The Mechanical Messiah (14 page)

he doorman of The Spaceman’s Club waved as the flying platform passed him by.

It passed him by at quite close quarters and at an elevation of one thousand feet.

The Spaceman’s Club occupied extravagant and unique premises. The luxuriously appointed gondola of an airship nearly fifteen hundred feet in length, which hung in the sky above London. Moored to a wheelhouse in the pleasure gardens at Battersea Park.

Although perhaps not the most exclusive of all London’s clubs (the award for this surely going to The Bill and Roger Club in Dean Street, which boasted only two members, Bill and Roger Club), The Spaceman’s Club was undoubtedly the most novel and owned to the very finest views.

It had always been a matter for debate, amongst those who choose to debate such matters, as to whom The Spaceman’s Club actually belonged. A certain faction believed the owner to be a member of the royal household. Others subscribed to the belief that it was a foreign potentate or even an off-world conglomerate. But folk more circumspect in nature would point to the brass plaque above the entrance doors, on which were engraved in letters bold and bright the words: LICENSEE AND PROPRIETOR: MARK ROWLAND FERRIS, FIFTH EARL OF HOVE.

This circumspect minority put forward the proposition that this might well be the same Mark Rowland Ferris, property developer and industrial millionaire, noted sportsman and airship aficionado, who was regularly to be seen in the company of his three French bulldogs, Ninja, Yoda and Groucho, welcoming members to The Spaceman’s Club.

But where at all would life be without mystery?

In order to reach The Spaceman’s Club, members and their guests had to ride ‘The Upper’: an electrically driven chairlift affair, operated from the ground-located wheelhouse. Double seats, somewhat resembling those of a fairground big wheel and linked to never-ending chains that ran from the wheelhouse to the elevated Gaming Hell, hoisted members aloft. Affording fine vistas of the capital, weather permitting.

The weather was glorious upon this summer’s day, but only one double seat of the electrically driven chairlift affair was actually occupied.

And this by a man and a monkey.

The man sat up as straightly as he might and inhabited the uniform of the Queen’s Own Electric Fusiliers.

The monkey bounced excitedly, as monkeys will when raised to any height, and sported a rather fancy waistcoat.

‘So,’ huffed Colonel Katterfelto, who was reverting more and more to the clipped martial manner of speech so favoured by those of his military rank. ‘Up to club. Carry out campaign according to plan. Pocket winnings. Withdraw to base.’

Darwin the monkey was almost paying attention. He was greatly enjoying the exhilaration of elevation. Although this was coupled with a small degree of regret. As it put him in mind of the
Empress of Mars,
upon whose ill-fated maiden voyage Darwin had travelled, two short years before.

‘Born down there,’ the colonel said suddenly and he pointed to the west. ‘Ealing. Rural community then. All changed now. All changed. See those, my dear fellow?’ A sweeping gesture included several of the tall steel towers that rose above the rooftops of London to all compass points. Tall steel towers topped by huge metallic spheres that sparked and crackled with electrical energy.

‘Tesla towers,’ said Colonel Katterfelto. ‘Springing up everywhere. Transmit electricity, they do. Without wires or cables. Revolutionise everything. Transport, communication. New world, it is. Damned clever. Damned very clever indeed.’

Darwin turned his face towards that of the colonel. ‘Regarding this infallible gambling system that you claim to have masterminded,’ he said. Most eloquently.

‘Not a system as
such,’
the colonel puffed. ‘More a strategy. Means to an end. Take two to pull it off, though. Fifty-fifty all the way, as agreed.’

‘I mastered Snap some years ago,’ said Darwin, ‘but I have no knowledge of other card games.’

‘No need,’ went the colonel. ‘Simple matter really. Just require you to look over the shoulders of the other players, then report back to me what cards they hold in their hands.’

Darwin’s eyes and mouth widened simultaneously. ‘What?’ he exclaimed. ‘What are you suggesting?’

‘All fair in love and war,’ quoth the colonel. ‘Require cash for Great Work. Means to an end and all that. Folk will thank me for it one day soon.

