The Japanese Devil Fish Girl and Other Unnatural Attractions Part 17

'My what what?' Professor Coffin bridled.

'You then, sir,' said the swami unto George.

'Not really,' said George. 'I have a ca.s.serole due and-'

There was a deafening crack of thunder and the ship took a lurch. Gla.s.ses tinkled to the floor, occasional ladies fainted.

'I think you will find the experience uplifting,' said the swami, now helping George from his chair. 'Let us enliven the company and take people's minds from the raging storm beyond.'

And indeed the storm was truly raging now. Up upon the bridge the captain clung to the wheel. Sky-men cranked at stopc.o.c.ks, consulted big bra.s.s-bound pressure gauges, swung mighty levers, worried at flickering dials. Lightning tore the sky apart, and the great ship quivered and shook.

George was now upon the stage and most embarra.s.sed was he.

'Have you ever met me before, young man?' asked the swami.

'No, I have not, sir,' said George. 'I do not know you at all.'

'Well done, son,' said the swami. 'It is good to know that some of your mother's and my good manners have rubbed off upon you.'

The swami grinned out at the audience. The audience ignored him.

'What a miserable, stuck-up bunch,' whispered the swami to George. 'I'd rather do a Friday night at the Glasgow Empire.'

'Can we just get this over with?' George asked. 'I do not want my ca.s.serole getting cold.'

'All right then,' said the swami, and once more he addressed the dining pa.s.sengers. 'Good folk,' called he, 'offer me please your attention. I present for you this evening a metaphysical manifestation second to none. An elliptical navigation through the aethers of oblivion. A polymorphic endochromatical calcification, utilising serendipitous-'

'You are really just making this up as you go along,' whispered George to the swami. 'None of that makes any sense.'

'You expect sense, do you, George?' asked the swami. 'Amidst this h.e.l.lish maelstrom?'

And the h.e.l.lish maelstrom was growing by the minute.

'Hold on there,' said George to the swami. 'I never told you my name.'

'You are George Geoffrey Arthur Fox,' said Guru Gurami the Indian Swami. 'Here on a sacred quest.'

'Oh no you do not,' said George. 'I see through your game. The professor put you up to this, did he not? He told you my name. You do not fool me.'

'That man is the very Devil himself,' the swami's voice hissed at George's ear. But it was not the voice of the swami. It was the voice of Macmoyster Farl. 'Take care, young George,' said the voice of Farl. 'Take care in whom you would trust.'

'And I command you, rise rise!' The voice was that of the swami once more and shouted with terrible force.

George felt suddenly very odd, as if detached from himself. He was there, but he was not, so to speak.

George cried, 'What are you doing to me?' And then he just went, 'Waaaaaaaaaah!'

For George no longer stood upon the stage. George now floated in the air. The few diners who were actually watching this happen halted their takings of dinner. Forkfuls of loveliness hovered in mid-air, gla.s.ses paused before lips.

'Oh,' wailed George Fox. 'Let me down. I do not like it up here at all.'

But George was rising even higher now. Up towards the gilded frescoed ceiling. Up towards the crystal chandeliers. And the diners who viewed this now did nudgings at their companions. Nudgings were all the rage.

George spied from his uneasy eyrie a party of jovial Jovians, seated at table and giggling with mirth. It flashed briefly into George's consciousness, as he hung there in open defiance of gravity's best-known law, how quite unlike the folk of Venus these were. Big and jolly, given to raucous laughter, the burghers of Jupiter bustled and b.u.mbled about the Earth seemingly meaning no harm. Did Earth people hate them as much as they hated Venusians? George wondered. Although obviously not all Earth people, but- 'Help!' cried George. 'Help!'

The party of Jovians cheered.

Professor Coffin clapped his hands. Ada stared on, speechless. Darwin the monkey gibbered and jigged. Young Master Hitler did spittings in somebody's ca.s.serole.

'Down please, now,' called George to the swami. 'I have had enough now, thanks.' And as George struggled upon high, to the admiration of some, but still the complete lack of interest of others, a bolt of lightning struck the ship and it slewed wildly to port.

