The Parodies Collection

by Adam Roberts

  ‘Indeed you did. In the freezing waters of the North Atlantic. Hardly polite.’

  ‘But I suppose you have your own TARDY.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘And how are you able to speak to me now?’

  ‘I’ve patched an audio-communication through the TARDY’S control panel.’

  ‘You’ve done what?’

  ‘It’s a complicated business, and one that would take me too long to explain fully.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I need your help,’ said the Master Debater.

  ‘Why should I help you?’ I asked. ‘You are the Evil Time-gentleman.’

  ‘Why should you help the Doctor?’ the ET countered. ‘He killed the woman you loved.’

  I was silent for ten or fifteen seconds. ‘You know about that,’ I said.

  ‘I told you . . . I’ve been in effect bugging the TARDY via a device lodged in its Hyperspatial Scanner. I overheard the whole of that last conversation with the Doctor. Right now I’ve rechannelled a viral subroutine through to the intercom located by the door. I can’t talk for long: the TARDY’S own antiviral programmes will locate this link soon enough and wipe it out.’

  I sat up. My heart was fierce with rage. ‘What do you want me to do?’ I asked. ‘Understand: I’m not saying that I will do this thing . . . whatever it may be. But I am only asking. What do you want of me?’

  ‘I just need to know what the Time Gentlemen Convenance told you.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘That’s all.’

  ‘What’s in it for you?’

  ‘That’s my business,’ said the tinny little voice. Then there was a tinny little laugh. ‘But after all, I am a Time Gentleman. It’s hardly my fault that they’ve barred me from their meetings.’

  ‘Weren’t you banned for acts of unspeakable evil, or something?’ I said.

  ‘Or something,’ he agreed. ‘But if the Convenance has agreed something, then I need to know about it.’

  ‘I don’t see how it could do any harm to tell you,’ I said, a little uncertainly. ‘They announced they’d discovered a TGV.’

  ‘A Time Gentleman Violator!’ exclaimed the Master Debater’s suave voice. ‘How shocking. Did they say whom had obtained this device?’

  ‘They said something about Stavros.’

  ‘Oo, how terrible. If he arms his cyborg army with such weapons,’ the Master Debater said, thoughtfully, ‘then the entire race of Time Gentlemen is doomed!’

  ‘That was pretty much the gist of the meeting.’

  ‘That means me too, you know. That doomed encompasses me as well.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Well, don’t you think it was pretty unsporting of the Convenance to keep me in the dark about this news?’

  ‘Look,’ I said, feeling uneasy. ‘I’m not sure I should even be talking to you . . . I mean, aren’t you the Doctor’s arch enemy?’

  ‘Well, yes I am. But it’s only a small arch. If I were the Convenance,’ he went on, ‘I’d send the Doctor back on a mission to before Stavros was able to create his robots, and prevent them ever coming about!’

  ‘I don’t think I can say—’ I said.

  ‘You don’t need to say anything! Don’t worry, my dear fellow,’ said the Master Debater’s voice, growing fainter. ‘I wouldn’t want you to feel that you had in any way betrayed your Doctor . . .’

  And with that he was gone.

  I made my way back to the control room of the TARDY with a slow and rather shuffling step. My mind was undecided. Could I truly betray the Dr? He had never intended to cause me the hurt that had come my way. But on the other hand . . . my mind kept returning to the last time I had seen her face.

  Inside the control room, the Dr was at the console. ‘Ah!’ he said, cheerily. ‘Feeling better.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, in a weak voice. Now that I was with him again, I felt guilty about my conversation with the Master Debater. Had I said more than I ought? Should I tell the Dr about it? ‘I’m,’ I hazarded. ‘I’m sorry for my behaviour earlier.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. We’ve just had new orders from the Time Gentleman’s Convenance. We’re to abandon this mission and zoop on back to the Planet Skary.’

  ‘The Planet Skary?’ I queried.

  ‘Zoop?’ Linn queried.

  ‘Yep. We’re to stop Stavros before he can create an entire race of merciless cyborgs and arm them with the only weapon capable of destroying the Time Gentlemen!’

  Chapter Five

  THE NEAR MAGICAL DISAPPEARANCE OF THE WATER INTO THE TARDY TOWELS

  It took the Dr a while to recover enough clean towels so that we could dry ourselves properly. Linn and I stood there as he rummaged through the cupboard in the central console, icy water from the North Atlantic of 1912 dripping off our bodies onto the floor of the TARDY’S control room.

