Authors: Stephen Palmer
Hairy London (7 page)
She took it from her handbag and handed it to him. “What are you going to do?”
He strode to the great skylight that filled a quarter of the attic ceiling. “I am not going to let these Krauts get the better of
me,
dearest one.”
“But we’re trapped.”
“I am a member–”
“Of the Suicide Club.” Eastachia sighed. “Plan our escape, then.”
Kornukope, rattled at her lack of faith, peered south through the monocular; from his eyrie he could see much of the central city. “It may only have been a day since the hairy plague struck,” he said, “but already I espy a number of old Bismarckian steam engines floating through the air.”
“But they’re not on our side.”
“Union jacks sticking out in all directions, dearest one. They are ours all right. Probably commandeered by the government. That will annoy the Count! Now, if I could just signal to one...”
Eastachia fumbled inside her handbag to produce a make-up mirror and a Swan nightlight.
“Excellent! You are a marvel. You see, I know William Morris’ code, used by lunar explorers and orbital junkies. The pilots of the Bismarckian steam engines will too.”
“But if such an engine flies here, the Count will hear its pistons and shoot it down.”
“Trust me, dearest one. A Britisher would do nothing so stupid.”
Using the nightlight and the mirror to mask it, Kornukope proceeded to send out a stream of heliographical type signals. The nearest Bismarckian steam engine was a mile away, perhaps a mile and a half – floating over Regent’s Park. It would be a tricky operation, and lucky if the flashing nightlight was seen, but with no other option...
S.O.S. British gentleman and lady captured by Krauts of the Blutblitzen Zeppelin Corporation. Fly silent help to us. Britain in peril. S.O.S.
This message he repeated until his arms were tired from holding up the nightlight and mirror.
“That’s enough for tonight,” Eastachia said. “Maybe someone will come.”
He nodded. For a while they lay on their steel-framed beds in silence, until Kornukope heard a curious pattering on the skylight, as of thrown gravel upon glass. It was midnight. He leaped up, to see a silhouette blocking out the stars.
“A hot air machinora!” he said.
Eastachia got up, and in excitement they both stood by the window, peering out. The machinora was no more than forty yards away. Then a flashing message began, sent by automatic candle.
Major Smothers, London Town rescue services. Open the skylight and we will send out a plank for you to walk. Hurry, getting breezy.
Kornukope wrestled with the Wagnerian catch on the skylight, and at last got it open with the aid of Eastachia’s nail file. Cool night air blew into the attic. A plank with guide ropes emerged from the machinora’s wicker amplitude, which, after a tense minute, touched the roof outside the skylight, leaving Kornukope and Eastchia with a heart-stopping leap from sill to plank. With the breeze blowing and a hundred foot drop below them it was terrifying. Kornukope made Eastachia go first, knowing her courage might fail her if she was left alone. But she made it, then hurried along the plank. He followed.
They were free.
Kornukope shook Major Smothers’ hand. “At your speediest pace to Downing Street,” he said. “Never mind the lateness of the hour! I have most urgent news for the Cabinet.”
After a smooth flight Major Smothers landed his machinora at the Whitehall end of Downing Street, and although it was now long after one in the morning, Kornukope was reassured to see lanthorns burning in many of Number Ten’s windows.
“Crisis meetings – the hirsute menace,” he told Eastachia.
A rotund policeman let him into the building, whereupon he collared the on-duty Secretary, Flushman Canker-Hyphen.
“I need to speak to Lord Blandhubble at once! Or the Prime Minister. Very urgent!”
Flushman, who was known to Kornukope from their days at Beaten, was the model of Britisher calm. “Dear chap,” he said, “have some tea and relax. It’s only a bit of hair, nothing a good wash and cut–”
“You do not understand,” Kornukope said. “The Kaiser. The zeppelins.”
“Yes, I shall go now and fetch the FS, the PM is up late in emergency meetings with chaps from the RI. Have a seat, do. Good to see you again, Mrs Wetherbee.”
Ten minutes later Kornukope and Eastachia sat in Lord Blandhubble’s office, a tray of tea and honey biscuits before them. Kornukope spent two minutes detailing what had happened that day, before saying, “You have to get to Swiss Cottage soon. Tonight! Once they know we have escaped they will bundle the Kaiser into a horseless carriage and convey him to the nearest port.”
Blandhubble was a stern customer, who smoked a white clay pipe the size of a Cuban. “Very likely they will,” he said. “I shall put operations in motion directly. But you’ve done great work for your country today, Wetherbee, I’ll see you are on the King’s Christmas list for this.”
“There is something else you should know. Gristofer Furbally has a scheme to drop radioactivity over London from hundreds of aerial vehicles–”
Lord Blandhubble raised one hand. “Any scheme that involves aerial vehicles is not likely to find favour here,” he said. “With London hairy, such travel will be for the government only, or the army, and quite unusual at that.”