‘No,’ said Darwin, shaking his head. ‘I do not have qualms regarding the acquisition of funds through means that are not wholly honest. However, such a scheme as this is open to exposure. It will mean jail for you and the zoo for me. Should not some overzealous henchmen of the proprietor choose to simply fling me from the airship.’

‘Don’t fret, old chap.’ The colonel tousled the top of the monkey’s head.

Darwin bared his teeth.

Colonel Katterfelto withdrew his tousling hand. ‘No need for anyone to suspect,’ he assured his business associate. ‘Your secret is safe with me. No one else knows you can talk. A quick shufti over a shoulder or two. A whispered word in my ear. Job done. You can take trays of drinks around. You are good at that kind of caper.

Darwin made a doubtful face.

‘Fifty-fifty,’ said the colonel. ‘You might have yourself fitted out with a new wardrobe of clothes.’

Darwin’s face became thoughtful.

‘Nice top hat, kid gloves. Cane with your initial on the silver top.’

Darwin’s face took on an eager look.

Chains purred upon cogwheels and finally they reached the gondola.

The doorman who had so recently waved to the flying platform saluted the colonel and offered politely to aid him from his seat.

‘I can manage,’ gruffed the old soldier, rising stiffly, but affecting a certain sprightliness. ‘Come on, Darwin, if you will.’

The doorman now barred the colonel’s way.

‘Terribly sorry, sir,’ said he, ‘but you must observe the dress code.’

‘Wearing my dress uniform, you damn fool,’ the colonel was heard to remark.

‘Oh, sir, please pardon me. I was not alluding to yourself You are the very proprietorial exemplar of sartorial elegance. Naturally I was referring to your companion.’

‘He’s a bally monkey,’ said the colonel.

‘He is wearing no—’ The doorman did whisperings behind his hand. ‘No trousers, sir.’

Colonel Katterfelto offered the doorman what he considered to be a most formidable and intimidating stare.

The doorman merely smiled and said, ‘No trousers, no admittance. Sorry, sir.’

Colonel Katterfelto made huffing, puffing, grumbling sounds and for one moment actually toyed with the idea of flinging the doorman from the gondola. Reason, however, prevailed and he prepared instead to strike the fellow down and have done with it.

‘We can supply trousers,’ said the doorman.

‘Monkey
trousers?’ queried the colonel.

‘We have trousers for most species,’ said the doorman. ‘Although I regret that those for okapi are presently at the cleaners. You know how it is.’

Colonel Katterfelto shook his head. ‘Yes?’ he said.

‘I would say your companion would be a size fifteen.’

‘Is this some kind of joke?’ asked Colonel Katterfelto. ‘Monkey trousers? Okapi trousers? Elephant trousers, too, do you have?’

‘Now
sir
is joking,’ said the doorman. ‘Elephants would hardly need to be supplied with trousers, would they?’

‘Not to
my
way of thinking,’ huffed and puffed the colonel.

‘Because elephants are denied entrance anyway, due to weight restrictions on The Upper.’

‘Are you married?’ the colonel asked the doorman.

‘Married? Me, sir? Only to my work.’

‘Unfortunate,’ said the colonel. ‘Nothing like a good wife to dress a husband’s wounds. When he has received a sound thrashing for his impertinence.’

‘No impertinence intended, sir. Come, let me show your companion to the dressing room.

Colonel Katterfelto took to the taking of deep and calming breaths. The air was fine and clear up there. He and Darwin followed the doorman into The Spaceman’s Club.

Its interior was certainly something to behold, being all decked about with inlaid woods and silks and finest lacquers. The style was oriental, though with touches of moderne. The air was sweetly scented by the lily and the fern. There were kilims, there were carpets, there were paintings most eclectic. There were crystal candelabra, though the lighting was electric. It was tasteful, it was elegant, exquisite and effete. And it offered entertainment to space—travelling elite.

The doorman led Darwin away to the dressing room. The colonel made his way to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic. The barman, a chappy of foreign extraction who no doubt wore trousers beneath his floor-length robes, bowed a head burdened by a turban of extravagant proportions and set about his task with a will. The colonel’s gaze strayed towards a large cage hanging behind the bar counter. It contained a parrot. The parrot wore a pair of turquoise trousers.

