Роберт Грант - The Quanderhorn Xperimentations

I zipped up my silver bootees, and took my helmet under my arm, but as I made to leave I spotted a mirror at the end of the lockers, and realised I had no recollection of what I actually looked like. I strode up to it, expecting to see a fairly close replica of Colonel Dan Dare, Pilot of the Future. Instead, I saw a small, weedy chap wrapped in tinfoil, cradling a goldfish bowl. My muddy brown hair was spiky on top and shaved to extinction everywhere else, so my pate resembled a desert island. I had a nose that was more pointed than I would have hoped, and overlarge bushbaby eyes, bestowing me with a permanently startled expression.

I sighed, and stepped out as resolutely as I could manage under the circumstances.

The hangar was vast – bigger than four rugby pitches. Dozens of curious craft were scattered as far as the eye could see, some half-built, others half-destroyed. One or two of them actually seemed intact.

Everyone was waiting for me, rather impatiently, beside a huge, bulky object draped with an enormous dust sheet. Troy and Dr. Janussen were also flight-suited, which I found alarming. Surely they weren’t planning on coming along for the ride? This would not be a suitable mission for women. And there was no such thing as a suitable mission for Troy.

‘At last, Nylon!’ The Professor took hold of a corner of the tarpaulin. ‘Ladies and gentlemen: I present to you…’

He whipped off the cover with a flourish.

‘ Gargantua – the Prototype Plutonium Cell Hyper-Sound Streamliner.’

There was a silence.

I leant forward. ‘Uhm, is it behind that unusually large dustbin?’

Dr. Janussen shook her head. ‘It is that unusually large dustbin.’

Quanderhorn was unabashed. ‘Few people realise that the dustbin is the most aerodynamically perfect form for hypersonic travel.’

I scanned the disreputable-looking heap of ill-fitted tin panels and corroded rivets. It didn’t look tremendously perfect. Or in any way safe.

Guuuurk looked at me with what I assume was mock adoration. ‘I don’t know how you have the guts to fly a rust bucket like that, Brian. You certainly have our undying admiration.’

‘I have to explain here,’ I tried to keep the pitch of my voice to a masculine level, ‘that I don’t have the faintest idea how to pilot anything.’

‘Don’t worry, Nylon.’ The Professor wrenched open the hatch. Several screws clattered to the ground. ‘I’ve simplified the controls to just two buttons. See?’ He waved his hand towards the rather stark instrument panel. ‘Green, “Go”, and Red, “Go Faster”.’

As was often the case, Dr. Janussen voiced what we were all thinking. ‘And how does it stop?’

There was another silence.

The Professor reluctantly conceded: ‘A third button is in development.’

Guuuurk peered over my shoulder. ‘What’s that horrible mess all over the driving seat?’

Quanderhorn made a dismissive gesture. ‘That’s the previous test pilot. It appears the human body can’t entirely withstand Mach 17.’

‘ Entirely withstand?’ I croaked. ‘The man is jam !’

‘Which is why I’ve since lined the walls with hundreds of specially tempered armadillo carcasses. Few people realise that the strongest—’

‘Professor, I am not flying this contraption.’

‘ The world will end in thirteen minutes and thirty seconds .’

‘Men!’ Dr. Janussen shook her head dismissively. ‘Get out of the way!’ She pushed brusquely past me and began climbing into the hatch. ‘ I’ll fly it.’

I grasped her arm to hold her back. ‘I couldn’t possibly allow that. It’s far, far too dangerous.’

She shook herself clear and slowly turned to fix me with a Frigidaire stare. ‘Never, never ever tell me what you’ll allow me to do.’ I could feel my internal organs frosting up. I stammered an apology.

‘That’s jake with me!’ Troy chirped. ‘I’ll fly it. Sounds like fun.’

I knew when I was beaten. ‘OK, OK, I’ll do it. There’s no point in all three of us risking our lives.’

There was yet another silence.

‘Actually,’ the Professor said, ‘there is.’

Despite the paucity of the controls, apparently, the craft also required a co-pilot to monitor communications and a stoker to shovel the fuel elements into the nuclear reactor.

The cockpit was small and cramped and reeked of dead armadillo.

Dr. Janussen seated herself adjacent to me and flicked through the frequency guide in the radio manual, while Troy, behind us, gave up trying to apply Vitalis to his hair through his space helmet and took up his atomic shovel.

There was a large windscreen in front of us, and two smaller ones either side. Portholes dotted the sides.

We were travelling along the launch track towards the take-off pad, running a standard preflight check.

Dr. Janussen called out ‘Green button’ and I replied ‘Check’.

Then she called out ‘Red button’ and I replied ‘Check’.

That seemed to be it.

‘Well,’ I smiled thinly, ‘that was the shortest instrument check ever.’

Troy frowned. ‘I got lost after “Blue Button”.’

We began to tilt into launch position. My woggle fell out of my pocket. Fortunately, neither of the others noticed: they were watching the world slip away through the side windows.

The comms desk burst into life. ‘Tower calling Dustbin Deathtrap ! Come in, Dustbin Deathtrap !’

Dr. Janussen corrected him. ‘That is not the name of the vessel, Guuuurk.’

‘Understood,’ the Martian replied jovially. ‘Come in, Gargantua , the Prototype Plutonium Cell Hyper-Sound Dustbin Deathtrap.’

‘Why is the Martian running things?’ I asked Dr. Janussen, alarmed. ‘Where’s the Professor?’ She simply shrugged, unperturbed.

‘Bit of a crisis at the farm, old thing,’ Guuuurk cut in. ‘It appears the Professor’s self-shearing sheep have got hold of some visiting rabbis. He’ll be back as soon as he can wrestle the clippers off them. I’ll be remotely controlling the craft until you reach the target area.’

I flicked my eyes sidewards at Dr. Janussen, but again she seemed unfazed by the notion that our fate lay in the be-thumbed hands of one of humankind’s greatest enemies.

The metallic voice kicked in again. ‘ Launch in twenty seconds .’ Then a brief pause and ‘ The world will end in…’ Suddenly, the voice struck a note of exasperation. ‘ Look, I can’t do both of these.’

‘I’m frightfully sorry, Delores,’ Guuuurk cooed, ‘I’m afraid you’ll simply have to. We’re terribly short-staffed today.’

‘ Tch!’ The metallic voice grumbled. ‘ The world will end in blah blah blah. Launch in fifteen, fourteen…’

As the twin countdowns continued, Guuuurk cut in: ‘I’ll be firing you straight up into space, you’ll spend a few minutes in parking orbit, and then you’ll loop back down, experiencing tremendous G-force and your faces will look incredibly amusing on my monitor. Ha ha, I love that bit!’

‘… two, one!’

The rockets fired and we launched with astonishing speed. From somewhere in the cockpit, there was a skull-piercing high-pitched scream of utter terror and distress.

From the journal of Brian Nylon, 1st January, 1952 – Iteration 66

The craft was buffeting wildly. I swear I could hear rivets bursting like popcorn in the hull.

I yelled over the din: ‘Will that person please stop screaming?’

Dr. Janussen yelled back: ‘That’s you, Brian.’