Tables and chairs, diners and waiters took to a sudden rush. Crockery tumbled, diners upended, falling gla.s.s shattered, chaos ensued. Another great flash and the ship slewed to starboard. Chairs, tables, diners and all rushed back. Up on high and seemingly coc.o.o.ned against gravity's urgent callings, George looked on in horror. Folk were being bowled about like dolls in a giant's toy box. A chandelier fell from the ceiling, statues toppled and smashed.

'Get me down,' cried George. 'Get me down!'

But Guru Gurami the Indian Swami had rolled away under a table. George caught sight of Ada Lovelace sliding by upon a waiter's tray and Professor Coffin clinging for his own dear life to the side of the makeshift stage.

Flashings of lightning, roarings of thunder, then a terrible grinding sound. More terrible, this, than the elemental thrashings in the sky, the sound was of machinery tortured into high-pitched whinings, growing to a devastating scream.

And then the voice of the captain came once more over the public address system. 'Ladies and gentlemen, er, lords and ladies and gentlemen and, er we are experiencing some problems with the electric turbines. We will-'

And his voice died away.

To the port side once more rushed all and sundry, hideously twisting, screaming and struggling.

Back came the voice of the captain once again.

'We regret that we will be forced to make an unscheduled landing. Unfortunately we are still some ten nautical miles from the paradisiacal island of Hawaii-'

And once more his voice died away.

An awful explosion roared from the rear of the airship.

The starboard turbine tore itself loose and plummeted down to the sea.

'. . . pa.s.sengers will please make their way to the lifeboats,' came the voice of the captain, then to be silenced for ever.

The lights went out in the great dining hall.

The Empress of Mars Empress of Mars was going down. was going down.

25.

The ill-starred airship's maiden voyage was coming to an end. A bitter and sorry end was this. The great doomed pleasure-craft wallowed and sank, down through the hideous maelstrom, gas bag ruptured, turbine mountings broken and ablaze.

Thrashing and clawing at one another like lost souls in one of Dante's less-than-cheerful lower circles of h.e.l.l, the screaming mult.i.tude in the great dining hall sought the salvation of the lifeboats. The credo of 'women and children first' found few followers here.

George looked down in horror as the living and the dead were hurled together in some ghastly danse macabre danse macabre.

Where was Ada? Was she dead? And where was the professor?

George struggled vainly and sought release from the magical force that held him, but it was as if he were enclosed within an invisible sh.e.l.l, protecting him from harm, whilst rendering him helpless to offer what a.s.sistance he could in this monstrous calamity.

The Empress of Mars Empress of Mars suddenly all but upended. Pa.s.sengers and crew, Earthfolk and others from elsewhere, tables, chairs and all the fine paraphernalia of first-cla.s.s dining, now joined by the stage, the grand piano, statues, pillars and whatnots, took one final terrible trip, over the dining hall floor, out through the windows and onto the storm-lashed promenade deck. suddenly all but upended. Pa.s.sengers and crew, Earthfolk and others from elsewhere, tables, chairs and all the fine paraphernalia of first-cla.s.s dining, now joined by the stage, the grand piano, statues, pillars and whatnots, took one final terrible trip, over the dining hall floor, out through the windows and onto the storm-lashed promenade deck.

And after them all travelled George, in surprising comfort considering the apocalyptic circ.u.mstances. He wafted gently, light as a bubble from a child's soap-sud meerschaum. Out and away into the sky.

Untouched by the storm, undampened by the rain, but reaching a point close to madness, George drummed his fists upon the interior of his invisible prison and called the name of Ada Lovelace again and again and again. And as he floated away from the airship, he viewed its terrible end. Lit by spreading fires now and the lightning's awful blaze, the Empress of Mars Empress of Mars, billowing and broken-backed, plunged into the storm-whipped ocean. Folk were fighting for the lifeboats now and overloaded vessels were tearing free of their moorings. The destruction was t.i.tanic, decks imploding, cabins tearing open. George looked on as the concert hall turned inside out, spewing seating and balconies into the foaming waves.

And George Fox turned his face away, for he could bear no more.

