The Educated Ape and Other Wonders of the Worlds
‘And what might happen then?’ asked Cameron Bell.
A page turned and Cameron read from it.
‘“Should these very relics of God himself be brought together in an unhallowed place, then the Gates of Hell will be opened. And upon the turn of the next millennium, the Evil One will be given dominion over all the worlds.”‘
‘Oh my dear dead mother,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘But the next millennium — that would be when this century turns into the next. When eighteen ninety-nine becomes nineteen hundred. At least that is eighteen months away.
The pages flicked once more.
Cameron read once more.
‘“In those End Times before the turn of the millennium, great evil will fall upon the planets all. Great plagues will occur, great Empires will fall. The good will be at evil’s mercy. And things of that nature, generally.”‘
The book slammed shut by itself.
‘Well indeed,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Well now, yes indeed.’
The sleek silver train of the New Electric Railway drew into Crystal Palace Station. Cameron Bell gathered his luggage together and alighted from his carriage.
It was all too much to think about. Too difficult to encompass. But wasn’t that always the way with theology? What man could ever hope to fathom the mind of God? What He did, He did for reasons of His own. For after all, He could do as He wished, because He was God.
But no matter the whys and wherefores of it, one thing was clear as a crystal ball: the four reliquaries must not be brought together into an unhallowed place for fear of hideous consequence and the possible extinction of each and every one.
‘So,’ said Cameron Bell, wearily, ‘this would be the Big One, then. The biggest case that ever there was that any detective could ever be set to solve.’
This thought, for some reason, gave him certain comfort. But it was comfort laced with terrible fear.
Mr Bell drew up short before the ticket barrier.
‘And so,’ said he, ‘I will not just be saving a monkey but all of the human race besides and all of the universe, too.’
‘Well, of course you will, sir,’ said the ticket-collector. ‘And well done to you. Now please move on through the barrier. There are sane people here who need to get on with their business.’
The sun beat fiercely down upon Cameron Bell as he strode from the station to the Royal London Spaceport. Above him rose the Crystal Palace in all its noble glory. It had been a while since Mr Bell had visited the Crystal Palace. The last time, in fact, had been while he was pursuing another case. And upon that occasion he had been partly responsible for reducing the mighty edifice to ashes.
But accidents will happen.
Beads of perspiration ran into the eyes of Mr Bell. He blinked them away and continued onwards.
The departures building of the Royal London Spaceport was not unduly crowded. Travelling to other planets was an expensive business and very few could afford it. Employees of the great mining conglomerates travelled at their companies’ expense. But when it came to tourism, however, that was another matter.
Of Venus, Mars and Jupiter, Mars was the most popular destination for the wealthy tourist. Venus, through interplanetary treaty, remained closed to all but a few. Jupiter welcomed all-corners, but the heavy gravity made for an exhausting stay. Mars, however, was quite the place to be, with its romantic crimson sunsets and its network of canals that spanned its globe. Upon these placid waters, great pleasure boats moved, water-borne casinos that had much to offer their well-tailored clientele. Then there were the big-game hunts, for although the race of Martians was now happily extinct, the wildlife of the planet remained to provide exotic trophies for a gentleman’s study walls. Yes, there were fine times to be had upon Mars for those who could afford to travel there.
The Phelamanga stood upon the cobbled landing strip, a beautiful spaceship of the new Excelsior Class.
Mr Bell espied it through the window next to the ticket booth. He nodded approvingly.
‘Bell,’ said he to the menial who manned the booth. ‘Cameron Bell, booked aboard the Phelamanga, I believe.‘
The menial did sortings through his papers.
‘Yes indeed,’ said he eventually. ‘Booked aboard by Miss Lavinia Dharkstorrm. What a charming lady — such beautiful eyes. And travelling first class. How wonderful that must be.’
‘I’ll let you know,’ said Mr Cameron Bell.
‘I have no idea how you will,’ said the menial, pushing Mr Bell’s ticket towards him, ‘for you have been booked into steerage with all those smelly miners.’
The menial raised a finger and thumb to his nose. Mr Bell did grindings of the teeth.
