Hairy London

by Stephen Palmer

  The man struck him in the face, then moved on, throwing Tyko as if he was a bag of corn into the building.

  “What are you going to do with him?” Velvene asked.

  “Flail ’im ’til ’e’s one inch from croakin’.”

  “But… what is the point? He is only an innocent boy.”

  “Don’ worry. If ’ e dies, we’s got an inexhaustible supply of ’em.”

  “Inexhaustible?”

  “It’s called London Town. Now get yer carcass out o’ my sight.”

  The man turned around and slammed the door, and Velvene, for all his experience in foreign fields, for all his courage and his medals, could not go inside the building to rescue Tyko. Then he heard the sound of a whip cracking, and screams.

  ~

  The Blutblitzen Zeppelin Corporation in Swiss Cottage covered a large area and was surrounded by a brick wall fifteen feet high. Kornukope was not concerned by this – the site had once been a brick factory. But he was concerned by the noise of guard dogs barking inside the site, and by the six foot six guard standing amidst thick blonde hair beside the main entrance.

  “Good morning,” he said. He checked his chronoplast. “Good afternoon. I am Kornukope Wetherbee.”

  The guard said nothing. His face remained immobile. He stared.

  “And I would like to see the Count von Flugzeug.”

  “The Count receives no visitors from the public.”

  “Look here my good man, von Flugzeug is a personal friend and will be angry if he discovers you have impeded me. So let me in. Now.”

  Something in Kornukope’s manner made the guard wilt. Scowling, he took from the bakelite oyster at his side a small redbreast, into which he spoke. “Man called Wetherbee here to see you… oh, right. Let him in? Right sir, at once, sir.”

  Kornukope glanced at his wife and raised his eyebrows in mock outrage. Eastachia tried to stop herself laughing.

  Kornukope had not been inside the site for a year. It had changed.

  The place was full of zeppelins being constructed, a hundred or more, some almost ready, their canvas skins being painted black, white and red, others mere frameworks of wicker and willow. Kornukope was astonished, having never seen more than ten zeppelins at any one time; and suddenly he felt the clammy hand of disquiet upon him.

  “Dearest one,” he said, “this is not as it used to be. Keep your eyes and ears alert for suspicious activity. I shall utilise my friendship with the Count and his associates to calm any anxiety they may feel at our presence.”

  “They’re preparing for something,” Eastachia replied in her most matter-of-fact voice.

  He stopped walking and turned to face her. “You think so?”

  She nodded, but then turned to gesture at an approaching man, to whom she said “Namasté,” when he closed.

  “And greetings to you both,” the man said. It was Baron Langsam, who was known to Kornukope.

  “Langsam,” he said, “it is jolly good to see you. I came here to have a word with the Count.”

  “Ja, very good, but he is busy,” Langsam replied. “You won’t be allowed to linger for longer.”

  “Just a few minutes should be enough,” Kornukope said, affecting a nonchalant manner. “You know me,” he added, “never one to linger. Ever.”

  Eastachia put her finger to her lips and shook her head as Langsam turned to lead them away. Kornukope said nothing more.

  The site headquarters was a five storey vision of granite in the Dresden style, from which flags flew and telegraphical aerials emerged, rather like the quills of a porcupine. Already the hair had been shaved off it, leaving that ugly cut known in common circles as the Number One. The building’s main entrance was guarded by a single man built like a pug.

  “Have you had a lot of thefts here recently?” Kornukope asked, gesturing at the guard as they passed him by.

  Their boots clattered with heavy reverberation in the polished marble corridor. “It is better to be safe than sorrowful, ja?”

  Moments later they were left in a reception chamber. Kornukope felt uncomfortable. He stepped outside the chamber and asked a passing man if there were lavatorial facilities nearby. The man pointed to a corridor.

  Kornukope followed the corridor to find three doors, two ordinary, one made of polished wood, and seeing that this was the superior door he decided it must lead to the closet for gentlemen and nobility. Inside he found a room of white porcelain decorated with images of German soldiers. A single man stood before a urinal. He turned, saw Kornukope, then looked down and cursed.

  “Now look vat you haf made me do! Who are you, huh? You should not be here, zis closet is not for you.”

