Apocalypso (7 page)

‘And
so, what is to be done? As I said, this is a technologically advanced
civilization. These people have the ability to construct spacecraft. Migration
and the colonization of new worlds would seem a viable option.’

‘If
they had the ability to locate these worlds,’ said Danbury. ‘Had they?’

‘No,
they had not. But they had the capability to mass produce the craft. By the
hundreds, by the thousands. And they found no shortage of volunteers to risk a
voyage into the unknown.’

Your
Thomas Cook and Richard Branson types,’ said Danbury.

‘Quite
so. The idea was that they would be put into cryogenic suspension inside the
spacecraft and then shot off into the void. The spacecraft were equipped with
sensors that would scan for suns of a suitable magnitude, then automatically
monitor any orbiting planets, searching for vital signs, radio emissions,
favourable atmosphere, gravity, whatever.

‘If it
came up trumps, the spacecraft would land and defrost its occupant. And if he
found that all was well he would radio his position back to the home planet.’

‘Hum,’
said Danbury. ‘I do foresee a few flaws in this. Such as how far one would have
to travel and how long the journey might take.’

‘Exactly.
And it was understood that most of the spacecraft would probably speed on for
ever and ever. But the future of their civilization depended upon it. What
other option did they have? And if one single astronaut were to strike it
lucky, then all the rest would have died in a worthy cause.’

‘A
noble enterprise,’ said Danbury. ‘And did one strike it lucky?’

Yes,
one did. His spacecraft came upon a golden sun lighting up a circlet of
planets, and amongst these planets it found one that was perfect. The one we
call Earth.’

‘I had
a certain feeling this would be the case.’

‘Our
chap’s spacecraft drops down onto Earth. He defrosts, but, oh calamity, one
hundred thousand years have passed, his civilization is gone into dust and he
is all alone.’

‘How
sad.’

‘There’s
worse.’

‘There’s
worse?’

‘Far
worse. Our chap is damaged, both mentally and physically. Cryogenic suspension
is an untried science. No-one can predict what will happen to a being that is
deep frozen for a thousand years, let  alone one hundred thousand. Our chap
went in as a benign adventurer, he has emerged as a crippled psychopathic
monster.’

‘Oh
dear.’

‘And he
has developed powers.’

‘What
powers?’

‘Telepathic
powers. Although the freezing had damaged his physical brain, his mind had
developed over the long years. He was now capable of imposing his thoughts
physically upon others. He could hurt them with his mind. Inflict mental and
physical anguish upon them. Force them to do his bidding.’

‘I don’t
like the sound of that one bit.’

‘I’m
sure you don’t. But nevertheless it was true. In fact all over the world we
have evidence of this being’s existence. Works of monumental masonry dating
back to the megalithic period. He forced thousands into his service, driving
them with mental torment to achieve his ends. Our old friend Stonehenge for
example. Massive stones dragged for many miles across rugged terrain. Not
dragged there by choice, or at the bidding of a priesthood. Dragged by
his
slaves
and hoisted into place to provide a shelter for
him.

‘And he
survived. He lived for centuries. Carnal, the pyramids; all his doing, the work
of his will. People were cattle to him; he drove them until they died.’

‘Why
didn’t they revolt?’

‘How
could they revolt? His will was too strong. The mental control he exerted, the
pain he could inflict was too great. Unbearable. None could stand against him.’

‘So
what happened to this tyrannical monster?’

‘Mu,’
said Dr Harney.

‘Meow,’
said Danbury Collins.

‘Not
mew,
you stupid boy,
Mu!
The lost continent of Mu. It went down, like
Atlantis. Natural catastrophe.’

‘Cat-astrophe,’
said Danbury, ‘ha ha ha.’

‘Smack
him,’ said Sir John. ‘I find it helps if he gets silly.’

Dr
Harney smacked the psychic youth and Danbury made a sour face. ‘So he went down
with Mu,’ he said. ‘Then that is that and a good thing too.’

‘It is
not the end of the story.’

‘It’s
enough for me,’ said the lad, his right hand straying once more to his trouser
pocket. ‘Down with Mu will do for me.’

‘I
will, however, tell you the rest. What I have told you so far regarding his
rule on Earth has been pieced together from ancient texts and hieroglyphics.
Allow me to quote to you from one of the last.

‘And as the ground
shook and the temple fell The God did enter into His shield. And His shield was
as a seven-pointed star and at its heart a tomb of ice. And the shield did
close upon The God and did rise into the heavens.

‘So he took off in
search of other worlds to conquer.’

‘But the heavens were
troubled and all about a storm did rage. And The God fell once more to earth a
great way off and never was He seen again.’

‘Crash
bang wallop,’ said Danbury, ‘and a good thing too.’

‘There’s
a little bit more.’

‘Go on
then.’

‘And the people
that did dwell behind, those who had served The God, did cry out in a loud
voice, saying, “Bloody good riddance,” and did bare their bottoms in the
direction of His passing and make with gestures that were lewd and most
profane.’

‘As
well they might.’

‘Agreed,’
said the doctor. ‘And there for the most part you have it. Part conjecture,
part historical account and please would you not do that while I’m talking to you.’

Danbury
untrousered his hand. ‘I recall,’ he said, ‘that you mentioned “partly physical
evidence”. By that did you mean the monumental architecture?’

‘No, I
meant the satellite photographs from a recent geophysical survey. It was
carried out by the Ministry of Serendipity to map the movements of the
continental shelves and record undersea activity, volcanic and the like. Plate
tectonics, you know the kind of business. Allow me to show you this.’

Dr
Harney took from his case a large transparent sheet of film, not unlike an
X-ray plate. ‘Take a look and tell me what you see.’

