Knees Up Mother Earth bs-7

by Robert Rankin

  “Sunspecs,” said Norman. “You are wearing sunspecs.”

  “They’re Ray Bans,” said Neville. “I generally wear them when I’m driving.”

  “But you don’t have a car.”

  “Anyone waiting to be served? Here, my dear.” Neville took a glass from Pippa’s hand and applied a practised hand of his own to the beer pump. “Yours, Norman?”

  Norman considered the pint of froth that stood before him, pushed it aside and said, “Mine.”

  “Are you all right?” asked Old Pete.

  “Never better,” said Neville, and he lifted his sunspecs and winked his good eye at the ancient. “Never better. Does anyone else need serving?”

  “Me,” said Bob the Bookie.

  “And me too, old chap,” said Archroy.

  “Archroy,” said Neville, “they told me you were back in town. I’m most pleased to see you.”

  “And me, you,” said Archroy. “And your new bar staff also.”

  “Yes,” Neville grinned. “Lovely ladies. Lovely ladies.”

  And Old Pete and Councillor Doveston and Bob the Bookie and Norman and Archroy looked on in horror as Neville stepped between his new bar staff and smacked each of them on the bottom.

  During the lunchtime session, Norman spoke unto Archroy regarding what had occurred upon the previous evening and received in return an explanation that he considered truly fantastic – an explanation which involved the now legendary Golden Fleece.

  At two-thirty, Neville called “time”, much to the further horror of his patrons.

  “Important business regrettably forbids me from continuing this session,” Neville told them.

  “Then you bugger off to it and leave the girls to serve us,” countered Old Pete.

  “This important business involves the lovely ladies,” said Neville. And he raised his Ray Bans and winked his good eye once more.

  “To The Stripes Bar, lads,” said Old Pete.

  And that was that.

  And Norman returned to Peg’s Paper Shop.

  “And where have you been?” Peg demanded to be told.

  “Some important business came up,” said Norman.

  Peg waggled a forbidding digit towards her errant spouse. “Well, you can stay here now,” she told him, “because I’m going out. It’s Townswomen’s Guild afternoon again.”

  “Time certainly flies,” said Norman, “but heals all wounds as it does so.”

  “Moron,” said Peg in a voice so loud that it rattled the humbugs in their jars. “I’ll be home about midnight.” And she left in a huff[33], slamming the shop door behind her.

  “Midnight,” said Norman. And he stroked at his chin. “Perhaps I will invite the vivacious Yola here for the evening. In fact, I definitely will.” And he took out the e-mail address that he had scribbled down earlier in the telephone box.

  Norman looked at it thoughtfully.

  “E-mail,” said Norman, and there was some degree of doubt in the tone of his voice. “I know of it, naturally. And my computer is wired into the telephone socket.”

  Norman considered his fingers. The electrical burns had all but healed up now. “There shouldn’t be much to this e-mail business.”

  Norman turned the “open” sign to its “closed” side, bolted the shop door and then sneaked away to his kitchenette-cum-computer-workstation area. The machine was still humming away. He’d never got around to switching it off.

  “But that’s good for computers,” said the shopkeeper, seating himself before the screen. “Or at least that’s what I’ve heard.” He reached forward to tap at the keyboard and then took to howling in pain.

  The keyboard was very hot indeed.

  Norman left his seat and returned at length in the company of a pair of gardening gloves, which he donned.

  “To continue,” he said, and he tapped at the keyboard.

  A logo appeared upon the screen, a gorgeous sepia-coloured Victorian-style logo, all noble heroic figures in Grecian garb and British Bulldogs and lions and scenes of industry and Queen Victoria’s head. And the words “BABBAGE NINETEEN-HUNDRED SERIES” in Times Roman lettering. And lots of those little icons and tool-bar jobbies all around the edge of the screen.

  Norman moved the brass mouse about and a little arrow moved upon the screen in time to his movings. Norman clicked upon a random icon. The Babbage logo disappeared and Norman found himself confronting a big list of items, which appeared to be that of the computer’s potentialities.

