Роберт Грант - The Quanderhorn Xperimentations

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

‘For the love of sand!’ Guuuurk railed, dabbing his nose with his ‘E. S.’ monogrammed handkerchief. ‘We’re never going to get out of this hellhole!’

‘Nonsense,’ Gemma countered. ‘All it takes is a little intelligence.’

‘For the love of sand!’ Guuuurk repeated. ‘We’re never going to get out of this hellhole!’

Suddenly, there was an ominous sequence of sounds – hatches opening – and all around the chamber great sluices started pouring forth tons of coal-black sand.

‘I didn’t mean I literally loved sand,’ Guuuurk whined. ‘If I’d said “I like peanuts” would we all now be inundated in a cascade of salty legumes?’

We studied the doors hurriedly. They seemed infuriatingly identical.

As we watched, there was a sizzling noise, and a white-hot arc carved symbols into each of them.

When the smoke cleared we could make out on the left a horizontal crescent, and on the right, a circle. ‘The Moon and the Sun?’ I offered.

‘We have to choose quickly,’ Gemma urged. ‘Which of them is the way out?’

‘Careful,’ Guuuurk cautioned. ‘I’ve heard a lot about these types of devilish two-door conundra. The wrong one probably leads to certain death.’

The sand was ankle-high now. This was the moment for leadership. I didn’t hesitate. ‘The Sun,’ I said, stepping forward with calm conviction, ‘obviously means “outside”.’

I wrenched the great door open.

Giant towers of crockery crashed to the floor, in what was becoming a rather familiar motif. The tumbling and smashing went on for several minutes.

‘That’s not a sun, it’s a plate!’ Troy pointed out rather unnecessarily.

I looked at the others and simply screamed ‘Why!’

‘Because,’ Guuuurk said, ‘you’re a confirmed nemesis to all baked earthenware?’

‘And the other one’s not a moon!’ Gemma cried. ‘It’s a smiling mouth.’ She pushed the door lightly with her finger, and it slid silently open.

There, grimly smiling before us on the Tube platform, was Professor Darius Quanderhorn.

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

Troy held up the relic. ‘We got it, Pops! We got it!’

‘Excellent. Don’t concern yourselves with the idiot original crew. They’ll doubtless be dead by now.’

‘Actually,’ I said, ‘we are the idiot original crew. The duplicates have crumbled to dust.’

‘As I said,’ he went on without pause, ‘don’t concern yourselves with the idiot duplicate crew. They’ve probably crumbled to dust by now. We have to get that bucket to the lab immediately.’ He busied himself wiring up a strange-looking heavily modified telephone booth.

‘First, there are a few things we need to clear up—’

‘There’s no time to explain right now.’

I wasn’t falling for that old chestnut this time. ‘You already knew the Time Bucket was in the ziggurat, didn’t you, Professor?’

‘Yes, yes. If you must know.’ He fired up his soldering iron. ‘Six months ago, I located it using Gargantua, the subterranean X-ray surveying mole and potato planter. I realised it might be our only hope for the future if things went wrong. Now, why don’t—’

I wasn’t letting him off the hook. I held firm. ‘But the problem was – how to trigger the ziggurat?’

‘Yes!’ he snapped, irritably. ‘I realised only the presence of superior technology that doesn’t currently exist on Earth would do it. Can’t we do this later?’

Gemma stepped forward. ‘Are you saying… you deliberately rigged the lift to send us to the Moon, and marooned us there, so we’d pilot the Mercurian vessel back to Earth?’

‘Of course I did. No choice. Not even Nylon would have volunteered for that! And it worked! Well done everybody, but mostly—’

‘Soooooooo—’ Guuuurk menacingly selected a teal Sobranie from his musical cigarette case and screwed it violently into his holder. ‘—why did you try and blast us out of existence with the Giant Space Laser?’

A look I’ve never seen flitted across the Professor’s face. Was it… could it be… shame ? Confusion? Despair? It was impossible to read.

‘There seriously is not time to explain right now,’ he recovered. ‘That maniac Cheeuuuurchill has launched a bomber squadron to take out the laboratory. We needn’t go into detail, but if that cellar takes a bomb…’

Oh my Lord – the cellar ? If those tanks down there were to suffer a hit – it didn’t bear thinking about. ‘The lab? But we’ll never get anywhere near there in time.’

‘Wrong.’ The Professor smiled grimly. ‘There is just one way…’ He tapped the phone booth with his soldering iron.

Guuuurk dragged his hand across his face. ‘No, Professor! Please tell me that thing isn’t your notorious Not Entirely Tested Matter Transfuser Booth!’

The Daybook of ‘Jenkins’ Jenkins, RQMS Royal Fusiliers (don’t care any more), Sunday the 6th of January, 1952

That tocsin’s still blaring away. I don’t even bother to switch it off.

I’ve jemmied open the Prof’s locked desk drawer and liberated his bottle of twenty-year-old Napoleon Brandy. I must say it’s pretty good stuff for a shortarse Frog to have knocked up. Slips down the gullet like wax off a floozy’s hairpin. I’m all comfortable now, boots off, feet up on the radiator, third tumblerful to hand and a well-filled roll-up going – no point saving any snout for later now, is there?

I’m just getting all relaxed and totally plastered-like, when that tinny voice comes over the tannoy: ‘ Lab-Busting bomber squadron five minutes away .’

I leans over to the speaker behind me and has a word. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, sweet lips,’ I breathes, all polite, ‘but I always wondered what a striking woman like yourself – I assume you’re striking, by your voice – statue- esque , I mean. That’s what I’ve always pictured – classy, but with a generous chestillage. I always wondered what you get out of a job that’s so bleeeeeding depressing ? I mean – “Two minutes to the end of the world” – “Five minutes to the bombing” – “Atomic blast in ten seconds” – don’t you ever feel the urge to announce something – well, a bit more cheerful ?’

She don’t answer me, of course. Never does. I takes another long swig of the old Dutch courage. Dutch? Don’t like ’em. Too much like the Belgians. Don’t like ’em either… and don’t start me off on the Luxemburgians…

Where was I?

Oh yes. ‘I don’t suppose,’ I says to the loudspeaker, ‘now that we do only have five – well, less than five minutes now – I don’t suppose you’d consider – not a complete cod supper – but a short romantic interlude with a extinguished decorated war hero, such as oneself – who has the greatest of respect for ladies with enormous—’

‘ Lab-Busting bomber squadron four minutes away ,’ she cuts in.

‘No? No, I thought not. No harm in asking, though.’ I adds another dribble to the tumbler, looks at it, fills it up to the top. ‘I bet if you could answer, though,’ I says, ‘you wouldn’t turn me down, would you, luv?’

There’s a crackle from the speaker.

‘ Don’t kid yourself, Jenkins, you unctuous little powder-monkey .’

Blimey! Who rattled her cage?

‘ Lab-Busting bomber squadron three minutes, forty-five seconds away ,’ she says, and sarkily throws in: ‘ But on the bright side, the weather for it’s looking marvellous!’