Cormack was trying to sit up and wasn’t managing it.
‘Look, come here,’ said Proton. ‘Take this bed if you really want it.’
‘No, you have it. You wanted it.’
‘No, take it. I’ve changed my mind.’
‘I don’t want it now.’
‘Cormack, mate, take the frigging bed. OK?’
They swapped beds and both lay down, still with their boots on, and their hands behind their heads, staring at the overhead fan that hung from a central beam in the middle of the room and spun with a slow whopping sound.
‘You know, I’m sorry about the cow,’ said Proton.
‘Yeah.’
‘And the hang-gliders too.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Hell of a thing…’
‘It really is.’
‘Foul Ball’s a dangerous planet. We should look out for each other.’
‘I suppose.’
Proton turned on his side towards Cormack and sunk in the mattress so that only his head was visible.
‘I’ve gone out on quite a limb for you, Cormack. Took a chance on you. Thought you might be worth it. You’re not going to let me down now, are you?’
‘I don’t know what you want from me, Proton. I want to go back home.’
‘There's no going back now, Cormack. Not for you. Nor for me. The future lies ahead.’
‘I suppose.’
And they went back to staring at the fan, and offering each other side-glances, and worrying aloud about the cow in the refrigerator.
***
Chapter Fourteen
There was a knock at the vast Imperial Door, way down the other side of the Gymnasium. Mimic was told to enter the room.
‘Ahh, our visitor!’ cried the Emperor. ‘Come forward! Come forward!’
Mimic walked to the centre of the room and bowed before the Emperor who was still on the plastic polo pony.
‘We’re all friends together. No need to bow so low.’
‘You summoned me, Sire,’ said Mimic.
‘Indeed I did,’ said the Emperor and smiled at him. ‘You are the Pastry Chef, aren't you?’
‘Yes, Sire. An unexpected honour.’
‘Am I supposed to laugh?’
‘Not at all, Sire.’
The Emperor set the machine going a little so that it rocked slowly, taking him up and down in little shallow bumps as though he were cruising on a merry-go-round.
‘What are your influences, Pastry Chef?’
‘Excuse me, Sire?’
‘Your influences? I thought all you culinary types considered yourselves artists?’
‘Yes, absolutely.’
‘So you would have influences if you were an artist, wouldn't you?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Are they Cramptonian?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You’re from the planet Crampton, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am, Sire.’
‘The Cramptonians are a special people. Are they not? Could they not be your influence?’
‘We have little history in the culinary arts.’
‘Yet you are my Pastry Chef…’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘And Cramptonians have been influential elsewhere, haven’t they?’
‘In certain fields.’
‘Like the controversial field of “Resistance to Imperial Rule”?’
‘I am a loyal subject, Sire. As are most of my countrymen.’
‘Good, good. You are a smart young fellow. How’s the wife?’
‘The wife?’
‘Kneel before me now. There’s a good chap. I would prefer your head between your knees. Don't you know it’s rude to look directly at the face of the Emperor? A cat may look at a king and all that but not in my place.’
Mimic did as he was told and kneeled before the Emperor.
‘Sire, if I have caused offence…’
‘Have you heard from her recently? The wife that is?’
‘My wife is a Councillor on Crampton, it is true, but I have had no contact with her in four years.’
‘Hasn’t tried to contact you recently?’
‘No, Sire.’
‘Because if she had we would surely find out about it, wouldn’t we? You’re a member of the Imperial Household, aren’t you, Pastry Chef? We could have put a tracer on you, couldn’t we? Or perhaps you weren’t aware?’
‘Sire, she has sent but one message. She has said she is great danger. I did not even answer her. She is nothing to me.’
‘How’s the nipper?’ said the Emperor. He stood up in his stirrups so that he was eight feet tall and raised his polo club high above his head. ‘He’s nothing to you either?’
He brought it down quickly, lengthwise, with sharp thwack and it caught the back of the Pastry Chef’s neck sufficiently for it to be hacked halfway through.
‘Bugger!’ cried the Emperor. ‘Sliced it! Damned technique all over the show!’