  “Hmm,” went Norman, “interesting. But where would the e-mailing bit be?” And he did the scrolling thing he’d learned when going through the Babbage plans. The list moved up the screen, on and on and on it went. Norman stopped at intervals, read things aloud, scratched at his wig in wonder and scrolled on.

  “If I didn’t know better,” said Norman, when much further scrolling had been done and the list showed no signs whatsoever of coming to an end, “I would say that this is all some kind of formula. And not just any formula, but some kind of magical formula. Most odd. Although …” Norman cocked his head upon one side. “No,” said he, “this is too absurd even to contemplate.” He cocked his head upon the other side. “It couldn’t be. It surely couldn’t be.”

  Norman did a bit of scrolling back. A lot of scrolling back. “They are,” he said. “They really are.”

  He drew himself closer to the screen, as close as the radiating heat would allow, and studied the list more carefully. They were the names, they really were. And beside them the formulae, the equations, the numerical equivalents. “They have to be,” he said and he did rackings of the brain. Bits and bobs came back to him about a science fiction story he’d read many years ago. He couldn’t recall the author’s name, but he felt certain that the story had been called “The Ten Million Names of God”. Or possibly it hadn’t, but that was what it had been about – this theory that God had ten million different names and as soon as mankind had worked out all of them, that would be it for mankind, or mankind would ascend to the status of the angelic hosts or something similar. And there had been this fellow who had been working all the names out with the aid of a computer program. And when he’d finished, the sky had gone out and the world had come to an end. Or something. Norman could not remember exactly what.

  But this, surely, was such a list.

  The names of God. With their numerical equivalents …

  Which, when all put together …

  “Would give you The Big Figure,” said Norman, “The Big Figure that I was originally searching for that would be the answer to everything – which was the reason why I assembled this computer in the first place.”

  Norman sat back upon his kitchen chair, now in a state of considerable confusion. How could this be?

  Coincidence? This was surely well beyond all that.

  What, then? Fate? Act of God?

  Norman did some more wig-scratching. There had to be an answer. Assuming that he was right. Norman applied his gloved fingers to the gently steaming keyboard.

  “REVIEW PRESENT END OF LIST,” typed Norman, for he could think of no better way of putting it.

  The names and numbers whirled up the list, on and on and on until finally settling. Norman viewed the last name on the list. And as he did so, another one typed itself beneath it, and then another.

  “Those names are …” Norman paused. “Modern names,” he said, with considerable emphasis. “Which means …” He sat back once more. “Which means that the computer program that’s cataloguing the names is still running. It’s been running ever since I first turned on this computer. It must be downloading all the modern names through the Internet connection. Which means …” Norman did further rackings of the brain.

  And would probably have gone on to perform many further further brain rackings had not an event occurred that was of such singularity and drama as to cause him considerable distraction and derail whatever trains of thought might have been emerging from the tunnels of his mind.


  There was a sudden rush of force, a fearsome pressure that toppled Norman from his chair and sent his wig a-winging it away. And there was a light. A really bright light. And into Norman’s kitchenette came something as from nowhere, swelling, expanding, then crashing and smashing.

  And then the lights went out for Norman and things went very dark indeed.

  28

  Norman awoke to a short, sharp shock: a glass of cold water thrown into his face.

  “Awaken, fiend!” a voice commanded.

  “Fiend?” said Norman. “What?”

  “Look into the face of your nemesis.”

  “Hold on there,” cried Norman, floundering about. “Don’t hurt me.”

  “Hah! The fiend grovels. He shows no bravery now.”

  “No, he don’t, gov’nor. Gawd pickle me plums if he does.”

  Norman peeped through trembling fingers. Two figures stood over him, a man and a boy: a portly, well-dressed man and a ragged, ill-washed boy.

  “Who are you?” whispered Norman. “Where did you come from?”

  “As if you do not know,” said the portly man.

  “As if you don’t,” said the ragged boy.

  “I don’t,” whimpered Norman. “I truly don’t.”

  “We know you, sir,” said the portly man. “You are the King of Darkness, the Evil One himself, and so must be destroyed.”

