How slightly different?’
Rippington beckoned and whispered at the old bloke’s ear. ‘Well, in this reality Wok Boy didn’t drown in the sea.’
The old bloke shook his head. ‘Fair enough. But what else is different?’
‘Only Porrig.’
‘Porrig? How?’
Porrig closed Apocalypso’s book. ‘Finished,’ he said, ‘what an interesting book.’
‘Well, he can read a lot faster now,’ said Rippington.
‘This gives me an idea,’ said Porrig. ‘We must stop off on the way and pick up a few things.’
‘And improvise.’
‘Get a move on, cabbie,’ said Porrig.
‘And he’s more assertive.’
Porrig sighed.
‘And that’s about all, really.’
The cabbie glanced into his driving mirror. ‘So,’ said he. ‘What have you got there, then? Ventriloquist’s dummy, is it?’
‘I’ll stick my wand where the sun shineth not….’
‘Very droll,’ said the cabbie. ‘And very convincing. Dying art, ventriloquism.’
‘Cabbie,’ said the old bloke.
‘Yep?’ said cabbie.
‘Shut up and drive the cab or I’ll . . .’ And the old bloke leaned forward and whispered once more.
Kevin hunched low at the wheel and shuddered. ‘You’ve got a serious attitude problem,’ he said.
If Dilbert Norris had a serious attitud
e problem, and many would probably say that he had, he was unaware of it himself. Does the man who stamps on a cockroach or swats a wasp have a serious attitude problem? No. Does the man who eats vegetables for dinner have a serious attitude problem? No. Does the man who considers that the human species is superior to the animal kingdom have a serious attitude problem? No. Does the man who eats wasps, sticks cucumbers where the sun shineth notand hobbles around Safeway howling that chickens should rule the world, have a serious attitude problem? No.
Well, not as such.
Dilbert did not have a serious attitude problem. Certainly he stamped upon people rather than insects. Certainly he ate people rather than vegetables. Certainly he considered that his species was superior to the human species. But if judged by the standards of his own race — and by what other standards could he be judged? — he did not have a serious attitude problem.
Well, not as such.
Dilbert’s entry into London was a very swank affair. He wanted it ‘showy’, he wanted it ‘big’. Something that his subjects would tell their grandchildren about. Not that he wouldn’t be there to tell them himself. He would. And then some. But today was special. Today he would make himself known. To everyone.
He dispensed with the furniture van and had himself installed once more in his seven-pointed spacecraft with its top open and plenty of cushions. And plenty of carriers too: he was putting on weight. But it suited him. Made him more majestic. More transcendent. Peerless, unparalleled, dominant, paramount, nulli secundus and top of the tree.
He liked that, did Dilbert, top of the tree. Vegetative connotations, but so much more. Top of the tree. Top of the tree of life, perhaps?
Dilbert nodded a great many chins.
Top of the Tree of Life.
His bands marched before him. Big bands and showy. He’d gathered them up on the way. Sought out the minds of musicians, hurled his pain into them, forced them to collect their instruments, forced them to march and to play.
And fine-looking women, men and children he’d gathered as well. He’d sorted the wheat from the chaff; the good seed from the god-awful, the rose from the thorn and the Sumatran dogwort from the Cambodian marsh lily.
He had become a connoisseur of humans. And as a man might strive to breed the perfect rose or racehorse, so would he, in turn, breed the perfect man, pleasing both to eye and palate, serving his taste.
For Dilbert did have taste. And while there are many who claim that taste is purely subjective, there are a few, better informed, who understand that some things are better than others and that some people are capable of making the distinction.
At the present, Dilbert’s tastes were subjective. Him being the only creature on the planet to hold them. But, if Dilbert got his way, and Dilbert would get his way at any cost, this situation would rapidly change.
But more of this from Dilbert, during his forthcoming speech to the world.
For now let us wave our hankies in the air, cheer his arrival and bow at his passing. Thrill to the curious inhuman rhythms of his many bands. Gaze in awe at the thousands of nudists and buy a silver-coloured helium-filled balloon with the words I ♥ Dilbert printed on the side from one of the many stalls that have sprung up along the way.
And sing an anthem to his praise.
Oh glorious and green thou art
Most high and wide and mighty.
How wonderful thy holy heart
We welcome you to Blighty.
‘What an awful song,’ said the cabbie, fiddling with his radio. ‘It seems to be on all the stations.’
Porrig glanced at the old bloke, who in turn glanced at Rippington, who glanced back at Porrig.
‘Why all this glancing?’ Rippington asked.
The cabbie glanced into his driving mirror. ‘I didn’t start it,’ he said.
‘So where exactly are we now?’ the old bloke asked.
‘Croydon,’ said the cabbie. ‘Twin town with Sarajevo.’
‘Is it?’ Porrig asked.
‘Nah, only joking. Although I do think it has a suicide pact with Pagham.’
The old bloke duffed the cabbie on the head. ‘Can’t you go any faster?’
‘Ouch!’ said the cabbie. ‘No I can’t. There seems to be some kind of military parade going on. Look at all these tanks.’
‘Smart tanks,’ said Rippington. ‘See that special-looking one with the name on the side, there’s a bloke being lifted out of it and put on a stretcher.’
