The Mechanical Messiah and Other Marvels of the Modern Age Page 15

  Commander Case gave his shoulders a shrug.

  ‘Please, sir,’ said Constable Williams.

  ‘Perhaps you should go and wait upstairs, lad.’

  ‘No, sir, please. Mr Babbage is pulling the wool over your eyes, sir. He has some kind of speaking tube concealed in his sleeve and he is making the automaton’s jaw move by pressing a button on the floor there with the toe of his right boot.’

  ‘What of this?’ cried Commander Case.

  The backroom boffin made a guilty face.

  The kiwi’s face looked very jolly. Alice patted its head.

  ‘Let us walk over the rooftops,’ he said. ‘Hold on to me tight and we’ll fly.’

  Alice put her arms about the bird’s neck and held on ever so tightly. The kiwi bird, with no wings really to flap, simply rose from the pantry floor and floated from the room hauling Alice with him. They drifted up the staircase, with Alice observing that things were becoming ‘curiouser and curiouser’, then out through a fanlight and onto the roof.

  ‘You can let go now,’ said the kiwi bird, ‘for you are all but throttling me.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Alice. ‘But why have we come up here?’

  The kiwi bird shook its feathers about. ‘Just look at that sky,’ said he.

  Alice looked up towards the sky. It was indeed a beautiful sky. But then, was it a real sky? And was she really on the rooftop looking up at it?

  ‘Look,’ said the kiwi, ‘an airship.’

  Alice looked up and saw it. ‘What a pretty thing,’ said she.

  ‘Would you like to travel on it, Alice?’

  ‘Oh, indeed I would,’ said Alice. ‘And if I ever marry some dashing young gentleman, I will have him take me away upon such an airship for our honeymoon.’

  ‘What about a spaceship, then?’ asked the kiwi bird.

  ‘He would have to be a very rich gentleman indeed to pay for our passages aboard a spaceship.’

  ‘Can you imagine what it would be like?’ asked the kiwi bird.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Alice. ‘I have seen photographs in ladies’ journals. There are cushioned seats in rich blue velvet. A games room with a Wif-Waf table and when you hit the ball it never falls to the floor but floats for ever in the air instead. And there is a dining salon where they serve foods from all over the Solar System and the views as you rise up from our world are said to be spectacular.’

  ‘Like this, then, you would imagine?’

  Alice found herself now to be sitting on a comfortable chair cushioned with rich blue velvet. Beside her was something resembling a ship’s porthole, ringed by solid brass with many rivets.

  Alice peeped through the porthole and saw the most wonderful sight. A sweeping arc of blue bisected the blackest of skies. This night-time sky was strewn with stars as Alice had never seen them before, each one a diamond or other rare jewel set in a black velvet heaven. The arc of blue she knew to be Earth, clouds lightly sprinkled above an ocean of turquoise.

  The beauty brought tears to Alice’s eyes. But she wept too for she knew it was all an illusion.

  ‘The constable has caught me out. It is of course an illusion.’ Charles Babbage raised his left hand and spoke into his sleeve. ‘I meant no offence,’ said his voice, issuing from the brazen head. ‘I confess that I feel considerable guilt when I deceive poor Lord Andrew Ditchfield with it. He believes that he possesses the only genuine thinking machine in the British Empire. Anywhere, in fact. I just cannot bring myself to shatter his illusion. I should have known better than to have tried it on with a sharp-eyed officer of the law, though.’

  Constable Williams wore a smirk.

  Commander Case did grindings of the teeth.

  ‘So it is all stuff and nonsense,’ said the commander.

  ‘On the contrary, this machine literally manages the entire theatre. It lights the stage and shifts the scenery, it controls the temperature and quality of the air and a hundred other things besides. One day every great theatre will have a Harmonising Arithmetical Logisticator.’

  ‘It has a somewhat unwieldy title,’ observed Constable Williams. ‘Perhaps you should shorten it.’

  ‘I already have,’ said Charles Babbage. ‘Considerably.’

  ‘You could use its initials,’ the constable suggested. ‘H. A. L. You could call it Hal.’

  Charles Babbage thought about this. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I think that would be silly.’

