Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls

8

Being the professional he was, Neville took it like a manly man. He didn’t flinch and he didn’t tremble. He didn’t even break out in a sweat.

He would later admit in his bestselling autobiography, Same Again: The Confessions of a Full-Time Part-Time Barman, that the incident had shaken him severely and that he was never the same man ever again, be that manly or not.

It had shaken others who’d witnessed it, but none so deeply as Neville, who’d had to slip away afterwards and sit down quietly and dab his wrists with lemon juice and pray.

But then it had come as a terrible shock and the more Neville thought about it, the more inclined was he to believe that it couldn’t actually have happened at all.

But it had.

It really had.

Jim Pooley had walked into the Flying Swan in the company of twelve sweetly smelling young men in black T-shirts and shorts and he really-truly-really-really-truly had stood them all a round of drinks.

Thirteen pints of Large and all purchased by Pooley.

No wonder Neville would wake up in the night, all cold sweats and screaming.

And it wasn’t just the matter of the purchasing of all those pints. It was that in the shock of it all, Neville had committed a cardinal sin. He had forgotten about the Swan’s dress code, which forbade the wearing of shorts in the saloon bar. He would never live that down at future Lodge meetings. The brothers of the Sacred Order of the Golden Sprout would make him the butt of many a bitter joke.

But it had happened.

It really truly had.

“Cheers, Neville,” said Pooley, accepting his change and, to the part-time barman’s further horror, thrusting the coins straight into his pocket without even bothering to count them.

Neville slipped off for that quiet sit-down. Pooley led Geraldo to a table.

“It’s a nice pub, this,” said the fattish bloke, seating himself upon a comfy cushion. “Very quiet, very sedate.”

“And the finest beer in Brentford.” Jim raised his glass and sipped from it. “Which is to say, probably the best beer in the world.”

“It’s not at all bad.” Geraldo took a mighty swig. “Although last week I had a beer in a New Orleans bar with Robert Johnson—”

“The Robert Johnson?”

“The Robert Johnson.”

“Who died in nineteen thirty-seven.”

“You know your bluesmen, Jim.”

“And so, apparently, do you. But listen, Geraldo. I’ve bought you the beer and so I’d like to hear the story. On the understanding, of course, that it is now beyond the ten o’clock watershed.”

“What is the ten o’clock watershed?” Geraldo asked.

“It is that time of the night when men in bars who have sufficient alcohol inside them begin the telling of tall tales, which generally conclude with the words ‘and that’s the God’s honest truth, I’m telling you’. This is considered acceptable social behaviour in bars. It’s a tradition, or an old charter—”

“Or something,” said Geraldo. “I get the picture.”

“And,” Jim continued. “Those who listen to such tall tales never ever respond by saying, ‘You are a lying git.’”

“Even if they are?” Geraldo asked.

“Even if they are.”

“Very civilized,” Geraldo said. “But what I’m going to say is the God’s honest truth, I’m telling you.”

“You’re supposed to say that at the end. But never mind, just please tell me your story.”

“Right.” Geraldo took another pull upon his pint and finished it. “I’d like another one of these,” he said.

“After you’ve told your tale.”

“Right.” Geraldo set down his empty glass and rubbed his podgy hands together. “Where to start. OK, I’ll start at the end, because that’s where it all began.”

Jim sighed inwardly. So far not so good, he thought.

“The end,” said Geraldo, “came about at precisely ten seconds after the ninth minute of the eighth hour of the seventh day of the sixth week of the fifth month of the year four thousand, three hundred and twenty-one. The scientists at the Institute confirmed this and that made it OFFICIAL.

“Ten – nine – eight – seven – six – five – four – three – two – one. That was zero hour, you see.”

“I don’t,” said Jim. “But I do see a flaw in the calculations.”

“Then well spotted, Jim. The scientists didn’t spot it, however. But whether that has any bearing on how things worked out I’m not sure. Now, I’m going to tell you what happened in the form of a story. I’ll do all the voices and when I describe each character I’ll do it in verse.”

“Why?” Jim asked.

“Because I’m a bit of a poet.”

Jim sighed outwardly this time.

“And I wasn’t actually there when it all happened. But I watched and heard it all, because I’d hacked into the closed-circuit surveillance video at Institute Tower. I was hooked into Porkie, you see.”

