Роберт Грант - The Quanderhorn Xperimentations

‘On that we do agree,’ says the other one. ‘I just pray we’re not too late.’

Private Diary of Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill: Sunday the 6th of January, 1952 [cont’d]

Perhaps it was both disingenuous and foolish, but I was gripped by an overwhelming desire to witness Quanderhorn suffer his richly warranted come-uppance at first hand, and, as it were, in the flesh. The Germans have a word for it: Bezirksschornsteinfegermeister . Or is that the word for ‘head chimney sweep’? [23] Yes, it is. No matter.

The brigand had terminated a clearly fractious walkie-talkie exchange, and was rabidly studying the printout from his transcribing machine, when suddenly he looked up and sniffed the air, like a predatory coyote. ‘Is that you over there, Mr. O’Reilly?’

And even though I was a good fifteen feet away from him, and in deep shadow, he turned slowly and looked directly at me!

‘Or should I say, Mr. Cheeuuuurch ill!’ He slurred that distinguished nine-hundred-year-old appellation in such a way as to make it sound like a Rumanian gypsy’s curse!

I returned the favour. ‘Indeed, it is I, Qu wwaaaaaa nderhorn!’

‘Did you really think that pathetic leprechaun disguise would fox me for one moment?’

‘What gave me away?’

‘The smell of herring. You’re the only person I’ve ever treated with the Experimental Insta-Skin.’

‘And I curse that Mephistophelian day I heedlessly allowed you to cause my testicles to forever shine like a stickleback. Better I had died from the shrapnel wound.’

‘If you’re trying to stop me, you’re too late, you dipsomaniac has-been.’ He held up the printout with something approaching triumph in his manner. ‘In just a few short minutes, my team will be at the heart of the ziggurat, and the powerful relic therein will be in my hands!’

‘Much good it will do you, you maniacal Bedlamite!’ I speared the end of a fresh Romeo y Julietta with a match, ignited it and inhaled, to deliver the delicious coup de grace . ‘At this very moment, a crack squadron of bagpiping bombers is en route to reduce your disreputable monster factory to ashes!’

Well, that stopped the fellow in his tracks!

But I had scant opportunity to relish my victory. I expected him to be angry, to rant and curse; perhaps even throw himself on the ground and pound the floor with his fists, like the gigantic, thwarted toddler I took him to be.

Instead he seemed to age ten years before my eyes, and something in the sinking of his shoulders chilled me to my very soul.

‘Prime Minister,’ he croaked with sudden deference, a look of genuine fear flooding his features. ‘There’s something you really have to know…’

Outprint from Gargantua, the pocket Quanderdictoscribe. Dateline: Sunday the 6th of January, 1952 01.24 hours

NEW BRIAN: Well, we got through the Mirror Maze of Lightning Death in no time at all! I thought the Waterfall of Glue was simple, but this was really easy.

NEW GUUUURK: The Collapsing Stairway of Strangling Vines was so elementary, it wouldn’t even have duped a Venusian carpet salesman. [24] There are three species of Venusians: Empapaths, Cheatopaths and Aggro-paths, and only Empapaths are allowed to become salesmen, in order to ensure that customers are not ripped off or beaten up. Unfortunately, an unscrupulous Cheatopath can prey on the generosity of the Empapath salesman, and persuade the unfortunate devil not only to hand over the product for nothing, but a large portion of his salary to boot. The Aggropaths simply thrash them soundly to the same effect. It’s no coincidence that carpet sales on Venus are the lowest in the Solar System. It’s an insult to my superior Martian intelligence.

NEW TROY: The Corridor of Huge, Dangerously Swinging Weights was great! Can we go back there?

NEW BRIAN: (CHUCKLE) All in good time, Troy. And they’ll have to come up with worse things than armies of poisonous scarabs flooding out of the walls if they’re going to stop us getting to the centre.

NEW GEMMA: Silly old aliens not as clever as my Bri-Bri.

NEW TROY: Hey! Is this another of those sticky-out thingies?

NEW BRIAN: A handle! Yes. Well done, Troy – you’re learning. Let’s go!

NEW TROY: I hope there are big spikes in this one! Spikes are great!

NEW BRIAN: I think we’re on the final—

From the journal of Brian Nylon, 6th January, 1952 – [cont’d]

‘Those huge dangerously swinging weights nearly took my testicles off!’ Guuuurk wailed. ‘All eleven of them!’

‘Troy,’ Gemma grunted breathlessly, ‘you can turn off your bottom now. It’s light enough in here.’

‘I can’t… really… talk at the… moment,’ Troy rasped. ‘I’ve got strangling vines round my… neck.’ He began recklessly hacking at them with his Bowie knife.

Gemma turned her face to me. ‘And I absolutely refuse to carry you any further, Brian.’

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to,’ I apologised. ‘My trousers are still stuck together from the Waterfall of Glue.’

She set me down quite brusquely anyway. ‘You’ll just have to hop.’

Things had not been going quite so well between the two of us. She seemed to become less fond of me the further she carried me. I don’t know why. Well, I do know why – I really was the most hopeless article imaginable.

However, on the positive side, I discovered that, since being savagely bitten by the army of poisonous scarabs that poured out of the wall, my ankle had gone completely dead, and it had no problem holding my weight again.

I turned to assess this latest challenge we’d wandered into, and nearly jumped out of my skin.

I was face to face with my duplicate!

The ziggurat had clearly taken a toll on the wretched creature – instead of the handsome dashing hero I’d seen before, he had been reduced to a ragged, gawping, dishevelled wreck! Weak character of me, I know, but I admit to experiencing a momentary surge of triumph, to see him reduced to this beaten bewildered scarecrow.

But as I turned further, I could see several more of the pathetic soul. In fact, there were hordes of him in every direction…

‘We’re in a Mirror Maze,’ Gemma noted, somewhat deflating my cruel delight.

Reflections of ourselves stretched out wherever we looked, mimicking our movements in unison like some crazy dance troupe. It was almost impossible to see where, if anywhere, was the path forwards. I made to take an exploratory hop…

‘Nobody move!’ Gemma ordered. ‘There’s some sort of inscription etched on this mirror here.’ She used the sleeve of her cardigan to wipe the mirror closest to her, where a patch of condensation had misted its surface, revealing various pictoglyphs.

‘Why do all aliens seem to use hieroglyphics?’ I wondered aloud.

‘Everything’s a hieroglyphic if you don’t understand the language,’ Gemma explained. ‘Guuuurk?’

‘Why always ask me?’ he complained. ‘Haven’t a clue.’

Gemma scrutinised the etching carefully. ‘Well, this is clearly a lightning bolt.’

‘Oh,’ Guuuurk smiled sarcastically, ‘that sounds inviting.’

‘And below it, here… this looks like a route through the Mirror Maze. We have to head forwards and take the first right—’

And ZZZKKKKOWWWWCRK !

A jagged blue bolt of lightning sliced through the air without warning.