The Greatest Show Off Earth

  ‘In a word. Nutshell. You will recall how President Reagan got shot through the heart and yet lived. How no-one is allowed to touch the Queen of England. How heads of state only shake hands with other heads of state.’

  Raymond ignored the gaping holes in this theory. ‘So how is it done?’

  ‘Projections from above, dear boy. An actor, playing the part of the president let us say, acts in a special studio on Eden. A holographic image of him, computer modelled to resemble the president is beamed down. His movements become the president’s movements on Earth.’

  Raymond scratched at his nose. ‘I don’t see how that could actually function. What about when the president’s in a moving car, or on an aeroplane. How could that work?’

  ‘I don’t know. But it does.’

  Raymond shook his head. ‘So what would happen if we could somehow switch off the holograms on Eden?’

  ‘Chaos on Earth.’ Professor Merlin threw up his hands, caught them again and thrust them into his pockets. ‘All the world’s leaders, vanished in a flash.’

  ‘I quite like the sound of that. But chaos on Earth wouldn’t stop the paving over.’

  ‘There is only one way to stop it,’ said Dr Bacteria darkly (and with menace). ‘Kill the king. That’s all.’

  ‘That sounds like war to me.’

  ‘I could do it with a handshake. Anthrax, I think, or cholera.’

  ‘Quite so.’ Raymond leaned back in his chair. ‘But where would that get us? Even if we killed him, and I’m not keen on killing anyone, another king would probably take his place. It won’t solve the problem. No. Hang about. It might.’

  ‘He has an idea.’ Professor Merlin clapped his hands. ‘See that. I told you all he would. Speak on, my sweet boy. I’ll synchronize my watch.’

  ‘It’s just a thought. But if these super-dooper holograms fool people on Earth, would they fool the people of Eden, do you think?’

  ‘Fool anyone I suppose. As long as you don’t touch.’

  ‘And nobody touches a king?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘Well,’ Raymond said.

  ‘Well?’ Professor Merlin asked.

  ‘Aw come on.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Raymond sighed. ‘Say we could get to Eden and quietly bump off this king, or kidnap him, or something. Then we replace him with a hologram. And then this hologram tells his people, “Let us not pave over the polar holes, let us instead live at peace with our brothers of the inner Earth. Let us begin a new golden age of love and understanding. Let us share our knowledge and—”‘

  ‘Pardon me while I up-chuck,’ said Mr Aquaphagus. ‘Anyone for sushi?’

  Professor Merlin grinned from ear to ear and nose to navel. ‘No, by Gadfry, Raymond’s right. His plan is most inspired.’

  ‘But we still have to get to this king.’

  Professor Merlin gave this some thought. ‘You could go in alone by night,’ he suggested.

  ‘No,’ said Raymond.

  ‘Take Dr Bacteria with you then.’

  ‘No,’ said Dr Bacteria.

  ‘The two hundred warriors then.’

  ‘No,’ said Raymond once again. ‘But I think I know a way.’

  ‘This doesn’t surprise me one bit.’

  ‘You could put on a show.’

  ‘I could put on a what?’

  ‘A show. Like you did for the Grand Duke. You could offer to put on a show for the king.’ Raymond laughed. ‘I don’t suppose it happens to be the king’s birthday too, does it?’

  ‘Ah,’ said the professor ‘Ah indeed.’.

  22

  There was a lot of busyness in Bramfield. It was ten-thirty now and the pubs were open.

  The Jolly Gardeners was packed. Not with the usual morning wastrels today, but with the nation’s Press. Andy was going great guns behind the counter and the words, ‘Jolly good’, were rarely far from his mouth. The fact that an as yet unidentified terrorist force had freed the Butcher of Bramfield had spiced things up no end. And our moral representatives were eager to interview anyone with an inkling into the psyche of the psycho.

  Their numbers were swelled by a coterie of coquettes, who, having read of cheque book journalism, were anxious to sell their exclusive stories. The Simon I knew, by the fiancée who loved him, being a popular exclusive.

  Glasses rose and fell, the pump handles went back and forwards and the drawer of the cash register went in and out.

