‘Will somebody please tell me what that is?’ said Danbury.
Agent Artemis cocked her pistol. ‘I really should shoot the three of you,’ she said. ‘I know all about you and what you’ve done.’
‘What have they done?’ asked Porrig.
‘They’re to blame for all this. They brought up the monster from under the sea.’
‘Ah, now,’ said Sir John, ‘that’s not strictly true. The Americans brought it up and—’
‘Get off or I shoot you dead.’
‘Oh come on,’ said Porrig. ‘We’re wasting time. If they want to help, let them help. We need all the help we can get.’
Agent Artemis tucked away her pistol. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘You can take responsibility for them, Porrig. Everybody strap up tight and I will fly the helicopter.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Sir John. ‘I don’t know about that.’
‘And why not?’
Well,’ said Sir John. ‘And no offence meant. But you’re a . . . you know . . . girlie.’
‘What?’
‘Well, it’s just that we never have much to do with girlies. I am strictly celibate, due to being bitten in a private place by my pet spaniel when I was a child. Dr Harney is past that sort of thing and Danbury . . . well, Heaven knows what Danbury gets up to.’
‘Will somebody please tell me what that is?’ said Danbury.
‘I’m Rippington,’ said Rippington. ‘I am a dvergar and I work as a librarian in ALPHA 17, which is an alternate reality where all the ancient books of magic are stored. My hobbies include reading and making small animals out of paperclips. My ambition is to have my own television talk show, where I would interview . . .’
‘Shut it,’ said Agent Artemis. ‘And those paperclips will come out of your wages. Now, gentlemen. We have wasted more than enough time. You are all a bunch of no-marks in my opinion and I am going to fly this helicopter. Are you coming with us, or getting off?’
‘Depends where you’re going,’ said Danbury. ‘You haven’t told us yet.’
‘Women,’ said Sir John. ‘Typical.’
Porrig covered his eyes to spare them the sight of the violence.
When the violence was finished he opened them again.
Three men lay unconscious on the floor, their underpanted bottoms in the air. Agent Artemis sat up front, her bottom on the pilot’s seat.
‘Right,’ she said, in the voice of the old bloke. ‘London it is, to do battle with the monster.’
Porrig went up front, settled himself onto the co-pilot’s seat, strapped himself in, perched Rippington upon one knee and Apocalypso’s book upon the other.
‘All right,’ said Porrig. ‘Let’s do it.’
22
Dilbert Norris did it. Big time.
His procession moved in regal splendour through the streets of London. At the vanguard, some five hundred or more big strong men pushed forward like a human battering ram, overturning parked cars and thrusting aside anything that blocked the progress of The Great Green One. Then came the bands and the beautiful people, then The Great Green One himself, waving a limp green hand and smiling a terrible smile.
At the Ministry of Serendipity, Augustus Naseby lurked at a desk before the big wall screen, viewing the image of Dilbert, beamed to him via London’s many street surveillance cameras.
‘Unstoppable,’ he said with a sigh. ‘He’s unstoppable.’
The man in the white coat called Albert nodded. ‘His ability to project pain telepathically is without precedent. People are powerless to resist. He has absolute control over them. He is a singular and most remarkable being.’
‘Yes, all right.’ Augustus made fists. ‘I’m sure he’s a triumph of evolution. But he has to be destroyed.’
‘I wonder over how great a distance he can project his power.’
‘About a mile, I’d say.’
‘Then we’ll soon be in range. We have to get out. What news of the escape pod?’
‘Well, sir. Following the instructions in the handbook, I located it all right. It’s a two-man jobbie, lovely Victorian craftsmanship, powered by a sophisticated steam turbine system, which, had the government of the day not chosen to keep to themselves, would have made the internal combustion engine a non-starter. Don’t you sometimes feel, sir, that we could do so much good for the world if we didn’t just greedily hoard stuff like that?’
Augustus Naseby gave the man a certain look.
‘Sorry, sir,’ said the man. ‘I don’t know what came over me there.’
‘So where exactly is this escape pod?’
‘You’d never guess in a thousand years.’