“The Single World Interfaced Network Engine?”

“The very same. So just sit back and drink your beer and I will tell the tale.”

And so saying, Geraldo told Jim the tale. Doing all the voices and describing the characters in verse.

The tale had chapters and titles and everything.

And this is how it went.

It was a conclave and a cabal. A council and a conference.

They were a synod of scientists. A bothering of boffins.

Top of the tree, these fellows were, in the fields of their endeavour. The back-room boys with the front-room minds and the lofty aspirations.

The year was 4321. It was early on a Sunday morning. It was rather later than it should have been in May.

The conclave and the cabal was held in the big posh high-domed solar lounge at the top of Institute Tower.

The tower itself was a monumental cylinder of pale pink plasti-glass, which thrust from the Earth like a raging stonker and buried its big knob end in the clouds. It was a testament to technology, a standing stone to science.

It was an architect’s vision.

The architect was a man.

The scientists were all men, of course. There had never been a lot of room for girlies in science. And so, on this very special day, there were four of them present and these were the last men who worked in the tower. These were the final four.

A thousand years before, when it was first constructed, the tower had housed hundreds of the buggers. Buzzing around like albino bees, with their white coats and their clipboards in their hands. They scratched at their unkempt barnets with the butt-ends of Biros. Chalked calculations on bloody big blackboards. Drank lots of coffee from styrofoam cups and wore those atrocious ties with little cartoons of Einstein, which folk always give to scientists for Christmas and scientists always wear to show what jolly chaps they are.

Those had been the days, my friends.

But those days were all gone.

Now there were only four of them left and soon these four would be gone, like the days had been gone. So to speak.

It was all down to knowledge, you see. For it was knowledge that had brought about THE END.

The director of the Institute was Dr Vincent Trillby. He was a man of considerable knowledge and, as it was he who had called the conclave into being, he was the first man to speak.

Though not as tall as bigger men

He didn’t lack for height.

His chest was trim

And his hips were slim

And there wasn’t a pimple in sight.

His eyes were grey

As a cloudy day,

And he carried himself in a confident way.

He was dapper and sleek

And when he rose to speak

He was rarely obscure. He was never oblique.

“Gentlemen,” said Dr Vincent Trillby, rising from his antique chromium chair and casting a grey’n over his three colleagues, who sat about the black obsidian-topped table. “Gentlemen, we all know why we’re here. It’s a regrettable business, but we all knew it had to happen eventually. The final papers are in. The calculations cross-check. The big clock on the wall is counting down and when the long hand reaches the tenth second past the ninth minute that will be it. THE END.

“And that’s OFFICIAL.”

The three men mumbled and grumbled and shifted in their chairs and drummed their fingers on the tabletop. They didn’t like this at all. But they all knew that it had to happen one of these days and they all knew that the calculations had to be correct.

After all, the calculations were Porkie’s and Porkie’s calculations were always correct.

“Gentlemen, the clock.”

The three men turned their eyes towards the clock and watched the final seconds tick away, tick tick tick, the way those seconds do. The long hand crept around the face, reached the tenth second past the ninth minute.

And then stopped.

“So that’s it,” said Dr Vincent Trillby. “THE END. Not with a bang, nor even a whimper, just with a big full stop. And not even a big one. But that’s it, gentlemen, our job here is done and I’m away to the golf course. Don’t forget to clear your desks before you go and the last man out please switch off the lights.”

Following a moment of rather bewildered silence, a plump hand rose shakily into the air-conditioned air.

“Blashford,” said Dr Vincent Trillby. “You have some apposite remark you wish to favour us with?”

“Something like that, sir, yes.”

“Onto your fat little feet then, lad, spit the fellow out.”

Blashford rose, a podgy youth.

A lover of women, a lover of truth.

The top of his class in advanced trigonometry.

Branches of physics and snappy geometry.

Though rather sweaty down under the arms

He was popular due to his eloquent charms.

And his optimism.

“Dr Trillby,” he said, in a polite and measured tone. “Dr Trillby, I am aware, as we all are, that this is THE END. There is no room left for doubt. If I might, perhaps, liken science to a lady’s silken undergarment. I, for one, would not expect to find the skidmark of error soiling its gusset. We, as the last men of science, know that everything that could possibly be achieved has now been achieved. That science has finally advanced to a point beyond which it cannot go. That all that can be done has been done. That—”

“Is there some point to this, Blashford?” Dr Trillby mimed golf swings. “Because I can hear the fairway calling.”

