Robert Rankin - The Sprouts of Wrath

“Don’t blame me,” said Jim, “this is none of my doing.”

“Won’t be a tick.” Norman threw open the boot and struggled with a paving slab. It tumbled into the road and fell with a loud crash. The mystery in that, thought Jim, is how it failed to do the obvious and land on his foot. “Just one more and then we’ll be off.”

Jim suddenly realized that he seemed to be sitting much further back in his seat than before and that the view through the windscreen seemed mostly sky. “Norman!” he shouted, turning and tapping on the rear window, “Norman!”

“Shan’t be a tick, soon have it out.” This time the paving slab made a more muffled thump as it struck the ground.

“Oh, bloody hell,” wailed Norman hopping about on one foot, “Oh, bloody …”

“Oh, no! ” howled Jim. “We’re going up! Norman, do something!” The shopkeeper hopped and swore. All four wheels of the car were now floating free of the road. The Hartnell Air Car was taking to its avowed natural habitat. “Norman!”

Suddenly realizing the gravity, or in this case non-gravity of the situation, Norman ceased his hopping and made a great leap at the rear bumper as it passed him by. He missed, floundered and toppled into the road where he lay drumming his fists and kicking his feet and crying “Bugger,” over and over again.

The car began to gather speed and altitude in a direct mathematical ratio which was of interest to the Professor alone. “I think you had better take over up front, Jim,” said the old man. “I have never actually driven a car.”

“I have driven cars, but never one like this, and anyway …”

“Anyway, Jim?”

“Anyway, Norman has the ignition key.”

“Ah,” said Professor Slocombe. “Now this presents us with certain unique difficulties. We would appear to be gathering momentum at a rate inversely proportionate to that of a falling object. Thus we are gaining mass. This is interesting, as Newtonic law would naturally presuppose an invalidation in the anti-gravitational properties of Normanite. One should cancel the other out.”

“Fascinating,” said Jim, growing sweaty about the brow.

“Yes,” said Professor Slocombe, “but not good. If we continue to accelerate in this fashion, then I estimate we I will strike the underside of the stadium,” he did a rapid mental calculation, “in approximately fifty-five seconds, give or take. I would consider impact to be a somewhat messy affair doubtless culminating in our extinction.”

Pooley got the message without a further telling of it. He shinned over the driver’s seat and began to tear at the dashboard. “A bit of wire would be your man, Professor.”

“Ah yes, a ‘hot wire’ I believe it’s called, a sound idea.”

The Professor reached into a rip in the seat-back in front of him and with a display of remarkable strength, ripped out a length of rusty spring. “Here you are, Jim, this should be the very thing.”

Pooley snatched the spring from the outstretched hand and delved into the dashboard. “How much time?”

“Thirty seconds, probably less.”

Jim jiggled the spring and thrummed the accelerator pedal. And cursed a lot. Norman had done a thorough job in rewiring the car, he couldn’t raise a spark. “It doesn’t work,” cried Jim, “it doesn’t work!”

“A pity,” said Professor Slocombe. “It was a brave try though.”

The car sped upwards, gaining speed. Far below, Norman watched it receding into the sky. He counted down the seconds beneath his breath and closed his eyes. If it was of any interest to anyone, other than those personally involved in the impending disaster, his mental calculations tallied exactly with those of the Professor.

A small task-force of hand-picked officers crept along the Kew Road. Before them, two figures stalked from shadow to shadow, muttering to one another in urgent muted tones. One was lean and angular and had taken no sustenance whatever this day, the other was broad and bulbous and had only recently pushed his chopsticks aside after a twelve-course belly-buster.

“As Commanding Officer,” said Inspectre Hovis, “I dictate the naming of names. This is Operation Sherringford and history will know us as Hovis’s Heroes.”

“Phooey!” the other replied. “As overall adviser on special attachment to the unit, I demand that this venture be called Operation Hugo, and we, Rune’s Raiders.”

“I have no intention of arguing with you, Rune.”

“Nor, I, you. Rune’s Raiders, or I go home.”

“All right, but it’s Operation Sherringford.”

“Ludicrous! Must I forever pander to your inflated ego?”

The two continued their dispute as they neared the gasometer. Behind them the team of five officers slunk along. To them this was Operation Laurel and Hardy and they were the Lost Patrol.

“All right, Rune,” whispered Hovis, as the two of them skulked in the shadows. “We’re getting close now, what is the plan?”

“Plan?” asked Hugo Rune.

“ Plan , man, you do have one, don’t you?”

“Do you mean the plan for Operation Hugo, or that other one?”

Hovis muttered beneath his breath, no matter what the outcome of this operation was, he had determined that Rune’s immediate future was going to be subject to the pleasure of Her Majesty. “The plan.”

“Yes?”

“Operation Hugo,” spat Inspectre Hovis.

“Good,” said Rune. “Now follow me.” He led Hovis on and the Inspectre beckoned the task-force to follow.

Rune’s Raiders skirted the wire fence. It towered above them menacingly; tiny blue sparkles of electrical energy fizzed and popped about its upper regions saying, “Just you try it.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Hovis growled as the field of static set the Inspectre’s whitened pelt on end.

Rune strode forcefully on ahead in case Hovis spotted the hopeless look on his face. If he couldn’t come up with a means of entry soon he was going to have to do a runner. The fence was endless, threatening. He plodded on, casting spells in every direction. Suddenly he halted in his tracks and a broad smile broke out upon his broad face. “There,” said he, in a hushed voice.

Hovis collided with Rune’s ample rear end. “What?” he asked.

“There.”

Hovis followed the direction of the mystic’s gaze. “Well now, Rune, I underestimated you.” Not five yards ahead a ragged opening gaped in the wire. “Congratulations,” said Inspectre Hovis. “This way, men, and hurry.”

Rune smiled and shrugged modestly. “I am a man of my word,” said he, “I am Rune whose power is infinite, whose knowledge absolute.” I wonder how that got there, he wondered.

The Hartnell Air Car dipped away from the stadium with inches to spare and hurtled off into the night sky.

“Now that was close.” Jim Pooley gripped the wheel, knuckles suitably white, face a likewise hue.

The Professor’s head appeared above the passenger seat. “Exactly how did you do that?” he asked.

“There was a spare ignition key taped under the dash,” said Jim. “That was handy, eh?”

“Handy is not the word I would use, Jim.”

“Do you ever feel, Professor …” Jim glanced back over his shoulder.

“That a power greater than ourselves is in control of our destinies?” the old man asked.

“Something like that.”

“It is a possibility the present circumstances might add weight to. You most definitely have a guardian angel, Jim.”

“That’s a comforting thought.” Jim settled himself back behind the wheel.

The ancient scholar leant back in his seat. The teleportation of the key from Norman’s ring to Pooley’s hand had been a relatively simple matter, but it wouldn’t do to tell the lad that. “Drive on, Jim,” he told the pilot. “Bring us about over the stadium.”