Robert Rankin - Retromancer

‘It is as I said,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘A great inhuman force is at work here, Rizla. A force far greater than Hitler or the horrible Count Otto Black. And now at last I know what it is. And it is a thing to fear.’

‘Oh come on now,’ I said. ‘ “You ain’t afraid of no man.” ’

‘ “There’s something out there,” ’ said Hugo Rune, ‘ “and it ain’t no man.” ’ [11]

‘A robot?’ I said. ‘A great big robot, just like our Colossus?’

‘A computer,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘And one possessed by the spirit of a God.’

I whistled and said, ‘You mean Wotan.’

‘That is entirely correct.’

‘Pardon me for saying this-’ and I took sup at my ale ‘-but this is a very big leap of logic. Do you have any definite proof? Is this not just a theory?’

‘Just a theory?’ Hugo Rune did risings in his seat. ‘When Rune has a theory, it is a theory proven. Am I not Rune, whose eye is in the triangle? Whose nose cleaves the etheric continuum? Whose ears take in the Music of the Spheres?’

‘You are indeed,’ I said and I raised my glass to him. ‘And it is a joy to see you once more on top form. For indeed you are THE MAGICIAN.’

We did not take too many beers. In fact we were quite restrained. I drove the taxi back to the manse, picking up fish and chips on the way that we might enjoy for some dinner.

And fish and chips in the paper, on your knee in a cosy chair, by the wireless set, is as English as English can be. And I switched on the wireless set to listen to the news. And perhaps catch some popular dance band music of the day. But probably not one led by Liam Proven.

‘This is the voice of Free Radio Brentford,’ came a crackling voice. And that voice seemed to me to be the voice of my friend Lad Nicholson.

‘I did not know that Free Radio Brentford was about during the Second World War,’ I said to Hugo Rune. The Magus leaned over and filched away one of my chips.

‘And on the world stage today,’ continued the voice that seemed to be that of Lad Nicholson, ‘the long-awaited three-fifteen speech from the prime minister turned out to be something of a surprise. It stated, and I quote: “That for his services to the British Nation, Hugo Rune be awarded its highest honour and a state pension. And that from this day forth he must be addressed as either ‘sir’ or ‘your lordship’ by all and sundry and-” ’

‘And?’ I said. And I turned to Mr Rune.

The Magus continued to munch on his dinner. ‘It was all I had time to write on that piece of toilet paper in the Gents at Broadcasting House,’ he explained. ‘After I had disabled the bomb that was meant to kill myself and the mighty George Cole. I expect it is what the real Mr McMurdo would have wanted, don’t you?’

And I just nodded my head.

Having dined, we then got down to work. We packed our clothes into steamer trunks and loaded them into the cab.

Then Mr Rune put out the rubbish, switched off the lights and closed up the manse.

‘I really liked living there,’ I told him. ‘I think I will quite miss it. Along with the mysterious unnamed and unmentioned cook who always provided our breakfasts.’

‘We have more adventures lying ahead,’ said the Perfect Master. ‘Now drive us to the allotments – I have items to collect from my workshop.’

At Mr Rune’s behest I loaded all manner of interesting things into more steamer trunks, swung each aboard the Gravitite disc and nudged them into the lift. Once topside, all went into the cab and then we upped and left.

‘I wonder how far we can get in this cab before it runs out of fuel,’ I said to Hugo Rune. ‘Because neither of us has a ration book, so I do not see how we will buy petrol.’

‘Fear not for that, young Rizla,’ called Hugo Rune, as he mixed himself a cocktail. ‘ London cabs never have and never will run on petrol. They run on tap water, taking advantage of the MacGreggor Mather’s Water Car Patent, which is otherwise kept secret from the public and the motor industry.’

‘There are so many legitimate reasons for hating cabbies, are there not?’ I said. And I saw Mr Rune’s head nod in the driving mirror.

I drove for many hours. Because we were driving to Liverpool and Liverpool is a goodly drive from Brentford, especially in a taxi with a top speed of sixty-five miles per hour.

‘Tell me about the liner we are travelling on,’ I said. ‘Will it be luxurious?’

‘Extremely,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘It is the RMS Olympic.’

‘Hold on there,’ I said in return. ‘The Olympic was a sister ship to the Titanic and it ceased to ply the waters back in the nineteen thirties.’

‘Well, you know best, young Rizla.’

‘So it is still in service?’ I said.

‘It is a luxury liner, top class in all departments. And it is neutral. Like Switzerland.’

‘You cannot have a neutral ship, can you?’ I asked.

‘You have to have at least one. Otherwise how are the rich supposed to take their cruises during wartime?’

‘That is surely outrageous.’

‘You won’t say that when you are aboard.’

But I did say that when I was aboard. I was somewhat appalled. There were folk of every nation on board that magical liner. Rich folk all and all as friendly as can be. And there were military folk also. Those of the highest ranks. SS officers were clinking glasses with martial toffs from Eton. All around and about the world was in the grip of a terrible war that would leave millions homeless, wounded or dead, and here the swells were having it large and dancing the night away.

A seaman chappy in an immaculate white uniform showed us to our staterooms. And yes, they were POSH – port out, starboard home, Posh with a capital P.

I entered the suite of Hugo Rune, who was bouncing on his double bunk.

‘Now this, young Rizla,’ he said to me, ‘really is the life.’

‘This is shameful,’ I said. ‘Awful. With all the misery of this hideous war, the rich and privileged live like kings aboard this floating palace and have not a care in the world.’

‘Oh, they have their cares,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Which tie to wear for dinner. The jewelled coronet or the diamond pendant.’

‘It is disgusting,’ I said. ‘And you should be ashamed of yourself.’

‘Me?’ said Hugo Rune, with outrage in his voice.

‘You condone it. You revel in it-’

‘Rizla.’ And Hugo Rune ceased all his bouncing. ‘You and I are on a mission to alter the course of this war. To save millions from nuclear death. Do you not feel that we deserve three square meals a day and a decent nest to curl up in come nightfall, whilst journeying forth on this noble quest?’

‘Well,’ I said. ‘If you put it like that. But the rest of these people-’

‘Their lives are not ours. Their morals are not ours. Do you not think that I hold them in contempt? Do you think that I lack all morality and sensibility?’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Of course not.’

‘In that case, Rizla, I suggest we don our dinner suits and make our way to the bar. The Olympic sails at sunrise and I would recommend that you view this event from the top deck, with a gin and tonic in your hand. What say you to this matter?’

And I said Yes to it.

A regular pair of toffs we looked, as we sauntered down to the bar. This was the first time I had actually worn my dinner suit. Mr Rune had had it made to measure for me at a fashionable tailor shop in Piccadilly. Regarding the payment of the bill?

I had no regard for that.

The sheer scale of the RMS Olympic was daunting. The decks dwindled with perspective seemingly to infinity and the bar was nearly the size of a football pitch. It was all early neon, chrome and black, with elegant statuary of the art deco persuasion. All topless sylphlike females with slender bums and breasts.