  ‘This is all very wonderful,’ said Alice, ‘but all of course rather silly. I will never fly through the aether in a spaceship. I would like to return to my kiwis now.’

  ‘There is something I need to say to you first, something you need to know.’

  ‘Please tell me this,’ said Alice. ‘Am I dreaming? Or am I having some kind of magical experience, a vision or suchlike? Or is this actually real, but in another reality that most people can never visit?’

  ‘I cannot answer those questions,’ said the kiwi. ‘I was sent to give you a message. I thought I would make it enjoyable for you while I deliver it. As it is a rather gloomy message.

  ‘Who sent you?’ asked Alice.

  ‘It would surprise you very much if I told you. And frighten you just a little, too. So let me tell you what I must tell you and then you can return to your world and feed your kiwi birds.’

  ‘All right, then tell me,’ said Alice.

  The kiwi nested himself onto the seat next to hers. ‘It’s about the magic,’ he said. ‘It has been brought to Earth. It should not have been. It was not supposed to have been. But an evil being took it and he brought it here. And it must be taken back before it does any more damage. And you must be the one to take it back. You have been chosen to be the one to take it back.’

  Alice nodded her beautiful head. ‘Whatever are you talking about?’ she asked.

  ‘I do not have time to waste, talking about nonsense names and party tricks.’ Commander Case stamped his foot, which quite put the wind up the constable. ‘Two men have died in balls of flame. Possibly three, counting the infamous Mr Crowley. But if there is any justice at all, God sent down a thunderbolt to deal with that individual. But the culprit, if one exists, must be brought to book.’

  ‘If one exists?’ queried Mr Babbage. ‘I read your words well enough — you still have some utterly unfounded suspicions regarding—’

  ‘Hal,’ said Constable Williams.

  ‘Be quiet,’ said Commander Case. ‘The answer to what happened will be found somewhere within this theatre. And I will find it, no matter how long it takes.’

  ‘Have you rounded up all the Frenchmen in London?’ asked Charles Babbage. ‘That would be a start, at any rate.’

  ‘Babbage?’ said Commander Case. ‘That is a French name, is it not?’

  ‘Case derives from the Old French cas, meaning “a happening”,’ said Constable Williams, helpfully. ‘Williams is Welsh, of course. And the Welsh are the true British.’

  Commander Case struck down the British constable and stormed away to search for clues elsewhere.

  ‘Magic comes from elsewhere.’ The kiwi pointed with its beak towards the porthole. ‘It does not originate upon Earth. There are planets where magic is part of everyday life.’

  ‘Venus,’ said Alice Lovell. ‘I am told that Venusians use magic to make their spaceships work.’

  ‘Yes, indeed, Venus,’ said the kiwi. ‘But not here upon the Earth.’

  ‘But I have known magic,’ said Alice. ‘And I think I am experiencing it now.’

  ‘I cannot explain everything to you mow, but I will visit you again.’ The kiwi tapped at Alice with its beak. ‘The magical thing that has been brought to Earth must be returned to where it came from. You will play a part in this.’ Tap-tap-tap went the kiwi’s beak.

  ‘Please don’t do that,’ said Alice.

  ‘You will go on a very long journey.’

  Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

  ‘That really hurts,’ said Alice. ‘Please will you stop doing that.’

 
; ‘A lot of horrid things will happen—’ Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

  ‘But there will be a happy ending. ‘Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap— ‘Please stop doing that!’ cried Alice.

  And she awoke to find herself in the bedroom that she had settled into the night before, wearing the nightdress she had put on the night before and being peck-peck-pecked and tap-tap-tapped by several kiwi birds.

  From downstairs came the sounds of breaking porcelain. The kiwi birds had somehow escaped from the outhouse and were wreaking havoc on the home of Cameron Bell.

  23

  arwin and the colonel lunched at The Spaceman’s Club.

  Darwin had some qualms about the menu.

  Colonel Katterfelto tucked into a starter of

  Hummingbird Crème Fraiche

  with purple basil

  A main course of

  Grilled Elephant Liver in a cinnamon gravy

  Lightly fried White Tiger Steak with Marmot Ragout

  Gorilla Goulash with chipped potatoes

  And a dessert of

  Roly-poly pudding & treacle sponge bastard[8]

  Darwin kept his head down and munched upon bananas.

