The Abominable Showman

  But whereas its Earthly counterpart contained examples of industry and the arts, this sky-borne wonder of science was home, it appeared, to every variety of flower and plant and tree as might be found upon any of the four inhabited worlds. Here bloomed Martian red weed, Venusian orchids, Jovian sausage bushes. Giant lily pads from Earth rested on the waters of artificial lakes. Tropical birds of vibrant yellows nested high in the banana trees. Ferns and ivies, oaks and ashes, plantain and pomegranate. An Arcadian paradise, a primordial jungle, a biblical Eden all beneath glass on a spaceship up upon high.

  The count removed his bearskin hat and drew a handkerchief across his brow. Beads of perspiration were already in his eyes. The temperature was well into the eighties.

  ‘Poppette,’ called Count Ilya Rostov. ‘Poppette, where are you?’

  A parrot said, ‘Hello,’ somewhere above.

  ‘Poppette,’ cooed the count. ‘Where are you, sweetness?’

  With the diamonds twinkling on his boots he tiptoed into the jungle.

  When he found her she was naked.

  She was kneeling in a glade.

  Her hair was white.

  Her limbs were pale.

  And on her back two tiny fairy wings.

  She did not turn to greet him or acknowledge he was there.

  She sang a song composed of words that held a meaning only known to her.

  And when she rose and turned to greet him, unashamed in her nakedness, he saw not only her ethereal beauty, but the creature to which she had been singing.

  For tethered to its slender stalk there stood a vegetable lamb.

  14

  They walked together in that house of glass, through sylvan glades and rested by an artificial stream. He in his robe, with dripping brow and snow of diamonds on his riding boots. She petite, a naked sylph, with toes that scarcely touched the moist ripe leaves which carpeted the ground.

  He had known her for all of the eighteen years of her life. She had been conceived in space, daughter to indentured workers who laboured on the construction of The Leviathan, a ship that had taken eleven years to build in the empty realm.

  What had become of her parents? Some must know, but none it seemed would say. The count had adopted her as his daughter. He had taught her to read and to write and although he allowed her no tutors, she had access to his library and her knowledge of the four worlds was profound.

  But she was not of any world. Sophia Poppette was unique.

  ‘Uncle,’ she said, for so it was that she addressed him. ‘Uncle, speak to me of Queen Victoria.’

  ‘What is it you wish to know, my dear?’ The count watched birds of paradise as they preened at their marvellous plumage.

  ‘She will come here, to our home and I shall meet her?’

  ‘She is eager to make your acquaintance. And yes, she will come. In eleven days’ time, to be honoured on the occasion of her Double Sapphire Jubilee, to celebrate her ninetieth year on the throne.’

  ‘And she is queen of all the Earth?’

  Count Rostov raised his eyebrows. Such gaps in the Poppette’s knowledge seemed most strange to him.

  ‘She rules over the British Empire,’ said the count. ‘Which encompasses Mars and the Moon and all of the Earth, excepting the Americas. They have maintained what they refer to as independence. But for how much longer, who can say?’

  She looked into the uncle’s eyes. ‘Your aura tells me many things,’ she said. ‘But I would know more of this queen.’

  ‘There are countless books in the library,’ said Count Rostov.

  ‘I read not of Earthly kings and queens.’

  ‘Then what you would like me to tell you?’

  ‘Of her age and her many years upon the throne. Do all monarchs live and rule so very long?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Count Rostov, mopping the sweat from his brow. ‘And no my dear, they do not. It is publically broadcast that Her Majesty has lived so long due to her exercise regime. Fifty press-ups a day and half an hour of running on the spot. A hearty consumption of health-giving sprouts and a Mars bar for afters, which helps her work, rest and play.’

  The Poppette giggled and said, ‘I do think not.’

  ‘And you would be correct in such thinking. It is pure and simply the result of Venusian magic. When, with the destruction of the Martians, planet Earth was admitted to the brotherhood of planets, Venusian ambassadors visited the Queen to sign various treaties, they brought her a very special present. The Aqua Vitae, the Elixir of Life. They knew that the Queen was a lady of her word and that she would respect their laws and honour their treaties and so they wished her to remain upon the throne for as long as might be.’

