Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls (8 page)

“It’s preposterous,” said Blashford.

“I know, lad, I know.” Dr Trillby mimed a winning putt. “It had to happen eventually and now it has. And that’s OFFICIAL.”

“So what
will
happen next?”

Dr Trillby sighed once more. “Nothing, lad. Go home and put your feet up. Watch some old rerun on the television.”

“I could write a new TV series,” said Blashford. “Put a new spin on an old idea.”

“Been done. Every new spin that could be spun has been spun. We have been watching reworkings of reworkings of reworkings for more years than I care to remember.”

“But there will be news. New news.”

“News of what? There is no more crime, there are no more wars, there is no more sickness. Due to genetic modification, we all live to be exactly one hundred and seventy-five years old. The world is governed and run by Porkie and is as near to Utopia as it can possibly be. And that’s OFFICIAL too!”

“Space travel,” said Blashford. “What about space travel?”

“We have reached the limit of scientific achievement regarding space travel. No further developments are possible.”

“Nothing is impossible to science,” said Blashford.

Dr Trillby offered up what he hoped would be the final sigh of the day. “There was a time,” said he, “when that was probably true. The time of St Charles Darwin. At that time everything seemed possible and perhaps was possible. But that time has now passed. All that science can achieve has been achieved. Do I need to have this engraved upon a mallet and beat you over the head with it?”

“I’ll hold him down if you want,” said Clovis.

“That won’t be necessary. Now, I’ve said all I intend to say on this matter. All, indeed, that can be said. I am off to tog up in my Fairisles. Goodbye, gentlemen, and thank you very much.”

“I’ll join you, then,” said Clovis. “I always beat you anyway.”

“Only because you cheat, Clovis. Only because you cheat.”

“Dr Trillby, sir.”

A reedy little voice spoke up. The doctor in his turn looked down.

“Ah,” said Dr Trillby. “Fourth Man Tripper, experts’ expert. What have you to say?”

Fourth Man Tripper gained his feet

And tiny feet they were.

Small boys mocked him in the street

Because he dressed in fur.

Fourth Man Tripper ran his thumb

Through golden head of hair.

Fourth Man Tripper, rarely dumb,

Pushed aside his chair.

“For a chap with only three days to live,” he said to Dr Trillby, “Your calmness does you credit.”

Dr Trillby consulted the lifespan chronometer he wore upon his wrist. “Your calculations are somewhat amiss,” he told Fourth Man Tripper. “I have another one hundred and five years, four months, three days, two hours and one minute to go before my clinical death, my next recloning and rebirth. I shall be around for many centuries to come. Such are the perks of being a scientist.”

“You will die in three days’ time,” said Fourth Man Tripper, reedily. “And you will not be recloned again or reborn. I have rechecked all the calculations and I can assure you there are no bum stains on
my
knickers.”

“What are you on about, Tripper?”

“Inevitable consequences, sir. The inevitable consequences of THE END. It was all in the report that I left on your desk. Perhaps you did not get around to reading it.”

“Perhaps I did not.”

“Pity, sir. But it’s definitely three days. The projections suggest that you die on the golf course. The mob beats you to death. Someone rams a number nine iron right up your—”

“Hold it right there, Tripper. Is this some kind of joke? Because if it is, then I can tell you it’s not a new one. All jokes have been done. And most by the end of the twentieth century.”

“It’s no joke, sir. Clovis here dies. Blashford dies. The mob will slay us all. The figures do not lie. They’re Porkie’s figures, after all.”

“Good old Tripper,” said Blashford.

“Eh?” said Clovis.

“I said, good old Tripper. He’s come up with something new. It’s not THE END at all. No, hang about. Me too? I die too? Why should I die? What have I done?”

Fourth Man Tripper thumbed some more at his goldy locks. “It’s not so much what you have done. It’s more a matter of what you can no longer do. Would you like me to explain? Would you like me to tell you what is going to happen and why it’s going to happen?”

“If you must,” said Dr Trillby, casting wistful eyes towards the window. “But if this is a joke—”

“What will you do? Sack me?”

“Just say your piece.”

“Thank you, sir.” Tripper flicked imaginary dust from a furry cuff. “Everyone on the planet has known for months that THE END was coming. There aren’t any secrets any more, much as we would like there to be. Every home has a terminal, every terminal is linked to Porkie. Information is currency and all are mighty rich.”

