The Brave and the Bold: The Beefeater and G’nort

Where’s the Beef?

by Brian K. Asbury

“Turn left here to get to the sea front,” said Sandie Bremmer, studying the road map on her lap.

“You been here before?” asked Sergeant Dennis Harris, who was driving.

“Only once, when I was a kid. My family were on holiday in Torquay and we came down here to Brixham for a day. I remember being pretty disappointed because there was no beach, just a harbor with lots of fishing boats and some antique warship or other that had been used in a TV series in the sixties. The ice cream was pretty good, though…”

“IF you don’t mind!” came a voice from the back of the car. “We’re not here to indulge in either childhood nostalgia or ice cream. The local police have called us in because of reports of a crime involving meta-human activity. We’re here to assess the situation and investigate if necessary.”

“You sound doubtful, Ken,” said Sandie, turning to look at her boss Ken Hanson, who was catching up on some paperwork in the back seat.

“‘Doubtful’ is the word, Sandie. Why do you think I didn’t call in the rest of your team? Given who lives at one of the addresses on that list you have, this could all turn out to be one total waste of police time. And if it is, a certain somebody is going to have the book thrown at him!”

Sandie – who, as well as being the forensic investigator for Hanson’s department, was also the super-hero known as Cameo – looked over the list. “According to the map, the hotel is the first of these addresses we’ll be coming to, sir.”

“Good. That should give us some idea as to whether there’s any truth to these stories or they’re just something that moron has made up to get our attention!”

A few minutes later, the unmarked police car pulled into the driveway of a hotel on a hill some half a mile away from the town itself. “Looks a bit run-down,” commented Sandie.

“Much like its owner,” was the grumpy remark from behind her.

The car stopped and the three police officers got out and made their way to the front door. Inside was a not unpleasant vestibule, although to the left was an archway that looked only half complete and ready to cave in at any moment. Next to it was a sign announcing that this was the way to the dining room. “Doesn’t bode well, guv,” said Harris.

“No…” Hanson stepped up to the reception desk and was just about to slap his hand down on the bell when a woman emerged from the office behind it. She was wearing a blue twin-set and pearls and her hair was dyed a very unlikely-looking peach color.

“My God, it’s Maggie Thatcher’s Even More Evil Sister,” whispered Harris into Sandie’s ear. The Afro-Caribbean girl stifled a giggle.

“Welcome to Fecktiffe Manor,” said the woman, her voice dripping sugary sweetness. “I am Lisa Fecktiffe, the manageress and co-owner. Have you reservations?”

“Not exactly,” said Hanson, producing his warrant card and waving it under her nose. “We’re the police. I’m Detective Chief Superintendent Hanson of the Department of Crimes Involving Non-conventional or Exotic Means or Abilities. My colleagues are Sergeant Harris and Dr. Bremmer. We’ve been called here because -”

“About time!” said Lisa Fecktiffe, interrupting him. “You know, I have made sixteen separate calls to you people since yesterday afternoon and this is the first response I’ve had.”

“If I can ex-”

“The trouble is that he’s made so many reports about the most trivial of things that they don’t take him seriously any more. Like those German tourists whom he accused of trying to start World War III? Or the young Australian lady he wanted arresting for soliciting on the premises, just because she wanted to share a room with her boyfriend? And of course, because I have the misfortune to be married to the great long streak of pomposity, it rubs off on me. Well, I don’t think that’s very fair, do you? But it’s typical of Michael, I have to say. Everything he touches turns to … well, you can see for yourself.”

She pointed to the precarious-looking archway. “I told him not to use that cowboy McFeeney, but would he listen? Of course not. Never listens to a word I say to him, I don’t know why. I told him to hire a reputable builder, but no. McFeeney is cheap. Yes, of course he is. And you can see the result, can’t you? Now we’re waiting for the firm I wanted to use in the first place to come and put the drunken Irish layabout’s botch job right, and it’s going to cost three times as much as it would if he’d got them in in the first place instead of going behind my back.”

Hanson seized on a fortuitous pause for breath. “Mrs.. Fecktiffe, we’re not here about dodgy builders. We’re here because -”

“Because of my husband. I know.”

“Your husband?”

“Of course. Michael Fecktiffe. My husband. You know him as the Beefeater, God help us. And he’s been abducted by an alien monster!”

Hanson’s brain did a series of flip-flops that would have put a Russian gymnast to shame. “Er… that isn’t quite what we were told, Mrs. Fecktiffe. The crime reported involves the theft of a -”

“Yes, yes,” said Lisa, waving him to silence. “Let me get you a nice cup of tea and we can talk about it in more civilized surroundings.”

She stepped out from behind the desk. “Jesus! Jesus!”

“What’s she doing?” whispered Sergeant Harris to Sandie.

“Well, it sounds to me like she’s calling to Jesus.”

“You reckon she’s some sort of religious nut, then?”

“I dunno. Maybe she’s hoping that a pot of tea and cups will miraculously appear.”

“Well, that’d certainly put the hotel on the tourist map, San. ‘Come to Fecktiffe Manor in sunny Brixham and witness the Miracle of the Holy Teapot’!”

Sandie sniggered in response, but a withering glance from Hanson silenced them. The senior officer was about to speak when a short, bowlegged, mustachioed figure dressed as a waiter ambled out from beneath the archway. “Si, Missus Fecktiffe?”

“Ah, there you are, Jesus,” said Lisa. “Tea for four in the lounge, pour favor. Chop chop!”

The waiter scratched his head. “¿Que?”

“Oh, dear.” Lisa mimed pouring tea. “Tea-o? For quattro?” She held up four fingers. “In lounge-o?” She pointed to an area off to the right of the reception desk.

