They minced through the bleachers as if they were balsa-wood, cascading chippings and sawdust to go with all the feathers and bite-sized chicken morsels.
And Simon held on.
‘What is this?’ The monster flung aside his kneeling sacrifice-to-be and raised his talons. Liza scrambled to her feet and fled. A certain chemical in Simon’s head said ‘kill it, buddy’.
‘You’re going to get yours,’ yelled Simon as the Allen Scythe gathered speed.
‘Torch bearers in,” cried Mr H. at the gate. And the villagers advanced at the trot.
‘Back!’ Sate-Hen’s eyes flashed hell-fire and his beak hung open issuing suphurous smoke. What chickens remained rose screaming ‘no no no’ and flew at Simon’s face.
The gardener’s apprentice and soldier of the Lord kept his head down and the Allen Scythe ploughed towards Sate-Hen.
Sate-Hen stood his evil ground. ‘Idolator!’ he cried.
Simon rammed the throttle full on and let go.
The Allen Scythe caught Sate-Hen in the legs. The big blades cutting. Mincing. Horribly. The monster screamed and kicked. A leg stump gouting blood. The big machine tore at him. Buffeted him down, ate into him. Blood. Gore. Nastiness.
And quite right too.
And then came the villagers.
‘Return to the pit from whence thou came.’ Mr Hilsavise had a flaming torch of his own. ‘Burn in Hades’ fire where you belong.’
And the villagers flung their torches.
The creature took fire in a rush of blue flame. Still screaming and kicking. Flames licked up around the Allen Scythe. Around its petrol tank.
‘Run!’ advised Mr Hilsavise. ‘Run for your lives, I’ve read this bit.’
And the villagers ran.
And the men of F.A.R.T. and the men, and woman, of B.E.A.S.T. and the grey men on the hill, all of whom had been holding their fire so as not to complicate the action, ducked their heads as the inevitable occurred.
It was a hell of a big explosion.
‘Everyone back to the ship,’ shouted Raymond, as further explosions burst along the dock. ‘Come on, get back on board.’
The Millwall supporters were beating seven bells of soccerdom out of the soldiers. And who could blame them? They had a lot to get out of their systems.
‘Come on.’ Raymond shouted at them. ‘There’s a war going on here. Back to the ship and let’s get home.’
‘Isn’t that Arnie?’ asked a skinhead called Vinny who was putting the boot into a fallen soldier.
‘Arnie Arn-ie-Arn-ie-Am-ie Arrrrrnie Arrrrrme.’
‘Come on. Let’s go.’
Up above in the sky, the Sultan of Uranus was in a bit of a fix.
‘We’re on fire,’ said his cringing lacky. ‘I think this proves that planes do have the edge on ships.’
‘I’m fed up with you,’ said the sultan, snatching the lacky by the seat of his pants and pitching him over the side.
‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!’ went the lacky, heading on down.
‘And bloody good riddance.’ The Sultan swung the ship’s wheel in a plea to set a course for home. A Saturnian winged disc let free a barrage of missilery.
Wham bang.
And lovely left to hang.
The Sultan of Uranus was no more.
‘Let’s go. And I’m not kidding.’
The Millwall warriors, viewing the rather large contingent of red-and-whites now pouring on to the dock, with the armoured vehicles and the half tracks and everything, made a strategic withdrawal to the deck of the SS Salamander, where they shouted abuse and mooned at the oncoming troops.
‘Will the ship still fly?’ asked Raymond in the wheel-house.
‘Of course, my dear boy. Shall I be helmsman?’
‘You have to be joking, Professor.’
‘I wunt to be helmsman,’ said the British PM.
Raymond turned around and did what an entire generation of British youth have always wanted to do. He laid out the Prime Minister with a single blow to the chin.
‘Now, let’s go.’
‘What about the aircraft and the space ships?’
Ground-based missiles now streaked into the sky. The aircraft and the space ships that remained flew off to fight another day.
‘Away to the North Pole,’ said Professor Merlin. ‘And step on it, by Jimminy.’
Around Long Bob’s farm the gunfire had ceased. Men with boot-blacked eyeballs searched the row of distraught B.E.A.S.T.ers, who now stood with their hands up against the farmhouse wall. They had somehow lost the will for further battle.
‘You’re all nicked,’ said Inspector D’Eath. ‘On more charges than I’ve got names for. And where do you think you’re going, Simon?’
Simon, who, with his arm around Liza, was quietly slipping away, said, ‘Where indeed?’
