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THE END OF THE WORLD PART TWO: The world was scheduled to end in 999. Nearly does end in 1999. Ends a good deal in 2050 and really ends like crazy in 2060. If you wish to know what happens after that, I suggest you take me out to dinner.
Hugo Rune, The Book of Ultimate Truths
Hugo who?
Sir John Rimmer, My Life and Times
‘YOU SEE,’ said the Thunderbird, ‘THERE’S BEEN A BIT OF A COCK-UP. IN THE NORMAL SCHEME OF THINGS I WOULDN’T BE HERE DOING THIS, BUT IT SEEMS THAT THE BIG FLYWHEEL HAS GONE A BIT WONKY AND SO I’M REALLY ON A MERCY MISSION TRYING TO FIND HOMES FOR ALL THESE DISPLACED GODS. I’M UNLOADING WILLY-NILLY.’
‘Willy-Nilly?’ Eric asked. ‘What’s he the god of?’
‘Buffoons,’ said Rambo. ‘What’s all this about a big flywheel?’
‘None of your business.’ Christeen raised her ear-clipping hand. ‘When is the malfunction?’ she asked the Thunderbird.
‘1993-1999. SABOTAGE IF YOU ASK ME. SOMEONE CALLED IN A TOMORROWMAN TO SORT IT OUT, BUT HE DOESN’T SEEM TO BE GETTING ANYWHERE. HENCE MY ARRIVAL HERE.’
‘A Tomorrowman?’ Christeen asked. ‘You didn’t happen to catch his name by any chance, did you?’
‘REX MUNDI,’ said the Thunderbird. ‘WHY? DO YOU KNOW HIM?’
‘Barry,’ said Rex, ‘do you know what’s going on?’
‘Well chief, I have a theory.’
‘And I’ve had me a revelation.’
‘I’d like to hear Barry’s theory first, if you don’t mind. No offence meant.’
‘None taken, I assure you.’ Elvis sat down in a huff.
‘Time tampering,’ the sprout continued. ‘I should know, it’s my game after all. Or was. Or perhaps still is as we are with you here. Which we weren’t a minute ago. If you follow me. Something or someone or both is interfering with the fabric of time. But it’s localized.’
‘How localized?’
‘It’s you, Rex. Here listen, check this out. Elvis . . .’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘Where have we just been?’
‘We’ve just been here.’
‘But before that?’ The golden one scratched at his splendid cranium, unconsciously rearranging the hairs as he did so. ‘You got me. Where have we been?’
‘At the Hong Kong Hilton, don’t you remember?’
‘Now that you mention it, no, I don’t.’
‘See what I mean, chief? Time is following you personally. When we’re not with you we sort of don’t exist.’
‘But you remember.’
‘The exception that proves the rule. I am the exception, after all.’
‘But why me? And who is this someone or something?’
‘Find that out and you’ve solved the whole thing is my theory.’
‘Some theory,’ Elvis huffed. ‘Now, about my revelation.’
Rex dropped into an armchair of fearful familiarity and wondered if there was any alcohol in the house.
‘I had a dream,’ spake Elvis. ‘And all things were made clear unto me. Well, not all perhaps, but some, one or two . . .’
‘This promises to be good.’
‘Stow it, Barry.’ ‘
‘Sorry chief.’
‘I had a dream, like I say. I was here, in this very room. I remember it exactly.’
‘Were you drinking?’ Rex asked. ‘I mean, if you were, do you recall where you put the bottle?’
‘In the desk behind you.’
‘Thanks.’ Rex opened the desk drawer. There was a bourbon bottle and two glasses. Rex pondered on whether this was a good sign. He concluded that it probably was not. He poured two large slugs.
‘Rock on.’ Elvis accepted his drink. ‘I was here in this room with you. Just like now. We were drinking. Just like this and you said “why?”.’
‘Why?’ said Rex.
‘Yeah, just like that. Then there came this knock on the door.’ Rex glanced towards the door. Elvis glanced towards Rex. Rex glanced towards Elvis. Elvis shrugged. ‘I opened the door - no, you opened the door, well, one of us opened the damn door.’
‘Get on with it, chief.’