The waiter looked doubtful for a moment, then light seemed to dawn in his eyes. “Oh, si. Si! Righto away, Missus Fecktiffe, innit!” And he scuttled away towards the lounge.

“Thank you, Jesus, dear,” Lisa called after him.

“Jesus?” said Sandie. “Er… excuse me, but shouldn’t that be pronounced ‘Hey-zoos’?”

“I don’t know, dear. He’s from Lisbon. Who knows what sort of things they get up to over there? One simply can’t get good British staff these days. This way, please.”

She started towards the lounge. The three police officers followed after her, Hanson shaking his head in exasperation. “Why me?” he said.

The lounge was, at least, comfortable, although the fabric of one of the chairs had a strange fraying which Sandie thought looked suspiciously like rat bites. The hyperactive Jesus buzzed around, issuing each of them with a cup and saucer and spoon, and only after some urging from Lisa remembering to pour any tea into the cups. As Hanson reached for the milk jug, Jesus shoved a plateful of sticky-looking, half-melted chocolate biscuits under his nose.

“No thank you,” he said, trying to wave the waiter away.

“¿Que?”

“No, por favor. Or whatever. Go away. Vamonos!”

“Ah, si. I go, innit?”

“Now, this is more civilized, isn’t it?” Lisa was saying. “I always say to Michael, there’s nothing that can’t be solved by just sitting down and talking it over with a nice cup of tea – but, no, he has to rush, rush, rush around all the time, losing his rag at the slightest provocation and thinking he can solve all the world’s problems by just patching things up here and there and hoping nobody will notice the join. I blame that father of his, you know – mad as a hatter, he was. The things I could tell you about him…”

Hanson slammed his cup down on a coffee table which had mysteriously appeared at his elbow. If he didn’t get down to business soon he was going to lose his grip on reality! “Mrs.. Fecktiffe, if we could get back to the reason we’re here. We have a report of a missing boat, apparently stolen by person or persons exhibiting unusual abilities. Nothing has been said about alien monsters!”

Lisa glared at him. Sandie decided she had better step in. “Mrs.. Fecktiffe, you say your husband has been abducted by aliens? Would you care to elaborate on that?”

Lisa smiled at her. My God, thought Sandie, it’s like being smiled at by a praying mantis!

“Of course, my dear. It all began two days ago. My husband, as you know, was injured back in December trying to play one of his silly super-hero games. Well, our doctor has advised him to take things easy and stay at home, but Michael never could listen to advice…”

 

***

 

Twenty hours earlier…

The rain drizzled down over the deserted Brixham quayside – deserted, that is, except for one man who mournfully dangled a fishing line into the water. Michael Fecktiffe might have been considered either ridiculously optimistic or woefully stupid for trying to catch fish in the polluted harbor, but in fact he was motivated by neither optimism nor stupidity. It was simply his way of getting away from it all – or rather, getting away from his wife and the hotel for a while. It was infinitely preferable to sit here in the cold and wet with more hope of catching a polar bear than a fish than to spend any more time than was necessary in the company of the Iron Lady of Torbay.

It should have been so different, he mused sulkily. He should have been out there in the wider world, rubbing shoulders with the like of Superman and Green Lantern, not stuck here in a dead little corner of England watching a nylon line droop mournfully into the grey April sea. Why did everything he try have to go so horribly wrong? Why couldn’t he have enjoyed the success his father had had in the hero business?

He sighed. He knew what it was. Maurice Fecktiffe had had the advantage of being caught up in a war – in THE War, World War II. He had met a renowned Yankee hero and become his partner-in-derring-do, sweeping across Europe together and bashing the Nazi swine wherever they found them – even at one point confronting Hitler himself in his bunker, according to Maurice.

Michael paused in his reverie. Well, THAT particular story did seem a bit far-fetched even to him – but Lisa said it was rubbish, so it must be true! That was what England needed, though – another war. Oh, there had been that Falklands nonsense a few years back, but that hadn’t been a PROPER war. How could it have been, when the armed forces had refused to let him join up and go over there and fight? Oh, Mrs. Thatcher (God bless her) had called it a glorious endeavor, but let’s face it, he thought, who were we fighting? The Argies, for Christ’s sake! A bunch of corned-beef-munching dagos with no stomach for a real fight! Not foes worthy of a real hero like himself.

In fact, he mused, that was probably why the Army had turned him down. Nothing to do with his bad knees, of course – that was just an excuse. What they really meant was that the likes of Michael D. Fecktiffe were too valuable to waste fighting against low-grade enemies like the Argentineans. Second stringers were good enough for them: why else would Prince Andrew have been the only member of the Royal Family sent out there? Surely, in a real scrap, the Queen (God Save Her) would have insisted on Charles mucking in?

Of course, that was before he had found his father’s old golden scepter of power, much less got it to work, and long before his decision to follow in Maurice’s footsteps.

But even then, it had gone horribly wrong. Nobody would take him seriously. It didn’t help that the bloody scepter never seemed to want to work when it mattered, but even when the chance came to really make a name for himself, during the Invasion by the alien alliance, he had been treated with scorn and derision by the very people he had been trying to help. Well, he mused, at least the girl who had handed him back his scepter when he had dropped it had been pretty – very pretty, in fact. He found his thoughts straying into … No! he scolded himself. Pretty she may have been … pretty, young, blonde, smooth-skinned, lithe, slim, full-breasted and … Stop it! Heroes should not have such thoughts!

She WAS nice, though, an inner voice thought. Ah, yes, another part of his personality cut in, but remember her voice? A Yank, for sure. Probably a student. Even worse!