‘Go up on the pavement,’ said the old bloke. ‘Just get a move on.’
The cabbie drummed his fists upon the wheel. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘the road’s blocked with tanks. I can’t get through. You’ll just have to be patient.’
‘Patient?’
‘Be like me,’ said the cabbie. ‘I’m a Buddhist. All black-cab drivers are Buddhists now, you have to be to get the job. We practise inner calm. Meditation, at-oneness, that’s why we never lose our tempers or behave badly in traffic. You could learn a lot, from me. Would you like me to give you a mantra?’
The old bloke leaned forward and gave the cabbie something.
It wasn’t a mantra.
‘Who’s going to drive now?’ asked Rippington.
‘I will,’ said Porrig.
‘No,’ said the old bloke. ‘We’ll never get through this traffic. We need something faster.’
Porrig peered through the windscreen. ‘What about that?’ he asked. ‘I bet that goes fast.’
‘What?’ asked the old bloke.
‘That big black secret unmarked government helicopter with the armaments all over it, parked in the school playground over there.’
‘We’ll take it,’ said the old bloke.
The cabbie didn’t get a tip. Neither did he get his fare. Which was two fares really, considering that he had driven the old bloke down from London. Sometimes life can be irksome, even for a Buddhist.
Porrig dashed towards the playground, followed by the old bloke and the ever-scuttling imp.
A parking warden, observing the cab on double yellow lines, began to write out a ticket. And spying the driver unconscious at the wheel said, ‘Dead drunk too, I’ll report you for that.’
Porrig entered the playground and looked up at the helicopter. It really was impressive right up close: the guns and missile tubes and the big loudspeakers for playing Wagner.
The old bloke puffed to a standstill at Porrig’s side. ‘Ministry of Serendipity gunship,’ he said. ‘Probably brought some top brass militaries down from London. They sent the tanks to stop the train. By the sound of the hymn-singing on the radio, they evidently didn’t succeed.’
‘But who can we get to fly it for us?’
‘Oh, I can fly it. In my guise as Agent Artemis I got all kinds of training.’
Porrig stared at the shaky old man. His wrinkled fingers were trembling and his ancient knees seemed ready to give out at any moment.
‘Piece of cake,’ said the old bloke. ‘Knock on the hatch door and see if there’s anyone at home.’
Porrig shinned up the three-runged ladder and knocked upon the said hatch door.
‘Clear off,’ called a voice from within.
‘Someone’s home,’ said Porrig.
‘Well, bluff it, boy, get them to open up.’ Porrig cleared his throat. ‘Commander Naseby of the MoD here,’ he said in the voice of his father. ‘Open up this door at once.’
‘Oh hell!’ said the voice from within. ‘It’s him.’
Porrig gave a thumbs up to the old bloke. ‘They think I’m my dad,’ he whispered.
The hatch door slid open a couple of inches. Porrig smiled in, but a fist flew out and knocked him from the ladder.
‘Ouch!’ said Porrig, which was appropriate and currently quite fashionable.
‘Leave this to me.’ The old bloke turned away and then turned back as Agent Artemis once more.
Porrig rubbed his aching parts and shook his head in amazement. ‘That really is most impressive,’ he said.
Agent Artemis now drew a large gun from her handbag.
‘That too,’ said Rippington.
‘Let us in.’ Agent Artemis fired shots into the air.
‘God’s teeth,’ said Porrig, covering his head.
The hatch door opened a tad further. ‘Madam,’ called another voice from within. ‘This is an armoured helicopter. You are wasting your time.’
Agent Artemis, already halfway up the ladder, rammed the barrel of her gun halfway up the speaker’s nose. ‘Open the Goddamn door,’ she said.
The helicopter’s door slid fully open. ‘You might as well come in,’ said the man with the gun barrel up his hooter. ‘None of us know how to fly this thing anyway.’
Agent Artemis climbed fully aboard. Porrig helped Rippington up the ladder.
‘Now,’ said Agent Artemis, surveying the interior of the helicopter and the exteriors of three men. ‘Hands up.’
‘Rub-a-dub-rub,’ said Rippington, observing that the three men wore nothing but their underpants. ‘Gentlemens’ orgy, is it? Do you mind if I watch and take notes?’
‘What is that?’ asked the youngest of the three men, raising his hands as he did so.
‘Who are you?’ asked Agent Artemis. ‘And what are you up to?’
The tallest of the three men, whose hands couldn’t go up at all as his head was already touching the roof, said, ‘My name is Sir John Rimmer and these are my two companions, Dr Harney and Danbury Collins. We are trying to steal this helicopter.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said the doctor.
‘Get out of the helicopter,’ said Agent Artemis.
‘No, hang about,’ said Porrig. ‘Sir John Rimmer? Not the Sir John Rimmer, who wrote Beyond Doubtable Reason: The Biography of Apocalypso The Miraculous?’
‘Among many other books,’ said Sir John.
‘What a small world it is,’ said Rippington.
‘What is that?’ said Danbury Collins.
‘Out of the helicopter,’ said Agent Artemis.
‘But, madam, please.’ Sir John fluttered his fingers. ‘My colleagues and I are bound upon what amounts to a sacred mission. We must destroy a monster from outer space that seeks to dominate the entire planet.’
‘What a small world it is,’ said Rippington.