The Greatest Show Off Earth

  ‘In my book?’ The Scribe backed away. ‘Come off it. Are you trying to tell me that the men in grey who were here last night are the same men in grey I wrote about? My book’s just a fantasy. Are you mad?’

  ‘Very.’ Simon showed his fine set of teeth as a snarl and advanced on the Scribe. ‘You’re lying to me.’

  ‘I am not.’ The Scribe took a step back and nearly fell into the inglenook. ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘I want to see that manuscript.’ Simon drew back his shirtcuffs and knotted his fists. ‘And I want to see it now.’

  ‘I don’t have it. Uuurgh!’

  Simon gripped the Scribe’s throat in one hand and raised the other up to strike. ‘I am going to beat you up now,’ he said. ‘When you feel like telling me all the truth and all about your involvement in all of this, just say the word and I will stop. Do I make myself clear? Do I make myself clear?’

  But the Scribe didn’t seem to be listening. His eyes were fixed upon a point somewhere beyond Simon’s left shoulder. And his eyes were starting from their sockets.

  ‘Do I make myself . . .’ Simon paused. A most unpleasant smell had entered the living-room. A smell that Simon had smelt before. And a terrible coldness had entered with it.

  Simon loosened his grip and slowly turned to follow the direction of the Scribe’s socket-starters.

  There, half shadowed in the doorway, something stood. It was a big something. A very big something indeed. Big and broad-shouldered and covered in feathers. And it stank like the devil himself.

  This terrible something raised a gory-looking claw and displayed a large and glossy, if somewhat dog-eared, book. ‘I think you are looking for this,’ it said, in a dark Sate-Henic tone.

  21

  ‘You told them what?’ Professor Merlin asked.

  ‘Well, I had to tell them something.’ Raymond dropped onto an over-stuffed settee. ‘They’ll be great if we have to go into battle. But for now we can’t have them smashing up the ship. You’ll have to get food sent down to them. And whatever drink you happen to have. Lower it down on a rope or something.’

  ‘ Fiddle-de fiddle-dum.’ The old man lifted his wig and brushed dust from his head. ‘So to work. We are full steam ahead toward Eden. Speak to me now of your plan.’

  ‘Of my plan.’ Raymond sighed. ‘This would be my plan to stop the Edenites paving over the polar openings to Earth, I suppose.’

  ‘Alethic, my dear pot noodle. As relating to such philosophical concepts as truth, necessity, possibility and contingency. Lay that plan upon me, bro.’

  ‘I don’t have a plan,’ said Raymond, ‘as you know full well. I know nothing about Eden and I don’t have the faintest idea how we might stop them proceeding with their evil schemes.’

  ‘This is most dispiriting news.’ The professor made a most dispirited face. ‘I had hoped that we might just synchronize watches like we did the last time.’

  ‘I think not.’ Raymond shook his head in a manner which left no room for doubt regarding his opinion of this. ‘My suggestion is, that we get all your unique artistes around a table and, as this is once more a time of great mutual crisis, we attempt to conjure up a plan, much as you conjured Zephyr.’ Her name made Raymond sad, but a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, and macho stuff like that.

  Professor Merlin pulled upon his chin. ‘There is wisdom in your words, but my artistes are weary.’

  ‘I’m weary,’ said Raymond. ‘And sick at heart. But I’m prepared to try my best. I’m only a plumber from Bramfield, you know. And did you ever hear of a plumber saving the world?’

  ‘Mario,’ said the professor. ‘And his brother Luigi.’

  ‘I shall pretend I didn’t hear that.’

  ‘Sorry. So.’ Professor Merlin leapt to his feet to rock upon creaking knees. ‘All right. So be it. Yea verily thus and so. We shall call a council of war. I will have the nosh sent down to the warriors, get a J-cloth taken across the grand salon and we’ll all meet there in half an hour. How does that sounds to you?’

  ‘Sounds good,’ said Raymond. ‘Let’s go for it.’

  ‘Counting down,’ said the director. ‘Five four three two one. Let’s go for it.’ ‘Good afternoon and hi there.’ The jackal-head with the swish tuxedo grinned twin rows of teeth. ‘Humphrey Gogmagog here, live at The Palace of Celestial Pleasure. Where it is with a sense of great honour and humility that I am privileged to introduce you to a man who needs no introduction from me. Our benevolent ruler, the man we worship and adore, his magnificence, his handsomeness, the birthday boy himself, let’s hear it for the Grand Duke.’

