‘Unless it’s them automatons!’ whispered Mrs Spinnaker. ‘Maybe one of them’s gone wrong, just like the laundrymaid in that song of mine! Gone mad, maybe! Ready to slaughter us all!’
‘Really, Mrs S., do please calm yourself,’ Mother assured her. ‘The automata are perfectly safe. There is no room in their mechanical heads for a thought, let alone a mad one.’ But Mrs Spinnaker was far from reassured.
Still, it is a dark cloud indeed which has no silver lining, and at least her troubled mood meant we were spared her musical evening, and Myrtle’s beastly old piano playing.
After dinner Mother and Myrtle and I took a stroll along the promenade for the sake of our digestions. It all looked very lovely in the evening light, with the crags like silhouettes cut from black card and pasted to a lilac sky, and the stars just starting to come out. But the shuttered beach cafe had taken on a sinister air, and the silent bathing machines and Punch & Judy shows which stood about reminded me now more of coffins than of sentry boxes. We stopped to peek at a fortune-telling booth, in which an automaton in the shape of a one-eyed gypsy woman sat staring into a ball of cloudy Martian crystal. Myrtle thought it a vulgar thing, and stomped off to strike wistful poses at the promenade rail, but Mother put a penny in the machine’s slot, and the gypsy clattered into life and droned, ‘I foresee a long journey. You will meet a tall, dark stranger …’
That reminded me somehow of my encounter on the balcony the night before. The shadow-thing had not been tall, but it had certainly been dark and strange.
‘Mother,’ I said, ‘what is small and inky black and goes “Moob”?’
‘I don’t know, Art,’ she replied, thinking that I was trying to lighten the atmosphere with an amusing riddle. ‘What is small and inky black and goes “Moob”?’
‘It is no riddle, Mother. There was one nosing about on our balcony last night.’
I told her all about our strange nocturnal visitor, and she listened carefully. When I had finished she said, ‘Well, Art, I do not know what to make of it, I’m sure, but there is nothing in this creature’s behaviour to suggest it means us harm. Starcross has ventured out upon the ocean of Time, and I daresay as many strange fish swim there as in the oceans of Space. I am far more inclined to worry about the foul play which has befallen Professor Ferny and dear Sir Richard. I think it might be best if were to gather everyone together, and leave Starcross as soon as we can.’
I looked doubtfully towards the railway station, and the upward curve of the track which led from it, rising on its ornate iron pillars into the sky, where it suddenly ended, cut off from the rest of the railway by a hundred million years. It was like a reminder cast in steel of how very far we were from help.
We were just about to turn back to the hotel when we heard footfalls behind us and looked round to find Mr Munkulus, Nipper and Grindle hurrying to join us. I was exceeding glad to see them again, especially as they had not been able to join us for dinner. In keeping with their roles as the Honourable Ignatius Flint’s servants, they had to eat in the servant’s quarters, and were very seldom seen in the parts of the hotel where the guests congregated.
‘Well, Mrs Mumby,’ said Mr Munkulus, when we had all greeted one another. ‘This is a strange to-do.’
‘Indeed it is, Mr M. What do you make of it?’
Mr M. looked bashful, clearly very proud that one of Mother’s great age and wisdom should wish to hear his opinion. ‘Mrs Mumby,’ he said at last, ‘there’s oddness afoot. Jack’s convinced himself that this Delphine person’s at the bottom of it, but I’m not so sure.’
‘There’s something about that Mr Titfer that I don’t like,’ confessed Nipper. ‘I know he makes very fine hats, but even so …’
‘So you, too, admire this Titfer’s Toppers?’ asked Mother.
‘Oh yes,’ they all chorused – though three beings less likely to don top hats it would be difficult to conceive of!
‘I wish we was back in our own times,’ muttered Grindle, ‘I’d send word to Ssil and have her bring the Sophronia here and carry us all away. I’ve had enough of this spying lark, all sneaking about and pretending to be things you ain’t. Give me the open aether and a good clean fight any day.’