  ‘Alone in the bar, we were,’ said Paul to a reporter with a notebook. ‘Just me and the Butcher. You could have cut the atmosphere with a razor. It was me who passed on the information of his whereabouts to the police. I suppose I can take much of the credit for his capture. Do you know the bloke who sets the crosswords, by the way?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said a bandaged Constable Derek to another reporter with a notebook. ‘Six armed men. No, not men with six arms. Six men, armed, I fought them off as best I could, but they knocked me unconscious and released him. Commendation for bravery? There has been some talk of that, yes. Reports of a nun seen running away with the terrorists? No, I certainly didn’t see any nun.’

  In The Bramfield Arms the atmosphere was quieter. But as it was the atmosphere of The Bramfield Arms, it was still one best tested first with a miner’s canary, or whatever the sub-marine equivalent might be.

  Black Jack Wooler lurked behind his counter and, in a far and fetid corner, two men in grey sat over a pile of typed paper.

  ‘Told you,’ said grey man number two. ‘I knew that bastard was lying about his short-term memory loss. We were right to keep him under surveillance. He’s been writing his bloody memoirs, by the look of it.’

  Grey man number three ground his grey teeth. ‘According to this he was on the allotment when Abdullah snatched up the other schmuck. Here, I like this bit where he kicks you out of his house.’

  ‘He did not kick me out of his house. That bit is a lie.’

  ‘Yeah. But what about the rest? What about this Raymond’s adventures? That has to be fiction, doesn’t it?’

  Grey man number two looked doubtful. ‘But it’s all there. About Eden and everything. You’re not going to tell me he just made that up. And what about the Edenites sealing up the polar openings? What if that’s true? What about us?’

  ‘Shut up!’ said grey man number three. ‘That fat bastard’s listening.’

  ‘Well I don’t like it. We haven’t been paid and I don’t want to be left down here to die.’

  ‘Shut up. We’ll soon know what’s what. Grey man number one’s phoning the guvnor on Eden. He’ll find out the truth.’

  ‘Grey man number one? Doesn’t he have a name?’

  Grey man number three flicked through the pages of the Scribe’s manuscript. ‘Apparently not. But look, here he comes now.’

  Grey man number one appeared through the murk and sat down with his nameless companions.

  ‘What’s to do?’ asked grey man number two.

  ‘I don’t know. I couldn’t get through to the guvnor. The answer-phone was on. So I left a message for him to call us back here.’

  ‘I don’t like it.’ Grey man number two didn’t like it. ‘I think we’re being stitched up. Deserted. That’s what I think.’

  ‘No.’ Grey man number one shook his head of grey. ‘The Edenites wouldn’t do that to us. We have their respect. We’re loyal workers. We shall continue with our work. Take care of this Simon.’

  ‘And Mr Kilgore Sprout?’

  ‘He’s not important. The fellow with the teeth is the smoking pistol. Snuff him out and our job here’s done.’

  ‘Yeah but—’

  ‘Trust me,’ said grey man number one. ‘The Edenites will look after us. Or my name’s not grey man number two.’

  ‘My name is Moses,’ said the elephant. ‘And I say, let my people go.’

  ‘Look, I’ve told his Highness that,’ replied the cringing menial. ‘But he’s very busy right now. He’s got a war to organize. Why don?
??t you call back later?’

  ‘Tell the Pharoah,’ quoth Moses, ‘and if thou refuse to let them go, behold I will smite all thy borders with frogs. Exodus 8.2.’

  ‘Frogs?’ said the cringing menial. ‘Frogs,’ said Moses.

  ‘Right. Well I’ll pass that on to him. But I don’t think he’ll be happy.’

  Inspector D’Eath was not a happy man. Having turned in the previous night, in the knowledge that he had not only nabbed a serial killer and secured for himself a good chance of promotion, but also he had nabbed the serial killer’s money and secured for himself the opportunity to buy a little country pub somewhere, when he took an early retirement. The rude awakening that masked gunmen had blown up the police station and snatched away Simon, took the edge from this contentment.

  And with half the police station reduced to smoking ruination there was now the matter of where to set up a task force headquarters, to coordinate the massive operation that would have to be set in motion.

  The village hall had the spring flower show on and the youth club, where they play the loud music on Mondays, was closed pending structural repairs to its foundations. The only decent-sized room available in the whole of Bramfield was the ‘reception suite’ above the saloon bar of The Jolly Gardeners.

