The Chickens of Atlantis and Other Foul and Filthy Fiends

by Robert Rankin

  ‘If you fire that, then I will press this,’ said Mr Cameron Bell, and he produced from behind his back another brass contrivance with an extended metal rod and a blood-red button, upon which his thumb now rested.

  ‘Oh ho ho,’ roared Arthur Knapton and his horrid Martians laughed as well. ‘Wotcha thinkin’ t’ do, Mr Bell – blow us all a*** over t**? I thought you'd learned your lesson – you can't blow us up in ’ere.’

  ‘Not here,’ said my friend, and he looked most brave. ‘Pray do look out through your cockpit window. You might find something to surprise you.’

  Arthur Knapton hesitated, but his gun wobbled ever so slightly in his hand. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I fink I'll kills ya now.’

  Mr Bell's thumb was firmly on the button and his firm gaze met that of Arthur Knapton.

  Sweat broke out upon foreheads, including my own. This was what the chickens in the time of Akhenaten would have referred to as an ‘Egyptian stand-off’.

  Arthur Knapton's trigger finger twitched.

  Mr Bell's thumb pressed down on the button ever so slightly.

  ‘All right, all right,’ cried Arthur Knapton. ‘I will allow a dyin’ man ’is final wish.’ And he stalked to the cockpit window and peered out.

  Beyond was the blasted landscape. The ruination and misery. The fallen houses, the scorched earth, all of the horrors that this evil man and his Martian hordes had caused.

  ‘All looks mighty fine, in me ’umble opinion,’ said the King of Mars.

  ‘If you will just glance down at the half-toppled lamp post to your right.’ Mr Bell had a rather broad smile on now.

  ‘There ain't nofink— Oh my good Gawd!’ Arthur Knapton threw up his hands in horror.

  ‘Recognise the fellow?’ asked Mr Bell. ‘The fellow tied to the lamp post. With twenty sticks of dynamite strapped to his chest, which I can explode with a simple press on this button.’ He waggled his contraption at the villain of the piece.

  The villain of the piece glared him daggers. ‘It is me,’ he said very slowly, between his gritted teeth. ‘It is meself in me teens you ’ave trussed up down there. ’Ow ’ave you done this ’ere fing?’

  ‘I decided that I must apply a special logic to the situation,’ explained Mr Cameron Bell. ‘The situation being somewhat outré, at best. You were always one step ahead of me. But we were both travellers in time, and so I reasoned that the best way to sort things out was for me to be one step behind you. This is the year eighteen eighty-five. The year when myself and Mr Crowley were students together at Oxford and you were our fag and our bootboy.’

  Arthur Knapton made terrible growling sounds.

  ‘A bootboy with ideas above his station. Mighty ambitions. So the me that stands before you now visited the me that is now a student at Oxford. Together we took the teenage you captive. And so he stands down there, a rather uncomfortable and frightened fellow – and one who, if you do not immediately surrender to me, I shall blow to smithereens.’

  Arthur Knapton rocked upon his heels.

  I gazed up in admiration at my friend Mr Bell.

  ‘That is very clever,’ said I, ‘because if you blow up that Arthur Knapton, then this one will cease to exist.’

  ‘That is about the shape of it,’ said Mr Bell.

  Arthur Knapton spat upon the floor. Which was not a very nice thing to do, but he was a common fellow. ‘Think you're so damn clever, doncha?’ he roared as he spat. ‘Well, you ain't and I'll tell you why. I ’as the Stele of Revealin’ sewn into me vest, an’ I can use it to transport meself back in time before you can even press yer blasted button.’

  ‘I doubt if that is altogether true,’ said Mr Bell.

  ‘Oh, it's true, well enough. An’ I'll go back in time and wring your b****y neck whilst you still lies as a baby in yer cot.’

  ‘That sounds jolly unsporting,’ said Mr Bell.

  The Martians looked from my friend to his mortal enemy. They were, perhaps, becoming confused by all this.

  ‘Farewell!’ shouted Arthur Knapton, and he clutched very hard at his chest.

  But he did not vanish into time.

  He stayed just where he was.

  ‘Perhaps you should give it another go,’ suggested Mr Bell. ‘Perhaps you did not do it properly the first time.’

  ‘What the Dickens?’ The Pearly Emperor tore at his wonderful jacket, he ripped it open and clutched at his vest. ‘It is gone!’ he cried. ‘The Stele of Revealin’ is gone.’

  The Martians now looked back at Mr Bell.

  ‘You stole the stele from Aleister Crowley,’ said Mr Bell, ‘then used the knowledge from the libraries of books you have acquired whilst travelling through time to decipher it and use it as a time-travelling magical adjunct.’

  ‘I think we agreed that that wouldn't work,’ I whispered to Mr Bell.

  ‘It was one of those time-travelling plot-hole affairs.’

  ‘Not now, Darwin,’ said my friend. ‘So,’ he continued to the very very angry Arthur Knapton, ‘I removed the stele from Mr Crowley's possession before your younger self could steal it and use it to travel through time.’

  ‘But?’ I said, and I scratched my head.

  And scratched at other parts, too.