  “I am Kornukope Wetherbee and I am a guest of Count von Flugzeug, who is an old friend of mine. And you are?”

  The red faced old man took a cloth and wiped his trousers, then stamped off, trying to conceal his face by scratching his muttonchop whiskers. Kornukope shrugged, then relieved himself.

  Fifteen minutes later he and Eastachia sat in a top floor suite filled with chaise longue, Georgian desks and butterfly clocks, the aroma of schnapps and tea filling the air, along with the sound of a tea-party orchestra playing from a scratchy 78 disk.

  “It’s good to see you again,” said the Count, resplendent in full uniform.

  He seemed relaxed. Kornukope relaxed in response, replying, “You too! My, but there is a tremendous amount of work going on outside. You have many orders to fill, no doubt?”

  “Er yes, many orders. Was there anything I could help you with?”

  Kornukope sat upright and began explaining the hairy situation, then the gist of Gristofer’s plan. He concluded, “We need to use a large number of aerial vehicles to drop the radioactive substances upon the city, and, naturally, I thought of you first.” He glanced down at his fingernails, smiled, then added, “I am certain there would be a great deal of money in it for the Blutblitzen Zeppelin Corporation.”

  “I’ll consider your offer,” the Count replied, pouring himself more tea. “You believe then that the British government would consider your plan?”

  “My dear chap, I am a member of the Suicide Club! We are the foremost explorers, geographers and all round cultural experts in this country – indeed in the whole Empire. I personally have the ear of Lord Blandhubble, the Foreign Secretary.”

  “Yes… you do, don’t you?” The Count’s gaze defocused for a few moments as if he had floated away in reverie. Then he said, “I’m interested. Tell me, Kornukope, do you have any idea what’s caused this sudden hairiness?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “None of your scientist people have been in touch?”

  Kornukope shook his head. “The nation is baffled. It says so in the Times.”

  The Count nodded. “Let’s go to the office, where we can set down a few ideas for terms and conditions. This way, please.”

  The office was a cavernous room on the floor below. Great tables covered with papers lay everywhere, and there were machines too, flickering with lamps; the place was busy with men and women, and a few armed guards, Kornukope noted. On one side windows let in afternoon sunlight, while on the other side paintings of old men had been hung. The largest painting was of the red faced old man.

  “Who is that?” asked Kornukope.

  “That’s the Kaiser,” the Count replied.

  Kornukope gasped. “The Kaiser is in Britain? In this building?”

  At once all the guards lowered their bazookettes and pointed them at Kornukope. Eastachia squealed and clung on to him.

  The Count, white-faced, said, “What do you mean, in this building?”

  “I saw him in the lavatorial facilities.”

  Silence. Everybody in the room stared at him. Then the Count turned and waved his hands in the air. “Guards, remain where you are. Everybody else, out. Swiftly now!”

  Kornukope stared, open-mouthed. “What is going on, von Flugzeug?”

  But the Count said nothing until
every last person had evacuated the room. “I’m sorry Wetherbee,” he said, “but there’s been an unfortunate incident. You possess knowledge we don’t want your government to know.”

  “I should jolly well say so! What are you doing? Why all this fuss?”

  “I can’t tell you that. But I can tell you that, alas, I’ll have to detain you both. I’m so very sorry.”

  “Detain?”

  “Yes. Indefinitely.”

  “Indefinitely?”

  The Count clicked his fingers, whereupon two guards strode up. “To the Nibelungen Chamber. Give them lunch, then leave them.”

  “Ja wohl!”

  And so Kornukope and Eastachia were marched to a dusty attic chamber, where they were left, locked inside. Lunch, it transpired, was kasebrot and water. Supper, it later transpired, was mashed turnip and water.

  As night fell, Kornukope paced around their prison cell, unable to rest. At length he asked Eastachia, “Do you still have that monocular?”

  She took it from her handbag and handed it to him. “What are you going to do?”

  He strode to the great skylight that filled a quarter of the attic ceiling. “I am not going to let these Krauts get the better of me, dearest one.”

  “But we’re trapped.”

  “I am a member–”

  “Of the Suicide Club.” Eastachia sighed. “Plan our escape, then.”