‘Nor do I intend to try,’ said Augustus. ‘Because if you don’t tell me right this minute, I will hit you again with this stick.’
‘Well, sir, it is cleverly disguised as a famous London monument. It’s—’
‘Sir! Sir!’ went another man in a white coat, bustling up. ‘The monster’s reached Trafalgar Square. I think something big’s about to happen.’
And indeed it was.
Dilbert had built himself a mountain on the raised plaza that surrounds Nelson’s Column. It wasn’t a very large mountain, more of a hillock really, but it was impressive. Thirty feet in height it was, and built from living men.
Dilbert had been conveyed to the very top and he lazed there, soaking up the sun and being moistened here and there by attentive naked women bearing little plant sprays.
The human hillock squirmed beneath him. Those at the top groaned dismally. Those at the bottom were already dead.
Trafalgar Square was carpeted with people wall to wall, down on their knees, their faces to the paving slabs. Television news crews that Dilbert had gathered on the way angled up their cameras and checked their furry mics. This was news, and although they really didn’t want to be here recording it, they had no choice. They were Dilbert’s people now, controlled by his thoughts, utterly without wills of their own, his to do with as he pleased.
Dilbert turned his big bad head from side to side. Green and glistening, broad-smiled and glossy-black-eyed, he examined his reflections caught (to perfection, he considered) in the long mirrors looted at his command from department stores and held by his Nubian favourites, who balanced about him on his hill of death.
‘How do I look?’ he asked.
‘Big God-fala tasty-good,’ said a finely-muscled fellow.
‘Picking all this up all right?’ called Dilbert to the news crews below.
‘Fine,’ said a CNN man, giving the thumbs up.
‘Then do it from down on your knees.’ Dilbert flung down mental pain and the news man sank to his knees.
‘Still fine?’
‘Perfect, O great one.’
‘Then I shall begin.’ Dilbert waved away the sprayers and holders of mirrors and comfied his big bad bottom. ‘People of Earth,’ he began. ‘My people. Oh, and yes, hello.’ Dilbert waggled his fingers towards a street surveillance camera high atop a not-too-distant lamp-post. ‘Hello to the boys from the Ministry watching too.’
‘He sees us,’ whispered a man in a nameless white coat. ‘He knows we’re watching him.’
‘Of course I know,’ said Dilbert. ‘I know all and see all and hear all too. But all of you will learn this in time. So, now, let me begin. People of Earth —my people — many of you will not remember me. Most, in fact, will not remember me. It is so very long since I was last among you. But, praise be unto me, I am back.
‘Now, I know what you’re asking yourselves. You are asking yourselves, who is this handsome fellow broadcasting live to us. Well, I will answer that. I am your God. Some big surprise, eh? Last thing you expected today was to have God appearing live on your television. But, glory be to myself, it is now something that you will be enjoying each and every day.
‘Because, each and every day from now on, I will be appearing on your television and you will be watching me and listening to me and I will be telling you what you can do to please
me and you will be doing it. Do I make myself clear?’
Dilbert smiled his terrible smile and stared with his terrible black eyes towards the cameras.
‘Oh,’ said Dilbert. ‘Apparently I do not make myself clear. Apparently not all of you out there are convinced of my Godly credentials. I think perhaps that now would be the time for a demonstration of my powers.’
‘Switch it off!’ shouted Augustus.
‘Sir?’
‘Switch the big wall screen off now.’
The man in the nameless white coat switched it off.
And not a moment too soon. Because WHAM, ZAP and no doubt POWEE too, from Trafalgar Square, through the ether and over the airways and out of every television set that was tuned to Dilbert’s broadcast— WHAM, ZAP, POWEE and a big time OUCH!
Pain flung from Dilbert’s mind tore into every viewer. Folk fell from their chairs and couches, sucking in their breath and clutching at their heads as the message reached them, forced in and rammed home, destroying every other thought.
I AM GOD AND YOU WILL WORSHIP ME.
And in Downing Street and in the White House and in palaces and mansions and rooms of state and shops and homes and houses and hovels, all who watched Him felt His power and sank before to worship.