‘He’s going to take his girlfriend home, I should think,’ said chief Inspector Lestrade
‘He’s under arrest,’ said D’Eath. ‘He’s a serial killer, that’s what.’
‘The woman I’m supposed to have murdered is standing over there with her hands up,’ said Simon. ‘And I think we might expect Raymond home any time now. And you stole my winnings, you crook.’
Inspector D’Eath laughed. ‘Stole your winnings indeed.’
‘You did, sir,’ said Constable Derek. ‘I can’t go through with stealing his money. He did it, ma’am guv. He stole Simon’s winnings. About half a million quid. It’s hidden in his shed.’
Chief Inspector Lestrade smiled that little smile that Helen Mirren does. ‘I was sent here, not only to take charge of this task force, but to investigate claims of police corruption made against you, Inspector. I think we can say you’re nicked, can’t we?’
‘I think we can say we did it.’ Raymond sat at the head of the table in the grand salon. The ship was on automatic pilot, or whatever it was. The circus folk crowded around raising glasses. The heads of state of the inner Earth crowded around raising glasses. All except one, who lay unconscious on the wheelhouse floor.
And a king who was tied up in the hold, surrounded by two hundred guards.
‘You have triumphed,’ said Professor Merlin. ‘Now all of the inner Earth will know the truth about those who dwell above. With the king as hostage, the holograms destroyed and the heads of state returning to power, knowing what they now know, I think the Edenites will be persuaded to change their ways. And there are more nukes on Earth than on Eden. The threat of a few lobbed up through the polar openings might prove persuasive, should they dither.’
‘No more wars,’ said Raymond. ‘Let’s have peace. Lots of peace.’ He raised his glass. ‘To peace, lots of peace.’
‘You’ll have death, lots of death,’ said a voice from on high.
Raymond hadn’t thought much about the strong smell of fish he had noticed in the grand salon. The bouillabaisse was on the turn, perhaps.
The eyes of all present gazed up.
In the great dome of the ceiling hung Abdullah the flying starfish from Uranus. ‘Nice to get you all together in one place,’ said Abdullah. ‘So I can snuff you out, all in one go.’
His hideous middle section bulged, extruded something unseeable but solid. A transparent dome enclosed all beneath.
‘And now,’ said the odious one, ‘I suck out the air and the lot of you croak, so you do.’
‘No no no.’ There was a whole lot of ‘noing’. In many different tongues. And a whole lot of bashing at the dome. And screaming too.
‘Say goodbye.’ The flying starfish took a deep breath. The air left the transparent dome. ‘Goodbye.’
Raymond clutched at his throat. Heads of state were sinking to the floor, coughing and gagging. The professor gripped his chest. The circus folk, grey faced and gasping, tottered and fell.
‘No,’ Raymond fought for breath, but there was no air left to breathe. It was all over.
And so horribly unfair.
‘Say goodbye,’ laughed Abdullah.
‘Goodbye, Abdullah.’ Such a sweet voice. Raymond half heard it and looking up he saw the sudden look of horror appear upon what Abdullah passed off as his face.
A great swordfish saw plunged down from his middle section, cleaving it open, spattering ichor onto the dome. And then the dome dissolved, air rushed in, Abdullah crumpled in upon himself and collapsed in a big heap all over the nicely spread table.
‘Zephyr?’ Raymond raised a smile, then parted company with his senses.
27
There is always a loose end or two. Or three. Or possibly four.
And folk can sometimes be left saying, ‘What about that?’ or ‘Whatever happened to him?’ or ‘That bit was never explained at all.’
Hard to believe. But they do.
They might ask, for instance, what became of the men in grey? Well . . .
‘I’m out of ammo,’ said grey man number one. ‘Me too,’ said number two.
‘I’ve got one shot left,’ said grey man number three. ‘And I’ve got Simon’s head right in the cross hairs of this super-dooper telescopic sight.’
‘Well shoot the sod and let’s go home.’
The finger of grey man number three tightened on the trigger. But then a big firm hand tightened upon his shoulder.
‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you, shithead.’
It was a big gruff voice. Real evil. We’ve heard it before somewhere. Ah yes.
‘Put down the gun,’ said Black Jack Wooler.
‘Now just you see here—’
‘Don’t.’ Black Jack raised his hand, his big Pit Bull terrier growled ominously. ‘I heard you say you were heading this way. I’ve come to bring you a message.’
‘Oh yes?’ Grey men three looked up at the big man with the big dog.
‘It’s from your guvnor. His secretary called to say he had the day off, for some king’s birthday. But to tell you that your services are no longer required. You’re fired.’