The Emperor dismounted from the polo pony, taking care not to slip on the blood on the floor, and lifted up the man’s head still hanging by a slice of skin from his neck. He pushed his fist inside and grabbed at a handful of the soft tissue, feeling for something, and then when he was sure he didn’t have it, he pulled the grey jelly onto the floor in lumps. Soon, after three or four fistfuls, he had got what he wanted and rubbed it clean of the man’s grot, and then held it up to the light – the duct, a tiny silver lozenge. He turned it over and over in his hand.
‘He was a nasty, traitorous bitch, so it might be a good one,’ said the Emperor to the hive-mind.
‘Put it in quickly, Sire, or it will go off, and then you won’t be able to read it at all.’
The Emperor opened his mouth, and pushed the duct upwards to the back of his throat, half-swallowed, catching it with his tongue, and then his eyes rolled up and he was lost in a kind of trance while the hive-mind had it opened and stored.
‘We will read it together,’ he said. ‘Tonight. In the nursery, I think.’
***
Chapter Fifteen
They had a day to rest and the first point of order was a visit to a fortune-teller. The cow, a little recovered, stayed behind, freed from cold storage to mind the belongings, and Cormack and Proton set off with Stanton Bosch showing them the way, down the narrow, cobbled streets that would lead them to the Ancient Quarter.
They had walked for about half an hour when he found the house that he meant them to visit. There was a small, square, wooden sign outside, as though for an inn, hanging from an iron stanchion and blowing in the breeze. The painting on it showed a crystal ball cupped in a pink hand.
Inside it was dark and dusty. The room was strung with lace brocades that fell from the ceiling in great arching waves, and there were net curtains draped all about, and cobwebs and dust and threads of gossamer, and the smell of incense, wafting in clouds of pungent smoke, blowing everywhere amongst the chinoiseries. Along the walls, dusty cabinets held darkened ampullae, splashed with aromatic oils, and ancient hubble-bubbles and samovars and hookahs were tarnished and wrecked on the floor.
All gave the desired effect of Oriental mystery.
An old woman sat on a stool by the door.
‘Come for a reading, darlings?’ she said. ‘I’ll let him know.’
She made them sit down, round a circular table covered with a white tablecloth, whilst she went out back to raise the soothsayer.
‘What are we here for exactly?’ asked Cormack.
‘Tourist fun,’ said Stanton Bosch.
Proton got them to hold hands around the table and shut their eyes. He made a humming sound and joggled the table a bit with his leg.
The soothsayer, entering through a flap in a curtain, caught him at it and was not amused.
‘It’s really not a subject for mockery,’ he said and sat down. ‘And I would prefer payment upfront.’
‘Of course,’ said Proton, handing him some coins.
‘Th
ank you,’ said the soothsayer. He wore plain robes fashioned from sackcloth, with enormous conjuror’s sleeves that made Cormack apprehensive about his authenticity.
‘To begin!’ he cried. ‘You have a Candidate!’
‘Very good!’ said Proton.
Stanton Bosch gave a wink.
‘I should come clean. I was informed,’ said the soothsayer.
‘Oh…’
‘You are the Candidate,’ he said, turning to Cormack.
‘Well, even that is impressive,’ said Proton. ‘It could have been me.’
‘Candidate!’
‘You mean me?’ said Cormack.
‘Candidate – let me see your hand!’ The soothsayer studied it a while and poked at the lines carefully. ‘Yes, propitious. Does he bear a sign?’
‘Cormack, show the man your nipple.’
‘I’d really rather not.’
Proton fingered his laser gun.
‘Oh, all right,’ said Cormack and opened his shirt.
‘In exactly the right place.’
‘Jolly good.’
‘You are right to proceed. I will wire ahead to Shambalah. As you know my brother is the Sibyl. He will expect payment in advance.’
Proton again reached into his pocket for more coins and handed a fistful to the soothsayer.