Kornukope felt his hopes fade. “But–”
“My dear fellow, you simply don’t understand the logistics. At the moment it’s difficult for us to get ten vehicles airborne, let alone Furbally’s hundreds. There will doubtless be a few private flying ventures – the journalists of Fleet Street are never less than ingenious – but nothing more.”
“What about travel on the tube, or railway?” Eastachia asked.
“Some Underground lines are clear, others are choked with hair. The railway network is reasonably clear however, and may come into its own as our response to the crisis develops.”
“But what shall we do now?” Kornukope asked. Already he felt left out of events, left behind almost.
Blandhubble puffed at his pipe, eyeing them both. “Interesting times,” he said, with the ghost of a smile. “You know, Wetherbee, the Germans were our number one suspect for all this hairiness, but it seems from Count von Flugzeug’s reaction that they’re not responsible. Yet we have two other possible enemies. One is a Leninist cell based in Bloomsbury–”
“Leninists!”
“Yes, indeed. But for you, I think, the more important focus of attention should be Mr Gandy in Kew.” He glanced at Eastachia. “You both could be of considerable importance to the government’s operations.”
“As a member of the Suicide Club I am of course at Britain’s disposal.”
“That goes without saying. But your wife...?”
Eastachia fidgeted in her chair. “What do you want me to do?” she asked.
“You’ll know the reputation of Mr Gandy, of course. He’s the very devil of a customer, and our covert chaps have been watching him for years. They lack the cultural side of things however, which you, Mrs Wetherbee, do possess.”
“I see. And our mission would be?”
“To infiltrate Nohandas Gandy’s Home Rule movement and discover if it is responsible for the hairy plague. Gandy is an absolute cad – he only employs violent means, refusing all offers of negotiation. We expel him of course, annually it seems, but he keeps returning to our shores, like a bad rupee. What do you think?”
Eastachia thought for a few moments then said, “I accept.” She smiled at Kornukope, then added, “
We
accept.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Valantina led Sheremy up to the attic of her house, which she had converted so that the roof and upper sections of the walls were like the Glasshouse at Kew, with all of the sky and much of nearby London visible. A breathtaking view.
Sheremy glanced at her. He found himself attracted to her, despite her forward, almost masculine personality and those hints of Suffering. Yet now – perhaps because of the evidence of her courageous rescue – he wondered if he really cared about that aspect of her. Yes, she was an active woman; daredevil possibly. But why shouldn’t a woman be more like a man?
Then he saw an object he thought he recognised. “What is this place?” he asked in a hushed voice.
“My lunar laboratory,” she replied.
“Then you are a lunar noble?”
“Only a minor one.”
Sheremy walked towards the object.
“You know it, don’t you?” she whispered, joining him.
“Damn, yes.” It was a small selenograph, not unlike the one he had retrieved from the Temple of Azure Lick in far northern Indoo. “But wait, Valantina! The Royal Institute holds the Rajah’s selenograph atop its roof. I service it once a year – I know it’s functional. We could use this selenograph to communicate with them.”
“I did not know about that,” she replied. “Yes, let us speak with Thitherto.”
That night Sheremy set up the selenograph’s wooden tripod, securing the feet upon a sideboard with brass screws. On the tripod seat he placed a frame made of thin slats of oak screwed together with copper pins, and into this frame he placed the moon disk itself – a foot in diameter and glowing yellow. He then checked the rotational movement of the frame; the moon disk turned with it. Then he placed a thin lens of glass in front of the disk, a fragile object slightly larger than the disk, that fitted into slots. With a graduated wooden strip he checked the distance between lens and disk, and then with a plumb line he checked verticality. Finally, he connected the moon disk to a box on the frame using moonflower stem-strings, which he unwrapped off the dowel that held them.
He was ready. He knew the direction of the Institute. Hopefully, some time tonight, a message would get through and there would be contact.
“There is a full moon tomorrow,” Valantina said. “The selenation will be strong.”
Sheremy grinned. The joy of selenography was that it did not work in straight lines; the other station could be miles away, behind a cathedral, behind even a mountain. Using a brass connector on the box to cut and remake the lunar link, he took from the box the selenograph’s earpiece and voicer. With one bakelite petal at his ear and the other at his lips, he cleared his throat and said, “Testing, testing. Sheremy Pantomile calling the Royal Institute.”
“How will they know you are calling?” Valantina asked.
“They will notice a yellow glow in their upper chambers. They’ll know it’s the selenograph receiving, and then somebody will come. Thitherto, hopefully, though that isn’t guaranteed.”