I AM GOD AND YOU WILL WORSHIP ME.
‘Well,’ said Augustus. ‘If we had any doubts about his capability of controlling everything, I think we should dismiss them from our minds while we still have minds to dismiss them from.’
‘Two-way TV,’ marvelled the man in the nameless coat. ‘We know he can see whoever sees him. You think he can hurt them too?’
Augustus nodded. ‘I have absolutely no doubts at all.’
‘We’re in big trouble here, sir, aren’t we?’
‘Get me some more coffee in a plastic cup,’ said Augustus, lurking ever lower in his chair. ‘And make sure that every TV set in the ministry is switched off.’
‘It’s going to make it rather difficult to keep tabs on what the monster’s up to, sir.’
Augustus waved the man away. ‘I’m sure he’ll let us know.’
‘I am currently, as you can see, in London,’ said Dilbert. ‘Beside’ — he gestured — ‘Nelson’s Column. I shall soon be arranging a world tour, so that I can get to know you all personally. You will find me an easy God to please. All you have to do is obey. What could be simpler than that?
‘There will naturally be some changes in lifestyle. Total world disarmament, a single world economy and a single world language. I will teach you mine. Regular hours of worship, and I will, of course, frown upon the worshipping of any gods other than myself. And there are rather too many of you at the present and the standard is somewhat low. It will be necessary to cull about a third. I will let you know who is to cull whom.
‘So, it’s all good news, really. No more wars, no more religious strife, everything in order and jolly times ahead. For some of you, at least. I’ll bet you’re really glad I came back, aren’t you?’
Dilbert smiled once more into the cameras and the viewers caught once more his power.
And their heads bobbed up and down. They were really glad that he was back. Really, yes, really, they were, yes they were.
‘I’m really pleased that you know how to fly this helicopter,’ said Porrig to the old bloke, who was the old bloke once more.
‘Do you have your plan all worked out, Porrig?’
‘Well, I would have liked to have stopped off to pick up some stage props, but I think I can manage without them.’
‘You seem very confident.’
‘Yes I do,’ said Porrig. ‘Although I can’t imagine why.’
‘Oh look,’ said Rippington, peeping over Porrig’s shoulder. ‘The Chippendales are waking up.’
The old bloke shook his ancient head, his dog-eared crests of hair a-wagging as he did so. ‘Go and help the blighters, Porrig,’ said he. ‘Check that I didn’t break any bones.’
Porrig unstrapped himself and lifted Rippington down. The two of them edged back through the helicopter, which was now moving across the sky at a fair old kind of a lick.
‘How are you doing?’ said Porrig to Danbury.
The callow youth rubbed at his head. ‘People keep hitting me,’ he said.
‘I know the feeling. Sir John?’
‘Fine,’ said the long man, who didn’t look fine. ‘But you see what I mean about women? Whatever brought on such violence? PMT would be my guess.’
‘I think you’d better keep your misogynist remarks to yourself from now on.’
‘Listen to you,’ said Rippington. ‘What is this, the new Porrig, or something?’
‘Or something. You all right, doctor?’
‘Neck’s a bit stiff,’ said Dr Harney, sitting up. ‘The girlie used Dimac, didn’t she?’
Porrig nodded. ‘But you’re quite safe. The, er, girlie has gone. We have a chap flying the helicopter now.’
‘Good thing too,’ said Sir John.
‘Easy,’ said Porrig.
‘Quite so.’
‘Porrig has a plan to destroy the monster,’ said Rippington.
‘Sir John has a plan too,’ said Danbury. ‘Although I do have a “certain feeling” about it.’
‘Not surprised,’ said Rippington. ‘I can hear him thinking it and it’s a really rubbish plan.’
‘It is not.’ Sir John climbed slowly to his feet.
‘lt’s as bad as the bomb in the beard.’
‘The what?’ asked Porrig.
‘Bomb in a beard,’ said Rippington. ‘Sir John’s previous failed plan to destroy the monster. Brave attempt though.’
‘Thank you,’ said Sir John. ‘And I do take responsibility for what’s happened. If only the Americans had not reached the monster first.’