Mother patted his head. ‘Don’t be glum, Mr Grindle,’ she said. ‘By this time tomorrow we’ll either be back at Modesty, or the villain whose hand we now but dimly perceive will have revealed himself –’
‘Or herself,’ said Myrtle.
‘… and we shall have a chance to face him –’
‘Or her.’
‘… and whichever happens, I shall feel very glad to have you, and Mr Munkulus, and Nipper at my side. If we all stand together, I do not think that anything very terrible can happen, can it?’
We had been walking along as we spoke, and by this time we had reached the hotel entrance and a parting of the ways: ours led inside and upstairs to our suite, while our friends must needs go round the side of the building to the servants’ quarters, where they had their beds.
Mother said that the best thing we could do was try to get some sleep, so we set our alarm clocks and turned in. But after an hour or so I came awake, and found myself seized anew by the strange urge to open the closet in the sitting room. In all the excitements of the day before I had somehow forgotten that hat box on the top shelf, but now I saw it in my mind’s eye, sharp and clear. I could imagine that fine black topper nestling inside it, and it seemed to be calling to me: Put me on, Art! Put me on!
As if in a waking dream I rose from my bed and lit the lamp. I went out into the sitting room, opened the closet and carried the box back into my own room. I set it down upon my bed and there undid the lid, and folded back the layers of tissue paper which protected the hat. But as I reached out for the hat itself, it seemed to twitch. The movement was very quick, and I might easily have missed it, but the round opening within the black brim seemed to narrow slightly.
I had the oddest notion that it had just licked its lips.
I took a step back, telling myself not to be so foolish. Yet I could not help myself. Suddenly I felt most terribly afraid.
I moved closer, and looked down inside the hat. And from its depths, two small white eyes looked back at me!
Suddenly, as if I had out-stared it and its nerve had snapped, the hat sprang from its box and hurled itself at my head! I ducked, and it twirled past me and struck the wall, flattening itself like one of those collapsible opera hats before springing back at me.
I wanted to cry out, but did not wish to startle my mother and sister, who would surely hear me. So I cried out very softly, ‘Aaaah!’, while reminding myself that Britons never, never, never shall be slaves, or the victims of maneating hats, and wondering what Jack Havock would do in a position like mine.
A weapon was what I needed, I decided, as the creature darted across the room at me. I dived sideways to where a small bureau stood and snatched up a paper knife, its ornate hilt embossed with the Starcross coat of arms. As the thing readied itself for another attack I flung the knife at it, and transfixed it through the crown! It gave a small, disappointed sigh and dropped to the floor, where it twitched for a moment and then lay still. Dead, it looked not at all like a hat. It was a strange, leathery thing, and reminded me a little of those dogfish eggs which are washed up from time to time on English beaches, and known as ‘Mermaid’s Purses’. Except that a ‘Mermaid’s Purse’ has a prong protruding from each corner, while the thing on my rug had only two protrusions, and each one ended in a tiny black hand …
Steadying myself, I quickly dressed and went to wake Mother. But as I stood outside her bedroom door, poised to tap upon it, I heard strange voices outside the suite. Several men were coming up the stairs!
‘We should wait a while longer,’ said one.
‘We have waited long enough already,’ said another. ‘She did not come last night; she has not come tonight. She is immune to our influence, and we must use more direct means, otherwise she will leap abo
ard that supply train tomorrow morning and we shall lose her.’
I stared at the door. I heard the soft click of a pass key in the lock and saw the handle start to turn.
Quick as a flash, I darted behind one of the curtains beside the balcony window.
From my hiding place I saw the door open. In came Mr Titfer, in evening dress, with a tall, black hat on his head. Then another person entered, and another, and I realised with a start that I knew all these fellows! There was Colonel Quivering, and Mr Spinnaker, and Grindle and Mr Munkulus, looking most curious in their evening clothes and toppers. And bringing up the rear, quite the wrong shape to wear tails or a waistcoat but with a top hat perched nattily atop his shell, was dear old Nipper!
Such was my relief that I stepped out from my concealment and said, ‘Oh, I am so pleased to see you, I –’
Nipper struck me a blow with one pincer that sent me spinning backwards, knocking over the small occasional table as I fell. I think I was as much surprised as hurt. As I strove to rise, lifting a hand to staunch the blood that flowed freely from my nose, I saw that this was not the Nipper I knew. His eyes were the unseeing eyes of a sleepwalker!
