by Terry Jones
'OK! Let's do it!' Nettie suddenly sounded decisive. 'I've always fantasized about this!'
'What?'
'Take her up! Nobody's watching!'
And sure enough, when The Journalist gunned the spacecraft up into the air and sped over the heads of the preceding traffic, nobody seemed to notice. He set the craft down again in an open space on the other side of the jam. The driver of the car they landed in front of was not a happily married man. He had been mulling over what would happen if his wife never returned from the skiing holiday she was currently enjoying. Perhaps she would run off with the instructor and breed Alpine sheep and serve English teas to walkers in the summer. But then there were the children. He'd have to get them to school every day on his own and he wouldn't be able to stay at the office after hours to chat up that new secretary… At this moment a sporty-looking car suddenly appeared in front of him. Jesus!' he exclaimed, swerving involuntarily, 'I didn't even notice it overtaking! God! The speed some people drive at!'
It was only as the sporty car sped away in the fast lane that he noticed it didn't seem to have any wheels. 'Concentrate!' he told himself. 'Otherwise you start seeing things.'
Another jam brought them to a resounding halt just as they reached the Westway overpass.
'Oh no!' groaned Nettie,
'We used to have traffic problems like this on Blerontin,' observed The Journalist. 'Several million years ago, before intelligent life developed.'
'Oh shut up!' said Nettie. She couldn't bear self-satisfied aliens who couldn't see any of the good things about Earth. 'This is hopeless. We've only got nine hours left!'
'Where have we got to get to?'
'The Earl's Court Road,' Nettie replied.
'Shall we take the short cut?'
Nettie looked around,There were no police cars as far as she could see, and the woman in the car behind was picking her fingernails.
'Go for it!' she said, and the craft left the overpass to the amazement of a couple of small children who were on their way to school.
'Look, Mum! That car's flying!'
'Well I never, dear,' said their mother, without taking her eyes off the Hello magazine she was reading. 'Whatever will we see next!'
Nettie and The Journalist swooped low over Notting Hill and effected a landing on the south side of Holland Park. Here they waited for their moment, hopped over a closed gate and filtered into the one-way system around Earl's Court.
'Eight-thirty!' said Nettie, leaping out of the 'car'. 'You stay here! If I know that sleazeball Nigel, he'll still be in bed!'
She used her door key to get in, and was soon racing up the stairs to Nigel's flat. She let herself in and immediately fell over a broken ironing board that was lying across the doorway.
'Who's that?' called a voice from the bedroom.
'It's me!' yelled Nettie, picking herself up and striding into the bedroom.
The young girl with whom Nigel was currently engaged tried to pretend she was merely sitting astride a pile of old laundry.
'Shit! Nettie!' exclaimed Nigel, making an effort to disguise himself as the pile of old laundry in question by pulling all the sheets around himself. 'I thought you'd been abducted by aliens!'
'This is important, Nigel!' Nettie was straight to the point.
'I can explain all this…' Nigel began. 'You see, this is Nancy, and her mother died recently and I've been looking after…'
'Think back, Nigel! After the spaceship took off, did you see anyone?'
You mean like going to a psychiatrist?'
'No! No!' Trust Nigel to be only thinking of himself, thought Nettie. 'Did you see an old man with a white beard, hanging around the wreckage?'
'I think I'd better go,' said Nancy, who was actually nineteen but looked younger.
'No! No! Hang on,' said Nigel instinctively. He could see that Nettie had other things on her mind than putting his balls in the toaster, and he half hoped he might be able to resume what he had been doing, once he'd sorted out whatever it was his ex-girlfriend actually did want of him. 'Did I see what?'
Nettie was suddenly overwhelmed by the hopelessness of it all. Here was a whole world — a whole civilization so much more advanced than her own — depending on her eliciting a sensible answer from this creep whom she'd once been in love with. What a hope in hell! She might as well try and teach Turkish to the cat!
'An old man with a white beard? He was in my car. I took him to the police station in Oxford.'