Shortly before the coming of dawn the storm lost its fury and ceased with its howlings and wrath. The gales dropped away, the lightning departed, the thunder no more to be feared. The ocean calmed to a palette of blues as sunlight fell upon it.

George awoke from troubled sleep to find himself alone.

Alone upon a beautiful beach and freed from his eerie coc.o.o.n. His fingers touched on silver sand, warm sunlight kissed at his striking chin. George rose upon his elbows, for he was flat on his back. Took in the idyllic surroundings, smiled to himself and then recalled all that had happened.

George's face did cloudings-over, George's stomach knotted. He climbed to his feet and he shouted Ada's name, but George was all alone. Before him, a sea of infinite blue; behind, a rising jungle.

George shielded his eyes from the early sun and scanned the distant horizon. Debris, bodies, lifeboats? George saw only blue.

Was he the sole survivor saved from the watery grave? Saved somehow by magic, or by G.o.d? George's thoughts went racing how had it come to this? Was what had happened his fault? Was he somehow horribly jinxed? A modern-day Jonah bringing doom to all he met?

George Fox sank down onto his knees and cradled his hands in prayer.

'Please, G.o.d,' prayed George, 'let Ada live. Send my soul to h.e.l.l in trade, but please let Ada live.'

A monkey shrieked somewhere in the jungle, causing George to lose his concentration. Had Darwin the monkey butler been washed ash.o.r.e alive? A monkey butler would prove a most useful creature to a shipwrecked fellow on an uninhabited island.

But then George's thoughts became further confused. What if this was not not an uninhabited island? Putting two and two together, George came up with a seemingly appropriate four by concluding that if not uninhabited, the island must therefore an uninhabited island? Putting two and two together, George came up with a seemingly appropriate four by concluding that if not uninhabited, the island must therefore be be inhabited. By cannibals! inhabited. By cannibals!

'Oh please spare me, baby Jesus,' prayed George Fox, so suddenly devout. Then George's stomach rumbled somewhat, adding further confusion by reminding George that he had missed his dinner the previous evening and was now extremely hungry.

George Fox sank once more to the sand and buried his face in his hands.

The sun rose higher in the sky, the tide gently nibbled the beach.

At length George rose to his feet once more and dusted sand from himself. He needed food. He needed to know how large the island was and what natural resources it had to offer. And most of all he needed to know if Ada Lovelace had come ash.o.r.e alive, unharmed and well.

And then George's thoughts moved on to what it would be like if only Ada had been washed ash.o.r.e, leaving only her and George upon the island. The thought of this this made George's spirits rise. He could picture the two of them building a tree house to live in, and of course employing the services of a monkey butler. Perhaps even raising a family. Before being rescued and brought back to London, where the royalties from the best-selling book of their adventures would comfortably keep them in a Mayfair mansion for the rest of their lives. made George's spirits rise. He could picture the two of them building a tree house to live in, and of course employing the services of a monkey butler. Perhaps even raising a family. Before being rescued and brought back to London, where the royalties from the best-selling book of their adventures would comfortably keep them in a Mayfair mansion for the rest of their lives.

George smiled broadly and stroked at his striking chin. Then he took a great big breath and marched along the beach.

'My stride,' said George, to no one but himself, 'would be approximately one yard. So if I count my footsteps I will be able to gauge the circ.u.mference of this island when I eventually return to the point of my departure.' It was logical thinking and George was pleased with it, and so, counting loudly to himself, he strode along the beach.

George whistled as he counted, a popular music-hall ditty of the day: 'Don't Jump off the Roof, Dad, You'll Make a Hole in the Yard'. George had but recently seen demonstrated at the music hall Mr Thomas Edison's patent wax-cylinder phonograph a wonder of modern-day acoustic science, whereby music could actually be recorded upon revolving waxen cylinders and then replayed by the application of a needle linked to a bra.s.s horn affair. And George had had wondered at the time, were he ever to be marooned alone upon a desert island, which eight waxed cylinders he would like to take with him. And which book also, a.s.suming he already had a Bible and the works of Shakespeare. wondered at the time, were he ever to be marooned alone upon a desert island, which eight waxed cylinders he would like to take with him. And which book also, a.s.suming he already had a Bible and the works of Shakespeare.