‘Now,’ continued the soothsayer. ‘Further information that will help you. Listen carefully. There is to be a cockfight today – in the Arena. You must attend. There will be a Battle Royal. It is only staged once a week. You are fortunate you are here on the appointed day. The Candidate must place a bet on a cock – on one cock alone. If he loses, he must stay here in Bartislard another week and try to win again at the next Battle Royal. If he wins, he must take his winnings and use them to buy the wagered cock. Carry it with you to Shambalah! It is important you do this! The cock will be of use to you. Do not leave without the cock. Do you understand?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Proton. ‘Buy the wagered cock. Carry it with us to Shambalah.’
‘It’s all in the Ancient Texts. I will give you a reference if you like.’
‘No, no. We’re quite familiar.’
***
‘Hardly value for money,’ said Cormack as they walked down the street afterwards, looking for the Arena.
‘Place has become a tourist trap,’ said Proton. ‘Every kind of rip-off has sprung up.’
He lifted a knick-knack from a barrel of souvenirs on sale outside a shop they were passing, a ceramic frog, and examined the markings. ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘Made on Zargon 8.’
Stanton Bosch showed them the road that led to the Arena, but they still had a little time before the cockfight was to begin, so they found a small café in a piazza and ordered lattés and crêpes, talking amongst themselves and admiring the women who passed in their hiking boots and tight-fitting tracksuits.
‘Beautiful place, Bartislard,’ said Proton.
‘Tell that to the cow and my friends, the hang-gliders,’ said Cormack.
‘They was foolish, skinny man. The planet is to be respected. ‘Tis a holy place after all. Once we get out of Bartislard, to where we headed, you won’t find no foolish tourists.’
‘Where are we headed exactly?’
‘Up the SplatterHorn.’
‘Up the what?’
‘Pass me a crêpe there, skinny man.’
***
Chapter Sixteen
The Zargonic Governor of Crampton, in fact the Opikarp, was swimming clockwise around his tank. Usually he swam anticlockwise, but today he felt vaguely off-colour and wondered if the sun slanting on his giant Perspex donut from a peculiar angle, now that they had destroyed the third moon, Optigon, he believed it had been called, was responsible. He had quite forgotten that it had given a pleasant shade to his tank in the afternoon, and now he was sorry he had ordered it mined for salt.
Traction was within the giant O, becloaked, looking like an Old Testament prophet.
‘Traction, I have called you here for a reason.’
‘Yes, Sire. You always have a reason.’
‘You have served us well over the years. The information you gave concerning the Pastry Chef, Mimic, has been most valuable. The Emperor wishes you to know that he is pleased.’
‘Thank you, Sire.’
‘But he is concerned about the state of the Resistance on Crampton as a whole.’
‘In what regard?’
‘It has always been something of a joke.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Mrs. Bellingham has cut a clownish figure. She has been quite ludicrously ineffective.’
‘I suppose.’
‘We have suffered her because of it. But the attempted poisoning was almost well conceived. If it hadn’t been for your information, it might even have succeeded. The man was well placed.’
‘Sire, I serve the Emperor. He was never in any danger.’
‘The Emperor wants Mrs. Bellingham killed. He has tired of her.’
‘Ahhh…but you know, she is no longer in charge of the Resistance.’
‘No matter. He wants her. She is still the senior figure.’
‘How does he want it to happen? I hope he doesn't wish to compromise me.’
‘No, no. He wishes her to travel to Zargon 8. He will deal with her there.’
‘Why not kill her here?’
‘My instructions are a little vague with regard to that particular point. Apparently, the Emperor has a new hobby. He is collecting things. It said ducts in the communiqué, but that can’t be right. I’m not quite sure what it is, but Mrs. Bellingham certainly has one that he wants.’
‘Perhaps it was supposed to read ducks?’
‘She has a duck he wants?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. She gardens. There is a pond but no ducks.’
‘I suppose I could ask the Emperor for clarification.’
‘They both play polo. Perhaps it’s a technical term. Perhaps it is a piece of polo equipment.’
‘A duck? Perhaps. Who knows? In any case, ask her to take it. Gauge the response.’
‘Take it where?’