It took Nettie a moment to realize that this was exactly the information she had come all this way to extract. The moment she did, Nettie ran to the bed and gave Nigel a smacking kiss on the lips. Then she gave one to Nancy for good measure, and the next minute she was leaping down the stone stairs of the large Victorian mansion two at a time, whooping: 'The! The! The!'
'I think I'd better go,' said Nancy. She was just about to start a degree in Art History.
28
Leovinus had undergone a sea change.
For a start he had taken off his false eyebrows and stuck them on the wall of his cell, just above the door. But even more importantly he had spent the last week doing something that he had never really done before — certainly not since he was on the verge of becoming an infant prodigy. Seven days in a prison cell, without reading materials, without any ability to communicate with others, and, what's more without a single admirer, had forced him to take stock of himself. He had spent a week looking back at his life and at the person he had become. And the more he had done this, the more he had become convinced that he had failed. The more he looked into his own soul, the more he realized how far he fell short.
He flinched with acute embarrassment as he remembered that last press conference — how he had revelled in the sycophancy. He curled up with shame as he remembered the answer he had given to that Journalist who had asked if he felt responsible for the collapse of the Yassaccan economy. What had he said? 'His responsibility was towards his Art' or something like that? Now, as he stared round at the bare walls of his cell, he realized that he'd been talking through his bottom. No one could hide behind the pretensions of creativity when people were actually suffering — maybe even dying — because of it.
He remembered the two cub reporters with their lovely smiles and alluring green lipstick… How he had felt so superior to them… How he'd believed deep down that no one was good enough for him. Now, the more he looked about himself, in the solitude and misery of his prison cell, the more he felt he was not good enough for anyone else. The first Blerontinian who walked in through that door, he began to think, would have more right to freedom and happiness than he had. Even that dreadful Gat of Blerontis!
Leovinus had been granted such wonderful gifts — such fabulous, unlimited gifts — and what had he done with them? Had he made anyone else happy? Had he brought prosperity and peace to other worlds? No. As far as Leovinus could see, he had used his gifts almost exclusively for his own self-aggrandizement. Full stop. It was pathetic, now that he looked back. Had he been loved? Had he loved?
And here, had you been eavesdropping outside the great man's cell (as indeed Constable Hackett was doing) then you would have heard a terrible groan rise up from the Greatest Genius The Galaxy Had Ever Known, as he remembered how his love and affection had been focussed not on a living creature — not on a wife, not on a lover, not even on a pet snorkling! — but on an agglomeration of wires and neurons, sensors and cybernetic pathways — Titania — his last, his greatest, his absolute obsession!
'But she loves me!' he cried from the depths of his despair.
'But she is not real…' came an answering echo as his thoughts bounced off the bare cell walls. 'You created her!'
This change that overcame Leovinus, in his Oxfordshire prison cell, would be unfortunately powerful ammunition for right-wing politicians who trumpet the beneficial effects of jail. Fortunately, however, it went totally unnoticed by anyone with political clout on Earth.
Leovinus had just
reached that point of self-castigation at which he was really beginning to enjoy it, when he was rudely interrupted.
'Visitors for you, Chang!' said Constable Hackett. He had grown rather fond of the old fellow over the past week.
The door was flung open and the dreadful Journalist entered accompanied by an extraordinarily attractive female alien, all the more attractive for being dressed Yassaccan style, in the simple transparent shift with the single motif on the side which indicated that the wearer was unmarried and interested in proposals.
She was also wearing that fabulously expensive Yassaccan scent that was now almost unobtainable on Blerontin.
'My dear friend!' exclaimed Leovinus to The (surprised) Journalist. 'You are far more worthy of freedom and happiness than I!' It was an odd thing to say to the first Blerontinian to walk in through the door, but Leovinus, who had just been thinking he'd never get a chance to say it, said it anyway.
'There's not a moment to lose!' exclaimed the remarkably attractive and remarkably available female alien. 'We've only got an hour left!'
'Have you got it?' cried The Journalist.
