The Educated Ape & other Wonders of the Worlds (3 page)

There
was hearty applause at this, for which his lordship politely paused.

Lord
Brentford continued, ‘The island was many miles from the nearest shipping lanes
and if I was to return safely to England, it became apparent that a seagoing
craft would need to be constructed. Under my direction the savages built such a
craft. With only the most primitive of tools at my disposal and a willing
though unskilled workforce, this task took more than three years to complete.

‘My
ship, the
Pride of Syon,
is now berthed at Greenwich.’ Considerable
applause followed this disclosure. Although one or two folk appeared. to be
finding interest in the Heavens.

Lord
Brentford continued once more. ‘During my time upon the island, when not
educating the natives or supervising their shipbuilding, I had pause to think
long and hard of our Queen and our Empire.’

There
was some applause at this but more folk now appeared concerned with the dark
sky above.

‘We
stand now upon the pinnacle of history, on the threshold of the twentieth
century. Great achievements have been attained, but greater still are yet to
come. It is my firm conviction that at this special time a Grand Exposition
should be held, to exhibit the Wonders of the Worlds. Just as the Great
Exhibition of eighteen fifty-one displayed the marvels of art and of industry
of this world, so, then, the Grand Exposition will showcase the skills and
sciences of the three worlds — Venus, Jupiter and Earth.’

The
Venusians displayed enigmatic expressions. The Jovians applauded with vigour.

‘More
than this, I contend—’ But here Lord Brentford paused, for more and more folk
were now gazing skywards. Gazing and pointing and shifting about in unease.

‘What
of this?’ The noble lord surveyed the crowd, then turned and raised his eyes
towards the sky. ‘Oh goodness me!’

Lord
Brentford. fled. He took to his heels with hands a-flapping and his legs
goose-stepping, too. Not alone in this was he, for now the crowd was all in a
panic, making to escape as best they could according to their capabilities,
running, screaming, tripping and falling, spreading as some human tsunami
across the lawns and gardens. Away, away to escape what was to come.

And
what was to come was tumbling down from above. It was a dark and terrible
something, as would strike much fear in all who saw it coming. Down and down it
tumbled, end over end, falling, falling, down and down.

Those
who saw it knew it for the awful thing it was.

A
battered Martian man—o’—war, such as was last seen during the Martian invasion.

Down
it came, this horrible ship of space, this ugly vessel built only for war,
moving now, it appeared, in slow motion, but moving ever down.

Until
finally it struck planet Earth with a mighty explosion, a rending and mashing of
metal and glass, of blood and bones and who knew what else. It rolled, it
skewed, it swerved, it crashed, and finally it came to rest its terrible self
upon the Bananary.

3

n
unholy silence prevailed in the gardens of Syon.

A
silence broken periodically by the occasional tinkling of glass, the settling
of stonework and the woebegone grindings of clockwork. For Mr Mazael’s
Clockwork Quartet now had a spaceship upon it.

Gone,
all gone, were the glitterati who had adorned the gardens with their fragrant
presences. Now but four folk stood amongst the ruin and the mess, four folk who
would probably be expected to play a major part in tidying it up: a portly
chef, an upstairs maid, a monkey butler in a fez and a bootboy factotum named
Jack. As Lord Brentford had neglected to issue them with instructions to run
for their lives, these obedient servitors to the noble one remained standing
where they had been told to stand, with heads politely bowed.

In
truth not all of them were standing, and those who were, were not quite as
clean and tidy as they had previously been. The spacecraft’s concussion had
blown off the upstairs maid’s bonnet, the portly chefs bald head was smutted
and the monkey butler had been toppled from his feet. He lay now with his legs
in the air, but his head was still bowed in politeness. And he still had on his
fez.

The
portly chef spoke first. He cleared his throat and said, ‘This is a pretty
pickle, to be sure.’

The
upstairs maid, both spare and kempt, said nothing.

The
bootboy, being cockney, tried to see the brighter side. ‘Well, if that ain’t
saved ‘is lordship the price of a gang of navvies to knock down that there
Bananary, you can poach my Percy in paraffin and use me for a teapot.’ Stealing
a glance at the ruination, he added, ‘Strike me pink.’

The
portly chef sighed deeply.

‘If
it’s Martians,’ the bootboy piped up, ‘I’ll go and cough on ‘em — I’ve a touch
of consumption on me. That’ll teach the blighters to come back.’

‘It
is not Martians,’ said the portly chef ‘I perceive this to be a Martian craft
converted for use as a pleasure vessel. There will be men aboard this craft,
not Martians.’

‘Men,
is it, guv’nor?’ the bootboy chirped. ‘And perceiving it that you’re a-doing?
What’s all that about, then?’

‘There
is something familiar about that spaceship,’ said the chef, helping the monkey
butler to his feet and dusting him down around and about. ‘Are you uninjured?’
he asked of the ape.

The
monkey butler looked somewhat startled, but as he
was
a monkey, he had
nothing to say.

‘I
suggest we enter the spaceship and tend to any survivors,’ said the chef.

‘You
might be wrong with your perceiving there, guv’nor,’ the bootboy had to say. ‘Best
we all just ‘ave a good old cough then ‘ave it away on our toes.’

‘Follow
me,’ ordered the chef and, turning to the upstairs maid, he said, ‘You should
wait here, my dear.’

