The Greatest Show Off Earth

  Four thousand BC.

  ‘Is it pretty, do you think?’ asked Zephyr. ‘Is that what pretty is?’

  ‘It’s incredible.’ Raymond said. ‘And it scares the life out of me. But I get this, you know. This makes sense to me now.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘It does. My chum Simon told me once about a book he’d read. It was called Royalties of the Gods, or something like that. Written by this German chap, who’d figured out that all the gods of ancient Earth were, in fact, astronauts from outer space. And this proves it. Ancient Egypt on Earth was just a copy of this city.’

  ‘It’s good,’ said Zephyr. ‘But it’s not the one. Ancient Egypt on Earth was a copy of this city. But it was the topsiders who built it. It was intended to be a theme park, an interplanetary tourist resort. Saturn World, it was called. But unfortunately nobody wanted to come and it went broke. A sort of forerunner to Euro Disney, I suppose. After it went broke, the slave workers who’d built it, moved in to live there. But as they hadn’t built it very well, it soon fell down, so they had to move out. I think they all went off across the Red Sea and sort of got lost in the end. I don’t really know that much about the history of the inner Earth.’

  ‘Nor apparently do I.’ Raymond shook his head. ‘Is the big circus parade about to start?’

  ‘In five minutes or so. I have to go with it Raymond.’

  ‘I know.’ Raymond chanced an arm around her shoulder. She drew herself close to him and for the first time he realized just how marvellous she smelt. It made him go numb from the nostrils down. ‘I don’t want you to go with the parade,’ he told her. ‘I need you to stay with me.’

  ‘But I can’t.’

  ‘You can and you must. I can’t do this all on my own. I wouldn’t last five minutes down there amongst that lot on the dock. But with you and your remarkable powers to help me, then I could do it. I know that I could.’

  ‘But the professor needs me with the parade.’

  ‘The professor can manage without you this once. And let’s face it, if we can free the kidnapped people and we all escape in this ship I don’t think the circus is going to be welcome back here anyway. Do you?’

  Zephyr smiled her beautiful smile. ‘All right. I’ll go with you. So, tell me all about your plan.’

  ‘Ah that.’ Raymond leaned upon the ship’s rail with his free arm and made a thoughtful face. ‘So far it appears to consist of watches being synchronized and us all meeting back here in three hours.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And then making our escape, I suppose.’

  ‘And would you call this a fool-proof plan?’

  ‘Proof against fools possibly. As for the rest, I couldn’t say.’

  ‘You really don’t have any plan at all, do you?’

  ‘No,’ Raymond grinned. ‘But then I never said that I did. Because with you to help me I don’t need any plan. I just need two other things.’

  ‘Courage and good fortune?’ Zephyr asked.

  ‘No,’ said Raymond.

  ‘Determination and the will to survive?’

  ‘No,’ said Raymond.

  ‘Fortitude and dedication to a just and noble cause?’

  ‘No,’ said Raymond. ‘No no no. Although all those things would come in handy. This is more, how shall I put it, an image kind of thing. If you’re going to save the world, there’s only one way to do it.”

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Wearing black leather and riding on a Harley Davidson.’

  Courage and good fortune, determination and the will to survive, fortitude and dedication to a just and noble cause.

  Given the choice of these, Simon would have gone for good fortune and the will to survive. And the black leather outfit and the Harley Davidson, of course. Because these two particular fashion accessories figured quite high up on the list of necessary purchases he meant to make as soon as he had reacquired his winnings.

  And he meant to reacquire them very soon. The sun was down now and the stars were out and it was growing cold. No fun.

  Simon wrapped his jacket round himself and crept forward on his elbows as commandos do. Light welled from the farmhouse windows, the yard seemed empty and safe. The chickens in their sheds were restless though. And Simon smelt a smell.

  He was just at the perimeter fence. And as he raised his head up he could smell the smell. Above the normal reek of chicken poo. A strange smell, queer to him. Uncomfortable. Disquieting. Plain odd. Simon sniffed this smell and shook his head. He had no time for strange smells, he had things to do.

  As with Raymond, Simon didn’t have a plan.

  But unlike Raymond, Simon did have the market cornered when it came to low cunning and the ability to ‘think on his feet’.

