The Cat Wore Electric Goggles

by Ian Hutson

  The landlord of the Rat-Catcher’s Arms was kept much busier than was usual, warming jugs of flat beer over candles and opening fresh barrels of gum-stripping gin for the crew. They asked him for food and he obliged with copious pickled onions, abundant pickled eggs, manifold pork pies and a playfully varied selection of foreign crisps from Messrs McGolden and McWonder. The papers from the little blue twists of salt piled high in the ashtrays and they piled fast. Fotheringham signed chits for all, and he even paid for a round out of his own pocket too. Miss Tompkinson wallowed in a bottle of sweet sherry, and did her best to remain upright at his side in some useful social capacity.

  A cameraman or a gaffer’s mate or something blue-collar and experienced in Cock-er-ney ways tickled the ivories of the old upright piano, beginning rousing choruses of Knees Up Mother Brown and of Jerusalem and of Land of Hope and Glory. It was all most bawdy and disorganised and nobody cared because, let’s face it, it’s not every day that one might travel to the moon and back.

  Miss Rutherford wrapped her chops around several pints of ale and six rounds of cheese sandwiches. Gielgud, having found his voice again and having launched with gusto into his favourite rugby songs, made it as far as verse two of Barnacle Bill The Sailor before noticing that something was seriously amiss. As he stalled on ‘... to hell with the dance, down with your pants ...’ the general Public House hubbub died down and an air of uncertainty crept into the proceedings. When all was finally quite quiet inside the pub a woman screamed and someone dropped a glass - one of those dimpled pint glasses with a handle. Warm milk stout flew everywhere, and an old man’s hitherto sleeping dog awoke under a table, slightly perturbed but lapping at the floor all the same.

  The frosted glass of the windows of the Rat-Catcher’s Arms flickered with a disturbing yellow-orange light and with strange shadows. Over the wheezing of the Landlord’s one remaining functioning lung the sounds of a definite breach of the peace could be heard in progress in the roadway outside.

  Rutherford, being quite the bravest among them, hefted an offensive umbrella from the stand near the door and ventured a look out with one cautious eye, keeping her head as far back from her eye as possible under the circumstances. ‘Riot! Insurrection! Furore! Tumult! Criminal rampage and damnable melee!’ she cried, stepping back in shock, closing the door on the dreadful scene and jamming the umbrella through the handles.

  A small Policeman then came through the window, thrown from the hordes, and he landed quite separately from his helmet and whistle. London was thus obviously in a completely lawless condition, with Justice on her uppers.

  The glass of the window broken, the sounds exterior then became wholly apparent and some terrible cries of humanity in a turmoil entered the inn. Some over-demonstrative cad shouted ‘Dash it all, we’re doomed’ while a woman screamed ‘Taxi!’ for herself, and the queue for the late bus for Richmond became very disordered.

  ‘Constable, whatever might have caused this?’ asked Rutherford, assisting the policeman to his watery knees. ‘Is there perhaps some evening football match in the neighbourhood? Are we to be overrun with the enthusiasts of the Chelsea or of the Fulham or of the Clapham Rovers?’

  The Constable, being then concussed by his reverse defenestration, fell back quite heavily upon his own resources, and he answered with an awful expression of ‘Aliens!’

  ‘Aliens? Some international match, perhaps? The Ajax or the Real Madrid?’

  ‘Beings from outer space!’

  ‘Oh - some charmingly enthusiastic but otherwise incompetent team from among the colonies or the Commonwealth?’

  The Landlord, thinking first of medicinal brandy, then offered the constable a medicinal half-pint of cider, that being more suited to his social constitution. The constable drank it in defiance of rules.

  ‘Aliens! Right after them astrynauts took off from the moon to come ’ome it were invaded! Creatures not of this planet! Can only be a matter of minutes now before they get to England and then we’re done for! They’ll follow them astrynauts back to England!’

  In the roadway outside an elderly but hitherto reliable and very economical grey Jowett Javelin saloon was rolled onto its roof, and the three pints of four star petrol in its tank blazed horribly, lighting the hideous urban dystopia for almost a minute.