He sighed and forced his thoughts back to more recent events and his last couple of attempts to establish himself as England’s Number #1 hero. He still could not fathom why Mrs.. Thatcher (Long may she govern!) had turned down his offer to be her bodyguard, but then even more incomprehensible was how perhaps his best opportunity to date to get into the big time had gone so badly pear-shaped. He had faced a real super-villain in London and triumphed! All right, so it was only the Cluemaster, but HE had stopped him! He, Michael Fecktiffe! On his own! Unassisted!

Yet nobody knew about it. The bloody police had stolen all the glory, and he had ended up in hospital suffering from multiple burns and contusions after that godforsaken scepter had discharged in his face and thrown him the length of the alley where he had confronted the Cluemaster and into the path of a taxi! (Thank God, he considered, it was a London taxi and therefore by definition moving at a snail’s pace!)

Which brought him to the present, four months later, his wounds healed but his super-heroic career still not off the ground. His costume and scepter were sitting in the boot of his car only a hundred yards or so away, but any chance of winning glory for himself seemed much more distant.

He looked up at the grey, soggy sky and raised his fist. “You bloody hate me, don’t you? You know I deserve better than this, but you just won’t let me have any of it, will you, you vindictive swine? You know, my old dad told me ‘never trust a bloke with a beard’, and now I know why!”

Oh, but he’d show God – and Lisa – and that prat of a copper at Scotland Yard – and that lovely, lovely blond Yank girl (ahem!) – what he was made of if only he could get the chance. If only someone would try to rob Barclay’s Bank in the High Street while he was around. If only some super-villain looking to enhance his reputation would appear and challenge him to a fight…

And at that moment, a hand clamped tightly upon his shoulder. “At last! I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

Michael leapt to his feet, dropping his rod over the side and nearly following it. For a second or two, he perched perilously on the edge of the quay, wind milling his arms crazily to regain his balance. Finally, he lurched away from the edge to confront the newcomer.

“Well, thank you very much,” he said shrilly. “Nearly give me heart failure, why don’t you?” He glared at the little man in the brown boiler suit who stood there with an apologetic expression on his face and was about to launch into a tirade of abuse when he remembered… “My rod! My bloody rod!”

He dropped to his hands and knees and peered over the side. Fortunately the rod had not dropped into the water but had snagged on a projecting bit of stone on the water side. He reached down and retrieved it, but the line was a tangled mess fit to confound a latter-day Alexander the Great.

“Look what you’ve done, you bloody hooligan! God, what a bloody mess! It’ll take me hours to untangle this lot – as if I’ve nothing better to do!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Fecktiffe, I didn’t mean to startle you,” said the little man, peering at the tangled nylon spaghetti through bottle-bottom glasses.

“Oh, well, that’s all right then,” said Michael. “You’re sorry.” He picked the rod up and brandished it. “Sorry makes everything better, doesn’t it? If only Hitler had said ‘sorry’ to the Poles. ‘Oh, that’s all right then, Herr Hitler, why don’t you come over to Warsaw yourself and we’ll talk about it over a nice cup of tea’.”

“If I can do anything to make amends, Mr. Fecktiffe, then rest assured that I shall. But may I have a word with you?”

Michael blinked at him. “What about?” His eyes screwed up as he recognized the other man. “Don’t you run the cycle repair shop in the High Street?”

The little man smiled. “That’s right, Mr. Fecktiffe. Privet’s the name. Colin Privet of Privet’s Pedals.” He held out his hand.

Michael glared at the hand suspiciously. It was covered in oil. “Yes? What can I do for you?”

Colin Privet withdrew his hand sheepishly. “As a fellow local businessman, Mr. Fecktiffe, I was hoping I could count on your support.”

“My support? For what? A campaign to sabotage the nation’s angling community?”

Privet ignored the barb. “For the anniversary campaign, Mr. Fecktiffe.” He gestured out into the harbor, where an ancient-looking sailing ship was bobbing on the tide.

“Anniversary? Of what?”

“Of the Spanish Armada, Mr. Fecktiffe. 1588 and all that? England’s hearts-of-oak jack tars fending off the threat of King Philip and his mighty fleet of galleons?”

“Er…”

“As you may know, Mr. Fecktiffe, I have been newly elected as Chair of the Chamber of Commerce, and we intend to celebrate the 400th anniversary of the rout of the Armada by sailing around the coast of England in this magnificent replica of Sir Francis Drake’s gallant ship, the Golden Hind.” He pointed again to the sailing ship in the harbor.

Michael regarded it suspiciously. The ship was a more or less permanent fixture in Brixham harbor and had been for as long as he could remember, but he had never really noticed it before. “Is that what it is?” he said. “I thought it was just something to bring in the tourists. A museum attraction or something.”

“Well,” said Privet, “it is, I suppose. But the Golden Hind is perfectly seaworthy. It was, after all, used in a television series about Sir Francis Drake in the early nineteen-sixties.”

“Really? I remember that series.” Suddenly Michael’s interest was aroused. The Adventures of Sir Francis Drake had been a favorite of his as a boy, along with a half dozen or so similar ‘historical adventure’ series which seemed to have been a craze among British TV production companies at the time. Robin Hood, William Tell, Sir Lancelot, Ivanhoe (with Roger Moore, no less, in the lead role!)… and was the deck of that ship really where the actor Terence Morgan had had all those wonderful adventures as Queen Elizabeth I’s favorite freebooter Drake?

“Mr. Fecktiffe? Mr. Fecktiffe?”

Michael’s eyes came back into focus. “What?”

“The anniversary campaign, Mr. Fecktiffe? I was asking you whether we could count on your support?”