'I don't know…' replied Leovinus. 'I am no longer sure what I have got and what I have not. When I look back on my life, I almost feel I have thrown it all away and I have been left with nothing. Dear lady, will you marry me?'
Leovinus knew it was considered poor manners not to propose to any young female wearing the specially patterned shift.
'Have you got the central intelligence core? Titania's brain!' interposed The Journalist before Nettie could reply.
'Ah! Alas!' cried the great Leovinus. 'I threw it away! I have no use for her now!' and he turned back to Nettie. 'Dear lady! Do you think you could ever love me?'
'YOU CAN'T HAVE THROWN IT AWAY!' screamed the remarkably attractive and available female alien.
'THINK!' yelled the dreadful Journalist. 'Where did you throw it?'
'What does it matter?' Leovinus had grown a trifle maudlin. This was actually the result of the famous Yassaccan scent which the Yassaccan Prime Minister had given Nettie. Nettie had dabbed a spot on as they waited for the cell door to be opened — it was a nervous reflex prior to meeting the Greatest Genius The Galaxy Had Ever Known. What Nettie was unaware of was that one of the reasons the scent was so famous was because it had an extremely intoxicating effect on Blerontinians. This intoxication was usually so sudden and so strong that the scent had been made illegal on Blerontin, which is, of course, why it was so sought after and so fabulously expensive.
'My dear lady! My life! How I have longed to meet someone as beautiful and intelligent as you!'
The Journalist had now grabbed Leovinus by the lapels of his prison suit. 'WHERE IS TITANIA'S BRAIN?' he yelled.
Leovinus was rapidly deteriorating under the powerful influence of Nettie's scent. 'Ha! Mr. Journalisto! See one oh dee crank? Pon flee up and trick?' Leovinus was quoting a Blerontinian nonsense rhyme that was often sung to children at bedtime.
'Salk tense, man!' shouted The Journalist, who had suddenly realized what kind of scent Nettie was wearing. "Svital we know where youze threw th'central telligence core — hic!' Oh no! If he got drunk he wouldn't be able to drive them back to the Starship!
'Nettie!' he screamed. 'Quick! Youze gotter grout of here!'
'Not on your life!' exclaimed Nettie. 'You think you can handle this better just cause you're a man?'
'No…no… I'm not a man… That is… I'm a Blerontinian…' The Journalist had started giggling. Now Leovinus started too.
'Stop it!' cried Nettie, trying to shake some sense into them. 'How can you laugh? We've got to find the intelligence core! Where is it, Leovinus?' But the more she shook them, the more the Yassaccan scent wafted up from her beautiful body and blew the minds of the two Blerontinians… and they laughed harder and harder until tears were rolling down their cheeks. Leovinus found his head spinning. The Journalist started to sing an old Blerontinian song about a lady acrobat and a news reporter, and then collapsed on the bed.
Finally Nettie gave up in disgust. She stormed out of the cell to find the desk sergeant. Perhaps he had Titania's missing piece in safe custody.
The moment Nettie had gone, The Journalist made a valiant attempt to pull himself together. He managed to stop laughing, with partial success, and, as his head began to clear, he turned on Leovinus and shook him, until the old man regained his senses.
'THINK!' cried The Journalist. 'Even if you've never done anything decent in the whole of your wretched life! Do it now! Remember where you threw the missing bit of Titania's brain?'
This appeal could not have been more calculated to penetrate through to Leovinus's great, though intoxicated, brain. 'The central intelligence core… Titania's cerebral artery… Where did I throw it?'
'Yes! Dammit, man! Where did you throw it?'
'Oh! I know! In the corner… over there…' The Great Man pointed to a corner of the cell. In a flash, The Journalist was there, scrabbling around behind the latrine bucket, and the next moment he suddenly stood up with a glowing silver shard in his hand.
But before he even had time to give a yell of triumph, Nettie appeared at the cell door. 'We're too late!' she announced. 'It appears my watch must have been wrong. According to the police station clock, it's already midday…' And even as she spoke, they heard the BBC's pips from the Superintendent's radio. The Starship Titanic would already be on its way to its graveyard in space.
