by L. T. Hewitt
“Soo lemme ge’ this streeght,” said Gary, rubbing his hands on a cloth, looking out at the cobbles, bricks and stones that formed the town, to see if it was likely that any other customers might want anything built in the next few years, and sitting down in disbelief. “Ye want a Speeceboot built, like?”
“Yes, please,” said Arthur Cardigan. “If it’s not too much hassle.”
“Well it is gunna be quite a birroh hassle, mate. Ye knoo, these things teek time. I ‘aven’ enough people to be buildin’ summat like that.”
“Why not get more employees, then? Expand your business.”
“I will do. All righ’. Ah will build yer boot. Ah’ll ‘ave to retire afterward, like. An’ Ah’ll need payment upfroont.”
This was an issue. Arthur Cardigan had not a penny in the world. He left the room, pulling out a rock, holding it up to his ear and talking into it as he did so.
A few Centihaca later, he arrived back in the room, dripping wet, and placed a solid gold goblet on Gary’s desk.
“So ye’ll be back here a wheele after it’s done collect it?”
“No. A giant Chicken shall.”
Gary stared at him in profound confusion. “I’ll put you down as ‘to be collected’.”
“What are you talking about?”
The Space Chicken knew this would take some time to explain. He barely understood it himself. Gary – whom it appeared had no customers and seemed to have been anticipating his arrival for a long time – had taught the Space Chicken to fly the Spaceboat. And so, the Space Chicken, Fred Jr and Michael Rowland Daffodil (the latter not being trusted to control a vehicle, the son being too young, and the former being delighted to discover it didn’t require hands) set off on a journey through time and space. This proved to be all in vain, however, as both are very elusive subjects and it is all too easy to become lost there, so it is immensely harder to find something else in the infinite depths of the extended dimensions. ‘Lost’ being, by definition, not knowing where you are, finding something else seemed a futile task. The Space Chicken would have described the mission as near-impossible, were it not for the fact that the near-impossible so commonly happens and also the logical and grammatical exposition that, with impossibility being an infinite, the state of being wherein something is near to being impossible also proves that it must be an infinite distance away from being impossible. On the few occasions when the stalking travellers did fulfill their task in catching up with Oprah, it appeared to be a form in the wrong time – well, the wrong age, really – often resulting in there being the same Spaceboat twice, occasionally causing paradoxes paradoxically near-impossible to fix, and eventually leading the whole team to give up that set of futile tries in order to just contact the Sacred Quack and ask Him to give them the precise co-ordinates for the location, time and state of being in which Oprah and the Humnian Musicians first received the Spaceboat (which the Space Chicken, Fred Jr – him keeping his theoretical and metaphorical head held higher than the rest and encouraging them with his optimistic outlook – and Michael Rowland Daffodil all vouched they wished they should have intended to ask in the first place) the answer to which was, Quack informed them after much ridicule, on Ool, 85th Quinquomber 2042, several Centihaca before Dave, Crazy Dave, Clint, Clein, the Space Chicken and Fred Jr had arrived to be given the now-useless Speedvan, all in the increasingly hated location of Wales.
“Time,” the Space Chicken said.
“Ah,” Clein said.
“But what about us?” asked Clint. “Why have our parents left us behind? Did she not think about us?”
“Well, you did say you were leaving home,” the Space Chicken justified.
“But I assumed she’d pseudo-adopt another son as part of the grieving process, then have a nice surprise if we pressed the wrong button and returned home.”
“She told me that she did have one young man staying with her for a Week, but he left, then so did she.”
“Wait, we only left two days ago. How can all this have happened since?”
“Time,” the Space Chicken said. “I’ve been getting a bit confused. It’s 87th Quinquomber today. Oprah and Calvin don’t actually leave until the 91st.”
“But they are going to leave,” said Clint.
“You’re taking the wrong approach to this,” Clein said. “We wanted to leave home and now it’s definite.”