  Kornukope, rattled at her lack of faith, peered south through the monocular; from his eyrie he could see much of the central city. “It may only have been a day since the hairy plague struck,” he said, “but already I espy a number of old Bismarckian steam engines floating through the air.”

  “But they’re not on our side.”

  “Union jacks sticking out in all directions, dearest one. They are ours all right. Probably commandeered by the government. That will annoy the Count! Now, if I could just signal to one…”

  Eastachia fumbled inside her handbag to produce a make-up mirror and a Swan nightlight.

  “Excellent! You are a marvel. You see, I know William Morris’ code, used by lunar explorers and orbital junkies. The pilots of the Bismarckian steam engines will too.”

  “But if such an engine flies here, the Count will hear its pistons and shoot it down.”

  “Trust me, dearest one. A Britisher would do nothing so stupid.”

  Using the nightlight and the mirror to mask it, Kornukope proceeded to send out a stream of heliographical type signals. The nearest Bismarckian steam engine was a mile away, perhaps a mile and a half – floating over Regent’s Park. It would be a tricky operation, and lucky if the flashing nightlight was seen, but with no other option…

  S.O.S. British gentleman and lady captured by Krauts of the Blutblitzen Zeppelin Corporation. Fly silent help to us. Britain in peril. S.O.S.

  This message he repeated until his arms were tired from holding up the nightlight and mirror.

  “That’s enough for tonight,” Eastachia said. “Maybe someone will come.”

  He nodded. For a while they lay on their steel-framed beds in silence, until Kornukope heard a curious pattering on the skylight, as of thrown gravel upon glass. It was midnight. He leaped up, to see a silhouette blocking out the stars.

  “A hot air machinora!” he said.

  Eastachia got up, and in excitement they both stood by the window, peering out. The machinora was no more than forty yards away. Then a flashing message began, sent by automatic candle.

  Major Smothers, London Town rescue services. Open the skylight and we will send out a plank for you to walk. Hurry, getting breezy.

  Kornukope wrestled with the Wagnerian catch on the skylight, and at last got it open with the aid of Eastachia’s nail file. Cool night air blew into the attic. A plank with guide ropes emerged from the machinora’s wicker amplitude, which, after a tense minute, touched the roof outside the skylight, leaving Kornukope and Eastchia with a heart-stopping leap from sill to plank. With the breeze blowing and a hundred foot drop below them it was terrifying. Kornukope made Eastachia go first, knowing her courage might fail her if she was left alone. But she made it, then hurried along the plank. He followed.

  They were free.

  Kornukope shook Major Smothers’ hand. “At your speediest pace to Downing Street,” he said. “Never mind the lateness of the hour! I have most urgent news for the Cabinet.”

  After a smooth flight Major Smothers landed his machinora at the Whitehall end of Downing Street, and although it was now long after one in the morning, Kornukope was reassured to see lanthorns burning in many of Number Ten’s windows.

  “Crisis meetings – the hirsute menace,” he told Eastachia.

  A rotund policeman let him into the building, whereupon he collared the on-duty Secretary, Flushman Canker-Hyphen.

  “I need to speak to Lord Blandhubble at once! Or the Prime Minister. Very urgent!”

  Flushman, who was known to Kornukope from their days at Beaten, was the model of Britisher calm. “Dear chap,” he said, “have some tea and relax. It’s only a bit of hair, nothing a good wash and cut–”

  “You do not understand,” Kornukope said. “The Kaiser. The zeppelins.”

  “Yes, I shall go now and fetch the FS, the PM is up late in emergency meetings with chaps from the RI. Have a seat, do. Good to see you again, Mrs Wetherbee.”

  Ten minutes later Kornukope and Eastachia sat in Lord Blandhubble’s office, a tray of tea and honey biscuits before them. Kornukope spent two minutes detailing what had happened that day, before saying, “You have to get to Swiss Cottage soon. Tonight! Once they know we have escaped they will bundle the Kaiser into a horseless carriage and convey him to the nearest port.”

  Blandhubble was a stern customer, who smoked a white clay pipe the size of a Cuban. “Very likely they will,” he said. “I shall put operations in motion directly. But you’ve done great work for your country today, Wetherbee, I’ll see you are on the King’s Christmas list for this.”