“Dr Trillby.” Blashford toyed with his tie. It had little cartoons of Einstein all over it. “Dr Trillby, sir. I do have to ask you this.”

“Well go ahead, lad, do.”

“Dr Trillby, what does it mean?”

“Mean, lad? Mean? It means that it’s THE END. That’s what it means. Mankind has come to a full stop. There can be no further progress. You said it yourself. All that can be done has been done. Everything.”

“If I might just slip a word in here.”

Clovis Garnett rose to speak.

Clovis with his fiery mane.

Clovis with his ruddy cheek.

Clovis with his ankle chain.

Clovis with his bright red blazer.

Clovis with his bright red tie[7].

Clovis sharp as any laser.

Fixed them with his cherry eye.

“I think, sir, what Fatty Blashford is trying to ask—”

“Oi!” cried Blashford. “Enough of that fatty talk.”

“What our esteemed and magnificently proportioned colleague is trying to ask—”

“That’s more like it,” said Blashford. “Nice tie, by the way.”

“What he is trying to ask,” said Clovis, “is: what happens next?”

“Nothing,” said Dr Trillby. “Nothing happens next. That’s the whole point of THE END. Nothing happens after it. Nothing can happen after it.”

“You’ll be playing golf,” said Blashford. “That will be happening.”

Clovis sniggered. “There’s nothing very happening about golf,” said he. “Golf was never a happening thing.”

Dr Trillby sighed. “All right,” he said. “I know it’s Sunday and I know it’s early in the morning and I know this is all very upsetting for you. So, as a special favour, I will run through it all just the one more time and then I am off to play golf.”

Three pairs of eyes, two pairs blue and one pair red, fixed upon Dr Trillby. Dr Trillby spoke.

“We have all read the Holy Writ of Saint Charles Darwin,” he said. “On the Origin of Species has been taught in every classroom and preached from every pulpit for nearly two thousand years. Mankind evolved, through the Will of God, by means of natural selection. Had natural selection continued, mankind would have continued to evolve. Into what? Who can say. A race of gods, perhaps. But the point is moot. Mankind did not continue to evolve. And for why? Because of science.

“During the latter part of the twentieth century and the earlier part of that following, natural selection ceased. Advances in medicine, food production, welfare, genetic modification, science, saw to it that all survived. Not just the fittest. But all.

“No more survival of the fittest. No more evolution.

“So, as human evolution had ceased, it became inevitable that the human race would one day reach a cut-off point. When mankind had finally achieved everything it was capable of achieving; when every book had been written, every piece of music composed; everything capable of invention invented; everything that could be accomplished accomplished. The lot. The entire caboodle. All. There is now nothing that anyone can think of that hasn’t been thought of before. It has all been done. Everything. We have reached THE END.

“And with that all said, again, would any of you now redundant fellows care to join me for a round of golf?”

“I have a question,” said Blashford.

“Perhaps you do, lad. But not one that hasn’t been asked before.”

“But what if I thought of something new?”

“You can’t, lad. There is nothing new that can be thought of.”

“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.”

Clovis rolled his rosy eyes. “Now what could possibly go wrong with a plan like that?” he asked.

“Nothing,” said Tripper. “Trust me.”

“Hold on again.” Dr Trillby raised his hands again. “What is all this, trust me? You are not under the mistaken apprehension that you will be making this trip, are you? If anyone is going to make this historic journey that someone will be me.”

“Your bravery is an example to us all, sir. That’s settled, then.”

“Hold on, hold on, hold on.” Dr Trillby flapped his hands about. “You’re not putting up much of a struggle.”

“Why should I, sir? Once you’ve proved it’s safe, which is to say once you’ve survived the journey with mind and body intact, I’ll have plenty of opportunities to take as many trips as I like.”

“Hm.” Dr Trillby made the face of thought. “Perhaps it would be better if you made the first journey,” he said. “After all, it is your project.”

“That’s settled, then.”

“Eh?” said Dr Trillby.

“Snookered,” said Clovis.