And so they waited. Other messages appeared, since selenography was not limited by straight lines or one-to-one contact; he had sent out his query as a ripple in a selenate aura. He heard: “Decent of you to find me a whole jar of Balinese oysters,” and, “Will you tell that wretched chimney sweep to stop making eyes at my wife,” and, most curiously of all, “The spinnaker of the orange whatsit bulges far too much for my liking, you’ll have us falling out into the hair!”
But at length Sheremy heard a voice he recognised. “Thitherto Frenulum here. Is that you, Sheremy? One of our cleaners said she saw a yellow glow. Sheremy, are you there?”
“Here, dear fellow. I’m free of the clutches of Murchison Volume. I’m with Valantina Moondusst, very close to the Thames, in her house. Is there aught we can do to assist the Institute?”
“Indeed there is. I have news for you. We urgently need to trace and speak with a man known as the Trichologist, thought to be living somewhere south of the river – in some kind of palace. This is exactly the sort of mission a chap like you is good for! Take your selenograph and deliver it to him. Then everybody at the Institute who wants to speak with him will be able to.”
“Who is he?”
“Don’t know exactly, but all our men in the field have been hearing rumours about him. We think he may be connected with the hairiness.”
“Right-o! Keep your eyes on the Rajah’s selenograph. Over and out.”
Valantina nodded. “So... we have our mission.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “And you were the one who facilitated it. Well done!”
She batted her eyelashes at him and said, “You flatter me, Sheremy.”
He grinned. Gosh, he liked this woman.
“But I have another secret,” she said. “Now I am here I have access to certain items my family brought from our lunar home when they repaired to London, the most important of which is the selenowiz.”
“The what?”
“It will be easier to show you.”
Valantina led him downstairs to the rear of the house, where a conservatory stood. Standing at one side was a vehicle composed of a great glass sphere six feet in diameter, covered with a tracery of iron, that supported it. A hinged gullwing door had been cut into one side. This sphere lay upon a black metal framework, that itself stood on four rubber tyres.
Sheremy said, “This vehicle will never forge a path through the hair.”
She laughed. “Ah, but you don’t know how it operates!” There came a twinkle to her eyes. “You see, the tyres are to support it at rest. A selenowiz
flies.
”
Sheremy nodded. “Of course...”
Midnight had come and gone. With Valantina in her bedroom, Sheremy wrapped himself in a mohair blouson and slept on a couch downstairs. They spent the next day preparing provisions and equipment for their expedition, until, as evening fell, they partook of cheese nudges and a poltroon soufflé in the conservatory; a final supper before they departed.
Sheremy put a hamper in the selenowiz boot, ensuring there was plenty of wine in it. Then Valantina opened the conservatory door and pushed the selenowiz outside. She closed and locked the door, placed the key on a chain between her breasts, then sat beside Sheremy inside the glass globe, pulling down the gullwing door so that its shutting mechanism clicked.
“Now what?” Sheremy asked.
“We wait for the moon to rise. Because it is full, the power of the selenowiz will be maximised. We can fly perhaps fifteen or twenty miles before the moths in the engine tire.”
“How long to wait?”
“A few minutes.”
Sheremy felt a hint of discomfort at being in such intimate proximity to Valantina. She had perfumed herself with lavender, he noted, and brushed her hair so that it shone. She wore a blue trouser suit and a formal pettiquette. He glanced down at his own stained clothes and felt only embarrassment.
The sky was clear, and soon enough they saw the moon rising over the eastern horizon, round and orange through a hair-induced mist. Valantina took a metal nose from the pouch at her side and pressed buttons, whereupon the selenowiz rose into the air. By pointing the nose – linked by moonflower stem-strings to the control juncture – she was able to steer the vehicle, and in moments they were flying over the Thames, the front of the selenowiz slightly lower than the rear, so that they had to sit back in their leather seats else fall out.
“Where shall we go first?” Sheremy asked.
“This Trichologist must have a palace of note if his rumour already spreads north of the river,” Valantina replied. “We’ll fly for a while and observe the land below us. Watch out for a hirsute palace unfamiliar to you.”
He nodded, gazing through the glass globe at the tenebrous city below him. In some houses elekertrick lamps burned, but many streets were dark from end to end, and he feared for the lives of their residents. Some communities had made camps by shearing great quantities of hair, and many of these camps were marked by blazing bonfires, but he knew such communities could not last long. The hair regrew. It covered all. Truly, it was a plague.
And then disaster. Valantina turned the selenowiz east so that the moon returned to view. She cried, “Sheremy, look!”
The moon was not round. A segment had been taken from it.
“An eclipse,” he gasped. “And we’re far from the north bank of the Thames.”
“We will never make it back... though I will try!”
But it was far too late. As the eclipse became full and the moon turned red the selenowiz descended like a discarded feather to the ground, chuttering as Valantina fought with the controls, then gliding into a lush crop of black hair. Everything went dark. The selenowiz halted, silent; they lay submerged beneath hair. Sheremy massaged a bruised shin, while Valantina sat back in her seat and sobbed.