“Good line,” said Blashford. “New line?”

“No, it’s not,” said Dr Trillby. “Get on with it, Tripper.”

“Everyone knows,” said Tripper, “we are on Porkie’s camera even as we speak. The details of this meeting are already being processed to be broadcast worldwide on the mid-morning news. That the end has come will be broadcast. All the world will know. What do you suppose will happen next?”

“A mad rush to the golf course,” said Dr Trillby. “But happily I will have finished my round by then and be enjoying the hospitality of the nineteenth hole.”

“No,” said Tripper. “You really should have read my report. What will happen next is this. Everyone will sit about in bewildered silence, taking in the enormity of it and then they will say to themselves and to others, ‘No, this cannot be,’ and ‘It can’t be THE END,’ and, ‘You can’t tell me we now know everything there is to know and have done everything there is to be done.’ And then they will all rack their brains and try to come up with something new. But they won’t be able to, because there’s nothing new to come up with. And then do you know what they’ll do?”

“Play golf?”

“No, they won’t play golf. They’ll look for someone to blame. That’s what they always do. You see, the man in the street might hate change, but he always wants something new to enjoy. Nature of the beast, I suppose. And when the man in the street can’t get what he wants he looks for someone to blame.”

“Now just hold on,” Dr Trillby raised his hands. “You’re not suggesting that the man in the street will blame
us
?”

“Who else would he blame? Scientists have been running this planet for thousands of years, supplying the needs of the people. Improving life. That’s what scientists do, after all.”

“Some say,” said Clovis.

“Shut up, Clovis,” said Dr Trillby. “But blame us, Tripper? Blame us? After all we’ve done for the man in the street?”

“
Done
, is the word,” said Tripper. “We can’t
do
any more. The mob will rise up and slay us all.”

“Are you sure about this? Are you sure about the calculations?”

“They’re Porkie’s calculations.”

There was a moment of silence. Each man alone with his own thoughts.

And then they all spoke.

Together. Well, three of them, at least.

“It’s all Porkie’s fault,” they said.

Tripper shook his head. “And who built Porkie? Scientists, that’s who. I’m afraid, gentlemen, that we are in the shit here. If we can’t come up with something to please the man in the street very very fast, we are in the shit.

“And
that’s
OFFICIAL!”

“Anyone for golf?” asked Dr Trillby.

“Golf?” said Tripper. “Golf?”

“And why not?”

“I would have thought that was patently obvious.”

Dr Trillby made a breezy face and spoke in an airy manner. “We cannot stop what cannot be stopped. We are scientists and as scientists we must adopt a detached attitude. Even to our own extinction.”

“Bollocks to that,” said Clovis.

“I tend to agree with Clovis on this occasion,” said Blashford.

“And so do I,” said Dr Trillby. “But then I have known Tripper for more years than our cat’s had an interesting disease that I programmed into its genes to entertain my daughter. Look at that big smug smile on his face. You know a way out of this mess, don’t you, Tripper?”

“I may do.”

“Then we’re all saved!” Blashford cheered. “Tripper’s got a new idea. Three cheers for Tripper.”

Tripper fondled his cuffs. “It’s not a new idea,” he said. “In fact it’s a very old idea. But I think it’s going to do the trick.”

Dr Trillby glanced towards the window. “The sun rises higher,” he said. “I shall be late for my round.”

Blashford grinned at Tripper. “Tell us all about it, old buddy,” said he.

“You creep,” said Clovis. “You fatty fatty creepy creepy creep.”

“And it’s not
my
plan,” said Tripper. “It’s Porkie’s plan. But if all goes successfully, as I’m sure it will, I will have no hesitation in taking all the credit.”

“And if all goes poo-shaped?” asked Dr Trillby.

“As I said, it’s Porkie’s plan.”

“I thought we’d agreed that we couldn’t blame it on Porkie,” said Blashford.

“Do shut up, lad,” said Dr Trillby. “Let’s hear what Tripper has for us. It’s going to be very good, isn’t it, Tripper?”

“Very good indeed, sir, yes.”

“Then go on, lad. Let’s have it.”