  ‘Here you both are,’ he said finally, bringing out two large blue towels. I held mine in front of me before starting to rub myself with it, and saw that it carried the words TARDY OFFICIAL TO WEL PRODUCT upon it. ‘Official towels?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You have official towels?’

  ‘Oh I do.’

  ‘Is there, what, like a complete range of merchandise, or something?’

  ‘Just the towels. And,’ he added, paddling his fingers in amongst the line of his necktie, and looking therefore not unlike Oliver Hardy as he did so, ‘this natty necktie.’ The tie was black, with a rectangular blue shape upon it. ‘But the towels are super, aren’t they? You’ll find,’ he went on, rather smugly, ‘that they can absorb almost unlimited amounts of water without getting damp.’

  I gave the towel a try, and soon discovered that he spoke the truth: no matter how sopping I was, the towel sucked up the water and still felt dry to the touch. ‘It’s like magic,’ exclaimed an impressed Linn. ‘How does it work?’

  ‘Ah,’ said the Dr, sagely, applying the towel to his own prodigious hairdo. ‘It’s all part of the marvellous operation of the TARDY ... one more example of the futuristic technology that has kept the Time Gentlemen ahead of the game—’

  ‘And how about hot chocolate?’ Linn demanded. ‘You got any marvellous machinery in this spaceship for making that?’

  ‘So, this Master-chappy,’ I asked, once we were all dry. The one who was in charge of all those Cydermen back on the Icetanic.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I was just wondering who we were dealing with back there, that’s all.’

  ‘Whom,’ corrected the Dr.

  ‘Whom.’

  ‘You were wondering,’ said the Dr pedantically, ‘with whom we were dealing.’

  ‘So,’ I started again, cautiously, ‘whom is he, exactly?’

  ‘Who is he,’ corrected Linn.

  ‘What I mean,’ I said, ‘is that you sounded pretty surprised to see him. I’m wondering whether you had any suspicions as whether he was the one who, or whom, either really, was persecuting you?

  ‘My nemesis,’ said the Dr, in a low voice, as if to himself. ‘The Master Debater. Whom else could it be?’

  ‘And who,’ I said, drawing out the oo sound of the word and trying to slip the quietest-possible m at the end, such that it could be heard as either ‘who’ or ‘whom’ depending on the listener’s state of mind, perhaps thereby heading-off the Dr’s inevitable correction, something which was, frankly, starting to annoy me, ‘is this Master Debater?’ I finished.

  ‘He is a Time Gentleman,’ said the Dr. ‘Just as I am myself. He’s from the Planet Garlicfree, as I am myself. But whereas I graduated the Gentlemen Facilities with a doctorate, he only managed a Masters. The bitterness of this failure soiled him inside.’

  ‘Soiled?’ asked Linn.

  ‘Do I mean sullied? No matter. It messed him up, that’s the important thing. Internally. I mean, internally-mentally, not internally-physically or anything like that. He was made bitter, resentful. He became prone to evil.’

 
‘Prone to it?’

  ‘Such a waste of his Time Gentlemanly talents. He and I. I and he. We were best friends at the College of Temporal Gentlemen. But now . . .’ The Dr shook his head and whistled disparagingly. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I love him like my brother. Or, perhaps like a brother. Well,’ he said, rubbing his chin in the search for exact verbal precision, ‘not a brother perhaps. But I certainly love him like a brother-in-law. Or, to be more precise, I love him like he was my brother’s lawyer. Or my lawyer’s brother. Who is also a lawyer, and not a very nice one.’

  ‘You hate him.’

  ‘Indeedy.’

  ‘He certainly seems to be going to some lengths to persecute you,’ I pointed out. ‘Why might that be, do you think?’

  ‘As to why,’ said the Dr, ‘I don’t know. There will be a reason, I’m sure. Most people usually do have a reason for what they do, after all. The Master Debater will have some diabolic scheme in mind. But that’s not to say I know what it is.’

  ‘Is that the best you can do?’

  ‘Master Debater!’ cried the Dr, as if to the air. ‘Oh, wicked Master Debater! Why must you tarry in the ways of ultimate wicked evility?’ He raised his right fist to a point a little way in front of his face, and then rotated it slowly, as if examining it from every angle for the intrinsic interest of its knuckles.