“My support?” Michael felt himself come back down to earth with a bump. “Oh… I SEE! All right, how much?”

“Sorry?”

“Cash. How much do you expect me to part with to help fund this grandstanding gesture of yours?”

Privet adjusted his glasses. “Oh. No, no, no, no, no. You misunderstand me, Mr. Fecktiffe. I’m not after money.”

“You’re not? What ARE you after, then?”

“Well, we at the Chamber of Commerce feel that local business should show solidarity behind the campaign to bring more tourists to Brixham, and, as a hotelier, you do have a vested interest in such.”

“Yes?”

“Well, the planned voyage around the coast of England isn’t until next year, of course – the actual anniversary of the Armada. But we’d like to drum up support with a preliminary trip this year – just down the coast to Dartmouth, where Drake actually sailed from.”

“And?”

“And we’d like as many of said local businessmen to be on her when we make the trip, Mr. Fecktiffe – including yourself, if you would.

“So how about it, Mr. Fecktiffe? Will you sail with me on the Golden Hind in the footsteps of Sir Francis Drake?”

Michael’s imagination went into overdrive as he pictured himself standing proudly on the prow of the Golden Hind as it cut smoothly through the waves. “Me?” he said dreamily. “You want ME to captain this fine ship?”

Privet held up his hands. “Ah… ah… no. Not captain it, Mr. Fecktiffe.”

Once again Michael fell back to earth with a bump. His eyes narrowed as he stared at Privet. “Why not?”

“Um… we just want the local business community to be passengers, Mr. Fecktiffe. For publicity. We intend to hire a professional crew.”

“And who’s the captain? You?”

“Er… well…?” The panic in Privet’s eyes said ‘yes’, but he shuffled uncomfortably on the spot, as if struggling to think of a compromise. “Of course…” he said at length, “if you’re an accomplished sailor yourself…”

“An accomplished sailor?” said Michael. “Me?” His mind raced. “Er… yes. Of course I am. Don’t you know that, man? Have you got any idea to whom you are speaking?”

Privet’s brow furrowed. “No…?”

“I was winner of, the, er…” A voice started to scream inside Michael’s head that it was probably no use quoting anything Privet might have heard of. “… of… the… ah…”

“Yes?”

“The Isle of Dogs annual yacht race,” Michael said, suddenly inspired. “Yes, that’s it. Won it seven years running. 1970 to 1977.”

“That would be eight years running, then.”

“Would it? Oh… ah… yes, of course. It wasn’t held in 1974 because of the, the, er… the miners’ strike.”

Privet looked doubtful. “The Isle of Dogs? Isn’t that in London?”

“Do you know London well, Mr. Privet?”

“Hardly at all.”

A wave of relief flowed over Michael. “Well, then, I’ll have you know that the Isle of Dogs race is regarded as perhaps the toughest in Britain.”

“Is it? I can’t say that I’ve ever heard of it,” said Privet, scratching his head.

“Really?” said Michael. “And you want to be captain of the Golden Hind. Well, well…”

“Er…”

“Tsk, tsk. Dearie me. Well, I SUPPOSE you know what you’re doing. I mean, if you have the backing and confidence of the Chamber of Commerce…”

“Well, to be honest, no firm decision has really been made as to who should be appointed to be captain…”

“Excellent! I mean, well, I’m sure you’ll make the right choice. Well, shall we take a look at this magnificent galleon of ours?” He set off around the quayside before Privet could answer.

The little man hurried up to catch him, but said nothing, evidently deep in thought. Gotcha! thought Michael. This is it! This is my opportunity to put Michael D. Fecktiffe in the spotlight, where I belong! In fact, he mused, if he could think of some way to put the ship in danger so that the Beefeater could come to its rescue, even better!

Even so, the little voice in the back of his mind kept trying to remind him that, a) there was no such thing as the Isle of Dogs Yacht Race, b) even if there were, it was actually impossible to sail around the Isle of Dogs as wasn’t a real island but just an area of London nestling in a loop of the Thames, and that (and this was the real biggie) c) he had never sailed anything in his life – in fact, he hated the sea with a vengeance and even got seasick on the Isle of Wight ferry!

However, he ignored the warnings as he basked in imagined glory, both for himself and for his costumed alter-ego. He strode on purposefully around the harbor…

“Mr. Fecktiffe?”

Michael stopped and looked back. Privet had stopped. “You’ve gone past the gangplank, Mr. Fecktiffe. It’s right here!”

Reddening slightly, Michael walked back and followed Privet up the gangplank onto the ship. His stomach lurched uncomfortably, despite the fact that the ship was moored securely in a harbor that was as calm as a millpond.

“Isn’t she a beauty?” said Privet. “And she’s authentic in every respect. Imagine, this is what Sir Francis Drake would have seen every time he boarded the original Golden Hind. Well, there would have been sailors, of course, but there will be, Mr. Fecktiffe. When we take her out to Dartmouth there’ll be a full complement of crew on board in authentic period costume.”

Michael said nothing. He was starting to realize the folly of letting his imagination get the better of him as he fought to control his heaving guts.

Privet, however, was now in his element. He wandered around the deck, rolling back tarpaulins and opening hatches as he showed Michael where everything was and how it had been painstakingly reconstructed from plans and paintings from the Elizabethan period. Throwing back a large hatch, he peered down it and said: “This, of course, leads to the crew quarters. Very cramped, you might think, but I’m sure you know how comfortable hammocks are. We’ll get some great publicity shots of you and your fellow tradesmen lounging in them below decks to promote the venture.”