  Andy had been most pleased to rent out the musty cob-webbed chamber. And Inspector D’Eath, in no position to argue, had been forced to pay a daily rate, something in access of twice The Jolly Gardeners’ average weekly takings.

  And so now the inspector sat and seethed behind a trestle table, whilst fellow officers scurried to and fro, setting up telephones, linking computer terminals, sharpening pencils and giving up smoking. Word was out that a chief inspector was on the way from Scotland Yard to take overall control. Word was also out that this chief inspector was a woman. And that she looked just like Helen Mirren.

  Inspector D’Eath had a pistol in his pocket. And he would not be pleased to see her.

  ‘Please, sire. Please, sire. There’s something you have to see.’ A cringing lacky (as opposed to a menial, the distinction is subtle, but nonetheless valid) burst unannounced into the bed chamber of the Sultan of Uranus.

  The sultan was celebrating his birthday with his concubines and one was just being lowered down in the revolving split-cane basket. It wasn’t the time for interruptions.’

  ‘Get out of my bedroom,’ shrieked the sultan.

  The cringing lacky flung himself face down upon the floor. ‘It’s your brother, sire, the Grand Duke of Saturn.’

  ‘My brother here? Well don’t cower around on ceremony. Get his head chopped off at once.’

  ‘No, sire, not here. On satellite TV.’

  ‘What?’ The sultan arose and swung aside his dangling lovely. ‘You burst in here to tell me that my no-good brother’s on TV?’

  ‘He’s declared war, sire.’

  ‘What? On us?’

  ‘No, sire. On Eden. On your other brother. King Eddie.’

  ‘That shitbag!’

  ‘You’re not what you’d call tight knit, for triplets, are you, sire?’

  ‘A Pox upon your impudence. Kiss my toe at once.’

  The cringing lacky kissed the sultan’s toe. ‘I’d rather kiss your dangling lovely,’ he said beneath his breath.

  ‘That’s enough toe work. Why has the one shitbag declared war on the other shitbag?’

  ‘It’s to do with your ship, sire. The one Abdullah phoned home about. The ship has left Saturn and the Grand Duke is sending his airforce to destroy it.’

  ‘Destroy my ship?’ The sultan kicked his lacky in the ear

  ‘And wage war on Eden.’ The cringing lacky rubbed his ear.

  ‘Stuff Eden. I want my ship back. Call up the special marines. Send out a strike force. Smash the Saturnians and bring back my ship.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘But?’ roared the sultan.

  ‘But you’ve given them all the day off to celebrate your birthday.’

  ‘Rrrrrrrrrgh!’ went the sultan. ‘And where is Abdullah?

  And where was Abdullah indeed?

  ‘And where is Simon and where is all our money?’ Long Bob made a most fierce face across his kitchen table.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Liza struggled. She was still in the nun suit and still tied up. Nuns in bondage. It did have a certain something. Long Bob could go for it.

  ‘Let me free.” Liza struggled again. ‘Simon knocked out the constable, tied me up and ran off.’

  ‘She’s covering for him,’ said the looker. ‘The two of them are in it together. Probably planning to split the money. And he nicked my car.’

  ‘It looks bad for you,’ Long Bob told Liza. ‘His Majesty was deprived of his sacrifice last night. He’s a growing boy. He must have his grub.’

  ‘What?’ went Liza. ‘What?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Unless,’ Long Bob glanced around the room at the other members of B.E.A.S.T., ‘any of you would rather stand in for Liza.’

  The heads were shaking. The ‘nos’ had it.

  ‘No!’ screamed Liza. ‘You can’t do that to me.’

  ‘You should look upon it as an honour.’

  ‘Let me go, you raving loon.’

  ‘Tut tut tut.’ Long Bob shook his long head. ‘Dick,’ said he, ‘gag this woman, take her over to the tool shed and lock her in.’

  The poacher’s dog began to wag its tail.

  ‘It will be our pleasure,’ said Dick.

  ‘“It will be our pleasure,” said Dick!’ Simon slammed down The Greatest Show off Earth. ‘Those maniacs are going to sacrifice Liza. Jesus Christ! Oh pardon me. But, the bastards.’