19
r Bell did not travel steerage to Mars, but neither did he travel in the First-Class Saloon. He was prepared to pay the considerable difference, but the First—Class Saloon was all sold out.
‘It’s the season, ain’t it?’ said the fellow in the second-class seat next to his. He had introduced himself to Mr Bell as, ‘Luther ‘Iggins, as may be, traveller in snuff, tobaccos and “things what a gentleman might require for private circumstances”.’ And as Mr Bell settled himself into the lumpen seat next to Mr ‘Iggins, as may be, Mr ‘Iggins felt the need to regale his fellow peregrinator with tales of the travelling life.
‘Mars is a regular stop for me,’ said Mr Luther ‘Iggins. ‘I suppose you might say it is one of the last frontiers, as were perhaps the Americas when the wagon trains moved west. A man might still make ‘is fortune on Mars, if ‘e ‘as ‘is wits about ‘im.’
‘If you must speak to me at all,’ said Mr Bell, affecting a tone of indomitable condescension, ‘please confine your discourse to explicit knowledge of the High Echelons of Martian Society.’
‘The toffs, like?’ said Mr Luther ‘Iggins.
‘The toffs, like,’ Mr Bell agreed.
‘Well, as I was saying, it’s the season, ain’t it?’ Mr Luther ‘Iggins wore a pair of those long and trailing side-whiskers which are known as Piccadilly Weepers and a suit of beige twill in the tartan of Lord Burberry. The pomade upon his hair had a bluebottle-stunning range of approximately five feet. ‘The season,’ said Mr ‘Iggins, ‘when the toffs take to the water, like.’
‘Go on,’ said Mr Bell, patting himself in search of cigars. In search of anything, in fact, that might stifle Mr ‘Iggins’ pomade.
‘They ‘as palaces, sir,’ said the noxious Mr ‘Iggins, ‘big as ocean liners and they sails the canals in right regal splendour, with balls and masquerades and promenade concerts and soirées. All the toffs of London do be goin’ to Mars at this time of year. I ‘as my carpet bag chock full of gentlemen’s requirements.’
Cameron Bell found his cigars and thrust one into his mouth. A blessed relief was on its way, thank God.
‘Ah, look,’ said Mr ‘Iggins as a sign began to flash. ‘No smoking in the cabin, please, the ship is about to depart.’
The Phelamanga boasted many of the latest innovations. A Wiff-Waff court with an electrical scoreboard. A Turkish bath. Tri-planetary cuisine and female serving staff who wore bright red tightly fitting bodices with matching culottes and fascinator hats and sported tiny aeronaut’s goggles, and who were already affectionately referred to as the ‘Scarlet Harlots’.
As the NO SMOKING sign took to flashing, one of these lovelies appeared.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she said, in the voice of one not unacquainted with a finishing-school. ‘please fasten your safety belts, extinguish all cigarettes, pipes and cigars and join me in a prayer for our salvation.’
Cameron Bell was not alone in raising an eyebrow to this.
‘Take no notice,’ said Mr ‘Iggins. ‘Spaceships ‘ardly ever explode nowadays. I ‘aven’t been in a serious crash for almost three weeks.’ And he nudged Mr Bell in the approximate area of his ribs. ‘Always tickles me that the toffs sit up front. I always sit well back, me, because I’ve never ‘eard of a spaceship backing into a mountain, ‘as you?’
‘Madam,’ called Mr Bell to the Scarlet Harlot. ‘Would it be possible for you to check first class, just in case a seat has unexpectedly become available?’
But the Scarlet Harlot was praying softly as the spaceship rose into the sky. There was none of that sickening shaking-all-about that you got with old hulks like the Marie Lloyd. The Phelamanga swept smoothly aloft, borne as it were upon the wings of angels.
‘And please remain seated until the NO SMOKING sign ceases its illumination,’ said the Scarlet Harlot, having made her peace once more with the Almighty, ‘at which time the spaceship will have taken to revolving, creating a state of artificial gravity without which you will float about and get yourself all in a mess. Anyone caught using the water closets prior to this time will be prosecuted by the management.’
With that, the Scarlet Harlot took herself off to a seat with a safety belt.