‘Outside the door it was inside. Inside this great sort of building. All balconies and staircases going up and up and down and down. And all like real old and cobwebby, like a church. And there was this machine on legs walking about with this granddaddy in the top.’
‘I saw that.’
‘You did?’
‘In a dream once, I can’t quite remember.’
‘Sure? Well, the old guy in the machine was going crazy. These two other guys, a young one with blue hair and blonde eyes and a fat dumpy one were chasing after him. But they couldn’t catch him up. And bits kept dropping off the walls. The staircases were falling down.’
‘I don’t think we need to pursue this,’ said Barry in as firm a voice as he could muster. ‘It’s just a dream.’
‘Let him finish.’
‘There’s not much more to tell. I kept getting the feeling that it was all inside a big clock. We were all in this big clock which kept running down and had to be rewound. But now it had got broken and we were supposed to mend it.’
‘Just a dream, chief. Don’t worry about it.’ Barry might have had further words to utter, or he might not, but whatever the case there now came an urgent knocking upon the bunker door.
‘Ah,’ said Rex. ‘Now there’s a thing.’
‘There’s someone at your door,’ said Elvis. ‘You’d better answer it.’
‘It’s your dream. You answer it.’
‘Let’s pretend we’re out.’
‘Open up,’ came a voice. ‘I know you’re in there.’
‘He knows we’re in here.’
‘Neat thinking, chief.’
‘Shut up Barry. This could be real important.’
‘Or it could just be a dream.’
Elvis chewed his lip. ‘Or a nightmare.’
‘Perhaps it’s Freddy Krueger, chief.’
‘Come on.’ Rex went over to the door. ‘Who is it?’
‘Inter-Rositer Prestidigitent KK Byron Wheeler-Vegan.’
‘It ain’t Freddy.’
‘Barry, take a nap!’
‘What? And miss the next bit. No chance.’
Rex took out his Americard and having marvelled at it a moment, dropped it into the lock release. The bunker door slid back with a sci-fi hiss. Byron bobbed up and down in the portal.
‘It’s the dude with the blue flat-top,’ said Elvis.
‘There’s not a lot of time left,’ wheezed the breathless Byron. ‘And that is exactly what I mean. You’ve got to come at once.’
Rex gazed beyond the bobbing boy. The panorama which spread brain-damagingly away before him was the one Elvis had described.
Tier upon tier of marble galleries, floors inlaid with copper filigree. The polished brass of the cogs and screws and rivets and dials and turncocks. The great machines dwindling into hazy perspectives. And things of that nature.
Byron followed Rex’s numb stare. ‘Come with me now. Everything will be explained.’
‘Best do as he says, chief.’
Byron peeped in at Elvis. ‘Hello Barry,’ said he, ‘I hoped you’d come along.’
‘Hello Byron.’
‘You two know each other?’ Elvis shook his befuddled head. Rex took the opportunity to join him on this occasion.
‘Come along now, please.’ The two heroes shared shrugs and passed through the bunker door into the wonder underland. ‘Follow me.’
Byron led the bemused pair along a sweeping gallery. It was deserted. ‘Not far,’ said Byron.
‘Hey buddy, what the flipping heck is this place?’
‘Easy chief. Mr Smith will tell you.’
‘Mr Smith? Stone me Barry. What is all this? How come you know these people?’
‘I shouldn’t say, chief.’
‘What is that sound?’ Rex asked. ‘Like a heartbeat. It’s everywhere.’
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‘It’s the big flywheel chief.’
‘Come along. We’re almost there.’ Byron led them up a spiral staircase and across an open floor. He stooped and drew up a panel. ‘Down here.’
Elvis gazed into the opening. ‘That ain’t possible,’ he said simply. ‘We just came from underneath here. How can there be room?’
‘A flaw between floors. Follow me if you will.’ He scuttled down the stairway. With further shrugs, Rex and Elvis followed. Byron pulled a string and the floor panel dropped back into place.
‘It’s a barber shop,’ said Elvis. ‘Hey. If you’re the military forget it. Hell no, I won’t go!’