  Rutherford, not having been born yesterday or even the day before, signalled for the Landlord. ‘Do you perhaps have a television in this establishment?’

  The Landlord, being accommodating and not as green as he was cabbage-looking, had one carried downstairs from his private rooms above and wheeled in to the bar against a fifteen shillings deposit.

  They waited for the tube to warm up, and they listened to the sounds of windows being broken and of a greengrocer’s shop display being looted. Still the dreadful shadows played upon the walls, outlines of humankind in desperate poses, walking quickly hither and thither in a panic and some continental funk. It put several of the cognoscente EBC contingent in mind of the very successful recent production of Professor Quatermass and The Pit.

  As the picture grew in brightness on the Landlord’s huge ten-inch screen, a certain sobriety settled over the celebrations, and some among them - the brighter among them - feared that Sobriety had brought with him his favoured chums, Mr Abject Failure and Mr Criminal Culpability, both spectres who answered only to history and to Parliamentary Committees sitting in camera.

  Alastair spoke first, and he did so in his usual measured tones and to the studio technicians with whom they had so recently been enjoying a friendly imbibitions of alcohols and wholesome foods.

  ‘Gentlemen, forgive my impertinence in asking, but when we abandoned the studio after broadcasting the moon landing, did we by any chance neglect to turn off all of the cameras, perhaps leaving the broadcast in some unfortunate state of... continuance?’

  One look at the crew was enough for an answer. They had between them the manner of broken men.

  ‘I surmise then from your expressions, gentlemen, that upon reflection we did. Furthermore, it seems obvious that some extras, possibly from the studio next door to our own, may have popped in for a nosey around and a short smoking break. From what production though one may only imagine.’

  ‘I warrant not from what production, Mr Sim, but more a case of from a Who production. Cybernetic Men, gentlemen, Cybernetic Men...’ said Rutherford, being secretly au fait in these matters and quite the fan.

  On screen several chaps in some terribly convincing silver robot costumes were exploring the studio moon set, horsing around as extras often did to relieve the long, tedious breaks between filming. One of them poked his face right up to the camera lens and seemed to peer out of the television, his “face” horribly distorted by the lens, and his cigarette jammed between robotic lips. He then departed and explored the trampolines hidden in the craters and intended only for human use, creating unwittingly a scene to scar the minds of all those who witnessed it. Virtually everyone was witnessing it, from Timbuktu to Islington, from Vladivostok to Kensington, from Cleethorpes to Ealing.

  ‘It would seem that having convinced Her Majesty’s public and indeed the remainder of the world that England has just landed successfully on and returned from the moon, we are currently engaged in convincing them that an advanced and hostile robotic army is even now approaching our planet with somewhat less than peaceful intent.’

  ‘Oh bugger’ said Mr Gielgud, forgetting entirely to enunciate.

  ‘Oh bugger indeed’ replied Mr Sim, with a grimace and gulp of his gin.

  Miss Tompkinson thought of her cats all alone and so very far from safety in her little flat in Haringey, and she ventured to slip her hand into Fotheringham’s. Fotheringham, being a quick-thinking leader of industry, was thinking industriously about the quickest route out of the country and of his best hopes for any sort of comfortable future now that life in London was quite clearly over. Decision made, he squeezed Miss Tompkinson’s hand very gently and whispered in her ear. ‘Mi
ss Tompkinson, Doris - do you perhaps have enough cash on you for two one-way tickets on the night boat train to France?’

  #####

  The Unfortunate Fatal Incident at 7 AU

  Ye gods - a rat just ran across the room. Broad ruddy daylight, and as bold as you like. How quickly they take ownership! A bloody sewer rat! I’m not dead yet and they’re circling. I must hurry in the telling of England’s fall, before they get me.

  I remember the ghastly fuss that was made in the beginning. We’re not alone, they all squealed in excitement. Well, hip hip huzzah, pour me a gin and give me little flag on a stick to wave was my reply. The English are not the only sentient life in the universe the tabloid newspapers screamed. Well, quite frankly, that remains a matter of opinion, but at the very least a few little green men running around the Empire might be something fresh to hunt.