Black Jack Wooler drew a sawn-off shotgun from beneath his coat. ‘Kill,’ he told his dog.
And what about the Grand Duke? some folk might ask. Surely he’s got it coming to him. Well . . .
‘Dingle dangle,’ said the Grand Duke to his lovely. ‘All right, we may have lost the battle, but there’s still a few hours of birthday left. So let us tarry a while, fair maiden, then I’ll treat you to a slap-up supper. Poodles and frog’s legs and heaven knows what. And what is that infernal racket?’
The bedchamber door opened with a rush and the cringing menial bowled in to land in a heap. Behind him came a whole lot of animals. Frogs included. Leading them was an elephant.
‘I can’t talk for long,’ said Moses. ‘Because the End Times have been postponed, so I’ll have to shut up in a minute. But you,’ the elephant curled his trunk around the Grand Duke’s leg, ‘you’re dead, Jack.’
‘My name’s not Jack, it’s Binky. Let me go.’
Moses dragged Binky from his bed and hefted him over to the window. They were about fourteen floors up.
‘Say, Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!’ said Moses. ‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!’
But what, and if there’s one big what, what about that book from the future?
Raymond and Zephyr stood on the deck of the SS Salamander.
Down below, the heads of state, none the worse for Abdullah, were tucking into the professor’s grub and carrying on like the good friends they had all become.
‘I have to go away,’ said Zephyr. ‘Now is not my time and I must go.’
‘Oh please,’ Raymond held her very close. ‘You can’t leave me again. You just can’t.’
‘I have to go Raymond. When I say that now is not my time, it’s because I come from the future.’
Aha!
‘Will I see you ever again?’
‘Oh yes, in about a year from now. When the book comes out.’
‘What book?’
‘The one I’m writing about you. It’s called The Greatest Show off Earth. A sort of unofficial biography.’
‘Cor,’ said Raymond.
‘You see I run a little publishing house, in the future. It’s called B.E.A.S.T. That’s an acronym for Bolo Eolo Atolo Solo Tolo.’
‘Which isn’t English.’
‘No. It’s part of the new universal tongue which you create to bring peace and harmony between the planets. In the future. Roughly translated it means, the publishing company run by Raymond and his wife Zephyr.’
‘Wow,’ said Raymond.
‘In the future. What is today’s date, by the way?’
‘The sixteenth, I think.’
‘Then I must go. A copy of the book will arrive for you when you get home. Keep an eye out for the postman.’
‘Zephyr, please don’t go. I love you.’
‘And I love you.’ Zephyr kissed him. ‘In a year from now,’ she said. And then she vanished, just like that.
And Raymond was left all alone.
‘A year,’ Raymond sighed. ‘A year from today. The sixteenth. No, hang about, it’s not the sixteenth. It was the sixteenth when I got snatched away from the allotments. I wonder if that matters.’
There’s a circus playing on Bramfield common next week.
It’s well worth a visit. You’ll not have seen anything quite like it before.
Raymond will be going. And his best friend Simon. And Simon’s fiancée Liza.
They’ve booked seats at the front. In fact, they’ve booked all the tickets for the first show. Simon’s treating the whole village.
It should be a show worth watching.
You won’t miss it, will you?
It’s The Greatest Show off Earth.
THE END
Also by
ROBERT RANKIN
The Antipope
The Brentford Triangle
East of Ealing
The Sprouts of Wrath
Armageddon: The Musical
They Came and Ate Us
The Suburban Book of the Dead
The Book of Ultimate Truths
Raiders of the Lost Car Park
The Greatest Show Off Earth
The Most Amazing Man Who Ever Lived
The Garden of Unearthly Delights
A Dog Called Demolition
Nostradamus Ate My Hamster
Sprout Mask Replica
The Brentford Chainstore Massacre
The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag
Apocalypso
Snuff Fiction
Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls
Waiting for Godalming
Web Site Story
The Fandom of the Operator
The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse
The Witches of Chiswick
Knees Up Mother Earth
The Brightonomicon
The Toyminator
The Da-da-de-da-da Code
Necrophenia
Retromancer
The Japanese Devil Fish Girl and Other Unnatural Attractions
The Mechanical Messiah and Other Marvels of the Modern Age
The Educated Ape and Other Wonders of the Worlds
Illustrated works:
The Bumper Book of Ficts written by Neil Gardner
EMPIRES
E-book edition cover illustration by Robert Rankin
Art direction, sweet nose, and a nifty line in steel pan solos: Rachel Hayward
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sp; Robert Rankin, The Greatest Show Off Earth
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