  Clap clap clap, went the canned-laughter machine, clap clap clap and cheer.

  Those people of Fogerty, who had not been driven from their homes by the raging inferno sweeping through the city, but were enjoying it live on TV, rose to switch off and make tea.

  ‘Don’t touch that dial,’ cried Humphrey. ‘This is a broadcast of worldwide importance and affects you personally. His Royal Highness—’

  ‘Thank you, Humphrey.’ The big fat fellow’s fat face filled the screen. ‘Good people all,’ he smiled. ‘I speak to you this day, this special holiday, which I have given you in celebration of my birthday, not to thank you for the thousands of cards and messages of good will bestowed upon me—’

  ‘Because the fat bastard never got any,’ whispered Humphrey to the cameraman.

  ‘—but with sadness, to declare that a state of worldwide emergency now exists. Today our capital city was viciously attacked and set ablaze. You will have seen it yourselves on your TV screens.

  ‘Our gallant fire fighters have not been able to bring the blaze under control—’

  ‘Because you gave them all the day off, you prat,’ whispered Humph.

  ‘Thousands flee in terror, homes destroyed, businesses ruined. A tragedy. A tragedy.’ Small tubes, cunningly concealed on the Grand Duke’s temples, dispensed ‘teardrops’ which trickled down his cheeks. ‘Sniff sniff,’ went the Grand Duke. ‘My heart is breaking.’

  ‘Not,’ whispered Humph.

  ‘It is the nightmare we have all secretly dreaded. An unprovoked attack by the Edenites. That warlike and tyrannical race under whose yoke we have laboured for too long.’

  ‘That’s good coming from you.’

  ‘I myself,’ said the Grand Duke, ‘hail from Eden. But I am not as they. I am one of you. And I have struggled ceaselessly to bring independence to Saturn. But here, as indeed upon Uranus and Mars, the insidious Edenites have spread their culture, their products and their language.’

  A pity that Raymond wasn’t here to hear this. It would have explained a lot to him. ‘We import their products, they dominate our economy and now they seek to destroy us. Shall we stand idly by and let them do it? Will we watch helplessly while our beautiful cities burn? Or shall we strike back? Take up arms against the evil tyrant and smash him utterly?’

  ‘Could this just be the excuse he’s been waiting for for years to have a pop at his hated brother?’ Humphrey whispered. ‘Or, am I just being cynical?’

  ‘My own brother.’ The Grand Duke shed more tears. ‘My own triplet, twin, King Eddie of Eden. How, you may ask, can a peace-loving, merciful teddy bear of a man such as I, stir the hand of war against my own flesh and blood? With great sorrow, that’s how. But he has used and abused us and we shall stand no more. I am ordering full mobilization. I want the army upon red alert and the airforce made ready to attack. We move against Eden. We are at war. Hail Saturn,’ the Grand Duke raised a fat fist. ‘I thank you.’

  ‘Cut,’ said the director. ‘Roll the national anthem.’

  The big fat Grand Duke mopped the bogus tears from his face. ‘I think that went rather well. What do you think, Humphrey?’

  If you like irony, thought the jackal-head. ‘Stirring stuff, sire,’ he said, hurrying over and bowing low. ‘I hope you will permit me the honour of being the exclusive war correspondent throughout the conflict.’

  The Grand Du
ke stroked his big fat chin. ‘I don’t think so, Humphrey.’

  ‘No, sire?’

  ‘No, Humphrey. You see, during my long long reign as monarch of this planet, I have become quite adept at overhearing all the little snide remarks made by my subjects when they think they’re out of earshot. So I think I’ll just have your head chopped off, you smart-arsed dog-faced bastard.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Humphrey. ‘What a bummer.’

  The cameraman tittered into his hands.

  ‘And watch your step too,’ said the Grand Duke. ‘Or you’re dead, you stinker.’

  Simon held his nose against the stink. The monstrosity stood, filling the doorway and blocking the only exit. The Scribe’s eyes turned up into his head and he fainted dead away into the inglenook.

  Thanks for your help, thought Simon. Oh bloody hell!