It was indeed a barber’s shop. Circa 1955. The row of six chrome and leather chairs even had the little nests of shorn hair around them. There were the mirrors. The glass cabinets containing hair creams, shaving soaps and items for the weekend. There was even that provocative barber’s shop smell that you just don’t get any more. And the chrome-topped towel heater and the leather strop for the cutthroat razor. It meant nothing whatever to Rex, whose first thought, that it was a torture chamber, echoed those of many a callow youth.
‘It is a barber’s shop.’ Mr Smith rose from one of the chairs. He wore a bow tie, high collar, white shirt, striped waistcoat, black trousers and monogrammed carpet slippers. ‘I kept it a bar as long as I could, but it began to slide ... it slid to a bar-ber’s shop. Should be grateful for small mercies, I suppose. It might have slipped to a bar-becue . . .’
‘You Mr Smith?’ Elvis asked. ‘Cos if you ain’t. . .’ Elvis made a fist and shook it about in a suitably threatening manner.
‘I am Mr Smith. Won’t you please take a seat?’
‘Take a hike. I’ll stand.’
‘As you will. I can’t offer you a drink I’m afraid. Would you care for a shave, or perhaps something for the weekend?’
‘Just say your piece, is all.’
‘As you will, once more. I regret we had to bring you here, but there was no other way. We’ve tried making adjustments but the alternative scenarios we came up with were not good. The mechanism is severely damaged. Possibly beyond repair. So there you are. Or here you are. Which you are. As you can see.’
‘I’ll bust his head.’
‘Easy.’ Rex put out a restraining hand.
‘I’m sorry.’ Mr Smith reseated himself. ‘What I am about to tell you, you may not care to believe. But nevertheless it is the truth. Or one possible truth. You must judge for yourself. You are here, which testifies to some state of reality. But I leave it to you. In short, you are now at the very centre of planet Earth. The sound you hear is that of the big flywheel. The gyroscopic stabilizer which keeps the world running on trim and powers its motion around the sun. Standard equipment, installed in all planets. They could hardly be expected to spin around by themselves, could they?’
‘Well . . .’
‘It was a rhetorical question. Take it from me, they couldn’t. The big machine, the big flywheel, does much more than this, of course.’
‘Oh, of course.’
‘Shut up Elvis.’
‘Yeah. Ssssh chief. And don’t sulk.’
‘I never sulk.’
‘Might I continue?’
‘Please do.’ Rex sat down and prepared for the worst.
‘Thank you. The big machine is a fail-safe mechanism. Installed by the Great Architect, or more correctly, the Great Engineer of the Universe. Not only does it power the planet but it protects those who live upon its surface. It has a rewind mode. Mankind makes mistakes you see. Mistakes which the Great Engineer, under his vow of non-involvement, is loath to set right. Hence the machine. Whenever mankind reaches the point of self-destruction the rewind button is pressed. The machine goes into reverse, we skip back to the source of the problem and adjust it out. Once the error is corrected we put the machine back into gear and off we all go again until the next time.’
‘And how do you make these corrections?’ Rex asked.
‘Ah well. There is usually a single individual at fault. Take Mr Presley here as an example . . .’
‘No. Let’s don’t.’
‘Sorry Mr P. But it is generally agreed that had you not joined the army, the entire course of world history would have changed.’
Elvis hung his head.
‘But that is neither here nor there. Your joining or not joining the army does not lead directly to the ultimate extinction of the human species.’
‘See,’ said Elvis, taking the opportunity to straighten his hair in the nearest mirror.
‘Well, not directly. I am talking major disasters. Plagues, world wars, Armageddon.’
‘It’s that word again.’
‘Hush up, Barry.’
‘Sorry chief.’
‘So, you’re telling me you can change history, turn back the clock?’
‘Exactly, Mr P. The big machine turns back the clock. But over the centuries time, amongst other things, has taken its toll. And the disasters keep getting bigger and bigger. Only five years ago there was that triple melt-down contaminating ninety-five per cent of the planet.’
‘I don’t remember that.’
‘Of course not. Because we preconceived it and made the appropriate adjustments. But the machine can no longer keep up with demand. Faults in the mechanism cannot be rectified. Openings are created and things slip through which shouldn’t slip through.’
‘Things like Wayne L. Wormwood.’
‘Very perceptive, Rex.’
‘Is Wormwood still alive?’