Mother had heard the crash as I went down. Her bedroom door opened. She stood there in her nightgown and cried, ‘Good Heavens, gentlemen! What is the meaning of this?’
‘Grab her!’ said Mr Titfer, and it was clear that he held the others in his power. Like a well-dressed Rugby-football scrum, they charged at Mother. She realised much faster than I had that our friends were not quite in their right minds. She felled Colonel Quivering and Mr Grindle with well-aimed blows, but the others proved too many for her. I stumbled forward to try and help her, but someone seized me, and I could only watch as Mr Munkulus pinioned Mother with his four strong arms while Mr Spinnaker pressed a pad of lint over her nose and mouth. For a moment she struggled violently, then the life seemed to go out of her; her eyes rolled upward, her lovely head drooped and she was bundled towards the door.
Good Lord! I remember thinking. Chloroform!
An instant later a pad of the same soft, scratchy stuff was crushed against my own face. A dreadful reek filled my nostrils. Through watering eyes I glimpsed a sliver of light widening as Myrtle’s door opened, and heard her give a piercing shriek and slam it closed again. ‘Myrtle!’ I remember shouting, or trying to shout, lint-muffled and fainting. I struggled against unconsciousness with all my might – and it was not enough.
The last thing I saw was Mother being manhandled down the stairs. The last thing I heard was Grindle putting his shoulder to the door of Myrtle’s room. Then I fell down and down into unutterable dark …
And there this portion of my tale must end, for I knew no more. So I shall hand over this account to another narrator, and we must all pray that she does not spend too much time going on about frocks – A.M.
Chapter Eight
In Which the Narrative Is Continued by Another Hand.
My name is Myrtle Evangeline Mumby. My brother, Arthur, has asked me to contribute my account of our adventures at Starcross for publication in his latest volume of memoirs. I was reluctant to do so at first, for it is so undignified to have adventures, and even more so to write about them afterward so that common people may read of them on omnibuses and the like. However, it occurs to me that if I do not do as Art asks, he will simply steal the relevant pages from my diary and publish them, as he did the last time, the little brute. So what follows is an account of all that befell me from the moment that Art and Mother were so rudely abducted. I present it here on the STRICT UNDERSTANDING that Mr Wyatt does NOT illustrate it with a picture of me in my night attire.
I was awoken on the night in question by a faint rapping or knocking sound. It took a while to rouse me, for I had been lost in the innocent wonderland of my girlish dreams. Indeed, I had been dreaming that Jack Havock, who until quite recently had been the unworthy recipient of my maidenly affections, was stood on my balcony in the starlight and was tapping at the windowpane.
At last the persistence of the noise roused me to wakefulness, and I leapt up, drew back the curtain and saw that Jack Havock actually was standing on my balcony and tapping at the windowpane!
Naturally, I do not approve of young men paying midnight visits to the balconies of young ladies. Especially if the young man in question has consistently failed to reply to the young lady’s letters, and held conversations with attractive foreigners in public places. I made shooing motions, and shut the curtains.
Myrtle in her night attire.
After a brief pause, the gentle, insistent tapping resumed. I went back to bed and pulled one of the pillows over my head, but I could still hear it. It was most vexing. Did Jack think that he could win back my affections by pursuing me in this unseemly manner? At last, driven almost to distraction, I stood up and opened the curtain again.
This time, he was pressing a crumpled scrap of paper to the glass. Upon it he had scrawled a single word:
DANGER
I opened the window and whispered angrily, ‘Jack Havock, your handwriting is a perfect disgrace, and anyway, what do you mean, “danger”?’
Jack, with no regard at all for the niceties of polite behaviour, pushed his way into my chamber and said, ‘I saw them starting up the stairs. Munk and Nipper and Grindle with ’em, and all in those d——d hats! They’ll be here any minute!’
