Robert Rankin - Retromancer

And that before authorities had been able to secure the area, locals had thoroughly looted the plane.

Which, I suppose, sort of put history straight.

But I was having my doubts as to where, if anywhere, things were leading. We had solved five cases so far, which meant that the next would be our sixth and we would be halfway through our mission. But as to what we were actually doing to stop the Germans developing the atomic bomb, destroying America and winning the war, I was not quite sure at all.

On the third day Hugo Rune rose again. He appeared at the breakfasting table, the opened parcel in his arms, deposited it into my lap and availed himself of my breakfast.

‘I want you to read all the way through this, Rizla,’ he told me. ‘Take notes if you wish, but make yourself thoroughly conversant with the contents. I feel that this is the catalyst I have been awaiting.’

‘I will just finish my breakfast,’ I said, reaching out.

But he waved me away and that was that for my breakfast.

I took the parcel into Mr Rune’s study, sat down in the fireside chair that had been designated as mine, tipped out the contents and gave them a thorough perusal.

A biffed-about box file with the words

PROJECT RAINBOW

ABOVE TOP SECRET

printed on it reached my gaze and I opened this up and dug in.

There were a great many Above-Top-Secret American Navy papers in that box file and I leafed through them all, reading as I did so.

All concerned something called THE PHILADELPHIA EXPERIMENT, which appeared to be a project based upon Albert Einstein’s unified field theory, employing the use of electromagnetic radiation in order to make an American warship radar-invisible.

Apparently an experiment had been conducted on 28 October 1943, at sea upon a vessel called the USS Eldridge. But things had not gone as intended. The electromagnetic radiation had rendered the entire ship absolutely invisible, leaving nothing to signal its presence but for a hull-shaped indentation in the sea.

Then things became a little confused. There were reports that the Eldridge had teleported accidentally to a naval yard in Norfolk, Virginia.

Rumours also abounded that dire things had befallen the crew of the invisibilised ship and that the entire project had later been abandoned as being far too dangerous to continue with.

There were photographs of ‘portable field generators’ and there were pages and pages of mathematical calculations and equations included in the collection of papers. Also there was much in the way of memos and telegrams, which proved that the knowledge and approval of this experiment went all the way up to the President of the United States himself. And it crossed my mind that I was probably holding in my hands a ‘box of fireworks’ as it were. Or maybe that should be a ‘smoking pistol’. But certainly it was sensitive information. But could any of it actually be true?

Hugo Rune entered his study, wiping his chops with a napkin and belching mightily.

‘Pardon myself,’ he said to me. ‘Have you perused the papers?’

‘I have indeed,’ I said to him. ‘But as to whether I actually believe any of that – well, it is pretty far-fetched, is it not?’

‘On the contrary,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘But not in the way you think. I certainly find it surprising. But only in the fact that anything that unprincipled scoundrel Einstein conceived of has actually worked.’

‘You are not a fan of Mr Einstein, then?’ I asked.

‘I taught the man everything he knows. And then he cribs my notes and wins himself the Nobel Prize.’

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘I see how that could tick you off.’

‘Indeed.’ And Hugo Rune made a very grumpy face. ‘But friend Einstein is not truly behind this project. The real genius behind it all was Nikola Tesla, who sadly died last year. Giving friend Einstein the opportunity to once more claim the credit!’ Mr Rune’s voice rose to a rant that I found most uncomfortable.

‘But you think it did work?’ I said. ‘A warship was actually turned invisible and possibly even teleported?’

‘I have studied the equations and calculations; the maths seem sound enough.’

‘So why, do you suppose, did your other self post it all to you?’

‘Interesting question, Rizla. But the question should perhaps be, how did my other self come into the possession of this sensitive information in the first place?’

‘It is all rather exciting, is it not?’ I said. ‘Do you suppose that it has the makings of our next case?’

‘Why not tug out those now-knackered tarot cards that inhabit your pocket with all the fluff and toffees, fling the entire wad up into the air and we’ll see which one comes down face up.’

‘Fair enough,’ I said and I did just that. And out of the seven remaining cards only one came down facing up.

And this card was THE SUN.

‘Does that mean anything to you?’ I asked.

‘Absolutely nothing, Rizla. All this is most puzzling indeed.’

‘Should we take an ale at Fangio’s,’ I asked, ‘and mull the matter over?’

‘It is a weekday,’ Hugo Rune informed me, ‘and we generally only visit The Purple Princess on Sunday lunchtimes.’

‘Radical solutions require radical actions?’ I suggested.

Hugo Rune pulled back the curtains and viewed a beautiful day. ‘Tell you what, young Rizla,’ he said, ‘as it is such a beautiful day and we are still at present in our jim-jams and dressing gowns, as befits such gentlemen as we, what say we doll up in our summer togs?’

‘The pale linen suits and the panama hats?’ I asked. ‘I signed for the delivery of these the other day. Ignoring the request for payment, naturally.’

‘Naturally,’ said Hugo Rune, and with that patted my shoulder. ‘Linen suits and panama hats, I baggsy first the bathroom.’

And what a fuss that fellow made with bathing. I have never known anyone so fastidious about dress and personal hygiene as Mr Rune. As well as always being immaculately dressed he was always scrupulously clean. Clinically clean. Perfectly clean. There was probably some deep down psychological screw-up in his personality to account for all this constant cleaning and preening and grooming. But whatever it was, it was none of my business. And I was more than happy to be the constant companion of a man who dressed well and smelled of civet, ambergris and musk.

But at last he was done and I had my turn and just a little later than that, the two of us, looking all spruced up and chipper and most debonair in our panama hats and white cotton shirts and pale linen suits with matching gas-mask cases swinging from our shoulders, stepped out onto the streets of Brentford.

And set off to Fangio’s bar.

The saloon bar was empty of customers and we approached the counter, behind which stood no barlord to bid us a hearty hello.

‘A deserted bar,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Shinny over the counter, Rizla, and fetch us a bottle of whisky. Better make it that twelve-year-old triple malt that Fangio thinks to conceal from me behind those Spanish knick-knacks.’

And I might well have done what he asked had Fangio not suddenly jumped out from behind the bar counter and given me a fright.

I went, ‘Waah!’ and took a step back.

Hugo Rune did not.

‘How about that?’ said Fangio. ‘Is that good jumping-out or what? I’ve been taking lessons from Norman at the corner shop and I think we’re in with a chance, come tomorrow night.’

‘I have no doubt that there is sense to be found in your words,’ said Hugo Rune, ‘but, as with a rotten tooth, the extraction of it might be painful.’