Blashford said, “Perhaps we should put it to a vote.”

Dr.Trillby shook his head. “Let’s just get on with it,” he said. “How do you propose to run this test, Tripper?”

“Very simply and very safely, sir.” Tripper rootled in his furry briefcase. “I have here today’s newspaper.”

“Anything new in it?” Blashford asked. “Any new news?”

“None whatsoever.” Tripper held the paper up for all to see. Its headline read, NO NEWS AGAIN: AND IT’S OFFICIAL.

“Are you thinking of changing that, then?” Dr Trillby asked.

“No.” Tripper returned the newspaper to his briefcase and placed his briefcase on the table. “My intention is to travel just two hours into the past and waylay the newspaper boy before he delivers the newspaper to my house. If I return from the past with the newspaper in my hand, then it will mean that the past can be changed and we shall have to abandon the whole thing.”

Dr Trillby nodded. “Seems safe enough,” he said.

“I see a flaw in this,” said Blashford.

“Shut up, lad. Go on, then, Tripper, explain the mechanics of the thing. Is there a time machine you travel in?”

“Time machine!” Clovis rolled his rosy red’ns again.

“It’s all done with this.” Tripper displayed the lifespan chronometer on his scrawny wrist. “Porkie will download the program into the chronometer. All I have to do is set the coordinates and the time and date and press ‘send’. Simple as making a telephone call.”

“What are these coordinates?” Dr Trillby asked.

“Of the place where I wish to materialize in the past. I can’t just materialize here, can I? Two hours ago the Earth hadn’t reached this spot in space. The coordinates have to be absolutely precise for the journey there and the journey back. Porkie has worked it all out. It’s all in the program.”

“Porkie thinks of everything,” said Blashford. “But—”

“No buts,” said Dr Trillby. “How do you download the program, Tripper?”

“Simple as can be. I just type into my chronometer the words DOWNLOAD TIME TRAVEL PROGRAM and wait thirty seconds.” He did so and they waited. “There,” said Tripper. “I’m on line. So now I type in time and date and projected location.” He did this also. “And I’m ready for the off.”

“Will you vanish in a puff of smoke?” Clovis asked.

“Don’t be sarcastic,” Dr Trillby told him. “This is a historic moment.”

“It won’t work,” said Clovis. “This is all a wind-up.”

“Ignore him, Tripper,” said Dr Trillby. “Go on, do your stuff”

“But, sir.” Blashford made pleadings. “Please listen, sir. There is a serious flaw.”

“Do it, Tripper,” said Dr Trillby.

And do it Tripper did.

Geraldo paused in his tale and rattled his empty pint glass on the table.

“Don’t stop,” said Jim. “What happened next?”

“Well,” said Geraldo, “what do you think happened next?”

Jim thought about this. “That’s a tricky one,” he said. “If he did come back with the newspaper, that would have proved that the past could be changed, so they would have had to abandon the project. But if they had, then you wouldn’t be here. But you are here. But according to you, the past can be changed …”

“Go on,” said Geraldo.

“Well,” Jim continued, “if he didn’t come back with the newspaper that would have proved that the past couldn’t be changed. So they would have gone ahead with the project. Which they must have done, because otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

“But the past can be changed,” said Geraldo.

“So did he come back with the newspaper, or didn’t he?”

“Both,” said Geraldo. “Or possibly neither.”

“Both, or possibly neither?”

“Things got a little complicated. Allow me to explain. You see, Tripper travelled back into the past and tried to get the newspaper. But the newspaper boy wouldn’t give it to him. In fact he punched Tripper on the nose. So Tripper returns to Institute Tower with a bloody nose and no newspaper. He explains what’s happened and Dr Trillby says he’s a stupid boy and to go back and try again. So Tripper travels back into the past again, making sure that this time he arrives a bit earlier, so he can sneak up on the paper boy from behind. And he’s just doing this when he sees his original self materialize in front of the paper boy.”

“This is the Tripper who got the bloody nose,” said Jim.

“That’s right. We’ll call him Tripper number one.”

“So the other one is Tripper number two.”

“And so on.”

“And so on?”