‘Ah. There you have me. Something is alive which may or may not be Wormwood. It’s all rather complicated and I regret that you will have to sort that out for yourself.’
‘Can’t you just adjust him out? Saying I believe all this howdy doody. Which I ain’t all too sure I do.’
‘The mechanism is failing, Mr Presley. But I have a theory.’
‘Every sucker’s got a theory.’
‘But mine is perhaps better than most. Excuse my lack of modesty, it is a concept I do not wholly comprehend. My theory attends to the “as above, so below” school of thought. All is interlinked you see. Past, present, future, you, me, the big machine. All part of a single organism. I believe that if you can correct what is going on on the surface, then the machine will be likewise corrected.’
‘Sounds like hokum to me.’
‘Well, of course it sounds like hokum.’ Mr Smith threw up his hands and whizzed round and round in his chair. ‘It’s all hokum, isn’t it? A dirty big clockwork motor making the world go round. A man from the future married to Jesus Christ’s twin sister. The president of the United States a demon from the bottomless pit. Elvis Presley with a sprout in his head. Need I continue? If it wasn’t for hokum we wouldn’t have any plot at all, would we?’
‘Well, if you put it that way . . .’
‘Chief. You’re sulking again.’
‘So? What if I am?’
‘Right,’ said Rex. ‘Say we believe you. And I want to know a great deal more before I do anything. But say we agree,’ he ignored Elvis, who was violently shaking his head. ‘Say we do. Then what do you want us to do about it?’
‘If you will excuse the expression. I would like you to go and “kick ass”. It’s what you do best.’
‘And while we are doing this, what exactly will you be doing?’
‘We’ll be right behind you,’ said Byron brightly. ‘The mechanism is not entirely banjoed yet. If it were then none of us would be here now. We will make one very big and very final adjustment. Get you to the right place at the right time. And we’ll give you an edge. A good one. I won’t tell you about it now because it would spoil things.’
‘Could you give us a clue?’ Elvis asked. ‘Do it in mime so the readers won’t know?’
‘No,’ said Byron. ‘I could not. But know this. Our thoughts and our hopes will go with you. Our thoughts, our hopes and our prayers. The future of the world is in your hands. The entire course o
f human history has led to this moment. The planet stands poised upon the brink of the abyss and only you can pluck it back. It is your destiny and you must fulfil it. Does this offer any comfort?’
‘None whatever,’ said Elvis Aron Presley.
PART THREE
26
Away in a manger no crisps for his friends.
William Rankin
Move over Rover, let Satan take over.
Savage Pencil
31 December 1999
‘Don’t it ever let up?’ Elvis huddled his cape around him and pulled the hood lower about his face. They were still in the shop doorway and the grey rain was still lashing down.
‘What time do you have?’ Rex asked.
‘Eight thirty. And you?’
‘The same. I don’t think he’s coming.’
The night rain beat on relentlessly. Park Avenue shone. The holographic store signs seemed fragile, ghost-like. The colours unearthly.
‘The no good son of a...’ Elvis kicked the nearest window. The bullet-resistant plexiglass resisted his blue suede bootery. ‘Look at him.’
Rex gazed once more into the shop window. They were sheltering in the doorway of Cagliostro Books. Within, the holographic Jack Doveston smiled cheerfully. About him, the fruits of his labours, six bestsellers, were arranged in pleasing compositions.
They Came and Ate Us, his latest mega-hit, free-floating letters announced BUY NOW WHILE STOCKS LAST.
Rex grinned fiercely. ‘No-one ever told him that things would get this tight. One hundred copies sold make you a bestseller these days.’
‘You seen the price of them, Rex?’ Rex hadn’t. He nearly collapsed when he did. ‘A hundred copies make you one rich dude.’
‘He’s not coming. I knew we shouldn’t have trusted him.’
‘So. What do we do? We can’t go out in the rain. But we can’t stay here. It’s gone curfew, we’ll be picked up for sure.’
‘We’ll have to make a run for it.’
‘To where? We got nowhere to go.’
‘Hold on. That’s him.’
A white Koshibo Tiger swam into view. It cruised to a halt some distance from the sidewalk. The passenger door rose. ‘Come on,’ called Jack. ‘Don’t hang about.’