  But joined the colonel in the brandy and cigars without which no gentleman’s meal could ever be successfully concluded.

  Mark Rowland Ferris, the Fifth Earl of Hove, joined them at the table for a chat.

  ‘I have no objection whatever,’ he said to Colonel Katterfelto, ‘to you representing this ape here as your nephew—’

  The colonel all but choked upon his brandy.

  ‘Steady on there,’ said the Fifth Earl. ‘I said I had no objection. If you have trained this little fellow to play Snap—’

  He reached to tousle the little fellow’s head.

  The little fellow bared his pointy teeth.

  ‘I have no objection at all. As long as you restrict your play to Jovians. I cannot have you out-Snapping any of the British members.’

  ‘Would not think of such a thing.’ The colonel puffed upon his cigar. ‘Hardly sporting, that.’

  ‘Quite so, then we understand one another. I do have to say that your nephew looks particularly well turned out today.’

  And indeed Darwin did. He had earlier insisted that the colonel accompany him to a certain London tailoring establishment that Darwin had patronised during his more prosperous days. For he knew that they must still hold several suits of clothes he had ordered before his disastrous visit to the gaming tables of Monte Carlo.

  Darwin now wore an elegant morning suit of black worsted wool, grey and white striped trousers with fitted tail-snood, black silk tie and matching socks, Oxford brogues and a shirt of Irish linen. He cut a considerable dash and to the first glance of most would have passed for a well-dressed midget. Albeit one sorely in need of a shave.

  Indeed the clerk behind the desk at Coutts Bank, Darwin’s second port of call, hardly turned a brilliantined hair when the simian opened an account.

  Darwin sucked upon his cigar. He did not like Mark Rowland Ferris. And he was happy enough when the Fifth Earl of Hove departed in the company of his three French bulldogs Ninja, Yoda and Groucho. Today these three French bulldogs all wore kilts.

  The man and the monkey moved on to the Snap salon.

  They were greeted jovially by the Jovians. Darwin ordered further brandy from a passing waiter and settled down to play.

  The colonel took himself off to a wicker-bound steamer chair upon the terrace, sat himself upon it and continued with his cigar.

  The vista was, as ever, one to inspire wonder. The capital of the Empire spreading in all directions. The historic buildings of mellow granite, stone and brick, crisply rendered by the sunlight. The crowded avenues and thoroughfares. The horse-drawn carriages, the new electric wheelers. The Tesla towers, the flying craft, the beauty of it all.

  Colonel Katterfelto made a very thoughtful face. He was torn by certain contradictions. He loved London, and he loved the monarchy and the British Empire. He was loyal and he was true. And he wished no harm to come to anything he loved. Which left him where, exactly, regarding the construction of the Mechanical Messiah? This, the ultimate Marvel of the Modern Age, when imbued with life, would do what, exactly? The colonel wondered whether perhaps he had not thought all of this through properly. Would the Mechanical Messiah precipitate Armageddon and the coming of the Apocalypse? As the arrival of the Lamb of God was prophesied to do in the Book of Revelation? Colonel Katterfelto hoped not! That was not what he had in mind at all.

  What he had in mind was that the Mechanical Messiah would put the world to right. That He would be recognised as Heaven’s Last and Best Gift to Mankind. That a modern Utopia would be created. A Heaven upon Earth.

  The colonel felt satisfied with this. More than satisfied. Mankind would certainly thank him for his tireless efforts. He might even receive a knighthood.

  A Messiah, Utopia and a knighthood.

  It did not get better than that.

  The colonel’s reverie was interrupted by the arrival of a particularly girthsome Jovian, whose presence on the terrace was not to be ignored.

  The Jovian nodded towards the colonel.

  ‘Joy be with thou,’ he said, this being the traditional Jovian greeting.

  ‘And more unto thee,’ replied the colonel, who knew the traditional response.

  A part of the Jovians’ charm for the colonel lay in the way they spoke. Very much in the manner of Old Testament prophets. It had come as no surprise to those who spoke the Queen’s English to discover that the Queen’s English was the Universal Tongue, adopted by beings from all worlds so far discovered. Such was only to be expected, really. The Queen’s English and ‘civilisation’ being hand in glove, as it were.