  ‘Can he . . .’ I asked, looking around me but seeing nothing, ‘can he, you know. Can he hear you?’

  The Dr looked crossly at me. ‘Of course not. He’s splashing around in the icy waters of the North Atlantic right now. How could he possibly hear what I’m saying inside my own TARDY in tempo-spacey travel in the vacuum of deep space?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, a little sulkily. ‘I thought maybe . . . I don’t know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I thought maybe he was eavesdropping. You know, electronically. And that was why you suddenly addressed him. I don’t know how your TARDY machines work, now, do I? And anyway, what was I supposed to think? Why were you talking to him if he can’t even hear you?’

  ‘I was being dramatic!’ exclaimed the Dr, in an infuriated tone. ‘I was trying to capture a little of the quasi-operatic excitement incipiently present in the situation. I don’t know why I bother sometimes, honestly.’

  ‘Well there’s no need to be like that,’ I said, hurt, to be honest, by the Dr’s tone.

  ‘Will you two stop it?’ said Linn. ‘We’ve got our next mission to consider.’

  ‘Ah!’ said the Dr. ‘Yes. Gather round, assistants. Gather round.’

  Linn stepped smartly to stand next to the Dr. I tried to do the same, but caught my knee on the edge of the central console in my haste. This was very painful. I yelped and doubled over, trying simultaneously to grab my knee and to keep my balance. I failed in both respects, and instead slammed my forehead against the console. This was also very painful.

  After some effort I was able to pull myself upright. I could see stars. This was because the Dr, oblivious to my pratfalling, had pulled up a viewscreen schematic of the area of space through which we were travelling.

  ‘Our next mission,’ he was saying. ‘Hell. We must avert a terrible dynastic squabble. Apparently a single stick-back-plastic apostrophe, inserted onto an official sign in exactly the right place, should do it.’

  ‘What about this Stavros fellow?’ Linn was saying. ‘I don’t like the sound of this Time Gentleman Violator.’

  ‘Ow,’ I said, rubbing my forehead. ‘Ow, ow, ouch.’

  ‘It’s a nasty piece of work,’ the Dr agreed. ‘It’s designed to destroy a Time Gentleman’s braintide.’

  ‘Braintide?’ Linn asked.

  ‘The sum total of his brainwaves.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Linn, in an I see! tone of voice.

  ‘Ah!’ I said in a my-skull-really-hurts-I-mean-I-don’t-want-to-alarm-anybody-but-I-just-may-actually-have- dislocated -my-knee tone of voice.

  ‘If Stavros, or one of his Garleks, aimed that weapon at my brain’—the Dr patted his own chest—‘it would be curtains for me. Those little velvet curtains about a foot tall that are drawn across the slot at the crematorium through which the coffin disappears. Those sorts of curtains.’

  ‘I thought you said your brain,’ I said, cross on account of my hurty head. ‘Why were you tapping your chest?’

  ‘That’s where my brain is located,’ the Dr said.

  ‘So where is your heart?’

  ‘Are.’

  ‘Up where?’

  ‘No - are - where are your hearts. I have two.’ He tapped his head. ‘One on the left and one on the right side of my head. It’s always seemed to me an arrangement infinitely to be preferred. Or, perhaps not infinitely, but. You know what I mean.’

  Chapter Eight

  THE DOOM OF THE HELL-MET WOMAN

  Finally, after what seemed like a very long-drawn-out journey, the TARDY rematerialised. ‘We’ve arrived!’ announced the Dr, somewhat superfluously. ‘Here we are.’

  ‘And this is the location of our mission?’ Linn asked.

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘So where are we, exactly?’

  ‘According to my screen here,’ said the Dr, ‘we’re on a planet called, um.’

  ‘Um?’ I said.

  ‘The Planet Um is in the Hesitant System,’ Linn explained, in a superior voice, ‘orbiting the Star Sch.’

  ‘No, not um,’ said the Dr. ‘That was me pausing, trying to read the iddly-bittly typeface on this . . . Hell. That’s what it’s called.’

  ‘Hell,’ I said. ‘That doesn’t bode well.’

  ‘Well,’ said the Dr, airily. ‘I wouldn’t read too much into that. It might be that Hell means something very pleasant and inoffensive in the local language. Something like, I don’t know, Chicken Korma. Or Eiderdown. Or something.’