  ‘So is your queen immortal?’

  The count’s head bobbed from side to side and he plucked at his Imperial. ‘She has miraculously survived several assassination attempts and she never appears to age by a single day.’

  ‘If the elixir was distilled upon Venus,’ said the Poppette, ‘does this mean that all Venusians are similarly impervious to age and attack?’

  ‘No,’ Count Rostov shook his head. ‘The elixir is very difficult to produce. Very, I….’ he paused.

  The Poppette smiled. ‘Yes, Uncle,’ she said. ‘I know that you have tried to produce it.’

  ‘And I cannot,’ said the count. ‘Perhaps two drops can be produced in a single century. There are very few immortals, be assured of that.’

  ‘And how long will I live, Uncle?’

  Count Rostov shook his head once more. ‘I do not know, my dear.’

  ‘But longer than the lamb?’ said Sophia Poppette.

  ‘Ah, the lamb, the lamb,’ Count Rostov shrugged. ‘The Borametz, the Vegetable Lamb of Tartary.’

  ‘You will kill it to serve at the celebrations, won’t you, Uncle?’ the fairy girl’s eyes were emerald green that probed and pierced at the count.

  ‘It was grown to be eaten,’ said Count Ilya Rostov. ‘Everything within this great glass house is bred or grown to be eaten. The fruits of the trees, the birds of the air, the monkeys and the frogs.’

  ‘Perhaps one day you will eat me too.’

  Count Rostov turned away his face, for at these words a tear had come to his eye.

  ‘I’m not going to cry,’ I said to Barry. ‘No matter what happens to me, I am not going to cry ever. No matter what.’

  ‘Of course you won’t, chief,’ said Barry the sprout. ‘Stiff upper lip and all that.’

  ‘I may not be brave,’ I said, ‘but I’m clever. I’m not a foot soldier, you see. More of a military strategist.’

  ‘Where exactly is this leading, chief? And for that matter where exactly are we?’

  I had taken the lift to its topmost level and now was wandering corridors that seemed to have no end.

  ‘Getting to know the lie of the land,’ I said.

  ‘You are lost, chief. Just fess up and admit it.’

  I affected a haughty air and pointed, ‘This is the way we shall go,’ I sniffed and I set off at a march.

  Presently a voice in my head said, ‘This seems rather familiar.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I replied to that and set off once more.

  At length Barry said, ‘These fire extinguishers, chief, we have now passed them more than five times to my reckoning.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I said, yet again. ‘All fire extinguishers look alike, there is nothing special to these.’

  ‘Strange that we haven’t seen anyone else on this level,’ said Barry.

  ‘We should be glad for that,’ was my reply. ‘And I am going in this direction now.’

  A little later we reached three fire extinguishers which did have something of a familiar look to them.

  ‘A different three entirely,’ I said to Barry, in case he had further opinions that he felt the need to express.

  ‘Chief,’ said the sprout, ‘indulge me if you will.’

  I sighed and said, ‘Go on then, what do you want?’

  ‘Take off one of yo
ur dear little shoes and hang it on a fire extinguisher.’

  ‘And hobble?’ I enquired. ‘I would look rather foolish with one shoe off.’

  ‘As we have yet to encounter a single soul upon this level, it is a risk that even one who lacks for bravery such as yourself might be prepared to take.’

  ‘I should not tolerate such foolishness,’ I said, but I obliged the silly sprout and marched away in one shoe.

  And just a little later.

  ‘Well,’ I said to Barry, ‘here’s a thing.’

  ‘A thing that looks like a dear little shoe,’ said Barry.

  ‘But I am sure we didn’t turn any corners,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, it’s we now is it?’ said Barry.

  ‘I walked in a straight line all the way along this corridor.’ I turned and gazed back along it. It looked very long and very straight indeed.

  ‘Would you care to try it one more time, chief?’

  I did so and said, ‘Well now, bless my soul.’

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said Barry to me. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.’

  ‘There would be a rational explanation,’ I said. ‘Probably something to do with the curve of space.’

  ‘There is no curve of space, chief,’ said Barry. ‘And neither was there a Big Bang or any other such theoretical gibberish.’