  ‘Not now, Darwin,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘So Arthur Knapton, aka the God-Pharaoh Akhenaten, the Pearly Emperor, King Arthur of both Fairyland and Mars, I am arresting you for the theft of the British Library from the British Museum – a crime you will commit a few years from now.’

  ‘But—’ said I.

  ‘Not now, Darwin.’ To the Pearly Emperor, Mr Bell said, ‘Drop your ray gun and surrender to me, or I will blow up your teenage self and spare Scotland Yard and the Old Bailey a great deal of confusion.’

  ‘Well, at least you put that in,’ I said.

  Arthur Knapton began to laugh his horrible horrible laugh.

  ‘It wasn't that funny,’ I said. ‘Although I must say that all these time-travelling shenanigans have taught me one thing, and that is how many plot holes it takes to fill the Albert Hall.’

  Arthur Knapton continued to laugh. And not at what I had said.

  ‘You can't win,’ he said, when he finally stopped. ‘And d'you know why you can't win?’

  Mr Bell, whose thumb had not left the bright-red button, shook his head. ‘Enlighten me,’ he said.

  ‘Because,’ said Arthur Knapton, ‘this is The War of the Worlds, but things are different this time around. Everyone knows that Martians cannot survive upon Earth because they fall prey to Earthly bacteria.’

  ‘It is an Eternal Verity,’ I said. ‘Like you should never run with scissors, or—’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Arthur Knapton. ‘You ain't gettin’ it, Mr Bell. My Martians ’ave been inoculated wiv penicillin. They are immune to Earthly bacteria, which means this time they will win.’

  I looked once more up at my friend. He had ceased to smile.

  ‘So fink on,’ continued Arthur Knapton. ‘If me Martians win, then there ain't gonna be no Martian spaceships lying abandoned in Sussex, is there? And if there ain't, then Ernest Rutherford will not be able to convert one into a time-ship for you to travel in. Which means that you cannot travel through time an’ capture me.’

  I now looked from one to the other of them. ‘But—’ I said once more.

  ‘Sssh,’ said Mr Bell.

  ‘But he does have a point,’ I said. ‘And I think we should at least take the occasional point into consideration. If the Martians win, then we cannot acquire a Martian spaceship and so we cannot be here.’

  I looked all around and about.

  Martians shrugged. It was all double Dutch to them.

  ‘So I will just stand here,’ said Arthur Knapton, now folding his arms, whilst still keeping hold of his ray gun, ‘an’ watch as you just vanish away.’

  ‘Hm,’ went Mr Bell. ‘I feel that you might have a very long wait. I suggest instead that we remain with the original plan. You surrender to me at once, or I will explode your yo
unger self and that will be that for you.’

  ‘No!’ went Arthur Knapton. ‘That is that for you. Me Martians are immune to Earthly bacteria. We win. I win. You most certainly lose.’

  ‘No,’ said Mr Bell. ‘I think not,’ and he glanced around at the Martians. ‘Between you and me,’ he said in a loud stage whisper, ‘I think your Martians are looking a little unwell.’

  ‘Oh no they're not!’

  I now glanced about at the Martians, and I did have to say that they did not look all that well. They were rubbing at themselves and displaying rather horrid boils upon their horrid flesh.

  ‘Oh yes they are,’ said Mr Bell.

  ‘Oh no they're not!’

  But they were – they were looking most unwell indeed. All spotty and boily and ghastly, they looked, and then one by one they fell in a heap on the floor.

  ‘What?’ cried Arthur Knapton.

  ‘What?’

  I looked up at Mr Bell and gave my head a scratch.

  Mr Bell smiled down upon me and with his free hand he patted me on the shoulder.

  ‘History is resolving itself,’ he said to Arthur Knapton. ‘Things that you have done are becoming undone.’

  ‘How?’ asked the Pearly Emperor.

  ‘My friend Darwin and myself travelled to the year three thousand—’

  ‘Not much had changed,’ I said. ‘Although they do live under—’

  ‘Best not labour that one any more,’ said Mr Bell. ‘But let me explain it to you, Mr Knapton. My friend here –’ and I smiled up at Mr Bell ‘– was cloned. And with him, his fleas.’

  ‘His fleas?’ went Arthur Knapton.

  ‘His fleas,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘I regret to tell you that penicillin holds no fear for Darwin's super-fleas.’

  ‘No! No! No!’ shouted Arthur Knapton.

  ‘Yes,’ said Cameron Bell.

  Chapter the very last

  nd so it ended. Not with a bang, as perhaps my friend Mr Bell would have preferred it, but with a whimper.

  A whimper from Arthur Knapton.

  He gave himself up to Mr Bell. What else was he to do?

  Mr Bell had finally triumphed and I was pleased for that.

  Mind you.

  I must say that I did have certain words to say to Mr Bell regarding the manner in which he finally defeated Arthur Knapton, the Pearly Emperor. Because a rather obvious thought had struck me.

  ‘Why?’ I asked my friend. ‘With you being such an intelligent fellow and everything and being the greatest detective of your age, why, when you discovered that the villain who stole the books from the British Museum (this being your single unsolved case) was in fact your old fag and bootboy at Oxford, Mr Arthur Knapton – why did we not travel back to eighteen eighty-five immediately so you could lay your hands upon him when he was still a teenager? Rather than get involved in all the dangerous time-travelling adventures that we subsequently got into?’