‘Who will?’ I hissed, flapping my hands at him to beg him to speak quieter, for fear my mother should hear him in my room. But before he could answer there was a commotion outside the door. I heard Art shout out something, and then a crash, as if a chair or table had fallen over. Then footsteps, other voices, and Mother’s voice crying, ‘Good Heavens, gentlemen! What is the meaning of this?’
I ran to the door, and opened it to reveal a scene most indescribably alarming. The living room of our suite seemed full of persons in evening dress, two of whom were holding Mother, while another wrestled with Art. I uttered a loud yet ladylike cry, and in another moment Jack had slammed the door shut and locked it.
‘But Mr Munkulus is out there!’ I cried. ‘And Mr Spinnaker! What are they doing?’
‘They’re not in their right minds,’ Jack expostulated. ‘Those d—— hats control ’em somehow!’
‘Oh, Heavens! Then we must help Art and Mama!’
‘We are too late!’ he cried. ‘Myrtle, you must come with me!’
I saw the sense in this suggestion, for someone had begun to batter against my bedroom door in the most intemperate way. So I followed Jack to the window and out on to the balcony. I did not entirely forget myself, I am glad to say, and as we passed the closet I reached in and snatched one of the mothproof calico bags in which I keep my dresses, so that I should have something decent to change into as soon as an opportunity presented itself.
Luckily a narrow fire escape descended from my balcony to the gravelled driveway behind the hotel, so there was no question of climbing down drainpipes or knotted ropes. Unshod as I was, my feet made no sound upon those iron stairs, though Jack, who was wearing a most disreputablelooking pair of old space boots, set up a dreadful clatter. Nevertheless, we reached the ground without further ado, and Jack hurried me across a starlit stretch of open promenade and stopped in the shadows of the beach cafe. The windows were shuttered. The canvas of a nearby Punch & Judy booth flapped softly in the wind, but all else was silent as the grave.
‘What is going on?’ I demanded.
‘Wish I knew,’ said Jack. ‘It was your mother that put me on to it, talking about hats at dinnertime. Made me remember some dream I keep having, some strangeness about a hat … So straight after dinner I hunted about in my room, and there in my closet I found a hatbox: Titfer’s Top-Notch Toppers.’
‘What is so surprising about that?’ I asked. ‘Everyone knows that Titfer’s hats are the finest in Known Space.’
‘That’s just it,’ said Jack. ‘They ain’t! Think, Myrtle – can you honestly say you’d even heard of Titfer
’s Top-Notch Toppers before you came to Starcross?’
‘Well …’
‘I guessed there was something strange about the hat in that box. So I didn’t go to sleep tonight, but sat up and watched it. And about a half-hour back I started to get this strange sensation, like the hat was asking me to put it on.’
‘Oh, come, Jack, a talking hat?’
‘It didn’t use words. It was just a feeling, an itch inside my head … I wish I’d brought Ssil or the Twins here – they might have been able to explain it. I can’t. I only know that hat wanted me to put it on, and I wanted the same. But I restrained myself and stood a chair on top of that hatbox to stop it sneaking out, and ran downstairs. Because it had come to me, you see, that maybe Munkulus and Grindle had those things hid in their rooms too, and I wanted to warn ’em …
‘But I was too late. Halfway downstairs I met the whole crowd coming up, and a look at their faces was enough to tell me the hats had ’em. Once you put one of those things on, you’re gone; you’re just a body, no better than an automaton, ready to jump to whatever order Titfer gives!’
‘How horrible!’
‘Horrible’s right. I couldn’t see any way of fighting them all, not without someone getting harmed. And then I guessed where they were going, and I thought I’d best get there first, and rescue you and Art and your mum. Well, I was too late to stop them getting Art and Mrs Mumby, but at least I’ve got you …’
Then he smiled at me, that warm, dazzling smile, both shy and bold, which once made me feel so … well, I shall not say how it made me feel. For a moment I was almost inclined to forgive him, until I remembered how he had wronged me. Then I tilted my chin as haughtily as I was able, and turned away, and said very icily, ‘What do you propose that we do now?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Jack. ‘I smelled chloroform up there, so at least they must have taken them alive. My guess is that they’ll have carried them into the boiler room.’