The
upstairs maid remained silent and the chef took the monkey’s hand. If the monkey
harboured any doubts, none were apparent from his expression. He ran his long
and pointy tongue around his lips. There now were a very large number of
squashed bananas in the wreckage of the Bananary.

‘Follow
me,’ said the portly chef The monkey butler and the bootboy followed.

The
Martian hulk was a sturdy affair, and the collision with a glass-house had
barely dented it. Some of the paint-work looked a bit scratched here and there,
but the enamelled Union Jack and the nameplate were intact. The chef read from
the nameplate. ‘The
Marie Lloyd,’
he read. ‘That rings a bell with me
somewhere.’

The
bootboy slipped on a banana skin and fell upon his bottom. The monkey butler
laughed at this, for the classic humour of a man slipping upon a banana skin
transcends all barriers of race and species.

‘Ain’t
funny,’ said the bootboy, struggling up.

The
chef placed a plump palm upon the spaceship’s hull. ‘Hardly warm,’ said he. ‘It
has therefore not plunged down from outer space.’

The
bootboy tapped the hull. ‘Anyone ‘ome?’ he called.

‘Best
display a modicum of caution,’ said the chef ‘Stand back, if you will.’

The
chef threw the emergency release bolts of the spaceship’s entry port with a
degree of expertise that surprised even himself There was a hiss as atmospheres
within and without equalised, then the port dropped down to form an entry ramp.

‘Perhaps
both of you should remain here,’ the chef told the boy and the monkey. ‘If folk
are injured, their injuries may not be pleasing to behold.’

The
monkey butler munched a banana.

The
bootboy said, ‘I ain’t never been upon no spaceship. I’ll come in there with
you, if you please.’

‘And
you?’ the man asked the monkey.

The
monkey made a puzzled face, then twitched his sensitive nostrils.

‘Ah,’
said the chef ‘You smell something, do you?’

The
monkey glanced up and a strange look came into his eyes.

‘We
had better make haste,’ said the chef ‘Come on.

Many
of the Martian spaceships, abandoned by their occupants when they were struck
dead by Earthly bacteria, had been re-engineered for human piloting. The
British Government had taken control of all these spaceships and as they had
only landed in England, this meant that the British Government now had
effective control over
all
human space travel. This caused considerable
complaints from other countries, notably the United States of America, who
insisted that they should have a share of the captured technology.

Knowing
what was best for all, Queen Victoria decreed that space travel and the
exploration of other worlds would remain the preserve of the British Empire.
And also decreed that the one and only spaceport on Earth would be constructed
in Sydenham on lands beneath the Crystal Palace. The Royal London Spaceport.

A
number engraved beneath the name the
Marie Lloyd
indicated that the
crashed spaceship was registered there, rather than at one of the many
spaceports on Venus or Jupiter.

The
chef stepped up the entry ramp and entered the fallen ship. The bootboy
followed him then whistled, for just as most boys of the Empire had been told
the bedtime story of the Martian invasion, so too had most boys read comics
that displayed cut—away diagrams of spaceships’ interiors.

‘This
ain’t right,’ said the bootboy. ‘What’s all this ‘ow’syer-father?’

For
how’s-your-father there was a-plenty. The interior of the
Marie Lloyd
had
been stripped bare of all its fixtures and fittings, along with the dividing
walls between cabins, saloons and ‘excuse-me’s’, and within was crammed a vast
array of complicated electrical gubbinry. Tall glass tubes that flashed with
miniature lightning storms. Cables and copper coils. Intricate panels sewn with
valves that pulsated as if in time to a human heartbeat. Many and various wonders
and weirderies of the modern persuasion. Bits and bobs were sparking and
smoking and there was a definite sense that the whole damn kit and caboodle was
likely at any moment to erupt in a devastating explosion.

‘No
sign of any passengers or crew,’ said the portly chef, fanning at the air.
‘Best have a look in the cockpit.’

He
edged warily towards the prow of the crashed vessel. The monkey butler followed
and Jack the bootboy tinkered away with things he should not be touching.

‘Don’t
do that,’ the chef called over his shoulder. ‘And be prepared to run if the
need arises.’

The
door to the cockpit was jammed, so the chef put his shoulder to it. For a
portly fellow the chef was surprisingly strong. The door, a panelled-oak
affair, gave up an unequal struggle and toppled from its hinges into the
cockpit beyond. The chef then entered the cockpit, dusting himself down as he
did so.

Then
he came to a halt.

‘Oh
my,’ said he. ‘Oh my.’

‘Dead
‘un, is it?’ called the bootboy. ‘‘Ead knocked orf or somethin’?’

‘Wait
where you are,’ the chef called back and took another step forwards.

Within
the cockpit was a pair of seats, one apiece for pilot and co-pilot. Only one of
these was occupied and this by a curious being slumped over the controls spread
out before him. He was small and slight and wore a one-piece silver suit with a
modern zip-fastener running up the front. A single glance told the portly chef
that this being was not human. The chef stepped forwards and lifted him
carefully, setting him back in his seat. A face looked up, a hairy face, small
eyes blinked and a broad mouth opened and closed.

‘A
monkey,’ whispered the portly chef ‘A monkey pilots this craft.’

The
monkey butler took a step forward. Then took another one back.

‘There
is nothing to be afraid of,’ said the chef, and he stroked the pilot’s head.
This remark might well have been addressed to both monkeys. The one in the seat
made coughing sounds, while the other looked somewhat upset.