He turned, beaming, to face Michael, but his face suddenly changed to an expression of abject terror. “Guh… guh…!” He pointed skyward, then toppled over backwards and fell down the open hatch.

“Privet?” said Michael, moving to the hatchway. “Are you all right, man?”

He was suddenly aware that he was casting a deep shadow, and that the light around the shadow was a brilliant emerald green. He straightened slowly, not daring to look behind him.

And suddenly a voice said, “Say, buddy. I’m looking for your local super-heroes but I got a tad lost. Can y’ tell me where I can find some?”

Michael whirled about in alarm, but what he saw almost made him follow Privet down the open hatch. Only at the last instant did he remember that there was nothing but air behind his feet, and for the second time in just a few minutes he found himself waving his arms around to keep his balance.

Strangely, the bizarre creature which had alighted on the deck copied his movements. “This sure is a strange way of greeting, mister, but OK, if that’s what you do in these parts!” It proceeded to crazily windmill its hairy arms – or were they forelegs? “I gotta say, though, sniffing each other’s butts is a lot less tiring!”

Michael stared incredulously. The creature was a little short of six feet tall and was covered in unkempt reddish-brown fur. It was wearing what could vaguely be described as emerald-green pajamas with a black waistcoat. It had a tail and a wet-looking black nose. It also had a distinctly canine smell.

“You’re a dog!” exclaimed Michael.

“Hey, you’re not so bad yerself!” the creature said cheerfully, punching Michael playfully on the shoulder. This was the final impetus that sent Michael sprawling backwards into the open hatchway. However, he did not, as he expected, fall. Something caught him as he toppled back – something green and shining, and emanating from a glowing green band around the dog-creature’s right paw.

“Oops. Sorry ’bout that, mister,” the creature said, using the green energy to deposit Michael on another part of the deck safely away from open hatchways.

My God, thought Michael. That’s a power ring – well, sort of, anyway. Whatever this … this hairy monstrosity is, it’s a Green Lantern! Yes! There was the Green Lantern symbol on its chest!

The creature released Michael and waved its arms around again. “The name’s G’Nort Esplanade G’neeshmacher,” he said. “What’s yours?”

“Um… I’m… I’m… I’m…” stammered Michael, unsure of what to say.

G’Nort grinned. “Well, Mr. Umimimime, how’s about it? You know where I can find some of Earth’s super heroes, ’cause I’m on an important mission here and I might need a bit of help. Kilowog said I shouldn’t go on missions on my own ’cause I’m incontinent. Dunno who told him that.” He scratched behind his ear. “I think that was the word he used, any ways.”

Michael continued to stare at him. “Super heroes?”

“Yeah. I got a list here of the guys I should contact.” G’Nort reached inside his vest and produced a crumpled and stained ball of paper, which he proceeded to smooth out and then peer at myopically.

“Let’s see – never could read my own handwriting… er… Supperman? You know a Supperman?” Michael shook his head numbly. G’Nort continued. “Can’t read this… looks like ‘Wonder Bosom’… no? How’s about ‘Buttman and Ritalin’? ‘Hikeman’? ‘Feuerstein’? ‘The Fleas’? No, on second thoughts I don’t like the sound of him at all. How’s about…?”

“The Beefeater!” said Michael hurriedly, finding his voice at last.

“Who?”

“The Beefeater! England’s greatest hero! I know where to find him!”

“Sounds good to me,” said G’Nort. “So where can we find this guy?”

“I…” Michael looked across to his car, parked at the end of the street leading into the harbor. His Beefeater costume and scepter were waiting for him in the boot. “I can contact him. You wait here and just give me a few minutes, all right?”

“OK, Mr. Umimimime, anything you say. Just one thing though,” he added as Michael started for the gangplank.

“Yes?”

“Is there a bathroom around here? I really gotta go!”

 

***

 

After directing G’Nort to the nearest public toilet, Michael hurried to his car, unlocked the boot and took out his Beefeater paraphernalia. However, a dilemma immediately presented itself. He could hardly change out in the open. There was still nobody about on this grey, drizzly afternoon. Even the shops were closed for lunch at the moment. But there could be somebody watching from one of the nearby houses. Rejecting any idea of changing in the confined spaces of his rusting 1971 Austin 1100, he gathered his costume and scepter up, locked the car back up and hurried back to the Golden Hind.

Ignoring the familiar wrench in his stomach on boarding the ship, he made for the captain’s cabin which led off the main deck. It was unlocked, but he instantly regretted it as a choice of changing room when he realized how low the ceiling was. “Might have known,” he muttered. “They were all short-arses in Drake’s day!”

He found himself bending almost double as he wrestled off his civilian clothes and struggled into the colorful Tudor-style costume of the Beefeater. In the process, he managed to clear a collection of carefully-arranged charts from the table, upend all of the chairs and nearly rupture himself. However, although he cursed profusely, it was tempered by his excitement at the thought of going into action as the Beefeater – and because someone actually WANTED him to!

All right, so this G’Nort creature seemed rather stupid, to say the least – but perhaps that was just his strange alien ways. After all, they surely wouldn’t let somebody join the GL Corps if he were REALLY that dim. Would they? And anyway, he was intelligent enough to want the Beefeater’s help! Definitely a plus point in his favor.

He could almost feel his blood racing with the thrill. He was wanted! On a real mission! This was his big chance to prove himself, at long last!

He emerged from the cabin several minutes later to be confronted by G’Nort staring at the door. “Hiya,” said the canine GL. “Did you win?”

“Win? What do you mean, win?”

“Well, I heard you making lotsa noise in there, so I figured you must be fighting some villain. I’d have pitched in myself, but you seemed t’ be enjoying yourself, so I thought, what the heck?” He brought up one of his legs behind his ear and began to scratch furiously. “So? Did you find him?”

