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Friday 27 December 2013

A History Lesson


Within the entrance chamber of the Andromeda Machine the Merovingian Lizard Kings’ diminutive ambassador was in full flow and warming to his subject.
            “Back then the grandparents of these people here were investigating a magnetic anomaly on the plateau above and mapped out a shape beneath the ice.   Huge it was, and not of a natural form.   Tunnelling down they were, until they reached the outer hull of the structure within which you stand.   Their proximity triggered a response from the Andromeda Geräte.   It sent a distress message.
“Received the message was, by the Lizard Lords.   Tell you I cannot, of what the Merovingian Lizard Kings already knew regarding the Mother Ship.   But tell you I can, that there is little that the Lizard Kings do not know.   One with The Chaos they are, and The Chaos is aware.
“Instantly despatched was I, with my companions, to contain the situation.     Neuschwabenland was isolated and the expedition to disappear was made.   A busy time in Europe this was and a few missing scientist soon forgotten were.   The descendants of those with the foresight to embrace our mission are still here.”
            “And those without the foresight?” enquired Easter Smurthwait.
            “The Merovingian Lizard Kings see only the bigger picture.   Those who did not embrace did not continue.   They were of no consequence.
            “You earthlings think you are so important.   You strive, and it is noble to strive, right that you strive.   But you influence nothing.   The weirdy web is spun.   It warps and quivers, pulled and shaken by dark tides – glistening dewdrop universes dancing on its threads.   And you, tiny animated specks on one tiny rock, circling one tiny star, on the outer rim of one tiny constellation, in a cosmos so vast that it is beyond your comprehension think that you can hang on, get noticed?   All is The Chaos, everywhere is The Chaos.   It carries you along or tosses you aside without reason.   It is tumult, and the Lizard Kings embody its deepest nature.”

            “You are all servants of evil,” spluttered Albert.
            “Servants of the Lizard Lords we are, and the Lizard Lords are The Chaos.   The Chaos is not evil or good, it is what it is.
            “Homo Credulous – programmed to see patterns in the turmoil.   Everywhere you little men find order and purpose, discover rules and laws and think this is how the universe works, but deluded you are.  You marvel at fractals that derived can be from a tiny equation yet are infinitely complex, you puzzle over a π without end.   You invent Æther to carry your light and radio waves, postulate Dark Fluff in the vacuum of space to make a random universe conform to your sums.”
            Harold was not convinced that he did any of these things; he had not really grasped algebra at school.   He could find a shoal of coleyfish in the vast Arctic ocean and navigate his aging tin tub through mountainous seas that should swallow the 500 ton sidewinder whole, but maths…
            “Wanting it all to make sense you are.   But it does not.   Not your kind of sense, anyway.”   
            One of the saffron men coughed and leaning in to the sage’s ear he spoke quietly to him.   The old man turned to von Luckner.   “You must return to the complex, Kapitänleutnant.   Be gone quickly.   You are about to be attacked.   We will follow directly.”

Wednesday 18 December 2013

Airship (Elstead Writers' Blog)


Just a little promo for my writers' group blog on...
elsteadwritersgroup.wordpress.com

...I am reprising The Unremitting Coldness of Snow on Tuesdays, with some new pictures by my Dad.   And you can read stories by some of my mates too - there's Ferdy, the Early Years on Wednesdays, a children's time travel story on Thursdays and a daily post-apocalypse adventure with no zombies.