Mr ‘Iggins opened his mouth to speak once more. Mr Bell, however, informed him that this was his particular hour for silent meditation, so quiet as the eternal grave must Mr ‘Iggins be.
It was a three day-voyage to Mars and there was no sleeping accommodation provided for the second-class passengers. In first class there were elegant little private booths, with fitted wardrobes and hammocks where the wealthy might spread out and relax when they had exhausted themselves from too much Wiff-Waff.
Few of the second-class passengers had thought to withdraw clothes from their luggage before this luggage was stashed away in the hold. And so, by the second day, the atmosphere within the second-class accommodation was not one conducive to good health.
The food, though basic, served as it should and Mr Bell ran up a considerable bill for brandy and cigars.
As the Phelamanga moved imperceptibly through the aether of space, those who had never travelled between the planets before gazed in wonder through the portholes whilst those more seasoned to off-world perambulation affected blasé dispositions, read journals, drank themselves to insensibility or congregated in the gentlemen’s water closet for illicit games of Snap.
With so many things upon his mind, Mr Cameron Bell found the journey tedious at best and when Mars was finally sighted, he joined in what cheering there was.
The Red Planet slowly swelled to fill the endless void and the Phelamanga fell into orbit about it. The Scarlet Harlot made several speeches concerning the officious nature of those who manned the customs hall and read from a long list of prohibited items, which ranged from tooth powder to tennis balls.
The illegal importation of apes, Mr Bell duly noted, carried with it a long prison sentence.
Mr Bell gazed towards the porthole. How much did he really know about Mars? Very little, was the answer to this. He knew, as did all men of the age, that it was girded about by vast canals; that the now happily extinct Martian race had been an amphibious species, part sentient cephalopod, part reptile; that the lands were predominantly jungles, where all the trees were red and where walked, crawled and scampered many mysterious beasties which provided sport for big-game hunters.
Of the Earth-folk who lived there, he knew a little. He was acquainted with Mr Septimus Grey, Governor of the Martian Territories — and a gentleman with a colourful past. And he was aware that members of the British aristocracy favoured Mars as a summer resort and dwelt there upon spectacular floating palaces. The social divide was extreme upon Mars between the toffs and the working class, which consisted of servants and those who toiled in the mines for the great conglomerates or chanced their luck in the uncharted jungles, seeking the mother-lode. And there were always rumours that a revolution was about to break out, that there were anarchists hiding behind every red bush, waiting to blow something up.
Oh yes — and then there was Princess Pamela, identical twin sister of Queen Victoria. A secret so well kept that even he had not heard of her until now.
Not even a rumour, thought Cameron Bell. Somewhat surprising, that.
Regarding law and order upon the Red Planet, the wealthy maintained small private armies and considered themselves above the law. For the rest, a thuggish militia in the pay of Her Majesty’s Government dispensed a summary justice, which was open to negotiation. Mars certainly had the ‘frontier’ feel, and that caused Mr Bell a certain degree of alarm.
The NO SMOKING sign began to flash and Mr Bell fastened his safety belt.
The Scarlet Harlot appeared once more and called upon the second-class passengers to join her in prayer, then made good her escape from the evil-smelling cabin.
The Phelamanga entered the atmosphere of Mars with little more than a few angelic flutterings, then wafted down and settled upon the landing strip of the planet’s capital city.
The imaginatively named VICTORIA.
Mr Bell craned his neck to view what lay beyond the porthole. He had only been off-world once before, when he found himself amongst an illegal hunting party upon the planet Venus. Mars would be a very big adventure.
Would he succeed? Rescue Darwin, foil the witch and bring her justice, then return the stolen loot to its rightful owners? All depended first upon him finding and acquiring the last reliquary. Stolen by whom? And located where? It was a very big planet out there.
The first—class passengers disembarked and were carried off towards the arrivals hall aboard a six-wheeled charabanc drawn by several creatures which Mr Bell assumed to be the Martian equivalent of the horse. Three-legged beasties were these, which perambulated in a spiralling balletic fashion. Their heads were small, their bodies sleek and speckled.