  The thing took a step into the room and raised once more its terrible claw. ‘The book.’ No words came to Simon. His throat was dry, his heart was doing step aerobics and his legs, although wanting to run, had grown somewhat weak at the knees. This was serious stuff. You couldn’t fight a thing like this. You wouldn’t stand a chance.

  Another step. The horror. Simon did something so singularly pathetic that if God had been watching, He would no doubt have turned away His face and gone, ‘Oh my God.’

  Simon put his two forefingers together to make a cross and said, ‘Back, I command you in the name of the Lord.’

  ‘The book.’ The thing lurched forward at him, stumbled and collapsed in a heap on the floor at his feet.

  ‘Blimey,’ said Simon, examining his fingers. ‘This stuff really works.’ He stared down at the monster. The thing. Sate-Hen.

  It wasn’t Sate-Hen.

  Simon gaped at the tattooed pentagram on the blood-bespattered head. It wasn’t Sate-Hen.

  It was Mr Hilsavise!

  Simon stooped and with difficulty turned the big man over. He was in a really terrible shape. Covered in feathers and V-shaped cuts and lots and lots of blood. This man had been in a battle. And he had lost, by the looks of it.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Simon shook his head. Why do people always ask that stupid question to people who are quite obviously not all right? Simon didn’t know. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Are you still alive then?’

  ‘Only just,’ Mr Hilsavise gripped Simon’s shoulder, cutting off the circulation and dislocating a couple of bones. ‘Get me a drink, will you.’

  Pleased to and one for myself, I think. Simon made off to the Scribe’s kitchen.

  It was a very posh-looking kitchen. He opened the refrigerator. Champagne. Two dozen bottles of Champagne.

  ‘Bastard.’ Simon drew out a bottle and returned to the living-room, drawing the cork as he did.

  ‘Here you go.’ He put the bottle to his employer’s lips.

  ‘Thank you.’ Mr Hilsavise did big swiggings. ‘That’s enough.’

  ‘Good, I’ll have some too.’ Simon wiped the neck of the bottle on his cuff (dental hygiene) and took a swig of his own. There was nothing left in the bottle.

  ‘Help me up.’ Simon helped the injured man onto the sofa.

  ‘What happened to you?’ Simon asked

  ‘Chickens. Bloody chickens. Stinking bloody chickens. They went at me like vultures.’

  ‘You got the book.’ Simon took it up from the carpet. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I saw you. I was walking my dog last night and I saw you. Taking a piss on the hill above Long Bob’s farm.’

  Simon recalled the hiker in the blue anorak, or was it a cagoule?

  ‘So I went up there to dry roast your bloody nuts for getting my truck wheel-clamped, losing my Allen Scythe and quitting the job without telling me.’

  ‘Ah, went Simon.

  ‘But you’d gone. I heard the dog growl and you howl and I found the book. I thought you’d come back for it, so I sat down to wait. And while I waited, I read it.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Simon again.

  ‘And I watched all the rest. You letting Long Bob’s tyres down, taking the petrol to the chicken sheds, Dick Godolphin—’

  ‘You need not continue,’ said Simon. ‘I recall it all well enough.’

  ‘Did I mention that I liked your new hat?’ asked Mr Hilsavise.

  ‘We’ve dropped the new hat gag,’ said Simon. ‘No-one understood it and it wasn’t very funny.’

  ‘Oh, fair enough. So later I see you drive away in the Jag. But the thing is, I’m reading it, in the book. The same thing, you driving away in the Jag.’

  ‘Then I’m back.’ A toothy smile broadened across Simon’s face. ‘I’m back in the book. It worked.’

  ‘I need another drink,’ said Mr H. ‘Get another bottle, Simon, I’m parched.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Simon got more champagne. Two bottles. He returned and popped the corks from both. The Scribe awoke from his faint, saw this occur and fainted dead away once more.

  ‘So.’ Mr Hilsavise took one bottle and Simon drank from the other. ‘So, I’m reading this and thinking, This can’t be true. And I’m flicking back and forwards and I read this bit that says, “Mr Hilsavise was sitting in the hideaway bush, reading the book, when the chickens sniffed him out and attacked.” And I go, What? and the next thing I know—’

  ‘Yeah,’ Simon said. ‘I get the picture. I don’t want to hear about it.’

  ‘Those things nearly killed me. I bit a few heads off though.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Simon said. ‘I get the picture.’