Sunday 8 December 2013

The Autonomous Peoples' Dirigible 'Airship of State'



 Wow man, like…
            That Larry, he’s the man.   That’s some pad he’s got.   And we talked… and drank… and smoked… and drank… and ate…   Those mooncakes… out of this world.   Some quality catip in the mix.   Bet Barrymore made them.   Not much she can’t get hold of.
            Sky.   I can see the sky.   Sky’s all around?   Wow!
            [Ginsbergbear wakes, or ‘comes down’ as some would say, on the upper observation deck of the Airship of State, beneath a geodetic Plexiglas dome.   We will discover why he is there before too long.]
            Woah!   Sky up ahead.   Sky up above.   And fluffy clouds…   And birds.   I like birds.   But what’s that behind me?   Behind me there’s… funnels.   Big bronze smoking smokestack funnels.   And this is?   A spiral staircase… that goes…               Wayhay!   Down and… down and… down and...
            Round and… round and… round and… round and…
            The rest of the gang were gathered in The Airship of State’s sumptuous lounge.   Boz, Slasher and Phoebles were huddled in a circle of armchairs discussing McGoogs’ plan, Ferdinand was studying the Scotland double page spread in The New Pictorial Atlas of the World, Odhams Press Ltd., 1926 Edition, and Barrymore was doing something mildly erotic with a cocktail shaker whilst chatting to Comrade-Squadron-Commander Polly Karpova.   Polly had been overseeing the tethering of her crimson warbird below the dirigible’s canopy, towards the stern, before coming forward and joining the others.
            “Woah-haaay!”   There was a protracted rumbling bumping sound and a bear rolled out from the bottom of a spiral staircase to halt with a thud against the leg of a coffee table.
            “Mr Bear, how good of you to join us.”   Barrymore and Ms Karpova advanced sinuously upon Ginsbergbear, the contents of their uniforms animating the coarse fabric like eels in a flour-sack.   Barrymore proffered a glass containing raw egg, Worcester sauce, Tabasco, vinegar, and a generous measure of Balkan vodka.   “This will pep you up.”
            Ginsbergbear took the glass and drank the contents without looking.   His eyes opened wide, then opened wider.   “Ay carajo!   That smarts – what is it, distilled aviation fuel?”
            Barrymore smiled and patted his shaggy head.   Polly sashayed over to the others and collapsed into a vacant armchair next to Phoebles.   She swung her army booted feet onto the intricately inlaid rosewood coffee table, flashing bare legs and thighs, smooth as a barrister, taut as banjo strings.   She removed her officer’s cap and dropped it on the deck, copper- red hair cascading about her shoulders.   As she lounged back her jacket fell open to reveal a body hugging, telnyashka-striped, thermal teddy.   Suddenly the temperature in the cabin felt uncomfortably warm and sweat began to form on Bozzy’s brow.
            “So gentlemen,” she purred, “What have you in store for us?”
            Ferdy joined them, still holding on to his atlas; his dodo cool untouched by the provocative antics of the young air ace, “We’re going north from Carlisle, following the A7 deep into Reiver territory.   Larry has lent us the Airship of State in the hope that it will impress the natives.   We are wholly and deliberately unarmed so let’s hope he is right.”
            The SL102 Airship of State was Britain’s most impressive dirigible, 978 feet long, with a polished aluminium skinned canopy embellished with bronze tracery and powered by four 1200 horse power in-line Stanley Steamer aero-engines with a funnel each.
            “Our destination is Gilnockie Tower, ancestral seat of the Gilnockie of Gilnockie.   He is nominally the Reiver Head Honcho and has agreed to meet us to discuss an acceptable way out of the current impasse.   That’s if The Kittens haven’t already set the Lowlands ablaze.”
            Ferdy paused as Polly took a catnip roll-up from the tin that Phoebles was offering round.   She struck a Swan Vesta on the hobnailed sole of her boot and set light to the end of the spliff.
            “And I don’t get to shoot anyone?”
            “Not unless the whole exercise turns to cold custard,” interjected Slasher McGoogs.   “But if we find ourselves up to our bum holes in angry crocodiles you’re the only hope we’ve got.”

Wednesday 20 November 2013

Dark Flo


Kapitänleutnant, an aircraft has been spotted flying over the base.”