“That’s a good point I’ve made,” said Clint. “Now it’s definite, so there’s no turning back.”
“That was my point.”
“Same thing.”
“Hm. Well, so long as we’re in agreement, I’m happy.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“Besides, we won’t press the wrong button. Now we’re homeless, we can press as many buttons as we like. We will definitely be the ones to open the Fez.”
“Actually,” said the Space Chicken, “David Gr—” The Space Chicken quickly realised he needed to quickly cease talking.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Then the Space Chicken had a great idea. Rather, an easy get-out route. The two were frequently the same. Clint and Clein were homeless. Or, at least, they would be. The intelligent twins could press every button on the Fez. It was a necessity that they would eventually press the right one. And, by doing so, they would prevent David Gratton from doing so. He had completed a mission. He had solved a puzzle. He had won. By default. And that was usually the best kind of winning.
“I support you, twins. Go ahead. Open the Fez. Press a thousand buttons if you need to. Just don’t give up on this.”
“But you said Oprah hasn’t sold the house yet. We have to wait four days before we can press a button. If we do so sooner, we’ll immediately get sent home.”
Michael Rowland Daffodil perked up. “And you don’t know who might open the Fez before those four days are up.”
“If only that were the case...”
Chapter 27
Glix had two moons. They hung in the sky in exactly the opposite way individual moons do. A single moon resides alone, hanging around planets and festering on the light of nearby stars – as a dog accepted into the family as a pet of a different species.
Two moons were a couple, they paired together, spinning around and mockingly tormenting their planet. They race at different rates, different distances from their planet, closer to each other than to the mindless world below.
Under two moons, Michael Rowland Daffodil opened his eyes, opened the door of the Speedvan, and stepped out onto the cold soil below. He was barefoot. The frozen air of a BongVe Bong Quinquomber gently stung his sole and he nearly jumped back up. He took caution not to gasp audibly as he clambered out of the vehicle.
He walked slowly towards the towering scarlet parallelogram ahead of him. A moon placed itself either side of the Fez’s peak. There were no buttons visible any more; there were only three shapes apparent: the rough polygon that was the Speedvan behind him; the loose form of Michael Rowland Daffodil himself; and the trapezium.
It was there. Immediately in front of him. The chance at freedom. The ability to escape. The closer he got, the more opportunities appeared in front of him; the buttons on the Fez were now making themselves present as stars coming out at night. One simple press would mark the end of slavery. All Michael Rowland Daffodil had to do was push one little finger against one button to free himself from entrapment.
Chapter 28
Michael Rowland Daffodil landed in BongVe Bong again, right next to the rapidly Nekken-proceeding Fez. Three passengers stared up in fond remembrance of the Fez, reminded of its beauty from just a few days before. One passenger looked up at the Fez for the first time and saw its astounding beauty with awe, every aspect of the organically inhuman landmark resonating through even the infrequently visited depth of his imagination. There was still a huge crowd surrounding the enormous being. Well, there was a crowd, although every member of it which the group had seen on their previous visit would
now have been sent home and replaced by someone else. The problem that arose now was that there were still four days until the twins were homeless.
“What do we do now?” asked Michael Rowland Daffodil.
“I guess we just have to wait,” the Space Chicken replied.
The Speedvan drove alongside the Fez as it was pushed along by dozens of humans. The crowds died down as evening approached again. It seemed that people wouldn’t set off knowing they would arrive when it was dark, but would rather wait in a hotel or campsite or motel or space-/air-craft until the morning. It made sense, as travelling all that way would be pointless if you were just going to hurriedly get the event over with as soon as possible, without finding the best possible moment, and – sure enough – when it got dark there was nobody left. Of course, finding the perfect moment was reasonably pointless when the event would take no time at all. Logically speaking, the desired moment when searching for the Fez is pressing the button. Well, ideally it would be the opening of the Fez, but merely pressing a button is good enough for most. The actual point when the button is pressed and it is determined whether or not the Fez has been opened lasts no time at all. Therefore, the time people spent waiting for the best time for the event was an infinite amount longer than the event itself. But such was life. People always spend a long time waiting for the perfect moment, ignoring the fact that having the event makes a moment perfect. Life is spent waiting, in fear, assuming that a great moment could ever go wrong. But perfect moments don’t happen with the changing of the weather, they are created by actions.