  One’s heart did sink though at the news, since we’d no doubt be in trade negotiations with them before you could say trinkets and beads. There’d be interminable banquets and audiences to host for all of the dreary little people, green or otherwise. The smaller they are the more they love all of the banquets and such. Nothing but cold ruddy food, thin gravy and deadly-dull conversation in silly foreign languages if you ask me. Anyway, let me get the story out for posterity before I forget it, while I still have the time and the energy.

  When the alien artefact was discovered, there was much consternation among the grey little chaps who do our science stuff for the nation, and much alarm among the more interestin’ less grey chaps who do our defence. The Chief of Staff of the Army General Sir Peter (Oxford), First Sea Lord Admiral Sir George (Cambridge) and Air Chief Marshal Sir Andrew (Wolverhampton Polytechnic) were all most upset that the damned thing had somehow just appeared without any warning. What was the ruddy point of forking out millions upon millions on soldiers and sailors and upstart fighter pilot Hooray Henrys if a dirty great alien something could just appear in our System overnight?

  Look! There’s another one - as big as a bloody cat! I think they’re eating the dead corgis. At least I know how the lady wife and I shall end up. I just hope I’m dead before they start on me. Apparently they go for the eyes first.

  Anyway, Jodrell Bank had not a clue, not an inkling about the alien object. The records showed that it hadn’t been there during one sweep of the scopes and the next there it was, as large as life, as bold as brass. For all we knew it was probably stuffed full of those creatures who make crop circles and made of ruddy brass.

  The thing was about the size of Rutland they said, as black as the ace of spades and just sitting there in our space in-between the orbits of the larger Romans; Jupiter and Saturn. No hello, no by-your-leave, no calling card. Twenty miles in diameter, not a porthole in sight and not a thing moving that we could see. Damned rude if you ask me, and you should ask me you know - I’m not as green as I am cabbage-looking. Not anymore, anyway.

  E ruddy T didn’t even ring the doorbell once he’d landed in the system. Just sat there, as silent as the grave and twice as cheerful. Just a question of timescale the little people said. Aliens working to a different social and biological clock and probably not wanting to rush things they said. Couldn’t open a newspaper or turn on the wireless without some academic nutcase - is that a tautology, are their any sane academics? Anyway, couldn’t move for some academic nutcase or other warbling on about non-Solar etiquette and rules of contact and how we might be used to doing things more quickly than the visitors. What poppycock that turned out to be eh?

  Well, after ten months of utter silence that tone changed a little. Academia wanted to know why the aliens had come all this way to meet us but had apparently chickened out at the last moment. Annoyance crept in, although I think that the same signals of friendship and such were still being sent on everything from long wave to short wave to semaphore wave. “Oh hello, thank you for calling, do please come in, we’re clean and friendly and peaceful and eager to swap technology and culture.” That sort of thing. Waiting for an introduction was all well and good the scientists said, but someone eventually had to hold out the hand of friendship for a good shake, otherwise we’d just be strangers, staring at each other awkwardly. Even the Maoris stick their tongues out in greeting. Been there lots of times on state visits, it’s most disconcertin’. Marginally better than baring their arses, I suppose.

  For almost a year England had whipped around the Sun, smiling and waving at the alien wotsit every day like loons and still the thing just hung there, immobile, utterly silent. This, the boffins eventually said, simply would not do. The aliens were probably waiting for us as the hosts to make the first welcoming move. It was a bit late in the day to decide that but there you are. The general consensus changed to how we may already have been unacceptably rude by their standards of behaviour. The aliens had probably travelled a squillion long leagues to visit us and we hadn’t so much as stepped to our garden gate to greet them. Action, the boffins said, action was required. Ruddy peculiar people, boffins, ruddy peculiar. One minute they’re deep in thought and caution, the next they’re running around with spanners and volt-meters.

  The Royal Rocket - Britannia - was taken out of budget-cut mothballs, given a fresh coat of gold paint and a tankful of two-star fuel kindly “donated” from some especially oily part of the Commonwealth. Very few of the old crew had found new employment yet, so they were cheerfully taken out of the long, long Labour Exchange queues and reinstated.