George plodded on, for plod he now did, his stride being all but gone. He had counted his way through three thousand footsteps, and he was all but done. But then George suddenly gave up the count and found a new spring to his step. Ahead along the beach lay wreckage. George ran forwards in hope.

This hope, however, was unfulfilled and George stopped dead in his tracks. It was certainly wreckage that lay on the beach, and considerable wreckage was this. But it was not the wreckage of the Empress of Mars Empress of Mars this was old and crusted. this was old and crusted.

A galleon? thought George. Perhaps. thought George. Perhaps. A pirate ship washed up with chests of treasure? A pirate ship washed up with chests of treasure?

There was not much that had not been recently covered by the mercurial mind of George Fox. Cannibals and tree houses. He and Ada as Adam and Eve and the desert island waxings. But this this was unexpected. was unexpected.

This was something different. was something different.

George approached this something gingerly. Not because he feared for his safety, but more through simple amazement.

That was was what he thought that it was, was it not? what he thought that it was, was it not?

Broken, ancient, barnacle-crusted and wrecked on a tropical beach, it had clearly been there a very long time, but it was was what he thought that it was. what he thought that it was.

'It is a s.p.a.ceship,' said George in amazement. 'It is an old-fashioned s.p.a.ceship.'

And there was no doubt at all in George's mind that that that was exactly what it was. An old crashed s.p.a.ceship. Centuries old by its looks. It was a big one too, although much of it was sunken into the beach and much more hidden from view beneath the incoming tide. Easily the size of a Martian war hulk or a Jovian trading vessel. was exactly what it was. An old crashed s.p.a.ceship. Centuries old by its looks. It was a big one too, although much of it was sunken into the beach and much more hidden from view beneath the incoming tide. Easily the size of a Martian war hulk or a Jovian trading vessel.

A Martian war hulk? George's thoughts grew busy again. Martians ate humans, this was well known. And where can you flee to on an island?

'No,' said George. 'They must all be long dead. Or rescued, probably rescued.' Would there be anything to salvage from the s.p.a.ceship? George's stomach rumbled urgently. Probably no food, George concluded, and he really needed some food.

Thoughts of food had not left George since he started his hike along the sh.o.r.eline. But he had not been keen to enter the jungle. Jungles George knew to be fearsome. He had already covered their fearsome potential. Explorers of the Empire were forever leading pioneering expeditions into jungles such as this one. Many never to be seen again. Small brown men with bones through their noses and blowpipes at their lips lurked in jungles such as this one. They shot at you with poisoned darts. Cooked and ate your tasty parts. Shrank your head and hung it on the wall. Why, small brown men with bones through their noses might well have eaten the crew of the fallen s.p.a.ceship. So they would certainly make short work of George, and he knew it.

'I am done,' said George. 'Doomed and done.'

And with that said he sat back down upon the sand, buried his face once more in his hands and had a good big cry.

And he would probably have continued to sit there upon that tropical beach, blubbering away and bewailing his lot, had not something brought this to an end.

It was a very sudden something and George did not see it coming. It struck him on the top of his head and felled him like a tree.

When George Fox woke up once again to find things not to his liking, it honestly did not surprise him at all. He was growing more than used to it by now. The only logical solution that he could call to mind would be not not to sleep at all. Sleeping led to waking and waking led to trouble. to sleep at all. Sleeping led to waking and waking led to trouble.

George awoke to trouble and did so with resignation.

He did manage a mentally exhausted, 'What now now?' but when he saw quite how matters stood, he viewed them fatalistically and did not make a fuss.

George was in a native village, in a clearing in the middle of the jungle. There was a ring of mud huts and George was at its centre. Little brown men with bones through their noses danced about all around George.

The style of their dancing was unknown to George, but he applauded its vigour. Or would have indeed applauded it had he been able to get his hands free. But George could not get his hands free because they were bound tightly to his sides. A feast was clearly being prepared as George could smell the soup. Vegetable soup, deliciously exotic.

George did sniffings at this soup. For he was very near to this soup. In In this soup in fact was George. this soup in fact was George.