  Certainly some spoke it with an accent so thick as to be hardly distinguishable, the Martians, for instance. And Venusians had a private language, The Spiritual Tongue, which they spoke only to each other. But Jovians carried on like Noah or Moses, whilst espousing no religion whatsoever. Although it did have to be said that there were subtle differences in nuance and syntax and things of that nature that marked them out from those holy fathers of old. Perhaps there was a hint of ‘Yorkshire’ to it.

  ‘Wouldst thou mind if I park me bum on the sitter next to thou?’ enquired the girthsome off-worlder.

  The colonel expressed no preference one way or the other.

  The Jovian lowered himself onto the adjacent seat. The wickerwork shrieked as if under torture. The Jovian settled with care.

  ‘Art thou Katterfelto?’ asked the Jovian.

  ‘Colonel Katterfelto,’ said the colonel.

  ‘Doest thou pardon me.’ The Jovian leaned over, to the accompaniment of much groaning wickerwork, and extended his big hand towards the colonel. ‘Mingus Larkspur,’ he said. ‘Nowt but a lowly corporal in the Third Mounted Nunbuck.[9] Thou doest outrank me somewhat.’

  ‘No ranks here,’ said Colonel Katterfelto, shaking the outstretched hand. ‘All brother travellers of the void. How d’ya know m’name, by the by?’

  ‘Earl Ferris recommended thou to me.

  ‘Recommended?’ The colonel tapped ash from his cigar into the fitted ash bowl of his seat. ‘Recommended for what, might I ask?’

  ‘As one that hast led a hunt.’

  ‘Big-game hunt, d’you mean?’ The colonel smiled and nodded as he did so.

  ‘Big-game hunt ‘pon Mars,’ said Corporal Larkspur.

  ‘Led more than a few,’ quoth the colonel. ‘Minimal fatalities generally.’

  ‘Wouldst thou consider leading another?’

  ‘Another?’ Colonel Katterfelto thoughtfully stroked at his mustachios. There was certainly a thrill to a big-game hunt that was to be found in no other sporting activity. But he was not as young as he had been and sometimes one had to move with speed to avoid a ferocious onrushing something that one has upset with an ill-aimed ray-gun burst.

  ‘Interesting proposition,’ puffed the colonel. ‘Haven’t been to Mars f
or some years now.

  Corporal Larkspur glanced around and about the terrace. Assured that he and the colonel were otherwise alone, he whispered, ‘Not Mars, but Venus.’

  ‘Venus?’ Colonel Katterfelto added huffing to his puff. Then continued in hoarse whispers, saying, ‘Can’t hunt on Venus, old sport. Not permitted. Interplanetary treaty agreed with Her Majesty forbids it. Venusians take a very dim view of that kind of caper.’

  ‘They forbid it,’ agreed the Jovian. ‘But may I showest thee something?’ And from an ample pocket he produced a folded map. Which he unfolded. And displayed to Colonel Katterfelto.

  ‘Map of Venus?’ asked the colonel. ‘Not seen one of those before.’

  ‘Acquired as thou must imagine at a goodly price and after a right old struggle.’

  ‘Quite so.’ The colonel viewed the map with interest. ‘Seems to be mostly forest and plain,’ said he.

  ‘Jungle,’ whispered Corporal Larkspur. ‘But here liest the thing. They knowest their world as Magonia.’

  Colonel Katterfelto knew this.

  ‘Their capital city is Rimmer.’

  The colonel did not know that.

  ‘There art five other cities. Enormous art they. But vastly doth the jungle cover the lands of Magonia. And sacred unto the people is it, such as they dare not enter, for such is sacrilege unto them. More power to our elbow, thusly.’

  The colonel gave his mustachios a further thoughtful stroke. ‘There was an expedition,’ said he, ‘some years back. Big-game hunt led by an old chum of mine. Major Thadeus Tinker. Lost in jungle? Murdered by Venusians? Never came back to tell.’

  ‘I knowest.’ The Jovian refolded his map. ‘Such a venture requirest great bottle and wouldst be rewarded by great wonga.

  Bottle and wonga? queried the colonel. But he gathered the gist.