He grasped her shoulders and pulled her to him. “There there,” he said. “We’ll find a way back. I’m a member of the Suicide Club, remember.”
She turned to him and wept upon his chest. “I am so sorry, Sheremy,” she said. “I should have checked the lunar timetable. It has been so long since I had anybody to take with me in the selenowiz.”
He kissed her cheek. “My dear,” he said, “I’ll expend every effort to save you... to save
us
from any unpleasant fate that might lie ahead. With me at your side...” He paused, considered who he was talking to, then continued, “... and with you at
my
side, we’ll forge a path back to Swan Lane. I do so swear!”
There came a noise of thumping outside the selenowiz. Sheremy jumped, peering into the luxuriant gloom. Pale lamps like frosted lanterns inside the globe gave some illumination, but he could make nothing out beyond the edge of the vehicle. Then the thumps returned, louder, and the hair moved outside.
Faces. Dark faces, bald, sweaty, with round white eyes. Grinning people holding tribal weapons.
“I believe the natives have located us,” he said.
~
Velvene was horrified by the cruelty he had witnessed at the Pentonville Road building, cruelty the like of which he had not known existed. Though he knew nothing about children, an unexpected feeling inside him, that he thought must be sympathy, welled up. He could not control this feeling, and he found himself weeping; not for himself, as he had in Highgate Cemetery, but for the boy Tyko.
He wandered along the road towards King’s Cross Railway station, pulling the clay figure behind him; forlorn, tired and bruised.
The smell of chocolate emanating from the station perked him up, and he realised he was hungry. Outside the entrance he saw a number of people holding placards with curious legends upon them:
Ban The Hair,
and
Equal Rights For Us And Them,
and, most curiously of all,
If You Can Read This You’re Educated.
One of the men grunted at him and tossed over a printed newspaper, which Velvene opened to scan the front page.
MARX IST-LENINIST TIMES
Emergency Editon!
LONDON ARISTOCRACY S PREAD HAIRY LIE
From our Russian corespondent.
The parasitic upper classes of London Town yesterday night spread a great ha iry blanket across us all, destroying the mobility of the working classes in a fowl m ove that Engels hiself could have predicted in
The Conditio n Of The Working Classes In England.
Tody every street in London town, every alley and passage is choked with hair that the aristocracyy can avoid becuase they have Archimedean floating systems, which only they can aford. Fight the reactionaries! Brothers and sisters unite! Many people who must through the c onditions of their lives go to work every day canot today go to work today. The govern ment is to launch an enquiry, but who will write it, and to who will they report? The landed gentry who rule us from Downing Street of course. The London aristocracy habve spread a
hairy lie.
Velvene glanced up at the slender, pale and unshaven man who had thrown him the rag. “Who are you, if I might ask?”
The man scowled at him. “More to the point guv, who are you?”
Velvene glanced down at himself, aware that his attire marked him out as a man not of the working classes – although his clothes were filthy and tattered. Moderating his accent as best he could he said, “I just heard a man whipping a little boy in the johnny cab down Pentonville Road.”
“Yes, they do that, the people who rule us. You only just noticed? What’s your name, guv?”
“Velvene... Orchard. I’m a sculptor, a destitute sculptor.” He glanced at the clay figure on the trolley behind him. “This is my latest work.”
“Yeah, right. Well guv, the nobs got us good and proper this time. The hair is designed to stop us moving about see, so they can control us even better.”
“Who are you people?” Velvene asked, his curiosity piqued.
“I’m Pertrand Urricane, leader of the Marxist-Leninist Workers’ Movement Of London. Glad to make your acquaintance, guv.”
Velvene nodded. He wanted to mention that he had met Karl Marx the previous day, but realised that Pertrand might consider that an opportunistic lie. So he said, “And what are your basic principles, eh?”
“We follow Marx and Lenin. You ever heard of Lenin, guv?”
“Vaguely.”
Pertrand smiled, then laughed and shook his head. “Ooh guv, you got some
very
tasty reading coming up. Lenin is the saviour, see, he’s got the theory that’s gonna bring down the Romanovs in Russia, and hopefully the aristocratic government over here. Marx, you see, he pointed out that the working classes is oppressed, but Lenin, he took it one stage further, saying that the final stage of capitalism is imperialism. So we gotta bring down the nobs.”
“Well,” Velvene said, “I think the, er, nobs might have a thing or two to say about that.”
“You know any nobs, guv?”
“Not me, no.”
“Hmmm. Only you
sounded
like you might.”
Velvene decided to change the subject. “Why are you protesting outside King’s Cross station?”
“’Cos some Romanovs is due here any minute, down from Balmoral or some such place of idle luxury. It’s our duty to protest. I’d knife ’em if I could.”
“Would you...”
