Russell sat alone in his office, idly perusing the five golden “droppings” in his hand. He felt their substantial weight and occasionally rolled them onto his desk, as though they were rune stones. He examined how they landed, before collecting them up again to recheck their weight.
So this was to be the fruits of his labour, his payment for services rendered. On the face of it, five ounces of pure gold was good going for just one week of chauffeuring, but, somehow… he still felt cheated.
All he’d craved this past week was a quiet life, a return to normality, aerobics classes, being nagged by Meg... and now that that quiet life had finally returned, it suddenly struck him as catastrophically dull. How could it compete with cruising around in a Bentley, tracking down aliens, studying crop circles and saving the human race!? He himself had been crucial in securing that last one. Or had he? The more he thought about it the more implausible it seemed that both Ceres and Michael had failed to deduce what he eventually would – that the crop circle was a 3-D stereogram thingee. He wanted to cross-examine them on this and on the many other questions currently burning holes in his head.
There would be no answers now, alas. Having finally resolved the issues of the human system at the Red Lion, at least to their satisfaction, they’d simply handed him the gold nuggets, offered a brief, and what seemed like rather grudging, thanks, and then quietly left. Russell, preoccupied by his gift, failed to notice their departure. By the time he did it was too late. He rushed out into the car park only to see an empty parking space. No crimson Bentley in sight.
So normality returned, and as abruptly as it had departed that Monday afternoon. Except he was in Wiltshire! And he had a hotel bill to settle! By the time he’d paid that – not to mention the taxi, bus and train fares back to London – about half a nugget’s worth of “wage” had been squandered. Four and a half ounces of pure gold would have to do.
He felt his stomach grumbling and checked the time: 11.10am. Time for some brunch. He placed the five gold nuggets in a drawer and decided to head out and find the nearest burger bar.
He stood by the entrance to his studio, despondently surveying the sheeting rain and the leaden overcast skies; wet tyres on wet road surface made the traffic grinding along Tooley Street sound heavier than it really was. The party truly was over; even the heat wave had buggered off. Had Ceres and the others brought their own weather with them?
Pedestrians rushed by, heads down, and Russell soon joined them, scurrying eastbound, looking for that burger joint: Seppe’s or Beppe’s or something, where the hell was it? It was hard to see anything in this rain!
In due course Russell spotted Beppe’s Burgers directly ahead; he peered in and was not surprised to see the place heaving, full of people seeking respite from the foul weather. He’d order a takeaway and eat it back at the studio, but as he pushed open the front door he noticed a momentary flash of red in the reflection of the door’s glass. Turning instinctively he half-expected to see the Bentley and, surprisingly, a Bentley was the source of that red glint. However, this vehicle was slightly different – it had a roof! He checked the number plates before realizing that he’d never bothered to note the original’s numbers. This car just had standard plates, no customization. Shrugging, Russell entered Beppe’s.
Speculating that it actually was the Bentley parked outside and that a perception filter might be at play, Russell carefully scrutinized the eatery for signs of the others, but nothing appeared to be out of place: a giant spider flipped burgers, while a cat took the customers’ orders. Despite the crowd in here a tall woman sat alone at one of the tables, stuffing her face with what looked to be a Beppe Cheese Monster... Oh crap!
Mr. Waterstone took his order and Michael nimbly put it together in double-quick time.
‘Thanks.’
Russell collected his meal and seated himself opposite Ceres.
‘Good Morning, Mr. Tebb!’ Ceres said with a smile.
‘Morning,’ Russell replied. He stared down at his burger, realizing that he’d lost his appetite. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you again. What are you doing here?’ he asked, ‘…and why the hell did you make me find my own way back to London?’
‘We had to attend to other business; not the kind of work that would have suited you.’
‘Oh yeah, what sort of business?’
‘The sort we normally have to deal with. In this case: a trans-temporal tear was threatening to destroy the fabric of reality in the Vale of Pickering.’
‘Did you fix it?’
‘Of course.’
Russell took a bite of burger; his mouth felt dry; he wished he’d ordered a drink. ‘And so now you’re back, to bother me!’
‘I think you want to be bothered by us.’
‘No I don’t!’
‘Yes you do.’
‘Hmm. What I don’t understand is why you would want to bother with me? Worried you’ll be facing more conundrums only I can solve?’
‘Not exactly, I think your insight yesterday was a fluke.’
‘So you’re admitting you really didn’t get the nature of Gerry’s circle, its 3-Dness.’
‘Indeed. As you might recall from this week, even we can be wrong footed by a perception filter occasionally. That “clue” left by the Third-Eye crop circle was not meant for us to solve, it was meant for you to solve.’
‘The universe did a number on you!’
‘It would appear that way.’
‘Ha! Why was it sticking its nose in anyway? What’s all this got to do with it/him/her/them? You’d think the affairs of Earth would be too trivial to bother with. No offence.’
Ceres thinly smiled but then glared at an obese man who was contemplating joining them at the table. Another perception-filter-resistant individual, perhaps – like Marcus? Eye contact was made and the man quickly departed into the rain.
‘Maybe true for the Earth, but not the galaxy as a whole,’ replied Ceres. ‘The logical deduction seems to be that the universe wants you lot to make it into space – so you can set about stamping on the Sponsors’ toys.’