Mr Bell now became aware that everything upon Mars appeared to be hued in shades of red. The dust that arose from the charabanc’s wheels was a rich and rusty ochre, while the beasties’ pelts were in tones of pink that matched the cloudless sky.
Presently the outer door of the second-class cabin opened, releasing the fetor within and admitting a dry and pleasant air laden with curious essences, all new to Cameron Bell.
An open cart pulled by an alarming spider the size of a brewer’s dray horse arrived at the Phelamanga to collect the second-class passengers and their luggage. The driver of this cart and a swarthy assistant went about the loading of the baggage in a calm, unhurried fashion possibly indicative of a philosophical frame of mind that embodied syncretisation and spiritual placidity.
The driver’s shirt cuffs, however, informed Mr Bell that it was nothing more than wilful malingering and the great detective offered Mars his very first sigh of the day.
The journey to the arrivals hall passed without incident. But as Mr Bell stepped down from the cart, he became aware that he was now coated with a thin layer of Martian dust. Two ‘dust boys’ appeared from the building and with the aid of long-handled brushes, and in exchange for a small remuneration, flicked the passengers into a semblance of normalcy.
The arrivals building was a piece of original Martian architecture. Constructed in an unforgiving and unaesthetic manner, it was all bold buttresses and stanchions with high blank ceilings and small circular windows. A large crude ‘A’ had been painted upon the facing wall. Menials were scratching away to remove it and grumbling the word ‘anarchists’ as they did so.
Now began a process which appeared expressly designed to upset the incoming passenger, involving as it did outrageous public body searches accompanied by much shouting and barking from brutal officialdom. Mr Bell managed a long and lingering anticipatory sigh but was mercifully spared from it all, for upon displaying his passport to a ferocious flat-headed individual, he was informed that he had a ‘priority clearance’ and that his friends were waiting for him in the First—Class Saloon.
Mr Bell humped his luggage to this First-Class Saloon, there to be greeted by Miss Lavinia Dharkstorrm and two henchmen new to Cameron Bell.
Miss Dharkstorrm was seated at a table topped by red local marble and supped at a cocktail held in a long pale glass. She raised her eyes to Mr Bell, then dabbed her fingers to her nose.
‘Why, sir,’ said she, ‘you s
mell most rank indeed.’
Mr Bell smiled through teeth most tightly gritted. ‘Your fragrance remains unchanged,’ he observed.
‘Compliment or insult?’ Miss Dharkstorrm shrugged without interest. ‘I have booked you into the New Dorchester,’ she said. ‘There you may bathe and make yourself respectable. I have also arranged an audience with Princess Pamela at ten o’clock local time tomorrow morning. Princess Pamela is aware of your reputation — after all, it was I who recommended you to her as the ideal fellow, both discreet and thorough, to retrieve her stolen property. I know you will seek to recover the reliquary as quickly as possible to save your little monkey friend from undue suffering. Once you have done so, you will place it in a safety-deposit box here at the spaceport. Give Mr Bell the key, please, McDuff.’
The henchman named McDuff stepped forward and tossed the key at the feet of Mr Bell. The detective stooped to pick it up.
‘I would ask—’ he began.
But Miss Dharkstorrm shook her head. ‘All that needed to be said has now been said.’ She smiled. ‘You will do as I have instructed. The matter is neither open to negotiation nor subject to equivocation. Depart now, if you please, for your rankness offends me.’
The New Dorchester was but a short stroll from the arrivals building.
The New Dorchester had opened the previous year and was a faithful reproduction of the Grand Hotel in Eastbourne. The whiteness of its walls might be tinged Martian pink, but it stood all proud and British upon this alien soil.
Before the hotel was a steam charabanc that the hotel’s residents might hire for days out. Also there loafed a group of boys, grubby boys, these, and somewhat wild of eye. As Mr Bell approached they fell upon him with offers to carry his bags, or indeed his person, and to do certain things that were quite illegal on Earth. Mr Bell fended them off with his sword-stick and entered the hotel. The plushly costumed doorman was similarly offended by Mr Bell’s rankness but tipped his hat to the detective, for it was more than his job was worth to turn away paying clients.