            “Stand the anti-aircraft crews to, but don’t do anything to attract attention.   It’s probably just the Yanks doing some stunt to get in the Guinness Book of Records again.”
            At last, thought Bamse, this must be Larry’s response to my call for help.  
            The day after sending out his radio message, not being one to waste time waiting, he had climbed onto the plateau above and behind the whaling station and had marked out a landing area with a large yellow X in the snow.   For good measure he had drawn a prominent yellow arrow pointing to the cross and written ‘Over here’ in joined up writing.   Each day he had revisited the spot and refreshed the markings.   And now help was at hand.   The Norwegian sea dog made his way through the back alleys, out of the camp and up to the landing site.

Beryl flew the Loening in a wide circle round the New Swabian whaling station, satisfying herself that they had reached the correct destination.   She could see the coleyfishtrawler Lord Ancaster in the harbour below.   Then she commenced a straight run directly over the harbour, trailing Red-White-and-Blue smoke.   Throwing the bi-plane into a series of loops and tight turns she sky-wrote Hi Folks across the heavens.
            “Might as well be obvious.   They’re bound to have seen us,” Beryl called down to Flo who, was kneeling over the Elsan.
            The Loening turned south, heading towards the pole until Beryl was reasonably sure their audience would have lost interest.   Then she climbed to ten thousand feet and turned back towards the coast.    In the cabin Dark Flo had changed into her new Class A1 16TOG ninja outfit.   It was dyed Mountbatten Pink – a Greyish-mauve all but invisible to simian optical sensors.   Over it she pulled on an X-Bird 3 wingsuit of mottled blues.   Her minimalist katana, devoid of decoration, and her Fukiya blow pipe were across her back, daisho and feather duster tucked in her waistband, and she carried a haversack filled with assorted Shuriken throwing stars, darts for the blowpipe, her war fan, and Happo eggs filled with Metsubushi blinding powder.
            “Ready to go, Flo?”
            “All set.   Keep her steady.”
            Flo clambered out onto the wing, there was a loud crack as her wing suit stretched out in the slipstream, and without a word of farewell, she was gone.   As the Loening continued northwards Flo swooped over the polar terrain, a tiny blue dart invisible from below.   Her speed sucked the breath out of her and an icy wind pressed her goggles into her face.   Looping above the barren land she took stock of her surroundings, spotted a line of despondent emperor penguins trudging inland and then noted a group of men – sailors, judging by their visorless caps - a few miles from the whaling station, proceeding in an open, skirmish formation.   Back tracking, Flo identified Bamse’s fresh yellow X and dove towards the landing area, deploying her chute at the last possible moment and ploughing into the snow with a thud.   She quickly wound in the parachute, unzipped her wing suit and buried the ensemble.   For good measure she kicked clean snow over the landing markers.   When she looked up Bamse was strolling across the snowfield towards her.   Being a dog, he could just make her out despite the camouflage pink.   Canine rods and cones differ significantly from those of monkey descendants and are less likely to be confused by weird colours.
            “Let’s get under cover and out of the cold.   I’ve built a bit of an igloo back there amongst the drifts.   It’s fairly cosy.”   He had also brought a thermos of builders’ tea and some pickled cabbage sandwiches.

The igloo was compact, inconspicuous, beautifully crafted, a handy bolthole and sufficiently warm for Flo to feel the need to remove much of her ninja kit.   While they drank their tea, Bamse launched into his report.
            “We got the shore detail away before we were captured so I don’t think anyone knows they are here.   The Lord Ancaster’s down in the harbour, but a bloody big sub took Harold and the crew off somewhere.   This whaling station is just an outpost - from what I’ve gleaned in my time here the main operation’s elsewhere.   And they all think it’s something special”
            “I believe I saw your Russians down the coast,” said Flo, “I wonder if the New Swabians have a submarine base over that way.   We need to locate the rest of the crew and find out what’s going on.   Sounds as if it’s every bit as big as Larry reckons.
“Don’t suppose we could manage the trawler on our own so it looks like we’re on foot for now.   Best save the sandwiches in case we need them later.   Let’s go and explore.”