  ‘But this is bad, Simon. This is really bad.’

  ‘I know, I’m up to my neck in it.’

  ‘According to the book, you’ve found the Lord.’

  ‘Yes I have.’ Simon suddenly drew back. ‘But you . . . I thought. . .’

  Mr Hilsavise raised a hairless, blood-specked eyebrow. ‘You never were too bright, Simon,’ said he, pointing to the pentagram on his head. ‘It’s point-upwards. I’m not a satanist. I’m of the old religion. A white witch, if you like. Although I prefer the term, white warlock.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Simon. ‘And do you have a coven then?’

  The warlock nodded. ‘There’s many of the old religion in Bramfield. This is a country village, after all.’

  ‘And do you’ Simon paused, ‘how shall I put this? Do you dance around with young women in their bare scuddies? You know, by the light of the moon?’

  ‘Most Wednesday nights, yes.’

  ‘And you’ve never asked me to join?’ Simon made a most offended face.

  ‘Would you ask you to join?’

  ‘Hmmph,’ went Simon. ‘But well, glory be, so we’re on the same side, anyway.’

  ‘But I’ll still dry roast your nuts if you don’t get back my Allen Scythe.’

  ‘Long Bob has it.’

  ‘Is that the truth?’

  ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’ Simon crossed his heart and hoped not to.‘How are you feeling now?’

  ‘Pretty wretched, I need a bath. But I think I can summon up enough strength to do what must be done.’

  ‘Fight Sate-Hen and his followers.’

  ‘Destroy Sate-Hen and scatter his followers.’

  ‘Bravo,’ said Simon. ‘Naturally I have a pretty foolproof plan of my own for dealing with them, but; he paused in his lie, ‘I should be grateful to learn what you have in mind.’

  ‘I’ll bet you would.’ Mr Hilsavise smiled. Something Simon had never seen before. It was most unsettling. ‘If you’re going to destroy the devil in a chicken house and save mankind,’ he said, ‘there’s only one way to do it.’

  ‘And that’s wearing black leather and riding on a Harley Davidson.’

  ‘No,’ said Mr H. ‘That’s by marching up there at night, with a whole lot of villagers carrying flaming torches. Don’t you ever go to the movies?’

  ‘Not the same ones you go to, obviously.’

  ‘So. I shall make some phone calls. You tie up the silly blighter in the fireplace and get some breakfast on.
’

  ‘Right,’ said Simon. ‘No, wrong,’ said Simon. ‘I mean, isn’t the silly blighter supposed to be writing what happens next in the book?’

  ‘From what I can make out, he did write it, up until the time the men in grey took his manuscript away. I think you probably wrote the rest.’

  ‘Yes!’ Simon threw up a fist. ‘Then, tie the silly blighter up it is and get the breakfast on. For later shall we hasten forth to war.’

  ‘Before we hasten forth to war,’ said Raymond, sitting at the table’s head, I am wondering if it might be better for us to hasten forth in peace instead.’

  The artistes of Professor Merlin’s circus sat once more about the wonderful table in the grand salon. It has been J-clothed, spruced up and again spread with a most marvellous feast. Nobody seemed particularly hungry though. The performers were weary. Their shoulders down, their make-up flaking. Raymond looked from one unto another of the dismal throng.

  ‘Peace anybody?’ he asked. No-one replied.

  ‘Perhaps we could reason with the Edenites.’

  Monsieur LaRoche replied, ‘Forget it, mon ami. We are nothing to them. George for their tables, that’s all.’

  ‘But if we told them the game is up. If we informed the people of Earth about what was going on and told the Edenites that they knew.’

  Professor Merlin shook his head. ‘The Edenite shape-shifters hold the power on the inner Earth. They would see that none down there believed you. And that even if they did, nothing would be done.’

  ‘Tell me about these shape-shifters. Are the Edenites possessed of magical powers, or what?’

  ‘Possessed of technology is all. Somewhat in advance of that on the inner Earth.’

  ‘Like holograms, do you mean?’

  ‘A more advanced principle. I had a hoarding of my own once. But somebody broke it.’

  ‘Quite so,’ Raymond said. ‘But let me get this straight. The presidents and prime ministers and so forth of Earth have been replaced by these advanced holograms, is that what you’re saying?’