  ‘If it’s not one thing, it’s another.’ Mr Hilsavise, now bathed, bandaged and squeezed into the Scribe’s best suit, slammed down that fellow’s telephone. ‘I can’t get through to anyone. The GPO have cut off half the lines in the village to link them up with the police operations room at The Jolly Gardeners.’

  ‘We have to do something now,’ said Simon. ‘This very minute.’

  ‘Not without the villagers and the flaming torches we don’t.’

  ‘Sod the villagers.’ Simon snatched up the book. ‘I’m going to flick forward and see what happens next.’

  ‘I don’t think you should do that, Simon.’

  ‘Well I do.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re really supposed to know what happens next.’

  ‘I don’t care. I’m going to look anyway.’

  ‘Don’t do it, Simon.’

  ‘So who’s going to stop me?’

  Mr Hilsavise sighed. Then swung a fist the size of a prize-winning turnip straight at Simon’s chin.

  The seeker after future knowledge collapsed in a limp and unconscious heap onto the sofa with the dreadful woolen multi-coloured shawl thing on it.

  The warlock gazed up towards the ceiling. ‘I’m sorry about that, Lord,’ he said, ‘but if he’d read about what he has to do, there’s no telling what he might actually do. If you know what I mean, and I’m sure that you do. So I think we should best let him sleep and cut this chapter short, so we can get into the build up for the big exciting climax at the end. If that’s okay with you.’

  The Lord did not reply to this, as He rarely does that sort of thing. But as the chapter came to an abrupt end at this very moment, it’s safe to assume that He agreed.

  23

  ‘Shiva’s sheep!’ said Raymond. ‘Would you look at that down there?’

  The circus folk were on the deck of the SS Salamander, which now turned in orbit above the northern hemisphere of Eden.

  Pretty swift journey from Saturn? And who’s been steering the ship? Good points. But moving right along.

  It looked just like Earth only bigger. And with a dirty great hole where the north pole should be.

  ‘It’s very beautiful,’ said Raymond, admiring the view. ‘The colours are so vivid.

  ‘It is Eden.’ Professor Merlin clamped a pair of darkly tinted pince-nez across
the bridge of his shark’s fin hooter. ‘Cradle of mankind. Earthly paradise and things of that nature. Or once was, at least. Do you see the fug?’

  Raymond saw the fug. Drifting out of the dirty great hole where the north pole should be. ‘What a shame.’

  ‘And do you see the moons?’

  Raymond searched the black sky for moons. ‘I see two.’

  ‘An observational tour de force on your part, me old Galileo. Two small moons, newly captured into orbit and soon to be drawn down to plug up the holes in the poles,’

  Raymond shrugged. He had been expecting something unlikely when it came to the matter of how the holes in the poles were going to be blocked up. Not perhaps quite as unlikely as this. But something close.

  ‘So,’ said Professor Merlin, without enthusiasm. ‘I suppose I should get on the blower and give Eden a call.’

  ‘And what are you proposing to say?’

  ‘Well.’ Professor Merlin preened at his natty lapels. ‘Actually I have come up with a rather inspired idea of my own.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ said Raymond doubtfully.

  ‘Oh yes indeedy do. As you are now aware, today is King Eddie’s birthday also. Thus I will let it be known that we are a Saturnian circus, sent as a special birthday surprise by his dear brother the Grand Duke.’

  ‘You don’t think that the king might get on the old inter-planetary telephone and call up his brother to check our credentials?’

  ‘Why ever should he do that?’

  Raymond shrugged again. ‘It was just a thought.’

  ‘Well dismiss it from your mercurial mind.’ The professor smiled hugely. ‘You see, Raymond, it isn’t just you who can hit upon a really good idea.’

  ‘Who hit me?’ Simon awoke to a violent application of cold water. ‘You did. Why?’

  ‘I tripped,’ said Mr Hilsavise. ‘Sorry.’

  Simon clutched at his grazed chin. And worried at his teeth. ‘I think you’ve loosened a cap.’

  ‘Forget about your damned teeth for once. We have to go.

  ‘Good, I told you there was no time to lose.’ Simon climbed shakily to his feet and stretched. Beyond the living-room windows all was dark. ‘It’s night already, how long have I been out?’