Saturday 9 November 2013

Berwick-under-Siege


Under Consuella’s guidance the Kittens of Chaos assumed responsibility for reconstruction of the second hand Lun Class ekranoplan that they had seen in the docks.   Refurbishing the eight Kuznetsov NK-87 turbojet engines proved way beyond the enthusiastic amateurs’ abilities, so they were removed by a particularly diminutive Kitten in possession of a welder’s mask and thermal lance.   A local marine engineering firm was engaged to install the largest Bolinder single cylinder hot-bulb diesel to be found on eBay.   Eight foot of twelve inch bore exhaust pipe protruded from the top of the fuselage, topped with a hinged cap that flicked up and clacked every time the piston expelled exhaust gasses.   It blew blue-grey smoke rings with a reverberating Donk-Donk-Donk.
            Rectangular holes had been cut (by the same enthusiastic Kitten) into the winglets in order to accommodate independently geared paddle wheels enclosed within ornate paddle boxes that had been put together during several of the Kittens’ Rehabilitation Carpentry Classes.   The interior had been done out in Boudoir Red plush with a variety of chaise-longues and bean bags, a row of performance poles ranged down the middle of the cabin.   Externally, in an attempt to avoid inevitable disharmony, each Kitten had been given a section of the vessel to paint.   The result was a riotous mishmash of hues and styles, from painstakingly intricate art nouveau swirls to Jackson Pollock drips and sploshes.   An unflattering portrait of an enraged Cthulhu decorated the nose of the plane and Consuella Starcluster had managed to get the colours of her venerated Spanish Republic striped onto the tail.   Any possibility that the strange craft could achieve the velocity necessary for ground-effect flight was beyond expectation.   She had become a somewhat unwieldy boat.
            Armed with four ZU-23-2 "Sergey” 23mm twin-barrelled anti-aircraft  autocannon, she was well defended, but without missiles the six fixed-elevation SS-N-22 Sunburn missile launchers, whilst looking impressive, were redundant.   Not wanting to waste them, or give the Kitten with the thermal lance an excuse for more destruction, Consuella had them transformed into cannons of the type familiar to fans of Rossa “Zazel” Richter, The Human Cannonball.   Powerful springs required teams of Kronstadt sailors with block and tackle to tension them and they would be able to project Durex water bombs, potatoes, grape shot made from real grapes, or even Kamikaze ninjas should any be found, high above the defensive walls of towns like Berwick.
            “Is the paint dry yet?   Can we go now?   ‘Cos we is ready.”  
            Consuella looked down at a tiny fur ball under a tricorn hat, festooned with bandoleers of assorted ammunition and dwarfed by a Spaz combat shotgun.   Behind her ranged her compatriots in an imaginative variety of leather outfits (mostly highly inappropriate), harem costumes, saucy nurses and super heroes.   She could see at least two Xenas, three Tank Girls and a Bo Peep.   Their arsenal was infinitely varied and terrifyingly lethal.
            Donk… Donk… Donk-Donk-Donk-Donk-Donk.
            “Well, eet does sound as eef the Krronstadt sailorrs have herr rready foorr the off.   Come along, girrls.   Get yourrselves aboarrd.”
            There followed an unruly rush accompanied by much squealing.
            “Señora Starcluster, can we give it a name – a proper name like Buenaventura’s Revenge?”
            “Destroyer of Worlds!” squeaked the tricorn hat.
            “I theenk that weell suit admirrrably, Fifi-Belle; thee Autonomous Battle Crrraft Destroyer of Worlds eet ees.   Now, let’s get going.   A lust foorrr carrrnage stirrrs weetheen my brrreast.”
           