Danbury
examined the sheet. ‘An area stretching from the western coastline of South
America to the Tuamoto island chain. These would appear to be undersea
fault-lines and we would be about…’

‘Here,’
said Dr Haney, pointing. ‘Now allow me to show you a blow-up of this area.’

Danbury
examined this. ‘I see,’ said he. ‘We’re just here.’

‘And
that?’

The lad
squinted. ‘Just off the southern coast. It looks to be…’

‘A star
with seven points.’

‘I see.’

‘It’s
there, my boy. Out there.’ The doctor gestured to the open sea. ‘Half a mile
away and in less than fifty feet of water. Thrown up by recent volcanic
activity, and waiting…’

‘For us
to recover it? That’s why we’re here, to recover it?’

‘Before
the Americans do. Steal a march on the blighters, eh?’

‘I see.’

‘Think
of the technology. This spacecraft would appear to be intact. This would make
it the first ever to be recovered in one piece. The advances in technology to
be gained from an examination of it are inestimable. This is a salvage
operation, Danbury. This is history in the making.’

‘I see,’
said Danbury once more. ‘Now just let me get this straight. You are suggesting
that we haul up an alien spacecraft and ship it back to England. An alien
spacecraft that in all probability contains a mad alien in cryogenic
suspension. A mad alien that, were he to get thawed out, has the mental power
to control human beings. To drive them to fulfil his every wild demand. To
drive them like cattle until they die. That is what we are here for.’

Dr
Harney nodded. ‘Do you have a problem with that?’ he asked.

Well…’ said Danbury Collins.

6

Well,’ said Mr Phart-Ebum.
‘Here we are and this is it.’

Porrig
looked up. ‘Oh,’ he said, and, Wow, and I mean, oh yeah! All right!’

The
shop front was magnificent. All pastel colours and understated elegance. Above
the broad window hung a chromium and pink enamel winged pig motif.

‘But I
thought you said that it wasn’t successful.’ Porrig stared awestruck and all
overwhelmed. ‘This is a Flying Pig bookshop. One of the great chain that began
in Crow Street, Dublin, with the now legendary O’Mealoid and Bacon partnership.
These shops carry the finest selection of sf, paranormal, cult, occult and
God-knows-what-altogether books in the world. They’re internationally famous.’

Porrig
peered in through the window. Sophisticated customers, those smart young types
who still read books, browsed amongst the stylish shelves. Music that could
only be described as ‘cool’ came drifting through the doorway.

Porrig’s heart rose
towards the heavens. He had really fallen on his feet this time. This was the
big one. To own a branch of the Flying Pig chain. This was wonderful.
Incredible.

‘Now, I
have your key here,’ said Mr Phart-Ebum. Where exactly did I put it?’

‘Never
mind about the key.’ Porrig rubbed his hands together. ‘Let’s go inside and see
how much money they’ve taken today.’

‘How
much what?’ Mr Phart-Ebum stared at Porrig and followed the direction of his
eager gaze. Then Mr Phart-Ebum began to laugh.

‘What
are you laughing at?’ Porrig asked. ‘Oh. nothing. I mean, well… you didn’t
think that … Oh, you did … Oh, I am so sorry.’

What?’

‘You
thought that that was your bookshop. I really am so sorry.’

What?’

‘That
isn’t yours. Yours is the one next door.’

‘What?’

That
one there.’

Porrig
stared. What one where? What shop?’

‘Right
here.’ Mr Phart-Ebum pointed. ‘But there isn’t any shop. Just a derelict
building with posters plastered all over it.’

‘The
shutters are a might gummed up, I suppose. But then they would be. No-one’s
opened them for thirty years.’

Porrig’s
heart went sink

sink

sink.

‘Ah
yes,’ said Mr Phart-Ebum. ‘Here’s your key. Will I do the honours, or will you?’

Porrig
looked up at the building. It was tiny. It was wretched. Paint hung from its
front wall in scabious flakes. The upper windows were fogged by the grime of
three decades. Most were broken. Pigeons cooed from roosts within.

A low
and dismal groan arose from Porrig’s throat and issued through his mouth.

‘I will
then,’ said the solicitor, approaching the door. A fetid mattress lay across
it. The smell of urine hung in the air. Mr Phart-Ebum prodded the mattress with
a polished toe-cap. ‘Best left alone, I think,’ he continued, as he eased the
old key into the lock. ‘I might need a hand here getting this open.’

Porrig
stood in the sunshine, shaking his head. ‘Not from me,’ he said slowly. ‘Not
from me.’

‘Oh
come on, Mr Naseby.’

‘No,’
said Porrig. ‘I think I’ll just stand here and bewail my lot, if that’s all
right with you.’

Mr
Phart-Ebum was shouldering the door. ‘It’s giving.’ he said. ‘I’ve got it open
a bit.’

‘Leave
it,’ said Porrig. ‘Forget it.’

‘But
aren’t you anxious to take a look inside?’

‘Are
you jesting? I know what will be inside. A lot of rotten, mouldy old rubbish
and no doubt the floorboards will collapse and plunge me to my death.’

‘Ah,’
said the solicitor, who now had the door half open. ‘You might well have a
point there.’ He tugged the key from the lock and presented it to Porrig. Well,
I have conducted you to the premises and given you the key. My duties are
therefore concluded. Do you wish me to send the bill for my services to your
home address, or will you be taking up residence here?’ Mr Phart-Ebum caught
the eye of Porrig. And a bitter eye it was.

‘Just
one thing,’ said the lad, ‘before you go.’

‘Oh
yes?’

‘I don’t
even know the name of this dead uncle of mine.’

‘You
are thinking perhaps of putting up a blue plaque?’ Mr Phart-Ebum had a real
smirk on.

‘Not
that.’ Porrig shook his head fiercely. ‘It is just that in order to curse the
soul of someone properly, you have to know their name.’