  And though he didn’t know it now, both of these would soon be tried and tested to their limits and beyond.

  It was a reasonably short scuttle across the farmyard to the house. Just a swift shin over the fence and don’t trip up on the rusting iron or the plastic bags or the sundry junk all around. Simon climbed to his feet, dusted himself down and prepared to do the shinning over. He was just reaching out for the wire when two sounds caught his wary ear. Unrelated at first they seemed. But significant.

  One of them was a wolf-like growl, the other a clock-like tick.

  The countryman in Simon knew them both. The first even a townie would have got. Guard dog. Easy that one. The other . . . Simon’s hand eased back from the wire. Electrified fence. Not quite so easy that one. Something you have to learn about through painful experience.

  Now it must be said that the combination of these two sounds need not have signalled any fear at all in Simon. Had, for example, the dog’s growl come from the other side of the electrified fence. That would have been quite acceptable. But it didn’t. The electrified fence lay before Simon, the dog’s growl came from behind.

  ‘Grrrrrrrrrr,’ it went.

  Simon turned slowly. From the darkness two evil yellow eyes glared at him. The low growl became a low-to-medium growl.

  Simon pondered his predicament.

  He recalled reading once in Liza’s Dimac martial arts manual, that a guard dog could be easily disabled by a single hard sharp whack upon the tip of the nose. Speed and accuracy were stressed as being quite important factors when attempting this. The dire consequence of an ill-considered blow being an arm down the dog’s throat.

  Count Danté, who composed the now legendary manual added that, ‘should this occur, the student is advised to reach down deeply into the dog and tear out its still beating heart with a single brisk upward movement.’ This, the count wrote, ‘rarely fails to show the dog you mean business’.

  The evil eyes drew nearer. The evil growl grew louder. And Simon’s heart began to beat a little faster. He made a fist. He stood his ground. He took up a Bruce Lee pose.

  Then the special chemical in his brain kicked in and Simon ran for his life.

  Along the fence he ran in leaps and bounds, the beast upon his heels. It was a big one by the sound of it. A pit bull, or one of those Japanese killer jobs the size of a Shetland pony. As Simon ran he wondered in his terror, Could a man outrun such a dog?

  Possibly a fit man could. A man in regular training. A sprinter say, or a hurdler. A hurdler could outrun such a dog and vault the fence for an encore.

  But what of a man who wasn’t quite so fit? A man who hadn’t eaten for a while? A man who had been recently run down by a Jaguar? A man with several large Scotches underneath his belt?

  Could such a man outrun such a dog? No! Such a man could not.

  Simon fell, the hound of hell upon him. Fangs and paws and growls and howls. The howls were Simon’s. ‘Help!’ he shrieked, protecting groin and face as best he

  could. ‘Down, boy, good boy, sit.’

  He didn’t have a chance and what a death. Savaged to pieces, eaten alive, alone in the dark, without help.

  What a hideous way to go.

  Simon kicked out, lashe
d and thrashed, he’d go down fighting at least. The beast bayed for blood and went for his leg.

  The evil snarling baying beastly brute was tearing into him. It’s acrid breath seared Simon’s nostrils, choking up his lungs. The fiendish eyes blazed yellow fury and a dark demonic stiffy humped his leg.

  ‘Hold on a minute there!’ Simon ceased his struggles. ‘Dark demonic what?’

  Hump hump hump, went Dick Godolphin’s lurcher, hump hump hump hump hump

  ‘Hump,’ went the TV commentator. ‘Humphrey Gog-magog here. Reporting live from the dockside in the sun-soaked city of Fogerty. Here to welcome the arrival of Professor Merlin and his interplanetary circus. They’re here to perform at the celebrations of his Royal Highness the Grand Duke’s birthday. The gangway is down upon this magnificent vessel, gracing the harbour here with its awesome presence and in just a moment now the circus parade will begin. It promises to be a show you’ll long remember, so don’t touch that dial and we’ll be right back after this commercial break.’

  The dockside crowds took to cheering, as the strains of The March of the Gladiators burst forth from the SS Salamander’s rusty, yet serviceable, public-address system.