  I put on my troubled face, though Barry could not see it.

  ‘We did not pass the lift doors on our way from here to … er… here,’ I said.

  ‘And so, chief,’ said Barry. ‘I can confidently report that on your very first undercover spying mission, you have walked straight into a trap.’

  ‘I do not see how you could possibly draw that conclusion.’ I said and I stamped my foot. And hurt my toes, so I put my dear little shoe back on and made two fists instead.

  ’I have a very bad feeling about this, chief,’ said Barry. ‘And if I am not mistaken.’

  ‘Yes?’ I sighed. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Just indulge me please, chief. Turn around and try to walk back along the corridor you have just walked along.’

  ‘Try?’ said I.

  ‘Indulge me.’

  I sighed once more, then turned around, then said, ‘Now how is that?’

  For there was now no corridor at all to be seen.

  There was nothing but a plain blank wall.

  And when I turned back.

  There were no fire extinguishers.

  But indeed another blank wall.

  So I stood, alone but for Barry in what amounted to a little walled box. And my bottom lip began to quiver and tears came into my eyes.

  ‘The universe cries out for justice,’ said Lady Agnes Rutherford. She and Sir Jonathan had not got far into luncheon. They had picked at posh prawn cocktails, but were three quarters of the way through a bottle of vintage champagne.

  ‘Justice?’ said Sir Jonathan, refilling the champagne flutes.

  ‘There is evil abroad,’ said her ladyship. ‘All across the universe. Though each planet holds to its laws, space itself remains unpoliced.’

  ‘It is rather large to police,’ said Sir Jonathan. ‘Would you care for a sausage on a stick?’

  Lady Agnes waved away the sausage. ‘Piracy is rife,’ she said, ‘and kidnapping and murder, but if it is beyond the local jurisdiction of a planet, a blind eye is turned and the crime remains unpunished.’

  ‘Because without a law to be broken, it does not qualify as a crime,’ Sir Jonathan said. ‘And I must add that the laws of each planet conflict with each one another. To enter one of the forbidden areas on Venus, the punishment is death.’

  ‘Somewhat harsh by the standards of Earth, I grant you,’ said the lady.

  ‘But not so harsh as on Jupiter. Where one might be boiled alive for the crime of stealing a pie.’

  The lady nodded thoughtfully. ‘It must be noted, however,’ she said, ‘that stealing a pie is the only crime that one can commit upon Jupiter.’

  ‘True,’ said Sir Jonathan, ‘the Jovians do not trouble themselves with laws as they all seem to get on rather well and have no need for them. The pie law was only put in place so that they might appear law abiding to folk of other worlds.’

  ‘I am not certain whether that makes any sense at all,’ said Lady Agnes, raising her glass and draining away its contents.

  ‘It doesn’t really have to,’ said Sir Jonathan. ‘For we are, after all, only going through the motions of conversation. Prior to the sexual shenanigans in which we will shortly engage.’

  ‘Good sir,’ said the lady. ‘You leave me open-mouthed.’

  ‘Such is my intention,’ said Sir Jonathan. ‘And –’ but whatever excruciating innuendo was about to issue from his open mouth was mercifully stifled by the very loud explosion.

  A siren wailed and lights began to flash.

  A steward’s voice on the tannoy announced, ‘The liner is under attack.’

  15

  Sir Jonathan Crawford arose from the dining table.

  ‘Madam,’ he said to the Lady Agnes. ‘If you would be so kind as to follow me.’

  Her ladyship remained in her chair, ‘I have not finished all of my prawns,’ she said.

  ‘But, dear lady, the liner is under attack.’

  ‘And you are suggesting what? That I find cover somewhere, or perhaps take up arms and join in the melee?’

  ‘Perish the thought of either,’ said Sir Jonathan. ‘I was hoping you might accompany me to the observation deck, where we can watch the battle whilst enjoying a cocktail or two.’

  ‘That would be nice,’ said Lady Agnes Rutherford.

  ‘Barry,’ I said, ‘nice Barry.’

  ‘Nice, Barry?’ said the sprout.