“Find him?”

“This Beefcake guy you said you knew how to contact.”

Beefeater did a double-take. “That’s BeefEATER! And I don’t know what you mean, ‘find him’. I AM the Beefeater, and I’m here because that fine, upstanding pillar of the local community Michael Fecktiffe summoned me.”

“Who’s Michael Fecktiffe?”

“He’s the man you asked to summon me. You were talking to him a few minutes ago. He pointed you towards the public lavatories – well, once he’d figured out that when you said ‘bathroom’ you didn’t mean you wanted a bath, you meant you wanted to relieve yourself. I presume you learned English from those bloody Americans. It’s just the sort of daft misleading euphemism they’d use!”

“I dunno who this Michael Fecktiffe is, but it was you who showed me where the bathroom was, Mr. Umimimime.”

Michael gulped. “No. You’re mistaken. I’m the Beefeater. Look. I don’t look anything like that other chap. I’ve got a mask on and everything!”

G’Nort tapped his muzzle. “Ahhh, I get it. Secret identities, huh? Can’t fool the old nose, though. But don’t worry, Mr. Umimimime. Your secret is safe with me. Us super heroes gotta stick together, that’s what my buddy Kilowog says.”

“Er…”

“Thanks for the directions, though. Nice bathroom you got here. Some great smells in there. Reminded me of G’newt.”

“G’newt?”

“My home planet.”

“Oh.”

There was silence for a few moments. Michael was definitely having some second thoughts about this. G’Nort came from a planet that smelled like a public toilet? The mind boggled!

G’Nort kicked his heels around the deck. “So, Mr. Beefcake, what do you call this whoozit we’re standing on?”

“What? It’s a ship, of course. And that’s BeefEATER!”

“A ship? You sure? It don’t look much like any ship I’ve ever seen.”

Michael bristled. “Of course it’s a ship! What did you expect it to look like? The Taj Mahal, perhaps? Or perhaps on your world ships are delicately carved into the shape of exotic orchids?”

“OK, OK, keep your mask on,” said G’Nort. “Just making sure. It’s just what we need, then!”

“It is?” said Beefeater. A thought suddenly occurred to him. “Just what IS this ‘important mission’, anyway? You never did say.”

“Oh, we’ve gotta rescue coupla people being held prisoner by a major-league bad guy,” said G’Nort almost nonchalantly. “And this ship is just what we need to get there!”

And so saying, his power ring flared and formed a bubble around the Golden Hind, and the entire ship lifted into the air and streaked away!

As the ship soared skyward, the Beefeater shrieked and ran to the nearest mast, where he hung on for grim death! “You bloody maniac! What do you think you’re doing?”

G’Nort seemed perfectly calm. “Hey, don’t worry about it, Mr. Beefheart. My ring-a-ding-ding’ll get your ship into orbit quicker than…” He paused, thinking. “…quicker than something very quick!”

“Into orbit? Are you mad? What do you think this is? A spaceship?”

G’Nort stared at him in puzzlement.

“Bloody hell! You DO, don’t you? You think this is a spaceship!”

“Hey,” said G’Nort. “You just said it was, didn’t you?”

Beefeater released the mast and took a step towards the canine GL, only to change his mind as he realized that the deck was leaning at a rather perilous angle. “God!” he cried, grabbing the mast again. “At least keep this thing steady, will you?”

“Sorry, Mr. Beefbroth,” said G’Nort, concentrating. The deck straightened. Beefeater released the mast again and took a tentative step forward. The deck stayed horizontal, much to his relief.

He strode over to G’Nort. “Look, you fur-covered moron…”

“Gee, thanks!” said G’Nort, grinning.

“… this is NOT, repeat NOT, a spaceship. When I said it was a ship, I meant a sailing ship! It’s got masts and sails and all the rest, for heaven’s sake!”

“A sailing ship?”

“Y…e…s,” said Beefeater slowly. “A… ship… that… sails… on… the… sea. Understand? It is not supposed to fly!”

“I did wonder why it was standing in all that water,” said G’Nort. He shrugged. “Oh, well, never mind, huh? My ringeroonie’ll keep us from the vacuum of space.”

Beefeater blanched. “Space?” He glanced around. The sky, outside of the green bubble surrounding the ship, was becoming very dark. And the stars were suddenly visible. He looked over the rail to see the Earth receding from them. “Oh, my God! You’re taking us into outer space?”

“Yup!” said G’Nort, power-ringing a squeaky ball into existence and flipping it into the air with his nose.

“Good grief, don’t get distracted, man!” cried an alarmed Beefeater. “I mean… dog… whatever you are…” He felt momentarily tempted to snatch the ball away and toss it over the side, but he had a sneaking feeling that G’Nort would probably follow it, barking merrily. “Your… power ring… It CAN keep us safe, can’t it? I mean, there’s nothing on this ship that it can’t affect is there?”

G’Nort spat out the ball, which he had been chewing. “Hey, don’t worry, Mr. Beefbone. There’s odd bits of … of that awkward shade of grey, like that big stick of yours, but most of this ship is just dark wood. An’ whoever heard of a power ring-a-ding that couldn’t affect wood?” He laughed.

“Ha, ha…” said Beefeater, nervously. He was rapidly reassessing his earlier theories about G’Nort. This flea-bitten alien was clearly non compos mentis. He couldn’t be a genuine GL, surely? He must be some escaped lunatic who’s stolen a power ring!

