Apocalypso by Robert Rankin Page A

about…’
    ‘Here,’
said Dr Haney, pointing. ‘Now allow me to show you a blow-up of this area.’
    Danbury
examined this. ‘I see,’ said he. ‘We’re just here.’
    ‘And
that?’
    The lad
squinted. ‘Just off the southern coast. It looks to be…’
    ‘A star
with seven points.’
    ‘I see.’
    ‘It’s
there, my boy. Out there.’ The doctor gestured to the open sea. ‘Half a mile
away and in less than fifty feet of water. Thrown up by recent volcanic
activity, and waiting…’
    ‘For us
to recover it? That’s why we’re here, to recover it?’
    ‘Before
the Americans do. Steal a march on the blighters, eh?’
    ‘I see.’
    ‘Think
of the technology. This spacecraft would appear to be intact. This would make
it the first ever to be recovered in one piece. The advances in technology to
be gained from an examination of it are inestimable. This is a salvage
operation, Danbury. This is history in the making.’
    ‘I see,’
said Danbury once more. ‘Now just let me get this straight. You are suggesting
that we haul up an alien spacecraft and ship it back to England. An alien
spacecraft that in all probability contains a mad alien in cryogenic
suspension. A mad alien that, were he to get thawed out, has the mental power
to control human beings. To drive them to fulfil his every wild demand. To
drive them like cattle until they die. That is what we are here for.’
    Dr
Harney nodded. ‘Do you have a problem with that?’ he asked.
    Well…’ said Danbury Collins.

 
     
     
    6
     
    Well,’ said Mr Phart-Ebum.
‘Here we are and this is it.’
    Porrig
looked up. ‘Oh,’ he said, and, Wow, and I mean, oh yeah! All right!’
    The
shop front was magnificent. All pastel colours and understated elegance. Above
the broad window hung a chromium and pink enamel winged pig motif.
    ‘But I
thought you said that it wasn’t successful.’ Porrig stared awestruck and all
overwhelmed. ‘This is a Flying Pig bookshop. One of the great chain that began
in Crow Street, Dublin, with the now legendary O’Mealoid and Bacon partnership.
These shops carry the finest selection of sf, paranormal, cult, occult and
God-knows-what-altogether books in the world. They’re internationally famous.’
    Porrig
peered in through the window. Sophisticated customers, those smart young types
who still read books, browsed amongst the stylish shelves. Music that could
only be described as ‘cool’ came drifting through the doorway.
     
    Porrig’s heart rose
towards the heavens. He had really fallen on his feet this time. This was the
big one. To own a branch of the Flying Pig chain. This was wonderful.
Incredible.
    ‘Now, I
have your key here,’ said Mr Phart-Ebum. Where exactly did I put it?’
    ‘Never
mind about the key.’ Porrig rubbed his hands together. ‘Let’s go inside and see
how much money they’ve taken today.’
    ‘How
much what?’ Mr Phart-Ebum stared at Porrig and followed the direction of his
eager gaze. Then Mr Phart-Ebum began to laugh.
    ‘What
are you laughing at?’ Porrig asked. ‘Oh. nothing. I mean, well… you didn’t
think that … Oh, you did … Oh, I am so sorry.’
    What?’
    ‘You
thought that that was your bookshop. I really am so sorry.’
    What?’
    ‘That
isn’t yours. Yours is the one next door.’
    ‘What?’
    That
one there.’
    Porrig
stared. What one where? What shop?’
    ‘Right
here.’ Mr Phart-Ebum pointed. ‘But there isn’t any shop. Just a derelict
building with posters plastered all over it.’
    ‘The
shutters are a might gummed up, I suppose. But then they would be. No-one’s
opened them for thirty years.’
    Porrig’s
heart went sink
    sink
    sink.
    ‘Ah
yes,’ said Mr Phart-Ebum. ‘Here’s your key. Will I do the honours, or will you?’
    Porrig
looked up at the building. It was tiny. It was wretched. Paint hung from its
front wall in scabious flakes. The upper windows were fogged by the grime of
three decades. Most were broken. Pigeons cooed from roosts