‘They would never have reached it first,’ said Rippington. ‘If Dr Harney hadn’t tipped them off.’
‘Outrageous,’ said the doctor, jumping to his feet. ‘I did no such thing. Which way is this helicopter flying?’
‘He did too,’ said Rippington. ‘I can hear him thinking it.’
‘The creature’s mad.’ The doctor fiddled at his underpants.
‘Dr Harney is a CIA agent, planted in the Ministry of Serendipity,’ said Rippington. ‘And it was he who bribed the head man of the island village to duff up Sir John and nick his beard.’
‘You swine of a man,’ said Sir John, taking a swing at the doctor.
‘Back off,’ said Dr Harney, drawing out a pistol.
‘Blimey!’ said Danbury. ‘Where did he keep that pistol hidden?’
‘Hands up all of you.’ Dr Harney motioned with his pistol. ‘It’s true, Sir John. It’s all true.’
‘But why?’ the long man asked. ‘I thought we were friends.’
‘Ptah!’ went Dr Harney, in the manner much favoured by villains. ‘I was sick of playing second fiddle to you. Watching you poncing about and getting all the credit for everything we did together.’
Sir John hung his high head. ‘I have failed everyone,’ he said dismally.
Dr Harney turned his pistol upon Porrig. ‘Tell the pilot to change course,’ he said. ‘Any nearer to London and we will be caught in the blast.’
‘Er, excuse me,’ said Porrig. ‘But, blast, did you say? What blast is this?’
‘The five megaton nuclear blast. The Americans are preparing to—’
‘Nuke the creature,’ said Danbury. ‘No wonder I had a “certain feeling”. What did I tell you right from the start? It will end in nuking, I said. But did anybody listen? Oh no, take no notice of Danbury. When I said nuke it now, what did you say? There will be no nuking, you said. And what’s going to happen now? Nuking, that’s what’s going to happen, and I OUCH!’
Danbury fell fainting to the floor.
Rippington examined the tip of his magic wand. ‘Works a treat doesn’t it?’
‘What is going on?’ Porrig made fists with his upraised hands. ‘What is all this about n
uking?’
‘The only way to be sure,’ said Dr Harney. ‘I radioed back to my base in America after we got off the train.’
‘Where do you keep your radio?’ asked Sir John.
‘Same place that I keep my pistol. In a specially designed holster that nestles in my bottom cleft’
‘He does have a very big bottom,’ said Rippington.
‘I do not!’
‘Oh yes you do.’ Rippington waggled his small one about.
Dr Harney brought his gun to bear upon the imp.
Sir John kicked it out of his hand and floored him with a mighty blow.
‘Nice one, Sir John,’ said Rippington. ‘I thought you might do that if I distracted his attention.’
‘What are we going to do?’ Porrig asked.
‘Well,’ said Rippington. ‘You could get the doctor’s radio, call his base in America and get them to call off the nuking.’
‘What are we going to do?’ Porrig asked.
‘Well,’ said Rippington. ‘You could get the doctor’s radio and . . . Oh, you heard me the first time, didn’t you?’
Porrig nodded.
‘And you don’t fancy . . . er . . .’
Porrig shook his head and whispered the words, ‘bottom cleft.’
‘Oooooooooooooooooh,’ moaned Danbury, coming round.
‘But what are we going to do?’ asked Porrig.
Porrig’s dad knew exactly what he was going to do.
He was going to escape in the HGW 1900 escape pod. Just as soon as the man in the white coat called Albert returned to tell him that all was prepared.
The man in the nameless coat came sauntering up. ‘Sir,’ said he. ‘You know you told me to make sure all the TVs were switched off?’
Augustus nodded and lurked a bit lower. ‘Well, I did that, sir. But while I was in the communications room, I happened to overhear a message being sent on the Americans’ top secret waveband.’
‘The one that they don’t know that we know about?’
‘Yes, that very one. And you’ll never guess in a thousand years what they were saying on it.’
‘No,’ Augustus sighed. ‘You’re quite right there. Because I don’t give a damn.’