The Space Chicken, Michael Rowland Daffodil, Clint, Clein and Fred Jr all waited, but for a very different reason. Until Oprah had sold the house, until Clint and Clein were technically homeless, the Fez could not be touched, lest they press the wrong button and get sent home. It would be a few days before this happened. Even when Clint and Clein had left home, their mother was still imposing rules upon them. It was now three days to go until Clint and Clein could freely press all the buttons on the Fez.
And the talk and the sleep were the first day.
Chapter 29
“Where’s the Fez?” asked Michael Rowland Daffodil.
The Space Chicken closed one of his eyelids and pulled the blanket farther over him, remaining under it.
“You know, if you were still asleep you’d have all six eyelids closed.”
“Sock!” the Space Chicken exclaimed, rising. Pulling himself up, ruffling his feathers and crowing several times, he began to come to terms with the horridness of consciousness. “What? The Fez has gone.”
“It must be kilometres ahead by now. These sightseers really do get up early.”
The group drove onwards for a while, and – sure enough – there was the Fez, hurtling onwards as thousands of people pushed its buttons.
The crew drove alongside it again for a while, observing from a distance the unobtainable fruit.
“What do we do?” asked the Space Chicken.
‘We are here merely as onlookers,’ said Fred Jr. ‘We always are. We are the people who record events, knowing what will happen, but knowing that we cannot help.’
“Well, I’m going to change that. You know what should happen next. Well, I shall entrust the Fez to the twins, and they can be the only ones to press buttons on it. I’m creating the future, Fred Jr. Our worries won’t come true.”
The travellers stared out the side windows of the Speedvan at thousands of people seizing their desires, chasing their dreams and fulfilling their fantasies, all throwing themselves at the buttons of the Fez as it slid farther away.
“Unless someone else opens it.” This was Michael Rowland Daffodil, who was gazing lecherously at the sight of hopeful hearts capturing that moment of ecstasy. The Space Chicken and son turned to look at him. “There are loads of people pressing buttons. It’s still two days until the changeover.”
“Yes, that’s what worries me. The wrong person could get to it. Or, indeed, the right person could get to it. David Gratton – the man who’s meant to open the Fez.”
“You talk about all these things that are ‘meant to happen’. Why are they so? Quack told you Gratton shall open the Fez, but you have to be determined to make sure that’s not the case. Give the Fez to Clint and Clein: you can be sure they won’t put it to bad use. In two days’ time – Quackwilling – no-one shall have opened the Fez, and the twins will have it all to themselves.”
“You’re right. Thanks.” The Space Chicken looked around. “Speaking of which, where are they?”
The Space Chicken and Michael Rowland Daffodil looked out of the window (and Fred Jr pretended to) and saw the twins running towards the object of their desires.
“Clint! Clein!” the Space Chicken shouted. “You can’t push a button yet; you’ll get sent back home!” A few of the sightseers on their way to great red chest turned around to give him funny looks.
But Clint and Clein weren’t going to press any buttons. Instead they put their four hands around separate buttons and – to the amazement of the Space Chicken, Michael Rowland Daffodil, Fred Jr and many other adventures – pulled themselves up. They proceeded to place their place their feet on the upper edges of buttons close to the ground and did the same actions again, and again, and again. When they were a considerate distance up the side of the Fez, they spotted a collection of buttons which stuck out farther than the others, and went over to sit on the top sides of them, taking care not to push any buttons in as they went.
Everyone on the ground looked at them in disbelief.
“Um...” the Space Chicken sort of said. “What are you doing?”
“Making good use of time. It is our intention to press buttons indefinitely. Did you think we were going to run after it continuously?”
