Роберт Грант - The Quanderhorn Xperimentations

‘It would be a serious mistake to think me a foolish posing popinjay, like that ridiculous purple quisling.’ The rogue Guuuurk nodded towards his counterpart. ‘Now – all of you get back down the steps,’ he rasped, ‘except, of course, for Imperial Spy X-One-Zero.’

Private Diary of Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill: Sunday the 6th of January, 1952

Having explored every possible recourse with the Air Chief Marshal himself, I was compelled to conclude there was no earthly way to recall those deadly bombers.

I hastened back to the platform to find Quanderhorn cursing his stenographic machine, which seemed to have seized up like a motor car engine on a frosty morning.

‘Dammit – they’re not transmitting!’ the reprobate spat. ‘Something’s gone terribly wrong in there. And now there’s no way of finding out what.’

‘I care little to what desperate reckless shenanigans you refer, Quanderhorn. The darkest hour is now irrevocably upon us.’

‘What? You can’t even reverse your own bombers, you septuagenarian incompetent?’

‘Rant and rave as you wish, it will avail you nothing. I now have the solemn and unenviable duty to inform Her Majesty the Queen that, regrettably, the entire fabric of existence is about to come to an end in a little under seven minutes. And, for all it matters, Her Royal Highness the Princess Margaret might just as well go and marry Group Captain Townsend. Or, for that matter, Admiral Nelson, General Custer or Colonel bloody Mustard in the library with a candlestick, should she so desire!’

‘It still may not come to that.’

‘If by some fantastic contrivance it does not, and we somehow survive, be warned.’ I fixed him with my fiercest stare. ‘I intend to put an end to your infernal “Xperimentations” once and for all!’ I slammed my Homburg onto my head and turned. ‘I bid you farewell, Qu wwaaaaaa nderhorn!’

I left the scoundrel to his own devilish machinations, much good would they do him.

Much good would they do anyone, now.

The Rational Scientific Journal of Dr. Gemini Janussen, Sunday 6th January 1952 (Again)

The evil Martian was looking directly at Brian, who seemed utterly poleaxed by the suggestion.

‘I-I’m a spy for Mars ?’

‘Yes,’ Guuuurk nodded with considerable enthusiasm. ‘You’re an honorary Martian, Brian.’

Brian’s shoulders sank. ‘I am? I… That can’t be…’

‘I recruited you, remember. I gave you the discounted membership rate of three shillings and sevenpence ha’penny…’

The other Guuuurk looked at him askance.

‘Purely to cover administrative expenses… It’s non-returnable, unfortunately.’

‘That’s simply not possible,’ Brian protested. It couldn’t be true, could it?

‘Surely you remember the initiation ceremony?’ Guuuurk insisted.

The other Martian took it up: ‘You swore allegiance to the Sacred Bag of Dust, and we hung you up by hooks through your cheeks for forty-eight hours.’

‘But I don’t have any scars on my cheeks.’

Our Guuuurk raised all his eyebrows. ‘Not those cheeks, I’m afraid.’

‘I’m fairly sure I’d have remembered dangling from hooks skewering my buttocks for two whole days,’ Brian protested with genuine indignation.

‘Well, I remember it,’ his duplicate raged. ‘I still make a whistling sound when I sit down! What is wrong with you? You’ll agree to do almost anything just to avoid making others feel uncomfortable, won’t you?’

Well, that was Brian, all right! But would he really take it to such an extreme he’d betray his own planet ?

‘Right.’ The bad Guuuurk waved the gun. ‘Stay next to me, Agent X-One-Zero—’

Brian bunched his fists unconsciously by his side. ‘ Please don’t call me that,’ he cautioned, coldly. I’d never seen him in such an icy fury.

The Martian was oblivious. ‘The rest of you line up over there. I’m taking the bucket now. Agent X-One-Zero…’

Brian’s knuckles turned white.

‘…pick it up!’

Poor old Brian was clearly suffering. There was a battle raging inside him. A civil war between the man he was now, and the man he’d once been.

I suddenly felt such a pang of sympathy for him, I could scarcely breathe. I ached to tell him he didn’t have to be that man any more. The past meant nothing. The things he’d done – they’re not what Brian was any more. He was his own man now. A good man. Kind. And faithful. And a jolly decent sort. ‘Don’t be the man you were !’ I wanted to shout. ‘Be the man you’re becoming !’

‘X-One-Zero! I said pick that up!’

Brian thrust out his chest. ‘ No ,’ he insisted firmly.

‘No?’ Bad Guuuurk repeated, incredulous.

‘No.’ Brian was quite calm and steady now. ‘I’m not going to do it.’

‘Then,’ the Martian said, quite matter-of-factly, ‘I shall have no option but to kill you.’

Brian met his gaze. ‘There are worse things than death.’

The Martian levelled his gun.

Brian folded his arms. ‘You can shoot me if you want, but I’ve had it up to the eyeballs with being special agent Cheaty Liar for every Tom, Dick or Bastard who asks me.’

His ersatz counterpart chided: ‘Old chap, this isn’t the moment.’

Brian stood firm. ‘It’s never the moment. There’s never any time to explain. There’s never any time to think . Enough’s enough—’

I wanted to hug him so very much right then.

‘I’m drawing a line in the sand,’ he went on, and then his eyes caught something on the floor. He frowned. ‘Actually – what is this sand? Where’s it all come from?’

There were, indeed, loose crystals of what looked like silicon drifting over our feet.

‘I don’t want to make a fuss,’ my floozy counterpart stammered, ‘but my legs seem to be crumbling…’ And they were!

‘Darling.’ The other Brian looked on, aghast. ‘It’s all right – take my…’ He peered down his empty sleeve. ‘Hang on a second: where is my hand?’

‘Hey, look.’ Duplicate Troy’s voice came from ground level. ‘I can play football with my head!’ He started playing keepy-uppy with his own cranium, yelling, ‘One – ow ! Two – ow ! Thr—’ His head fragmented into a cloud of dust, followed momentarily by the rest of him.

‘Wow!’ Troy said. ‘I wish I could do that.’ He tried to bicycle kick his own head and fell over heavily, scattering the mound of his duplicate’s remains.

The Ray Gun clattered to the floor next to him.

We all turned to the rogue Martian, or rather, what was left of him. He was already up to his waist in a pile of himself and dwindling rapidly.

‘Yes!’ he cried. ‘I’m going! I’m going to Bzingador!’ He gazed in wonder at a vision none of us could share. ‘Ahhh! I am at the Great Black Door. It opens! Yes! I see the twelve-breasted serving wenches awaiting my commands. Lord Phobos himself is gliding forth to greet me – I see the bounteous tables of cream horns and mountainous pink blancmange glimmering in the firelight…’ His eyes widened and his mouth sagged. ‘What? No! They’re scorning me! Something’s opening beneath my feet! It’s the Pit! It’s the Pit! They’re saying I’m a snivelling coward and repulsive turncoat!’

‘Oh, hard cheese !’ Guuuurk grimaced unconvincingly. ‘They must have muddled you up with me !’

‘I’m descending! I’m descending to the fiery pits of Croydon ! Aarrrrghhhfgh!’