  Wrangling over who was to go on the mission and who was to stay commenced immediately. Academia demanded that the welcome-wagon be loaded with nought but academe. Trade & Industry insisted upon a cargo-hold full of spotty entrepreneurs and old-guard industrialists. Westminster and Fleet Street published list after list exclusively naming the Right Honourable and the Venerable Hack. Some ghastly idiot star of stage and screen circulated a very popular petition demanding that the royal yacht sail out with every stateroom stuffed to the gunwales with ruddy children chosen by essay and artwork competition. Downing Street was awash with the luggage of representatives of all levels of the Church of England from Canterbury and York to the country-mouse single-parish lady Reverend. In the end, naturally, the chaps who tell the Cabinet Ministers what to wear and what to say and where to be seen issued a firm list of folk who were not to be refused a boarding pass. The rest were told to go home.

  When HMSS Britannia finally lit her own farts and took off from RAF Spadeadam in Cumbria she was packed with state gifts, with the cream of England’s research labs, and with enough gold braid to circle the cuffs of England twice over and still leave spare to make a collar and lead for the Band of the Grenadier Guards’ mascot goat. The goat and the band were also onboard, along with lots of goat-feed, fifty bearskins that no longer needed feeding because they were hats, and some very shiny brass instruments of musical military torture. Can’t have a royal welcome wagon without a band.

  The memsahib and I had our usual staterooms on Britannia of course, but only a cruel minimum of personal stewards and other staff. The hoi polloi was doubling up and packed in like ugly, self-important sardines. For the first couple of days of the voyage, with our nose-cone pointed almost but not quite directly at the alien thingy (for fear of intimidating them), the academic and science bods aboard were lectured at length on royal protocol. The do dos and don’t dos of an audience with a couple of anachronistic State dodos, to wit; me and the Royal Missus. Immediately after those lectures the anachronistic State dodos themselves were lectured in some sort of revenge by the academics on the do dos and don’t dos of meeting the unknown without dropping us all in the inter-species do-do. Basically, I was told at length to please avoid the customary references to slitty eyes and ghastly surroundings if at all possible Sir. Dodo do do and dodo don’t do equals no first contact do-do, Your Highness.

  Once Britannia had taken us to within elbow-jostling range of the alien artefact we strung flags of all important varieties out of the airlock: the Union Jack; the Royal Sta
ndard; the flag of the Commonwealth; a clean bed sheet with the Periodic Table scrawled on it in lipstick. At the time I thought that a large pair of frilly knickers wouldn’t have gone amiss among the signals.

  The radio room also kept up a constant barrage on every frequency that a warm thermionic valve had access to. “Calling occupants of the interplanetary artefact. We are your friends. Welcome to England.” When they weren’t sending out the National Anthem played on nose-flute or an invitation to a Women’s Institute group hug in the Cotswolds they were describing the hydrogen atom or listing prime numbers. Greetings! Greetings in English, greetings in Latin, greetings in Greek and greetings in barely intelligible regional ruddy accents.

  We approached the artefact slowly, so as not to be mistaken for hostiles. The last thing we wanted to do was to scare the aliens away. The Captain ordered a series of barrel rolls as we approached. The boffins had assured us that this showing of the ship’s belly would be understood by any creature the same way a dog understands another dog rolling playfully on its back. We are no threat, we come in peace.

  We really did go in peace. We were sure we were no threat. We’d only have shot to kill if they’d fired first.

  The shape of the thing was enough to present challenges in definition. It was absorbing every scrap of radiation that fell on it from the Sun and looked rather as though some giant force had gathered together three dozen small moons and shrink-wrapped them tightly in dull, black canvas - sort of a knobbly disc. Certainly, the architect’s theme had been monolithic and minimalist, for detail and feature were very few and very far between. Should that be shrunk-wrapped, since it was already done? I’m never certain whether the term refers to the material or to the act. Anyway, a very black and knobbly disc of quite ridiculous size.