  At home, the viewing public of Fogerty, who were enjoying the public holiday, settled down in their armchairs, while an onscreen actress, with the head of a hawk and a nice line in surgically adjusted breasts, extolled the virtues of boil-in-the-bag George.

  Professor Merlin rode upon an elephant. It was a very old elephant, by the look of it, and somewhat shaky on its feet. Its rouged cheeks and feathered crown could not disguise this fact. And those who knew the fate awaiting pachyderms who’ve passed their big-top prime, spoke one unto another saying, ‘Lo, here comes five piano keyboards, four umbrella stands, three complete sets of matching grey luggage, two pervert’s purses, and one ton of pussycat food.’

  ‘Gee up, Jumbo,’ went Professor Merlin. ‘Show them what you’re made of.’

  He looked good, the professor. All in white satin this time. The full ringmaster’s rig-out. Top hat, bow tie, tailcoat, jodhpurs, white kid riding boots. He had the whip and this he cracked into the sunlit air.

  Jumbo trod the gangway with a dowager’s dignity. At each uncertain step, a brave asthmatic trumpet and a bowing of the head.

  Behind him came the big parade.

  Clowns capered into the crowd. Pierrots and harlequins, Coxcomb and Pantaloon. Tossing favours. Juggling with balls and coloured clubs. A bandaged limb or two was evident.

  And all in black, upon a black-wheeled chariot, drawn by two jet-coloured mares. All high steps and ostrich plumes. Dr Bacteria, perched like a crow upon the buggy-board and raising a pitch-dark stovepipe hat, exposing a large Elastoplast dressing fastened across his forehead.

  Phoenix the Fireproof Fan Dancer, naked ‘neath the two asbestos fans? The males in the crowd crane forward, hoping for a flash of something pink. Fire-eaters breathe their flames upon her as she dances, baring nought, and thick dark smoke wreathes up into the sky. And put your hands together and gape up. For drifting through this smoke comes Billy Balloon, blown up to a quite preposterous proportion. It’s done with helium they say. What a crowd-pleaser! Moored by ropes and playing on a small guitar.

  A dwarf now on a giant’s shoulders (seeing furthest of the two). The Lady Alostrael upon a unicycle. And about her, twist and turn, half seen, half imagined, what? A throng of sprites? The fairy folk? Can this thing be, and how, sir, is it done?

  Roll up, roll up.

  Oh ho. Four horses now and a fine wide wagon, open to the sides. On this a mighty tank of glass filled up with water, splish and splash. A man within swims underneath the surface. His name is Aquaphagus and around him dart a shoal of silver fish. He’s all in gold. His jaws are wide, his teeth flash . . .

  But let’s pass on.

  The Siamese triplets, pretty girls, though one a little bruised of cheek, another black of eye, blow kisses to the crowd and wave small flags. And ride upon three ostriches. In tandem.

  Onward goes the big parade.

  Poodles on their hindlegs. Lions in a cage. Roaring, rather fierce they seem, though somewhat taken with the moth.

  More clowns. A strongman bearing weights. A man whose head revolves upon his shoulders, and a metal sphere revolving on its own accord. How is that done?

  Some fireworks pop. The streamers stream. Confetti falls. A lone dwarf with a painted smile is last and bows and bows again.

  The big parade moves on. The crowd falls in behind it, cheering. Laughing.

  Merriment.

  The sun shines.

  And now the dock, deserted.

  Just for a moment there, the magic came and sparkled, now it’s gone, into the distance. You can follow it if you want to. But you’ll have to run.

  Here. Streamers and rose petals. Trinkets and confetti. Dust and dreams and echoes. All gone now. The circus.

  Shame.

  Shame indeed!

  Because now the public-address system crackles back into life. A hissing as a needle descends on to a black vinyl disc.

  Let’s Rock ‘n’ Roll. And deep bass chords boom out across the dock. A rich dark voice sings out.

  ‘Bad to the bone,’ it goes. ‘B-b-b-b-bad to the bone.’

  The throaty roar of twin pipes, as a gloved hand drums the throttle and out of the belly of the ship it rolls. Low and mean with long extended chrome-dipped forks. It’s customized.

  And it’s a Harley D’.

  And who is this a-cruising on it?

  All black leather head to toe?