  ‘Very nice Barry,’ I said to my unseen companion. ‘Do you recall when earlier I mentioned the matter of accepting your assistance when I felt it was required?’

  ‘I vaguely recall something of the sort,’ said Barry the sprout.

  ‘And of course you are my holy guardian.’

  ‘This is the case,’ said Barry.

  ‘Well,’ I said. ‘How shall I put this?’

  ‘Let me save you the trouble, chief. You have entered a trap, clearly designed to snare trespassers who have not been granted permission to enter this area.’

  I said nothing, so Barry went on.

  ‘And I see that your breath is growing somewhat short and your vision somewhat cloudy.’

  I opened my mouth to agree with this, but no words could I utter.

  ‘Which suggests to me,’ Barry went on once more, ‘that a soporific agent, most likely some kind of sleeping gas, is now being introduced to this confined environment.’

  I made gasping croaking sounds to express my agreement with this.

  ‘And so you wish me to –’

  Then things went rather black.

  The blackness of space, bejewelled with stars was a most dramatic backdrop for a battle.

  Upon the observation deck with its domed glass ceiling and steamer chairs had gathered many passengers and crew.

  Sir Jonathan pressed into the crowd, tipping the wink to those he recognised.

  ‘Ah,’ said he, ‘Lady Agnes, do you know the owls?’

  ‘The owls?’ said her ladyship, ‘pardon me do.’

  ‘They are “Als”,’ said Sir Jonathan Crawford. ‘But “Als” sounds like “owls” and the three are so often together.’ He reached out a hand and had it firmly shaken.

  ‘Your servant, madam,’ said an Al in an American accent.

  ‘Al Capone,’ said Sir Jonathan, introducing her ladyship. ‘A notable Chicago business man.’

  ‘And here,’ and another Al put out his hand. A rather black hand too it was and smelling of boot polish.

  ‘Mr Al Jolson,’ said Sir Jonathan and behind his hand he added, ‘He thinks he is a black man. Please humour him.’

  The lady shook the hand of Mr Jolson.

  ‘And finally,’ said Sir Jonathan. ‘A fellow of some notoriety.??
?

  ‘I know this gentleman well,’ said Lady Agnes and she put out her hand to receive the serpent’s kiss from Mr Aleister Crowley.

  A violent explosion curtailed further niceties.

  Some passengers took to the duckings of heads, but most of them simply cheered.

  Sir Jonathan beckoned a waiter. ‘The cocktail list if you please,’ said he. ‘And tell me who is attacking the ship today?’

  The waiter presented the cocktail list. ‘Space pirates,’ he said, ‘from the Jovian moon Trubshaw. The attack was arranged for three-thirty, but they are half an hour late.’

  ‘Arranged?’ queried Lady Agnes Rutherford. ‘This attack was arranged?’

  ‘There was a deadline,’ said the waiter. ‘For the ransoming of the kidnapped crew members. They were snatched, you see, whilst doing work outside.’

  Lady Agnes shook her puzzled head.

  ‘The Trubshawians sent a ransom note. Pay up some outrageous sum, or the crew members would be killed and The Leviathan attacked.’

  ‘And this ransom note was addressed to Count Rostov, I suppose?’ said her ladyship.

  The waiter nodded dismally. ‘And he does have a policy of non-cooperation when it comes to kidnappers.’

  ‘I see,’ said her ladyship, and perusing the list she ordered a rum and cocaine. ‘Is this a regular occurrence?’ she asked Sir Jonathan Crawford.

  His lordship nodded his noble head. ‘Almost weekly, doncha know,’ said he. ‘The Leviathan is pretty much impervious to attack. Some force-field powered by the transfiguration of super comic Aunty Matty, or some such fol-de-rol. But it makes for good entertainment. The ship’s prang cannons will open up in a minute and blast the blighters from the sky. But not until cocktails are served, I trust.’

  ‘Not until then,’ said the waiter.

  It is generally not until you are getting old that you begin thinking seriously about death. When you are young it’s a queer thing for sure, but it rarely seems to touch those close to you. In my short life I had attended several funerals, of a grandma and two elderly aunts. But these were peripheral beings, and seemed to be of another time and really did not belong at all in this one.