But what could he do to stop him? Below the ship, planet Earth was a rapidly dwindling blue crescent. This maniac and his power ring was all that was keeping them from dying in the cold airlessness of space! If he made any attempt to overcome G’Nort, the crazy mutt could lose concentration and that would be the end for both of them!

As he was pondering this problem, a noise sounded from behind them. He turned to see a sorry-looking figure in drab brown overalls, a flat cap and thick glasses emerge from the open hatch leading to the crew quarters.

“Mr. Fecktiffe, where are you?” said the apparition. He caught sight of the Beefeater and G’Nort and did a double-take. “Oh! Who are you?”

Beefeater raised his eyes to the sky (or where, in normal circumstances, the sky would have been). “Oh, God – Privet! I’d completely forgotten about him!”

G’Nort bounded forward, his tail wagging gleefully. “Hey, Mr. Beefburger, is this one of your super-friends? You didn’t tell me you’d brought a sidekick!

“He isn’t… and it’s BeefEATER! Bloody hell, how many more times? BeefEATER! As in the Yeomen of the bloody Guard! How difficult can it be to remember?”

The Canine Crusader either didn’t hear or chose to ignore him, but instead stood back from Privet and waved his arms around. “Hiya, buddy. I’m G’Nort. Who are you?”

Privet stared at G’Nort, then looked at Beefeater. “I don’t understand this at all. Where’s Mr. Fecktiffe? Who are you two? Why are you both in fancy dress?” He returned his gaze to G’Nort. “And why are you waving your arms around like that?”

The Beefeater shrugged. “You’ll have to excuse him. He’s from G’newt.”

“What?”

“He’s an alien. Presumably that’s how they greet one another where he comes from. Just humor him and thank God he doesn’t want to sniff your bum instead.”

Privet looked puzzled but decided that discretion was the better part of valor. He started to wave his own arms.

“So,” said G’Nort. “What powers do you have? Flight? X-ray Vision? Martian Breath? Matter-eating? Super-bouncing? Mastery over the Ant?”

“Tell him something,” said the Beefeater, “or you’re likely to be standing there waving your arms until they drop off.”

“I don’t understand,” repeated Privet. “I don’t have any ‘powers’. I just repair bicycles for a living.”

G’Nort suddenly stopped dead. The bubble surrounding the ship flickered alarmingly, but fortunately he renewed his concentration in time to prevent it dissipating altogether. “Saaaayyy…” he said. “I thought I recognized you. I saw you on TV in Mr. Gardner’s place.”

“You did?” chorused Privet and the Beefeater together.

“Yeah! I’m a big fan of yours! I’ve always wanted to meet you, Bicycle Repair Man!” He grasped Privet’s hand and began to pump it.

“I don’t understand,” said Privet for the first time, looking pleadingly towards the Beefeater.

“Well, it’s really quite simple,” said Michael. “G’Nort, here, is a Green Lantern and he hails from an alien planet that smells like a toilet. At least, he claims to be a Green Lantern, for which we have only his word and the fact that he has a working power ring. Well, I suppose he could have got it from a particularly up-market Christmas cracker – right now I think I’d believe virtually anything. Anyway, he claims to be on some sort of mission to rescue somebody or other from a super-villain, for which he recruited me. I’m the Beefeater, by the way…”

“Are you? How do you do.”

“For some reason best known only to our barking friend – and I use the adjective ‘barking’ not only in the context of his being large and furry with a cold nose, but also with reference to his being barking mad – he thinks that the Golden Hind is a spaceship and he has shanghaied both it and us into outer space. That’s the big expanse of nothing out there with all the stars, by the way…”

Privet followed his gaze and went a distinctly whiter shade of pale.

“Oh – he also thinks you’re an old Monty Python character who, luckily for you, was noted for mending cycles. So you should fit right in there then. Any questions?”

Privet looked several times at Beefeater, then at G’Nort, back at Beefeater and so on. He opened his mouth as if to say something, raised one finger … and then toppled over backwards and would have fallen down the hatch again had G’Nort not power-ringed a trampoline under him.

“Thought not,” said the Beefeater.

 

Interlude

 

“So what do you reckon, guv?” said Harris, surveying the empty berth where the Golden Hind had stood until the previous afternoon. “Was Mrs. Fecktiffe telling the truth? Is the Beefeater involved?”

Ken Hanson shrugged. “The only witness we have is that mad Portuguese waiter, Jesus, and the only reason he saw anything was because Lisa Fecktiffe had sent him here to…” He consulted his notebook, “… to ‘get that layabout of a husband of mine off his backside and bring him back to the hotel to actually get some work done for a change’. But he does swear that he saw the Beefeater – and an alien creature of some sort – on the ship as it flew into the air ‘surrounded by a strange green glow’, as another of the locals described it.”

Sandie Bremmer walked back towards them from where she had been scanning the water with her special equipment. “Whatever took the ship away, sir,” she said, “it doesn’t register on any of these instruments.” She shut the device off. “Anything more on those sightings of a green glow in the sky BEFORE the ship vanished?”

“Nothing concrete,” said Hanson. “Frankly, I’m baffled. If this is super-villain activity we’re looking at, it doesn’t makes sense. Why would they steal a replica of an antique warship? It’s hardly something they could sell. And even more incomprehensible, why would anyone kidnap the Beefeater of all people?”

“Well, I know one thing,” said Harris. “If it was me I’d want to return the bugger in a hurry. He’d drive any self-respecting kidnapper mental in no time flat!”

Sandie was deep in thought. “I wonder… that green glow all the witnesses describe… could we be looking at a Green Lantern being involved here? I’ve met a number of them and carrying a sailing ship off is certainly well within their capabilities.”

“Yes, I know,” said Hanson. “But the question still remains: why? It makes even less sense that a Green Lantern would steal the thing!”