Two steam tugs assisted the ABC Destroyer of Worlds through the lock gates and into the river Humber.   She lumbered out past Spurn Point to face the North Sea swell, rolling, pitching and yawing at an agonising snails pace towards the northern horizon.   Waves broke over the bows and washed past the cockpit windows.   Windscreen wipers strained to keep the pilot’s view clear of spume, and failed.   Many of the Kittens fell untypically silent, whilst others puked noisily into buckets, bowls or flower vases.
            “Will this typhoon never end?” barfed Trixie de Montparnasse to the Tovarishch-Matros who was valiantly swabbing down the slippery and malodorous cabin.
            “I fear little one, that we are experiencing unusually calm weather.   If our good luck continues we shall reach our destination before the winter storms set in.”
            “Aaaaugh!” she replied, clutching her zinc pail to her bosom like a slumbering lover.
            For two weeks they wallowed up the east coast.   Seagulls stood in a line along the roof of the fuselage watching puffins paddle past and a family of grey seals basked on the starboard winglet.   Barnacles colonised the underside of the hull.   Then, one fine, crisp dawn they found themselves in the Tweed estuary, beneath the towering ramparts of the Berwick upon Tweed city walls.               They could discern no flag of surrender at the signal mast so with a call to arms, silent efficiency from the Kronstadt crew and excited pandemonium on the part of the Kittens of Chaos, the bombardment began.
            Throughout the day the barrage was merciless; as night fell it became spectacular.   Tracer streamed across the night sky from the 23mm water-cooled AZP-23 cannons.   A gaunt pyrotechnical officer, with wire rimmed glasses and fewer fingers than normal, on loan from the Snake Pass Zapatistas, had joined before departure with boxes of Liuyang Thunder Dragon Fireworks Co Ltd Chinese fireworks, obtained at cut price in Hamleys’ summer sale.   He skillfully mixed crossettes and mines, fish, Catherine wheels and Bengal Fire with the fruit and veg.
            “Ooooooooooooh!”
            “Aaaaaaaaaaaaah!”
            The Kittens of Chaos, emphatically banned from the powder room, were lined up on the Destroyer of Worlds’ winglets to witness the assault.   But the pirate citadel did not fall.

On the second day a small inflatable with a Comrade-Starshina and two of the less irresponsible Kittens was dispatched to the shore to procure mercenaries.   There was no let up in the assault on Berwick.   To the joy of the Kittens of Chaos, Kronstadt sailors, stripped to the waist and drenched in sweat, toiled at the ropes.
            “Two, six, heave!   …Load!   …Fire!   …Two, six, heave!”
             The shore detail was seen to return after several hours.
            “There are no ninjas for hire.   Not kamikaze ones.   Not even in the pubs, after we’d bought them several pints, and us doing our wiggly dance.   What are we going to do?   That mob in Berwick is very resilient.”
            “Hwell, they arrre corrrsairrrs and buccaneerrrs, dearrr.” Consuella had been giving the matter much of her attention, “We cannot affoord a long siege.   We’ve burrrnt theirrr boats, but ourrr ammo ees getting low and prrretty soon they weell come up weeth a plan to counterrr attack.
“Petticoats off girrrls.   We weell fashion them into parrrachutes.   Hyou arrre all going eentoo action.”
          Fluffybum pulled back the bolt on her StG 44 assault rifle, “Lock and load!”
          “No dearrr.   Hyou weell be exerrrcising yoor uniquely individual skeells to underrrmine barrrbarrrians unused to such subtlety, frrreebooterrrs amongst whom turrrning down the sound on MOTD and shouting Brace yerself!  ees rrreegarded as forrreplay.”

And so it was that the Kittens of Chaos, dressed as for a Tarts and Vicars party without any vicars, though there were plenty of nuns in suspenders and fishnets, were packed in pairs into the missile tubes and projected over the walls into an unsuspecting Berwick.
            “Niiiiinjaaaaaah!”
            “Geroneeeemoooooooh!”
           
Next morning the gates of the historic burgh opened and a sheepish group of spiritually broken councillors emerged to surrender.