“Allow me to explain. Tripper number one sees Tripper number two creeping up behind the paper boy and he thinks, Ah, this must be the plan I worked out in case something went wrong. This is myself coming back to tell me not to get the newspaper. So Tripper number one backs off, resets his chronometer and zips into the future. Meanwhile Tripper number two has grabbed the newspaper when the paper boy isn’t looking and is about to zip into the future when Tripper number three arrives on the scene.”

“Who’s Tripper number three?”

“He’s Tripper number one, who’s returned from the future where Dr Trillby has told him that he’s a stupid boy too, and to go and have another try at the newspaper.”

“And does he have the bloody nose?”

“No, because he never got punched.”

“But if he didn’t get punched—”

“He does get punched. By Tripper number two.”

“Why?” asked Jim.

“Because he tries to grab the newspaper off him. And that’s when Tripper number four gets into the fight.”

“Who’s Tripper number four?”

“He’s Tripper number three, who goes back further into the past to find a stout stick to defend himself against Tripper number two. Are you sure you want me to go on with this?”

“No,” said Jim. “I don’t. How many Trippers were there in the end?”

“Dozens. Coming and going and going and coming. I counted at least six of them fighting in the solar lounge at one time. But, do you know, I never did see whether any of them had the newspaper.”

“So I assume that the time travel project was abandoned.”

“Sometimes it is,” said Geraldo. “And sometimes it isn’t. Things have become a little unstable in the future.”

“But they did put it online?”

“Oh no,” said Geraldo. “They never actually put it online.”

“This is all beyond me.” said Jim. “If they didn’t put it online, how did you get here?”

“I nicked it,” said Geraldo proudly. “As I said, I watched and heard everything, because I had hacked into Porkie. So when Tripper explained how to download the program, I hastily downloaded it as well.”

“But after you saw all the chaos, how could you even think of using it?”

“Wouldn’t you have done the same?”

“Well,” said Jim, “the prospect of time travel is very appealing. I could certainly win a lot of money on the horses.”

“Yeah, and screw up the future. We took a vow to change nothing. We’re fanboys and all we wanted to do was travel back to the twentieth century and see all the great bands play. All the originals.”

“Like the Beatles, for instance?”

“Exactly. We agreed to meet up at different gigs. But Wingarde never showed up here, and now I know why. He’s been travelling about through time, saving famous rock stars from early deaths.”

“It’s a very noble thing to do,” said Jim.

“It’s chaos,” said Geraldo. “And it’s all my fault. I should never have trusted him.”

“You weren’t to know,” said Jim.

“Yes, but I should have known. It’s in his genes, you see. He can’t help the way he is. His father was the same and his grandfather before that. All trying to live down the family name.”

“Why?” Jim asked.

“Because they had an ancestor in the twentieth century who made a fortune.”

“What’s so bad about that?” Jim asked.

“It was the way he made it. He cheated and so his name became a household word, meaning a dirty rotten scoundrel.”

“Oh,” said Jim. “It wasn’t Branson by any chance, was it?”

“No,” said Geraldo. “It was Pooley. The scoundrel who pulled off The Pooley.”

Sing us your old sea shanty, Ted.

Said crowds of little nippers.

As ancient Ted sat in his shed

Cooking his ancient kippers.

Well, said Ted, there’s one I know

Of days on masted brigs.

With scupper hold and casks of gold

And outboard schooner rigs.

Eh? went the nippers, levelling bricks at him.

Ted sang his shanty.

’Twas in the year of ’fifty-two

Aboard the black ship Didgery Doo,

With Captain Rolf and his mutinous crew

That I went out a-whaling.

We left the port five days behind

Out west the great white whale to find.

We waved at Drake on the Golden Hind

As he leaned over the railing.

At last with rations running low

And Rolf boy running to and fro,

We spied a whale off the starboard bow

And shouted, cool and groovy.

And Captain Rolf put down the mate

And came across on a roller skate,

And said, I think we’ll have to wait,

I’ll miss the midnight movie.

So after we had watched the show

We lowered little boats to row,

And got our harpoons out to throw.

But by that time the whale had buggered off.

“And?” said the nippers. “What happened next?”

“Nothing,” said Ted. “That was it. I did see a mermaid on the way home. But I’ll tell you all about that another day.”

The nippers entered into a brief discussion, arrived at a consensus agreement and, without further ado, stoned old Ted to death.