‘To Zargon 8 – do keep up. She’s been invited to a polo tournament. Personal invitation of the Emperor.’
***
Chapter Seventeen
The Arena when they arrived was half full, but they found a place to sit about four rows back on the benches that circled the tiny cockpit.
Bets were being taken. Touts were everywhere, standing up and screaming and waving wads of bank notes. It was all quite unintelligible to Cormack, and presumably to Proton too, because he leaned over to ask Stanton Bosch the correct form to place a wager.
‘Why, you does just stand up and holler it!’ said the Bosch. ‘Have you decided on a cock, skinny man?’
‘No. I don’t even know what to choose from.’
‘See that board over there. That lists the contenders.’
Cormack couldn’t quite make out all the names, but he could read Killing Machine for one and Mr Fantastic for another. He decided he would try Killing Machine and asked Stanton Bosch to place the bet for him.
‘Noes, skinny man. You heard the soothsayer. You have to place the bet yourself. Stand up and holler it!’ he said, and he gave him a little pat and a wink and added in a whisper, ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got yer back.’
‘How much to wager?’ he asked Proton.
‘Enough to buy the chicken. Look.’
He handed Cormack a handful of coins, adding softly, ‘This is proving to be a very expensive day.’
Cormack stood up and waved the coins about as he had seen the others do and failed to attract any interest.
‘Holler out, man! Holler out!’ cried Stanton Bosch and Cormack cleared his throat and said, ‘Anyone for five sestertii on Killing Machine?’ in a tremulous voice that failed to carry much beyond the second row.
‘I’ll take you up on that one,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘Five sestertii that Killing Mach
ine don’t lose.’
‘Really, are you allowed?’ said Cormack.
‘Five to one that Killing Machine don’t lose,’ Stanton Bosch repeated carefully. ‘That’ll buy the chicken.’
‘You’re on,’ said Cormack and Stanton Bosch gave him a betting slip and signalled to the pit.
Killing Machine, when it arrived in the ring caged in its crate, was a disappointment. It was a small drab thing, brown and flustered, apparently named more in hope than in expectation. It sat on the bottom of its cage motionless, as though it were laying an egg.
‘Is it sick?’ asked Cormack.
‘No, no,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘The quiet ones is the most wicious. See me brother there?’
He pointed at a Bosch, perhaps Hilton, who was close to the pit with a cock in a crate.
‘He got Starburst. That is a real champion in the making. One wicious chicken. It’ll be in the Battle Royal too.’
‘Perhaps I should have bet on that instead?’
‘No, skinny man, you chose wisely. Don't put no bets on Starburst. Now watch.’
The eight handlers came into the pit with the cocks in their cages and there was a final furious laying of wagers in the crowd, accompanied by much waving of betting slips and hollers and cat-calls, and then the referee, a gaucho in a checked shirt, raised a red handkerchief and flung it down furiously. Then the handlers grabbed their charges by their legs and threw them in the ring.
Cormack had his eye on Killing Machine, which alighted on the sawdust with a startled ruffle of feathers and then proceeded to strut about disconsolately, as indifferent to the opposition as they were to him, so he missed the first kill which was almost instantaneous. Starburst, living up to the Bosch’s billing, went straight at Mr Fantastic and had his head off with a bite to the neck. Mr Fantastic, being a chicken, wouldn’t fall at first and ran about headless, dribbling blood on the sawdust and confusing the spread-betters who were timing the kill.
Next to go was a fragile orange thing, another victim of Starburst, who this time had it with its clawed talons, ripping it all about until it lay in the sawdust, wrecked like a piece of road kill. Then there was an indecent amount of sparring, as the chickens considered their options, and they seemed for a moment settled on peaceful co-existence within the sawdust pit, until the referee, sensing the crowd’s anxiety, gave Starburst a swift kick, and he turned on the cock that he suspected of having done it. It was brutal and horrifying. Killing Machine, with a naivety that Cormack suspected came from never having been near a cockfight before in its entire life, lay quite still while it was pecked about the body and neck relentlessly as though it hoped, if it were quiet enough, Starburst might think it were dead already.
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