Tuesday 22 October 2013

Andromeda Geräte



 “All crew to their stations.   Prepare to surface.”   The distorted voice of Otto von Luckner crackled over the ship’s Tannoy system.
“Kapitän Entwhistle, if you would like to join me at the periscope.”
            Minutes later Harold appeared on the Command Deck accompanied by his Chief Engineer, Albert Fleck, short and skeletal in a boiler suit that had once been white, hob-nail boots, a dish-rag round his neck and a woollen tea-cosy on his head.
            “Ah Kapitän, and you have brought your stoker.   Would you like to take a look at our destination?”   Von Luckner ushered the trawlermen to the periscope and Harold peered into the eyepiece.   He could see ice and snow – pretty much like all the ice and snow they had been surrounded by since coming south.   Dead ahead was a low black rectangle sheltered beneath an overhang in the cliff.
            “Can I see too?” asked Albert.   As he surveyed the desolate scene a lonely wandering albatross waddled over to the funny stick protruding through a hole in the lightly frozen ocean and blocked out the view.   Distorted goggle eyes peered in at the startled artificer.
            “What the f… …is that?
            “The entrance to our U-Boat pens,” the Kapitänleutnant turned to his ensign, “Take her up.”
            “Bow planes ten degrees, rudder amidships, blow all tanks.”
            The Seeadler surfaced, breaking through the thin layer of barely formed ice and startling the inquisitive seabird into panicked flight.
            A queue of ship’s officers formed at the bottom of the conning tower ladder whilst the Oberfähnrich climbed up to open the hatch.   Von Luckner took two paces back and, with a hand pressed against Harold’s chest, indicated that the trawlermen should do the same.   Seawater showered through the hatchway onto the up-turned faces below.
            “This happens every time.   They never learn.”

The submersible’s deck officers were clustered outside on top of the conning tower when Harold and Albert joined them and the Seeadler was gliding silently towards the cavernous entrance.   As they entered the submarine pens the crew lined the deck to take a salute from stevedores gathered on the nearest floating quay; a small brass band with a glockenspiel played ‘Edelweiss’.   While Seeadler navigated alongside and was made fast Bert Fleck observed a Cuban, Foxtrot Class submarine and a Type VIIC/41 Flak U-Boat on neighbouring pontoons.   The sleek Cuban vessel appeared to be making ready to sail.
            “Stop engines.   Prepare to disembark.”   Once the trawlermen had been rounded up Easter joined Harry and Albert with von Luckner, Billy Tate remained with the crew who were quickly escorted ashore.
            “Your men will be treated well, Kapitän.   You may check on their wellbeing in a little while.   But I wish to be with you when you first set eyes on our establishment here.”   The Kapitänleutnant indicated the gangway.   They proceeded along the pontoon to a short ramp and then ascended a long escalator.   Globe lamps on patinated bronze mounts lit their way, the architecture was modernist with a severely Teutonic twist.
            They emerged into a spacious concourse.   Half-moon skylights, pierced through the sea-green ceiling high above, cast shafts of daylight into the scene below, the polished Carrera floor shone like water, the walls glowed with warm beige marble cladding.   A mahogany cased clock dominated the far end of the hall and dwarfed figures scurried purposefully wherever the Yorkshiremen looked.   Just ahead a sulky line of king penguins shuffled past, heads down and shoulders hunched.   Intermittently each in turn would squawk a mumbled complaint.   Nearby stood a group of self absorbed men in tall orange hats, with faces of wrinkled, walnut leather; their saffron robes all but hidden by too large, wrap around yak-skin coats, secured at the waist by string.
            “Lizard men?” enquired Harold Entwhistle of his host.
            “None of us will ever meet the Merovingian Lizard Kings, my friend.   That is not their way.   These men of the Himalayas are envoys.
“Let me show you to your quarters, and on the way I will point out the officers’ mess.   I will meet you back there in…   Shall we say one hour?”