The Space Chicken remained silent.
“This way we can sit on the Fez and push buttons forever until we reach the right one, from the comfort of being uncomfortably relined on a slope.”
“I assumed you’d just follow the Fez around, pressing buttons as you went, then walking the metre it had moved away.”
“Why would we walk a metre every time we wanted to push a button?”
Someone in the crowd shouted out, “I had to walk 300 kilometres.”
Clein continued, “We’re going to sit here and press buttons endlessly, journeying on the Fez until we find the right one.”
The Space Chicken looked up at them, holding a wing up against the glare. Michael Rowland Daffodil looked up too, and Fred Jr hovered beside them. There was a very long pause. An incredibly long pause. The entire crowd around the Fez had now collectively quietened. The Space Chicken looked up at the twins in extreme disbelief, indignation and partial confusion. He had no words.
“Well... Just make sure you don’t press any buttons in the mean time.”
“All right, mum.” Clint and Clein both snorted with laughter.
“I mean it, you two,” the Celestial Cockerel said sternly. “If you’re going to be cheeky, you can get in the Speedvan and we’ll turn around and go back home.”
“You can’t do that,” said Clint. “You can’t even drive.” Clein stifled a laugh.
“Right, that’s your last chance.”
“What?” said Clein, the smile dropping from his face. “I didn’t even do anything.”
“You laughed at him, and you know that only encourages him to be silly.”
“No, I never!”
The Space Chicken turned back to the Speedvan and spoke to Michael Rowland Daffodil. “He laughed. You heard that, didn’t you?”
“Don’t get me involved. I’m staying out of this.”
The Space Chicken tutted. “You could at least stick up for me in front of the children.”
‘I heard it.’
“Yes, I know you did, Freddy-Weddy. You’re my good Son.”
‘That ‘S’ shouldn’t have been capitalised.’
“I know it didn’t need to be.” He smiled. “But I wanted it t
o be.”
The Space Chicken’s phone rang.
“It’s your mother here.”
“I assumed it might be,” he mumbled.
“That ‘S’ should not have been capitalised,” the Space Chicken’s mother, Margery, informed him, knowing that he already held that piece of information in his mind and had used it against her. “I appreciate you showing a little affection towards your son – for a change – but that does not allow you to break the laws of language. And do not be so mean to Clint and Clein.”
“Don’t tell me how to look after my children!” He switched off the telephone.
“Right,” he said, turning to Clint and Clein, “you’re on your last warning. Any more messing me about and we’re going straight home. And that’s final.” The Space Chicken walked back to the Speedvan with Fred Jr and shut the door.
There was a long silence.
“So...” said one of the thousands of otherwise silent members of the crowd, all of whom had just witnessed the event. “What just happened?”
Chapter 30
“Arthur Cardigan, I have another task to entrust you with doing.”
“What?” asked Arthur Cardigan. It had now been three weeks (fifteen days) since Quack has sent him a year back in time – or, rather, it had been been minus thirty-seven weeks (minus one hundred and eighty-five days). During that time, he had helped out elderly people, collected money at a House and order a space- and time-travelling vehicle to be constructed in the Nekken-Luc.
“There is a debate about politics going on in Neet. I’d like you to get involved in it.”
“Okay. Which side do You want me to be on?”
“I can tell you that. I can’t tell you what to feel and how to have the right views. I want you to think. Hopefully you can help others to think as well.”
“Why do I need to do this?”
“Everyone needs to do this.”
Arthur attended the event. It seemed that there were two teams arguing about how to work together. One team – those sitting on the right side of the room, said they shouldn’t. The others – those sat on the left – agreed that everyone should be equal and treat each other equally, without making anyone more important than anyone else. They had a leader, which Arthur initially thought was against their point about equality, but he soon realised that their leader was just a person to summarise their points. This would be useful at events where a lot more people were represented. Fitting thousand voices into a room is a lot easier if you stick them all inside one human.
