Роберт Грант - The Quanderhorn Xperimentations

Then, blow my pipes, if there isn’t another alarum. This time it’s that Not Entirely Tested Matter Transfusification Booth thingumabob in the corner. Ain’t used that in a while, and with good reason. Last time it went off, I had to spend the whole day cleaning up an inside-out monkey.

Mission log. Flight number 001, Advanced Laboratory-Blasting Squadron (‘The Lab Busters’) Wing Commander William ‘Wee Willy Winkie’ Watkins, Officer Commanding. Dateline: Sunday the 6th of January, 1952 02.58 hours

It’s a grim business. And I don’t just mean bombing your own. I mean the pipers, currently murdering the score of Show Boat . That infernal instrument can only play nine notes, and none of them appeared to be in ‘Only Make Believe’. Or, as they insisted on caterwauling, ‘Ownlah Mak’ Bellee’.

Suddenly, the target approach light flicked on, and I was finally able to yell: ‘Shut up that filthy racket! We have visual on the Quanderhorn Lab.’ I twisted to look through the canopy glass either side and hoisted my thumb to signal to the rest of the Wing.

One by one they peeled off into attack formation, opening the bomb bay doors as they slipped aside.

I sighed a fathomless sigh. No escaping it now: orders are orders. With my guts knotted like an amnesiac’s handkerchief, I called out: ‘All right, pipers, this is it: let’s have the Wagner!’

I waited. There was only silence from the back of the plane.

I craned round.

The pipe major, despite having lost a tooth and gained a black eye, was looking rather coy. ‘If it’s all the same to you, sir, we’d prefer to segue into “Life Upon the Wicked Stage”. Only, Angus here has been practising his fingerwork and—’

‘This isn’t a matinée at the [PROFANITY EXPUNGED] Victoria Palace! You’ll do as you’re ordered, you check-skirted drunkards! And while I’m at it, can one of you, just one of you, for once in your life introduce yourself to a pair of [PROFANITY EXPUNGED] underpants ?’

There was a brooding silence behind me. I thought for one dreadful moment that I’d gone too far, and I’d wind up with an angry Scotsman’s dirk in my back.

Then, mercifully, the pipes started up, and the strains of the ‘Valkyries’ swelled through the cabin.

I began the final descent…

From Troy’s Big Bumper Drawing Book

[PICTURE OF A STICK MAN BEING SENT ALONG A PHONE WIRE, LABELLED ‘ME!’]

Its grAte! IM beeing senDiD Down A Fone wirr. Its DAngerus, Pops sez. Hee went lArst. Gerk went Firs. He sMells. He shoutiD O No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no. I Don think he wontiD to go Firs. I wontiD to go. Its grAte. Wil I bee verry long An thin when I gett two the uther enD? I hop so. I CuD go up ChiMernees lik FArther CrisMus. Only bAkwooDs

Mooday the rth of Phobos, Martian Year 5972 Pink

Secret Report to Martian Command, by Guuuurk ‘the Valiant’, also called: ‘Guuuurk the Dauntless’ and ‘Guuuurk the Dreadnaught’. Holder of the Imperial Star (23rd Class), the Imperial Leaf (honorary only), and the Grand Jewel-Encrusted Imperial Gold Wedge (temporarily in pawn shop) (all rescinded by Emperor pending embezzlement investigations).

When the Professor explained exactly what was in the cellar, you can imagine how overjoyed and delighted I was to discover we were on our way to the Most Dangerous Place in the Universe.

In the unlikely event we were to succeed in preventing the destruction of the entire fabric of reality, we would merely be blown to pieces by vast barrages of enormous bombs.

A glorious death, in any eventuality.

Eager to seize the honour of this hideous fate for the glory of Mars, I insisted, nay, insisted , on entering the Not Entirely tested Matter Transfuser ahead of all the Terraneans, despite their desperate pleading with me not to do so. Anyone who knows me well would confirm that I laugh at Danger, and guffaw at Death! I also chortle at Horror, chuckle at Torment and grin wryly at Hideous Dismemberment.

I stepped jauntily into the booth, and saluted jovially. ‘Toodle pip!’ I chirped. ‘I’ll see you all in Bzingador.’

Bzingador! The poor saps! Every Martian knows the sign on the Great Black Door reads: ‘No Blubber Beasts, Scum Slugs or Earthlings’.

Still, I didn’t mention that.

You have to keep the troops’ spirits up, don’t you?

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

To decide who went through the machine first, Guuuurk insisted upon the Martian game of ‘ABC – That’s Definitely Not Me’, but we had no time for his monkey business, and despite his ferocious remonstrations – or to be more accurate pathetic begging – we bundled him straight in.

I elected to go next.

This time, I found being disintegrated into my component atoms not quite so pleasant an experience. Rather like having every single bone in your body simultaneously smashed with a toffee hammer, then being shoved into a toothpaste tube which someone then stamps on with enormous hobnail boots.

I arrived in the assembling booth feeling nauseous and giddy, but I did at least seem to be in one piece.

I pushed the glass door to step out and nearly fell over Guuuurk, who, apparently unaware he’d already been transferred, was still protesting. ‘No! No! I absolutely refuse to travel in this thing! You can’t send a living person through a copper wire!’

Jenkins turned from concealing what looked like an empty bottle amongst the straw lining an empty rat’s cage. He over-enunciated, in that way dipsomaniacs do: ‘Ah! Mr. Guuuurk! Are you all right?’

‘ All right? Look at this !’ He swept his hand in the direction of his legs.

Jenkins blinked at them. ‘Never fear, sir, we can soon put your trousers back on the right way.’

‘It’s not my trousers!’ Guuuurk slapped his groin. ‘Those are my buttocks ! My entire lower half is on backwards!’

There was a sort of fizzing, popping sound, and Gemma arrived in the booth behind me.

‘Are you all there?’ I asked.

She patted herself down. ‘I think so. That was… disturbing.’

‘Get out of my way!’ Guuuurk waved his hands wildly. ‘I’m going back through that thing until my feet point the right way! How on earth can I tie my shoelaces when they’re round the back? I shall have to wear my boudoir slip-ons outside, like a louche Italian roué!’

He marched off resolutely in completely the opposite direction, the back of his head hitting the wall with some force. ‘Hang it all!’ he wailed, rubbing his pate.

Troy popped into view, holding the bucket.

‘Wow!’ he grinned, wide-eyed.

‘Don’t tell me,’ Gemma interjected. ‘That was great.’

‘Wasn’t it, though?’ Troy looked down at his body and frowned. ‘Aww! I’m still exactly the same!’

‘Oh, rub it in, why don’t you?’ Guuuurk staggered backwards and forwards, like a remote-controlled toy robot being operated by a small, tired child on Christmas morning after an accidental box of chocolate liqueurs. ‘Blast! I’ll never get the hang of this.’

‘Shall I hit you in the face with a shovel again?’ Troy offered with genuine concern.

‘No! How is that supposed to help, for Phobos’ sake ?’

We were all silenced by the arrival of Quanderhorn himself, who was in no mood for levity.

‘Jenkins, put your boots on, you idle man, and hand out the black goggles and sound-deadening helmets.’