The officers’ mess was done out with a great deal of chrome and had the feel of an outsized American diner.   Harold, Easter and Albert were sat at a cramped Formica table and had given a food order to a well-rounded fraulein in a short blue gingham dress and dinky, matching forage cap by the time they were joined by Kapitänleutnant Otto Graf von Luckner.   Albert removed his tea cosy, stuffed it in a pocket and ran his fingers through his greasy hair.   The waitress appeared with three All Day Breakfasts.
            “Good, you have ordered.   I will have an Americano, two shots of expresso, not too much water… and a small piece of your excellent schwarzwälder kirschtorte, if I may, my dear.”
            Easter scowled at his surroundings, “All seems very clean - for a secret Nazi UFO base.   Where’s the Storm Troopers.”
            Otto sighed, “To business then.   First I must explain to you our situation, we will postpone the small talk, pleasant as that would be, till later.  
“There were never many Nazis here; our original expedition was, after all, a scientific survey.   Those first comers were not intending to become colonists.   There were not many women on the original expedition either but somehow, three generations later, we are still here.   Our ancestors established a small base on this spot, claimed the land for the Greater Germany, began surveying the area and then made a discovery that changed everything.   You had better come with me and I will show you…   The secret you have come to uncover…   The reason you can never leave.”  
            “Never…   What?”   Albert shot to his feet, banging his knees on the table, which was, fortunately, securely bolted to the floor.
            Easter joined in with, “Now look here, captain...”
            “Please.   Just come with me.   We can discuss your future circumstances later.”

The Yorkshire trio were still protesting vehemently as they crossed the concourse to one of a number of departure gates.   Four of the mysterious, saffron clad orientals formed up silently behind them.   A discoloured sign in a Gebrochene Schrift black letter typeface indicated AG Gate23 and below it an attendant, inspecting von Luckner’s pass, nodded them through.   They entered a tube-like chamber lined with benches and settled down together whilst the mute envoys sat nearby, yet pointedly apart from the sailors.   The doors slid shut with a whoosh, there was a sharp Plop, a hiss and a sensation of rapid acceleration.
            “We are travelling in a pneumatic tube subway.   First proposed, I believe, by your excellent Herr Brunel, though it has taken German vorsprung durch technik to make it work.”
            “Not Isambard, for once, George Medhurst, a Kentishman,” muttered Bert Fleck, “but I bet he half inched the idea off a Yorkshireman.”
            The travelers were contemplating the engineer’s observation as their transport stopped with an uncomfortable suddenness and the doors slid open.   Otto stood back to let the Himalayan envoy disembark first, then he and the trawlermen followed along a gently sloping ice tunnel.   At its end the oldest and shortest emissary, with the tallest hat, approached a small glowing tablet, placed his right palm upon it and a door swung open.   The four monk-like beings entered first, followed reluctantly by Easter and Albert Fleck.   Harold and the Kapitänleutnant brought up the rear.   They found themselves inside a bare reception area.   The curved outer walls were comprised of an alloy that Harold could not identify.   There was no corrosion or decay, though there were signs of wear and an impression of great age.   The inner bulkheads and floors were transparent and, disconcertingly, they could see down through several floors beneath their feet.   In the room below were parked two foo fighters under plastic sheeting.     
            “Schoonfryder,” whispered von Luckner, “but there are many different types of what you would call UFO in neighbouring bays.”
            “Great,” said Albert, who was pressed against the only wall that looked solid and was very deliberately not looking down.
            The diminutive monk turned to address the company, “Discovering this the great grandfather of young Otto was.   Lying here undisturbed for many millennia it had been.   Under the ice.   A secret it was, and must remain.   The Andromeda Machine.   Within a UFO mother ship you are.”