  “No,” wailed Norman. “I’m not. I’m truly not. I’m just a shopkeeper.”

  “Prepare to die. I would strongly suggest that you commend yourself to your maker and beg his forgiveness for your numberless transgressions.”

  “But I haven’t, I mean, sometimes, but only a bit …” Norman now found himself looking into the muzzle of a pistol. “No,” he howled. “Don’t shoot me.”

  “It is better than you deserve. But first …” The gun barrel swung away from Norman. There was a deafening gunshot. Norman’s computer exploded.

  “You shot my computer.” Norman made feeble attempts at rising.

  “Stay down,” the portly man commanded.

  “But you … I mean … You … I mean … Why?”

  “Articulate, ain’t he, gov’nor?” said the ragged lad. “Gawd taint me tadpole if he ain’t. And he ain’t.”

  “Why … Who … What?” whimpered Norman. And he pointed feebly to the What? in question.

  It was a goodly sized what, a big, Victorian goodly sized what, and it now filled much of Norman’s kitchenette. It was like unto a large overstuffed leather armchair mounted upon brass runners and surrounded by all manner of wondrous brass equipment, and involving a good many valves. The whole thing was surmounted by a kind of helicopter-blade arrangement.

  “What is that? And how did you get it into my kitchenette?” And, “Cough, cough, cough.”

  Norman took to considerable coughing. Thick black smoke was now billowing freely from his bullet-scarred computer. Norman took to fanning at his face.

  The portly gentleman fanned at his. “That, sir,” said he, between fits of coughing, “is my Time Machine. And I am Herbert George Wells of Wimpole Street, London.”

  “Time Machine?” Norman coughed some more. “Herbert George Wells? You’re H.G. Wells. The H.G. Wells.”

  “Your nemesis, you fiend.” The gun barrel was once more pointing towards Norman’s face.

  “There’s been some kind of mistake.” Norman covered his face. “You’ve got the wrong man. I’m innocent.”

  “Enough of your duplicity. Confess your sins and die like a man.”

  “I’m innocent.” Norman assumed the foetal position.

  “Then die like the dog that you are.”

  Norman heard the cocking of the pistol and then he heard the sound of the gunshot. And then he heard nothing more at all.

  29

  H.G. Wells said, “Oh, calamity.”

  Winston said, “Sorry, gov’nor, but I couldn’t let you top him.”

  The window of Norman’s kitchenette was now open. The computer’s fire had been extinguished and the smoke had cleared.

  “But my Time Machine.” Mr Wells wrung his fingers. “The bullet ricocheted through the mechanism. It has been destroyed … entirely.”

  “We can fix it, gov’nor. But I couldn’t let you top him, truly I couldn’t. It would’ve bin murder most foul.”

  “But he was running the computer program, the signal emitted by which enabled us to locate him through time. He must be the one.”

  “Be honest, gov’nor. Does he look like the King of Darkness to you?”

  “The Devil takes many forms, Winston.”

  “Yeah, but they’re mostly rulers of nations – dictators, according to you. This bloke’s a nobody.”

  “I resent that,” mumbled Norman. “I mean, sorry, don’t kill me. I’m innocent.”

  “He’s a non-such, gov’nor.”

  “Then he’s an agent of the King of Darkness.”

  “I’m a shopkeeper,” moaned Norman. “My shop is next door. See for yourself.”

  “You were running the computer program,” said Mr Wells, “activating the terrible spell that would wreak havoc upon mankind.”

  “I didn’t know what it was. I left the computer on. It was running itself.”

  “A likely story.” The gun was once more pointing in Norman’s direction.

  “I’m just a shopkeeper. A nobody, like that dirty little urchin there says.”

  “Urchin?” said Winston.

  “The computer was in an old store,” Norman explained, “in crates. I reassembled it. I didn’t know what it would do. Although …”

  “Although what?”

  “Nothing,” said Norman. “Although I wasn’t expecting this, perhaps.” He raised himself to a kneeling position, sought out his errant wig and repositioned it upon his shaken head. “Is that really a Time Machine?” he asked. “How exactly does it work?”