  ‘Never mind all this chatter,’ said Linn, impatiently. ‘Let’s sort out this mission. It’s placing an apostrophe on an official sign, I think you said. Let’s go do it! Let’s place that apostrophe!’

  The Dr was peering carefully at the screen. His brow had furrowed. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Hmm. Yes . . . well, that could prove a little tricky. Nope, we can’t leave the TARDY. I’m afraid.’

  ‘Why can’t we leave the TARDY ?’ Linn asked.

  ‘Well let me see if I can explain,’ said the Dr, running a very unspringy and indeed bone-based hand through his springy, boneless hair. ‘On Earth, where you come from . . .’ He paused.

  ‘I know I come from Earth,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, yes. Don’t interrupt me. I get distracted. Earth - on Earth, where you, Prose, originated - on Earth there is a substance known to scientists as oxygen. It’s in the air.’

  ‘This,’ said Linn, speaking for the both of us, ‘we know.’

  ‘Well, this world, this planet Hell, has - well, to put it in technical scientific language, it has no oxygen in the air.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You don’t sound surprised?’

  ‘I’m not,’ I said. ‘I mean, I’m assuming it’s pretty rare that you land on a world with precisely human-breathable air. As I understand it, the oxygen levels even on Earth have fluctuated quite considerably over the last forty thousand years. In the rest of the cosmos - well I’d guess that a million forms of life have evolved breathing everything from argon to zeon. Assuming zeon is a gas. Or am I thinking of neon? Anyway, anyway, the point is, I’d assume that perhaps one in a trillion planets have atmospheres breathable by creatures such as us.’

  ‘Well,’ said the Dr, ‘Hmm. It’s. Actually it’s quite complicated. ’

  ‘Is it? How?’

  The Dr tapped at the monitor and brought up a visual representation of the world outside the TARDY. The scene displayed was of rolling hills covered in green grass, a pale blue sky, a bright yellow sun. It looked inviting. I mean, apart from the fact that the hills were rolling. I don’t, incidentally, use rolling as a merely metaphoric or conventionalised description of the hills. These hi
lls were literally rolling. Some hidden geologic force was slowly rotating them like colossal, green horizontal kebabs. They were grassy all over, though; and there were cows and even little rabbits visible upon them, who didn’t seem too bothered by being dipped under the earth for long minutes. When they popped up again, they were still happily munching the grass. I assumed that their feet, or hooves, were adapted so as to be able to cling to the turf whilst it was upended. But I was unable to check my theory, because the Dr refused to open the door.

  ‘I can’t open the door,’ he said, again.

  ‘It looks very pleasant outside,’ I pointed out.

  ‘You two, you’re not, you aren’t paying attention to what I say,’ he complained. ‘There’s no oxygen. Right? Step through that door and you’ll choke.’

  ‘Well alright,’ said Linn, in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. ‘I’m assuming you have breathing apparatus? For all the occasions when you visit planets that don’t happen to have the precise and delicate combination of gases we’re accustomed to on Earth? Isn’t that standard Time Gentlemen gear?’

  At this the Dr looked shifty. He shifted his eyes from side to side, and shifted his weight from foot to foot. He shifted his scarf, flicking it from over his left shoulder to over his right. I think you take the point that he was shifty.

  ‘We don’t usually have much call for breathing apparatus, ’ he said.

  ‘Not much call for it? Are you serious?’ asked Linn, incredulous.

  My credulity was also in. ‘It can’t be the case,’ I objected, ‘that you always just happen to visit planets with breathable atmospheres?’

  ‘Pretty much,’ he said. Then he mumbled something, and looked away.

  ‘And there’s nothing—’ Linn pressed, ‘nothing in this entire TARDY, that would help us? Not so much as a gas-mask? Not even a snorkel ?’

  The Dr shrugged his shoulders. He wasn’t meeting our eyes.

  ‘I simply can’t believe,’ Linn continued, ‘that there is not, in this entire spaceship, a single piece of breathing gear.’

  ‘I’ll go and have a look,’ muttered the Dr, looking unhappy. ‘There might be something in one of the . . . you know. In one of the. Other rooms.’ With this he slipped through a door and hurried away into the inner labyrinth of the TARDY.