  “There is something else you should know. Gristofer Furbally has a scheme to drop radioactivity over London from hundreds of aerial vehicles–”

  Lord Blandhubble raised one hand. “Any scheme that involves aerial vehicles is not likely to find favour here,” he said. “With London hairy, such travel will be for the government only, or the army, and quite unusual at that.”

  Kornukope felt his hopes fade. “But–”

  “My dear fellow, you simply don’t understand the logistics. At the moment it’s difficult for us to get ten vehicles airborne, let alone Furbally’s hundreds. There will doubtless be a few private flying ventures – the journalists of Fleet Street are never less than ingenious – but nothing more.”

  “What about travel on the tube, or railway?” Eastachia asked.

  “Some Underground lines are clear, others are choked with hair. The railway network is reasonably clear however, and may come into its own as our response to the crisis develops.”

  “But what shall we do now?” Kornukope asked. Already he felt left out of events, left behind almost.

  Blandhubble puffed at his pipe, eyeing them both. “Interesting times,” he said, with the ghost of a smile. “You know, Wetherbee, the Germans were our number one suspect for all this hairiness, but it seems from Count von Flugzeug’s reaction that they’re not responsible. Yet we have two other possible enemies. One is a Leninist cell based in Bloomsbury–”

  “Leninists!”

  “Yes, indeed. But for you, I think, the more important focus of attention should be Mr Gandy in Kew.” He glanced at Eastachia. “You both could be of considerable importance to the government’s operations.”

  “As a member of the Suicide Club I am of course at Britain’s disposal.”

  “That goes without saying. But your wife…?”

  Eastachia fidgeted in her chair. “What do you want me to do?” she asked.

  “You’ll know the reputation of Mr Gandy, of course. He’s the very devil of a customer, and our covert cha
ps have been watching him for years. They lack the cultural side of things however, which you, Mrs Wetherbee, do possess.”

  “I see. And our mission would be?”

  “To infiltrate Nohandas Gandy’s Home Rule movement and discover if it is responsible for the hairy plague. Gandy is an absolute cad – he only employs violent means, refusing all offers of negotiation. We expel him of course, annually it seems, but he keeps returning to our shores, like a bad rupee. What do you think?”

  Eastachia thought for a few moments then said, “I accept.” She smiled at Kornukope, then added, “We accept.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Valantina led Sheremy up to the attic of her house, which she had converted so that the roof and upper sections of the walls were like the Glasshouse at Kew, with all of the sky and much of nearby London visible. A breathtaking view.

  Sheremy glanced at her. He found himself attracted to her, despite her forward, almost masculine personality and those hints of Suffering. Yet now – perhaps because of the evidence of her courageous rescue – he wondered if he really cared about that aspect of her. Yes, she was an active woman; daredevil possibly. But why shouldn’t a woman be more like a man?

  Then he saw an object he thought he recognised. “What is this place?” he asked in a hushed voice.

  “My lunar laboratory,” she replied.

  “Then you are a lunar noble?”

  “Only a minor one.”

  Sheremy walked towards the object.

  “You know it, don’t you?” she whispered, joining him.

  “Damn, yes.” It was a small selenograph, not unlike the one he had retrieved from the Temple of Azure Lick in far northern Indoo. “But wait, Valantina! The Royal Institute holds the Rajah’s selenograph atop its roof. I service it once a year – I know it’s functional. We could use this selenograph to communicate with them.”

  “I did not know about that,” she replied. “Yes, let us speak with Thitherto.”

  That night Sheremy set up the selenograph’s wooden tripod, securing the feet upon a sideboard with brass screws. On the tripod seat he placed a frame made of thin slats of oak screwed together with copper pins, and into this frame he placed the moon disk itself – a foot in diameter and glowing yellow. He then checked the rotational movement of the frame; the moon disk turned with it. Then he placed a thin lens of glass in front of the disk, a fragile object slightly larger than the disk, that fitted into slots. With a graduated wooden strip he checked the distance between lens and disk, and then with a plumb line he checked verticality. Finally, he connected the moon disk to a box on the frame using moonflower stem-strings, which he unwrapped off the dowel that held them.