  “It no longer works,” said Mr Wells, lowering his pistol.

  “Perhaps I could mend it for you,” Norman suggested.

  “You?” The gun was once more pointing in Norman’s direction.

  “I have a Meccano set. You’d be surprised what I can do with it.”

  “Meccano set?” said Mr Wells. “I invented the Meccano set.”

  “And Velcro, too,” said Winston. “Mr Wells invented that. And Blu-Tack. And the jumbo jet.”

  Norman was now almost on his feet. “It really is a Time Machine,” he was saying. “That’s exactly the way a Time Machine should look. And you really are H.G. Wells?”

  “And I’m Winston,” said Winston. “Mr Wells’ personal assistant.”

  “He’s nothing of the kind,” said Mr Wells. “He’s a common little thief who entered my house when I was putting my machine into operation, climbed aboard without me seeing him as I travelled into the future, and has been plaguing my existence ever since.”

  “You like me really, gov’nor. I’m a lovable rogue. And I’ve helped you out of more than a scrape or two, Gawd nip at me ’nads if I ain’t.”

  “Well, I never did,” said Norman. “A stitch in time saves two, as it were.”

  “Enough of this idle discourse.” Mr Wells puffed out his cheeks, which were of the ruddy persuasion. “I am here upon a sacred mission. I have no time for trifles.”

  “I quite like trifle,” said Norman.

  “Me, too,” said Winston. “And humbugs.”

  “I’ve got jars of humbugs in my shop,” said Norman. “And blackjacks and gobstoppers and—”

  “Cease this idle prittle prattle. My machine must be repaired. Even now, in some future time, the computer program might be running again.”

  “I don’t think you have that quite right,” said Norman, helpfully. “If it’s in some future time, then it can’t be running ‘even now’, can it?”

  “It can if you possess a Time Machine. Now cease your stuff and nonsense, or I will shoot you through petulance alone.”

  “Sorry,” said Norman, now fully in th
e vertical plane, “but if the computer program has been destroyed, and it does look very destroyed to me—” Norman viewed his burned out computer “– then your work here is done and you can return in glory to the past – as soon as the Time Machine is fixed, and I’m certain that I can help you to mend it. Do you have a set of plans with you?”

  H.G. Wells shook his head. Sadly.

  “Well, never mind,” said Norman. “A trouble shared is a trouble halved. And half a sixpence is a threepenny bit.”

  “There’s truth to them words, gov’nor,” said Winston. “Now, about them gobstoppers.”

  Norman looked over at Mr Wells, who was ruefully considering his ruined Time Machine. “Is it all right if I give Winston some gobstoppers?” he asked.

  “Do whatever you will,” said Mr Wells, prodding at the bullet hole.

  “This way, Winston,” said Norman.

  “The way I see it,” said Jim Pooley, propping up the counter of The Stripes Bar, “as long as I keep following the professor’s instructions for the team’s tactics, we’ll win the FA Cup and the black magician and his henchmen won’t get their evil hands on the football ground and set free the biblical serpent.”

  “Will you please keep your voice down, Jim,” John told him. “You have imbibed too freely, in my considered opinion.”

  “This is only my seventh pint,” said Jim. “I’m fine.”

  “Well, keep your voice down anyway. There’s no telling who might be listening.”

  “They’re all watching the stripper, John. No one’s paying us any attention.”

  “Well, keep it shushed. I’ve just seen Archroy. I’m going over to say my hellos. Will you be all right here on your own?”

  “I’ll chat to Mr Rumpelstiltskin.”

  “But not about private matters, eh?” John tapped at his nose.

  “Absolutely not.” Jim tapped at his. And John made off through the crowd.

  “Enjoying yourself, Mr Pooley?” asked Mr Rumpelstiltskin, sidling over. “Everything meeting your approval?”

  “Everything’s fine,” said Jim. “Another pint, if you will.”

  “Certainly, sir.” Mr Rumpelstiltskin drew Jim off another pint of Large. Jim accepted it with gratitude, but it really didn’t taste as good as those drawn in The Swan. Exactly why, Jim had no idea, but it just didn’t.