29
Dan and Lucy had had a miserable time of it. They had traipsed around the Oxfordshire countryside with a growing feeling of helplessness. Nobody had seen any old man with a white beard. Nobody had heard of aliens arriving from outer space. Nobody wanted to know either. Such things didn't happen in Oxfordshire.
Finally they retraced their steps to the hotel where they had all been staying. Here again they had drawn a blank. Yes, Nigel had checked out that day. No, he had not had anybody with him. No. No old man with a white beard had checked in. Nothing. Zero.
They sat over a miserable cup of coffee and Dan looked blankly at Lucy. She suddenly seemed so far away from him. Wasn't that what she had always said about him? That he had seemed so far away? He tried to think of all the things that had made them feel close in the past… and yet everything he thought of now appeared like a figment of his imagination. Like Lucy's enthusiasm for turning the old rectory into a hotel… In a way, he thought, their whole relationship had probably come out of his imagination. He had dreamed the whole thing up and now it was shattered, nothing remained between them. Not even bitterness.
Lucy watched Dan brooding over his coffee and wondered if he would be all right. She felt guilty. She felt she'd let him down. But now she had discovered that there was a part of her that had been asleep, all the time she had been with Dan, she knew there was no turning back the clock. It was as if she herself had created the bond between them — a bond that protected her from other, stronger, more frightening feelings that she was capable of — but a bond that did not otherwise exist.
Lucy put her hand on Dan's. 'I'm sorry,' she said. To her surprise, Dan looked up and smiled. 'We've been a good team,' he said. 'We've helped each other to get to where we are, and now I guess we're ready to move right on.'
Lucy leaned across and kissed him lightly, and at that very moment, Nettie, The Journalist and Leovinus walked in the door.
By the time they had persuaded the Oxford constabulary that Leovinus was not an illegal immigrant (even though technically speaking he was) it was well after half-past one o'clock. By the time Nettie had been able to shower off all the intoxicating Yassaccan perfume, it was half-past two. And by the time they had found Lucy and Dan, the deadline was well past. They all slumped in front of their coffees and nobody said a word, until Nettie suddenly looked up.
Listen!' said Nettie. 'It's no good us all just sitting here like burnt toast. I know there's not much point, but I suggest we go back to where we left the Starship in orbit — just in case — the
y may have left something — or somebody may have got left behind — or… I don't know what. All I know is I won't be happy until I've seen it's not there.'
'You are so charming, dear lady,' said Leovinus, 'and possess such a fine mind.' It would hard to say who was more jealous — Lucy or Dan. Neither of them said a word however and there followed a short argument about the futileness of doing what Nettie had suggested, which seemed about to segue into a discussion about the futility of existence itself, until Nettie cut it short. 'Well I'm going. Will you take me, The?'
Strangely enough they all felt more cheerful as they took off in the tiny landing craft. The illusion of doing something, no matter how useless, is always good for the psyche. They roared up into the stratosphere and there, with the Earth rolling beneath them — a wonderful ball of real life — they suddenly saw another, even more wonderful sight. An astonishing sight. A sight that made them cheer and shout and kiss each other… And Dan found himself kissing Nettie and being kissed back by Nettie and then kissing Nettie again and then she was kissing old Leovinus and Dan reminded himself that she had rejected him before and there was no point in being hurt again… And then he suddenly remembered the sight — the wonderful sight that had made them all cheer and start kissing each other in the first place: over the Earth's glowing blue and white shoulder heaved the immense and fabulous shape of the Starship Titanic!
'Of course!' yelled Nettie. 'We're idiots! Captain Bolfass said we had half a day but he was talking about Dormillion days!' She checked her watch. 'We've still got twenty minutes to go!'
Leovinus gazed into her beautiful face. Her eyelids fluttered, and slowly she opened her lovely eyes and gazed back at him. He had slipped the missing cerebral artery — the central intelligence core — into Titania's brain as gently as he could. He knew the shudder of life that would run through her would bring both joy and pain, as unused neurons and dormant cybernetic pathways pulsed into new life.