  My friend nodded thoughtfully to this, then had the temerity to tell me that the thought had obviously crossed his mind upon that very first night when we encountered Arthur Knapton in his Akhenaten persona at the British Museum.

  But that if we had simply gone back and apprehended the teenage Knapton before he could commit any crimes at all, it would not have been nearly so much fun.

  IN FACT, IT WOULD HAVE BEEN . . .

  NO FUN AT ALL.

  And I confess that I bit Mr Bell.

  Not hard.

  Just hard enough.

  But we did drink champagne and we did celebrate Mr Bell's success. And also my own, because during the course of our adventures I had managed to achieve one or two significant things myself.

  I had managed to transport my monkey descendants back to the morning of the world, endowed with the knowledge of speech and writing and fire.

  Which had enabled them to eventually evolve into what we know today as Man.

  Which made me the Father of All Mankind.

  To my mind, no small achievement.

  And it was me who defeated the Martians, because they had no immunity to the bites of my super-fleas.

  So I had not only begun Mankind.

  I had saved it also.

  Which should at least have earned me a medal.

  Or something.

  Now that the case was finally concluded, Mr Bell finally honoured his promise to accompany me back to Vienna in eighteen twenty-four, to watch Beethoven conducting his Ninth Symphony.

  It would be impossible for me to express in words the very wonder of that experience. Allow me to say only that it was everything I had hoped that it would be.

  And more.

  As the fourth movement concluded its glory, a curious incident occurred. A gentleman turned the great composer around towards the cheering crowd.

  I was baffled by this until Mr Bell explained to me that the maestro Beethoven was quite deaf. That he had composed and conducted what many informed souls believe to be one of the highest of human achievements without being able to hear a single note of it.

  I was brought to tears by this disclosure and begged Mr Bell to do something about it. He simply shrugged and said, ‘What?’

  But I had an idea, and so we brought Mr Beethoven to our time-ship and conveyed him to the year eighteen ninety-nine and the Grand Exposition, where Alberto Toscanini was to conduct the largest ever assembly of world-class musicians ever to perform Beethoven's Ninth.

  And here, with the assistance of hearing aids which Mr Bell and I acquired in the year three thousand (where not very much had changed), the great composer was able to sit down next to Queen Victoria and enjoy every note of his greatest symphony.

  Mr Bell and I were pleased for that.

  It is with great sadness that I must write of the death of my dear friend Mister Cameron Bell. His passing came peacefully enough. He died at the age of eighty-five in the year two thousand and ten, in the city of Cardiff in Wales. I was at his bedside when he died and held his hand as he slipped away from this world.

  We had spent so many many years together and together enjoyed so many many adventures.

  I have only written here of those adventures we had whilst on the trail of Mr Arthur Knapton. But there had been so many others.

  We had revisited the nineteen sixties, where I became the first ape in space (during that age, at least). Mr Bell solved numerous ‘mysteries’, such as who carved the Easter Island statues, what happened to those aboard the Mary Céleste (chickens again!) and why Stonehenge was constructed (which was all to do with a misunderstanding between Mr Bell and some Druids). I became personally involved in ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’ and inspired a young gentleman that I met in a Brentford public house to give up a life of crime and write far-fetched fiction instead.

  That young gentleman's name is Robert Rankin.

  Yes, Mr Bell and I had many adventures.

  And I have written them up, and one day perhaps they will all be published. I hope very much that they will.

  But now I am old. Old and alone and so must return to the eighteen nineties, to Syon House, to face my own death at the hands of my dear friend Lord Brentford.

  I know that it must happen this way, and although I cannot say that I go willingly to meet this fate, I can say that I have lived a long and happy life and one with few regrets.

  I have known more joy than sorrow.

  More kindness than cruelty.

  More good men than bad.

  More love than hatred.

  I set my tale before you here in the hope that it might amuse you.

  Some perhaps will say that it is ‘a missed opportunity’, that ‘the laughs were few and far between’ and that it ‘simply petered out at the end’. To those who would say such things, I offer my apologies. I am sorry that my work did not please you, as I had hoped that it would.

  But also I offer this warning, that should I ever meet face to face with any of the mean-spirited blighters who would say such cruel things and still retain
the strength in my right arm –

  Beware the flinging of faeces!

  And so I say farewell to you and wish you love and happiness.

  I remain,

  your humble scrivener,

  Darwin

  The Educated Ape.

  THE END

  Copyright

  A Gollancz eBook

  Text copyright © Robert Rankin 2013

  All rights reserved

  The right of Robert Rankin to be identified as the author

  of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in Great Britain in 2013 by

  Gollancz

  The Orion Publishing Group Ltd

  Orion House

  5 Upper Saint Martin's Lane

  London, WC2H 9EA

  An Hachette UK Company

  This eBook first published in Great Britain in 2013 by Gollancz.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978 0 575 086487

  All characters and events in this publication are fictitious

  and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,

  is purely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval

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  prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise

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