‘Really? That can’t be right. It doesn’t sound very enlightened. I’d expect better from the universe.’
‘What would you know about enlightenment? And, besides, who’s to say it is not! The Sponsors are a roadblock to evolution in this galaxy, they’re bad karma: as soon as a species independently makes it to the cusp of sentience, the Sponsors come along and convert that nascent intelligence into a form that is far too similar to their own. This has to stop! Clearly the universe thinks so!’
‘Does it? Is this the only logical deduction?’
‘Probably not, but it’s the one we prefer.’ Ceres took a large bite of Cheese Monster and coolly regarded Russell.
So saving humanity wasn’t the end of the matter, it was also to be moulded into an army! Was that really the desire of the universe, or more the desire of a blood-thirsty Ceres? Russell held Ceres’s gaze for as long as he could muster.
‘How did you know I’d be walking into Beppe’s?’
‘Lucky hunch.’
‘Yeah, right! And the reason you are here?’
‘It’ll be a long journey to Loch Ness, and none of us want to do the driving.’
‘Seriously!? You still need me to– did you just say Loch Ness?’
‘Yes.’
‘But I thought the Loch Ness Monster wasn’t real, Michael said so.’
‘No I didn’t! …Budge up.’ Michael and Mr. Waterstone, both still wearing their yellow Beppe’s uniforms, joined Russell and Ceres at the table. ‘I was merely pouring scorn on MI6’s interpretation of Nessie. I mean: “Non-corporeal projection of collective sub-conscious desires. Sexual metaphor.” Purrlease!’
‘So it exists? What actually is it?’
‘Alien, init. Bloody big one, too.’
Russell sighed. He felt very conflicted. Every time he found himself in this company the tedium of everyday life would beckon, but when that everyday life did rea
ssert itself, he’d find himself missing the excitement that only these three could offer.
‘There’s still the issue of maintaining my business. I might have gotten away with it this last week but any more no-shows and my clientele will desert me. And what about Meg?’
‘You’ll have to resolve these issues as best you can, Mr. Tebb. You should also bear in mind that London will be underwater in a few years time. Perhaps the best thing for you, and Meg, would be to sell up.’
‘Sell up?’
‘Or relocate to higher ground,’ suggested Michael. ‘But in the meantime, work with us.’
‘With you or for you?’ asked Russell.
‘With us,’ replied Ceres, to Russell’s surprise. He could imagine Michael saying something like that, but never Ceres.
‘You see, Mr. Tebb,’ Ceres continued, ‘we’ve all quite enjoyed the working arrangement this week. Usually we are a Gang of Two – just Michael and myself – Mr. Waterstone only joining us occasionally when he can be arsed and when he has a direct interest in a particular operation, thus making us a Gang of Three, but then this week we heard ourselves being described as the Gang of Four for the first time, and we liked it. It sounded more complete: biology, planet, machine – and being.’
‘That’s me is it? The being. Maybe I should introduce myself as that: “Hi, Russell Tebb – being”.’
Mr. Waterstone grunt-laughed.
‘You should! At least when dealing with aliens,’ declared Ceres, apparently serious.
‘I wouldn’t use the term with humans, though,’ added Michael. ‘They’d think you were being pretentious.’
Shortly after noon Russell and the other members of the Gang of Four departed from Beppe’s and congregated around the Bentley. The torrential downpour seemed to have eased a bit but the skies remained a dark and threatening overcast…
‘Well, Mr. Tebb?’ asked Ceres.
Russell sighed. ‘How soon will you be needing me?’
‘Is that a “yes”?’ asked Michael.
‘No, I want to know how soon you will be needing me!’
‘We can be flexible up to a point, Mr. Tebb,’ replied Ceres.
‘Okay, well if you are prepared to give me a couple of weeks, I’ll begin winding up the business. I’d also like some compensation for Meg.’ Russell glanced at Mr. Waterstone.
‘Worried she’ll sue?’ asked Michael.
‘No! Well, maybe, I just want to do what’s right by her.’
‘Very well,’ declared Ceres, ‘we’ll base ourselves here for the next two weeks. London can keep us entertained until then.’
‘When you say base yourselves “here”–’
‘We’ll stay with you.’
Russell considered this. It shouldn’t be a problem…
‘Alright!’ he finally declared. ‘I’m in.’
‘Great!’ replied Michael, and to Russell’s amazement, everyone shook his hand.
‘I’ll be insisting on a change to the sleeping arrangements, though,’ Russell stated, as he led the others into the aerobics studio.
There was no reply.
‘I’m serious! This is one of my red lines!’
Still no reply.
‘Is anybody listening to me!!’
—Ω—
about the author
Richard Lawther graduated from the University of Central Lancashire with a degree in Physics and Astronomy. This then led to employment as a Meteorologist/Physicist with the British Antarctic Survey, work that included a two-year stint in Antarctica. After returning to the UK he became a Fingerprint Officer working at New Scotland Yard in London. Finding this work to be both monotonous and stressful he decided to return to meteorology. After acquiring a Met Office postgraduate qualification he found work in the Middle East as a Marine Forecaster, providing forecasts for the oil industry on wind and sea states in the Arabian Gulf, forecasts that were occasionally correct.
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