  Is this Raymond, young schmuck Raymond?

  Someone say it isn’t so.

  It isn’t so. It’s Zephyr.

  Raymond had always meant to learn how to ride a motor cycle. It had always been one of his ambitions. But, as he’d never had enough money to buy one, and he didn’t have any friends silly enough to let him practice on their’s . . .

  He was now riding pillion.

  He was all in black leather though. Which was something.

  And he was labouring under the considerable weight of a 7.62mm M134 General Electric mini-gun.

  Which was something else again.

  So Raymond sang. He gave his lip up to an Elvis curl and sang along to the song.

  ‘Bad to the bone,’ he went. ‘B-b-b-b-bad to the bone.’

  15

  ‘Get off my leg, you flea-pecked mangy crud.’

  Simon limped along beside the electrified fence and entered the fortified farmyard by the unfortified open gate. ‘Will you get off me please?’

  The dog would not. It felt passionately for Simon’s leg and it would not be moved. It wasn’t worth the struggle. At least the beast had stopped growling now and was just breathing heavily. And as no-one had come out of the farmhouse to answer Simon’s cries for help, he felt reasonably assured that they wouldn’t hear the heavy breathing either. So he limped on with a will.

  He reached the Jag and peeped in through an open window. A shaft of moonlight twinkled on the ignition keys. Handy. Simon reached in, drew them out and slipped them into the pocket of his non-dog-bearing trouser leg. Labouring on to Long Bob’s Land Rover, he took a peep into that. No keys. Well, there wouldn’t be, would there? Long Bob would have taken out the keys to open his front door. Fair enough. Simon carefully stooped down and let the air out of the two off-side tyres. Then he limped on towards the house.

  Sounds of jollity issued from within. A bit of a party, was it?

  Simon eased his way to the kitchen window and put his eye to the unwashed pane. Then drew it back, then looked again, and then cursed bitterly beneath his breath.

  A bit of a party was right!

  There they all were, ranged about the kitchen table. The looker, with her back to the window.

  Her terrorist chums. Now maskless and revealed to be none other than the members of Roman Candle (the parachute accident not the firework).

  And there was Long Bob, at the bottom of the table
, drawing the glasses of cider. And there was Military Dave, toasting Long Bob. And there was Liza, Simon’s girlfriend.

  And Liza was sitting on Military Dave’s knee, with her arms around his neck. ‘Bastards,’ said Simon.

  And, oh yes, there was all Simon’s winnings, piled up neat and nice in the middle of the table.

  ‘Bastards bastards bastards,’ whispered Simon. ‘This calls for action.’

  Lurching with the lurcher, he returned to Long Bob’s Land Rover. The kind of action this called for, he decided, was drastic action. Confrontation was out of the question, there were too many of them. So distraction was the best kind of action. Something to distract their attention and get them all out of the kitchen, so that he could nip in and retrieve his winnings. ‘And,’ whispered Simon, as he dragged his way to the back of the Land Rover and unstrapped the big petrol can, ‘there is nothing like a good big fire to cause a bit of distraction.’

  Now arson is a pretty heinous crime. And not one Simon had ever dreamed of committing before. But he was angry now. Very angry indeed. And the only question in his mind was, what was the best thing to set on fire?

  The Land Rover? No, that was too close to the Jag in which he intended to make his escape. Something else. Something on the far side of the farmyard, well away from the gate. Something that would go up with a really big whoosh. What?

  Beyond the farmhouse, silver tinged with moonlight, stood the chicken sheds. ‘Perfect,’ said Simon.

  Perfect? What was he saying?

  ‘Perfect. Naturally I shall release all the chickens first.’

  Thank God for that. Some spark of decency at least.

  ‘They should add considerably to the confusion.’

  No spark of decency at all!

  Simon glared down at the lurcher on his leg. ‘Haven’t you finished yet?’

  The lurcher had not.

  ‘Perhaps a chicken dinner might persuade you.’

  The chicken sheds were wide and wooden, windowless and wretched. They looked near to collapse anyway. Simon might well have convinced himself that he was doing Long Bob a favour by burning them down. At least he could then claim the insurance money and get some new ones built. But such false justifications for the appalling act he was about to commit did not enter Simon’s mind at all.