‘I know what you are thinking.’

Colonel Katterfelto turned at these words to view the young man who had spoken them. He was tall and lean and elegant, with the dashing good looks of some hero of the Empire. A head of lush black hair and the bluest eyes the colonel had ever seen.

‘Mark Rowland Ferris,’ the young man introduced himself. ‘Fifth Earl of Hove and owner of The Spaceman’s Club. And you, if I am not mistaken, are Colonel Katterfelto.’

‘Your servant, sir,’ said that very fellow. ‘But how do you know my name?’

‘I am blessed with a total recall of events,’ said the young man. ‘I say blessed, but at times it is a terrible curse. But what I see, what I read, what I hear — I recall all. I observed your photograph in
The Times
newspaper of—’ Mark Rowland Ferris named day and month and year correctly ‘—being awarded that very medal that adorns the breast of your uniform by our grateful monarch, Queen Victoria, God bless her.’

‘God bless her,’ echoed the colonel.

‘Our paths have not crossed before,’ said Mark Rowland Ferris, ‘but I regularly peruse the visitors’ book and it is more than five years since your presence has graced my establishment.’

‘Been away.’ The colonel cleared his throat. ‘In the Americas. Don’t wish to dwell upon the matter.’

‘Quite so.. The privacy of members is to be respected at all times.’

Trouser humour?
wondered the colonel.
Of course not!
he concluded.

‘Sorry about the trousers,’ said Mark Rowland Ferris. ‘Some new Government ruling, thrust upon entrepreneurs such as myself who only seek to go about their business, unfettered by needless regulations. A health and safety executive, it is called.’ Mark Rowland Ferris turned up the palms of his exquisitely manicured hands. ‘Please have this drink upon the house. And see — here comes your pet in the most stylish of trousers.’

Colonel Katterfelto agreed that the trousers which adorned Darwin were indeed especially stylish. He hoped, however, that his simian business partner had
not
overheard the word
pet.

‘Would you care for a sherbet, little fellow?’ asked Mark Rowland Ferris. Darwin bared his teeth at Hove’s Fifth Earl.

‘He does not really understand English,’ lied Colonel Katterfelto. ‘Responds well to a cuff around the ear with a swagger stick, though.’

‘Splendid,’ said Mark Rowland Ferris. ‘Well, I must be leaving you now. I just wanted to welcome you to the club. Not very much going on at this time of day, I regret. Apart from a party of Jovians in the Snap salon.’ Mark Rowland Ferris now spoke conspiratorially from behind a manicured hand. ‘Very big spenders,’ said he. ‘And very
slow
Snappers. ‘And he winked at the colonel, clicked his heels together, bowed his head and said farewell and strode away from the bar.

Accompanied by his three French bulldogs, Yoda, Ninja and Groucho. All of whom wore trousers and berets.

‘What a strange fellow,’ mused the colonel to the monkey. ‘But polite enough in his manner. Hop up onto a stool here and take a glass of sherbet.’

The turbaned barlord decanted a sherbet for Darwin and then removed himself to a respectful distance. The colonel muttered whispered words to the monkey.

‘Damned near impossible to — how shall I put this —
gain an advantage at Snap,’
was what he had to say.

Darwin whispered words of his own to Colonel Katterfelto.

Armed with one hundred pounds’ worth of gambling chips (there had been some unpleasantness from Darwin regarding the handing over of his fifty pounds, but reason had finally prevailed), Colonel Katterfelto and his trousered companion took themselves off to the Snap salon. The room was dressed up as a traditional gentleman’s club, with oak-panelled walls and mahogany gaming tables. The house Snapper sat to one side of the only occupied table. Two girthsome Jovians sat to the other.

The colonel had always been rather taken with Jovians. He had led several parties of them on big-game shoots upon Mars. There had been some fatalities, but the Jovians took that, as they seemed to take everything else, in good humour. There was much more of the human to the average Jovian than there was to the average Venusian. But for their overall size and their natural grey skin tone, which they tended to humanise with pink make-up when visiting London, they might well have been taken as sons of the British Empire. The two at the Snap table were laughing now. They seemed in the best of spirits.