“Thank you, sir.” Tripper preened at his lapels. “The answer to all our problems can be found in two words,” he said.

There was a moment of hushed expectation.

“Time travel,” said Tripper.

There was a moment of terrible groaning.

“We’re all doomed,” said Dr Trillby. “I really should have guessed.”

“Please hear me out.” Tripper knotted tiny fists. “I know what you’re going to say.”

“That time travel is impossible? Well there, I’ve said it. I’ve said it before, if I recall.”

“But it’s not, sir.”

“But it
is
, Tripper. Time travel is impossible. If it hadn’t been impossible we would have come up with it before THE END.”

“But we did, sir.
I
did, sir. Well,
Porkie
did, sir.”

“Porkie did
what
?”

“If you’d read my report, sir. It was all in there. Porkie’s final innovation. His final gift to mankind, before THE END. He must have been working privately on it for centuries. Having projected precisely when THE END would come and what the consequences would be, our murders and his own destruction—”

“Porkie’s destruction?”

“The mob, sir. When the mob has done with us, they do with Porkie too.”

“But if they destroy Porkie, that will be the end of mankind.”

“So many ends all in a single week, sir. I don’t think it can be coincidence, do you?”

“Charlie’s beard!” said Dr Trillby.

“Language, sir,” said Tripper.

“So you’re telling me that Porkie has come up with a method of travelling through time?”

“That’s what Porkie says.”

“And how does it work?”

“Ah,” said Tripper. “Well, Porkie wouldn’t tell me that.”

“He’ll tell
me
,” said Dr Trillby. “I’m the director of the Institute.”

“
Were
, sir. We’re all out of a job now. Don’t you remember?”

“But I … but I …” Dr Trillby huffed and puffed.

“There’s really no problem, sir. Porkie has agreed that one of us can test the system to make sure that it’s safe, before he puts it online for everyone.”

“Everyone?” Dr Trillby clutched at his heart. “Everyone?”

“The man in the street,” said Tripper. “Time travel will keep the man in the street happy for centuries to come. For ever, probably.”

“No no no!” Dr Trillby sank into his chair and fanned himself with an unread report. “This is madness, madness.”

“Why, sir?”

“Because, because, oh, come off it, Tripper. You know why because. How many books have been written on the subject of time travel? Thousands, millions. Not to mention theoretical papers. Not to mention plays and movies. How many
Terminator
sequels have there been?”

“Several hundred,” said Blashford, “and all of them killers. Although they have tended to get a bit samey over the past few years.”

“My point is this,” said Dr Trillby. “We all know the drill. If someone from the present was to go back into the past, anything they did, anything at all, would affect the future. The very fact of them being there would affect the future. And that’s just one person. Think about those geeky fanboy types who sit all day at their home terminals discussing old music with their online cronies. Imagine what damage even one of them might do.”

“That’s why it has to be tested, sir. To make sure it’s safe. But Porkie says that it is safe. According to Porkie, the past is fixed. It cannot be altered.”

“And if Porkie is wrong?”

“Perhaps the mob would settle for Blashford.”

“What?” said Blashford.

“Just my little joke. But I trust Porkie, sir, and frankly I don’t think we’ve got any choice.”

Mournful sounds issued from the face of Dr Trillby. They came through his mouth and they quite upset his colleagues.

“Come on, sir,” said Tripper. “Porkie’s planned it all out. One of us makes the trip and attempts to make a tiny alteration to the past and—”

“Hold on there,” said Dr Trillby. “It has just occurred to me that we keep talking about the past. What about the future?”

“Can’t be done, sir. Porkie says that the past is fixed and nothing exists beyond the present.”

“But Porkie has already managed to predict the future. The number nine iron up the … and suchlike.”

“Those are just projections, sir. Of what will happen given certain circumstances. The future is not fixed. Only the past.”

“It all smells,” said Dr Trillby. “But go on with what you were saying. Someone attempts to make a tiny alteration to the past.”

“Yes, sir, and then returns to the present and we’all check to see whether anything has changed.”

“And what if it has? What if there are disastrous consequences?”

“Then that same person returns to the past and undoes what he has done. Arrives back a minute earlier than the time before, waits for his original self to arrive and then tells him not to do the thing he was originally going tb do.”