Thursday 10 October 2013

Aqaba



Beryl was naked under her voluminous indigo thobe, reclining on rugs and cushions within a traditional Bedouin black tent.   An embroidered and tasselled wool camel bag nearby was playing As Time Goes By.   She concentrated, hard.   Phone.   That’s my iPhone.   I’m…   I’ve got a phone call!   Beryl dived for the bag, rummaged about in it and found the phone just as it stopped ringing.   She was cursing fluently in Arabic, English and Swahili when it rang again.   This time she answered.
            “Agent 160?   Can we talk freely?”
            “We can,” she replied, “The boy is with his sheep.”
            “Get down to Aqaba as quickly as you can,” it was Larry’s factotum, Barrymore, on the other end of the phone, “There will be a Loening Air Yacht down at the waterfront and Dark Flo will be joining you.   She has all the details for your mission.”
            “OK…” Beryl paused as if to say more.
            “That’s not a problem is it?”
            “Not a problem.   I’ll be there sometime this afternoon.”
            Beryl felt a weight lifted from her mind – action at last, and an excuse to move on.  She really had enjoyed her time with Abdulla, but his affair with the blond English woman was doing much too much for his confidence after a short lifetime with nothing but his goats and camels.   Before long he would have become a pain.   It was better this way.   Quickly changing into her flying kit and throwing a few necessaries into a threadbare carpetbag she wrote a hasty note of thanks and regret and left it on the brass tray under a coffee pot.   It was but a short stroll to her Dragon Rapide.   Beryl checked the fuel gauge, waved goodbye to the cluster of Bedouin children that had gathered around and, buckling her flying-helmet under her chin, taxied to the makeshift landing strip.   She was airborne when she noticed Abdulla’s Toyota kicking up dust as it sped towards the camp.   She banked the Rapide, flew low over his pick-up truck and dipped the wings in salute before heading south.

Beryl found the seaplane swinging gently at its buoy as the tide turned.   She selected a café on the Aqaba Corniche, sat at an outside table, ordered a strong Turkish coffee and the fill of a shisha pipe.   She would wait for Dark Flo to contact her, and pulling a well-thumbed Penguin paperback copy of Freya Stark’s Valleys of the Assassins from her canvas knapsack, she settled back in the uncomfortable plastic chair.
            She had reread a chapter and a half and was beginning to drift when the winsome figure of Dark Flo appeared in front of her.   The thick black hair was plaited into a single pigtail down her back and a thin, sleeveless frock exposed bare brown arms and legs glistening damp in the heat of the early afternoon.   Flo sat, took a long drag on the mouthpiece of Beryl’s hookah and waved to a waiter.
            “A glass of mint tea, if you would be so kind.”
            “So…” Beryl beamed and leaned in close to her willowy companion, “What have you got us into this time?”
            “We’re going to Antarctica.   Well I am.   You’re to overfly New Swabia and I will bail out over some whaling station or other.   Larry’s heard from Bamse at last and it appears they’ve made a right hash of things.   So good old Ninja Flo gets to don a wingsuit and do her Wonder Woman act.
“Larry reckons it’ll be easier to find places on the way to set down and refuel with the amphibian than your Dominie.   So he’s lumbered us with that crate over there.”
            “Great.”   The pair giggled together.

They took a room in a family run, backstreet hotel for the night.   Throughout the nocturnal hours there was no let up in the clamour from the street and the fragrant air hung hot and humid.   They did not sleep much.   Next morning they had a breakfast of croissants and grilled halloumi cheese before setting off for the waterfront.   After some hard bargaining Beryl secured the services of a local felucca skipper and they were ferried out to the air yacht.   Flo produced the keys to the Loening and balanced on the felucca’s thwart as she reached for the door.   Beryl passed up their luggage and they clambered, without much dignity, into the seaplane.   Giving them an appreciative leer, the boat skipper sheeted in the large lateen sail on his skiff and veered away.
            Within the fuselage most of passenger seats had been ripped out to make room for additional fuel tanks.   An Elsan ‘Bristol’ chemical toilet and pipe cots had also been installed so that the duo would not have to go in search of accommodation every time they stopped for the night.
            “How far is Antarctica?   This is going to be real fun, I don’t think,” muttered Dark Flo as Beryl climbed to the open cockpit to begin flight checks.
            “Don’t know.   Check the charts.   And can you make sure they cover the entire journey?   I don’t want to be trying to track down a copy of ‘Admiralty 4075’ in some one horse South American back water.”