“I could get in touch with the GL Corps based in the USA through the Justice League channels,” suggested Sandie. “I’m sure they could tell me if any of their people are working on a case in this country.”

“All right, do that,” said Hanson. “And in the meantime…”

He was interrupted by a uniformed officer running up to him. “Sir, could you come to the radio, please? There’s an urgent message for you.”

The three of them followed the constable back to his patrol car, where Hanson listened intently to a radio message for several seconds. “OK, you two,” he said to Sandie and Harris. “Back to our car. There’s been a new development.”

“Where are we going, guv?” asked Harris as they sprinted back to the unmarked car they had arrived in.

“Just down the coast to Dartmouth,” Hanson replied. “You are not going to believe this…”

 

***

 

Ten hours earlier:

The Beefeater fumed silently on the floor of the crew quarters (he had long since given up trying to get into a hammock and had concluded that sailors in Drake’s time were either sadomasochists to a man or indulged in some bizarre fantasy that they were codfish). They had been in space for hours now and were so far from Earth that he could no longer see it. That might have been a pretty exciting prospect, except that G’Nort did not seem to have the slightest idea of where he was heading.

The canine Green Lantern claimed he was looking for a spaceship in distress, but couldn’t remember which planet it was in orbit around. He had already visited Venus, Mercury and Mars (at one point mistaking on of the Red Planet’s moons for the ship – or it may have been a bone…), had skimmed the Moon and several large asteroids and was now convinced that the object of his search was somewhere near Jupiter (or, in his parlance, ‘the big swirly one with the red nose’).

Colin Privet, whom G’Nort insisted on addressing as Bicycle Repair Man, was presumably in the captain’s cabin under lock and key. He had fled into there and locked himself in on awaking from his faint and had not, to the best of Beefeater’s knowledge, emerged. That actually worked to Michael’s advantage to a small degree, as he had found a tool bag in the crew quarters which presumably belonged to Privet, and whose contents included a couple of slightly stale cheese sandwiches and a can of Diet Coke. These had been consumed some time ago.

But at least that meant that Privet would die of thirst and starvation before Michael, who would then have the option of being able to eat him if things became that desperate. Which looked likely. To the best of his knowledge there was no other food or drink on board.

Neither was there a working toilet. He had already relieved himself over the side once, but was not in a hurry to repeat the experience. G’Nort’s ring was generating artificial gravity within the ship itself, but this apparently did not extend far beyond the woodwork. This meant that for several hours now the ship had been orbited by a string of golden-coloured globules, which seemed to be getting closer to the gravity field with every pass – not a pleasant prospect.

He idly wondered why G’Nort himself did not seem to be suffering any privations. Presumably his ring took care of that for him. In which case…

“Eureka!” He jumped to his feet, banging his head on the low ceiling. Cursing, he made his way to the ladder. Why had he not thought of this before?

He emerged on the deck, only to see G’Nort curled up in the prow, apparently fast asleep. “Good God!” he muttered. “What’s keeping us alive?” However, he could see that the power ring was still sending out a stream of emerald radiance even while its wielder was seemingly dead to the universe. However, what would happen if he were to wake G’Nort up? Would the shock cause his ring’s work to be interrupted?

He tentatively tiptoed towards the sleeping canine. Perhaps … just perhaps, while G’Nort was asleep, he could take the power ring away from him and use it to return them to Earth. Wherever Earth was! A moment of panic overcame him as he realized he had no idea which direction it was in.

“Pull yourself together!” he whispered to himself under his breath. He crept closer, noting that something green and glowing was pulsing under G’Nort’s arms (forelegs??). Then a low growl came from the curled-up GL.

He hesitated. Was G’Nort awake after all? No – he was a dog, of course. All dogs growled in their sleep occasionally…

He took a step closer…

… And suddenly, G’Nort sprang up, teeth bared, barking furiously at him. The object he had been cradling was revealed as a huge green bone. It had teeth marks on it.

Beefeater skipped back in terror, trying to raise his staff in a defensive posture but instead dropping it. As he lunged after it, it rolled through the open hatch and into the crew quarters.

Meanwhile, G’Nort was standing there with a sheepish expression on his hairy face. “Uh … sorry, Mr. Beefbone,” he said. “I was kinda sleepy. You startled me!”

“I startled YOU?” screamed the Beefeater. “You just scared me out of a year’s growth, you canine cretin! I thought you were supposed to be taking us to Jupiter, not catching up on your beauty sleep!”

G’Nort shrugged and scratched under his armpit. “Well, y’know how it is. Jupiter’s a long way and I got a bit bored. Just thought I’d grab a nap while you guys were doing the same.”

Beefeater stormed off back down the ladder to retrieve his staff, which fortunately had dropped into a hammock. He stomped back up to the deck. “So how much longer are we going to roam aimlessly through the solar system? Or do you intend to take us on a tour of the Andromeda galaxy when you get bored with that?”

G’Nort sniffed. “Nah. Been there. You wouldn’t like it. Funny people. You should see the state of their bathrooms. Got no sense of personal hygiene.”

Not like here, thought Beefeater, as yellow liquid splashed to the deck, missing him by inches. “Never mind that,” he said. “Has it occurred to you, dog-brain, that human beings need to eat and drink? Maybe that green bauble of yours sustains you, but …”

“Oh, cheeze,” said G’Nort, thumping his forehead. “Y’know, I never thought of that. You and Bicycle Repair Man must be hungry enough to lick the pattern of your food bowls.”

“Something like that,” said Beefeater. “So what are you going to do about it?”

“Easy peasy!” said G’Nort with a grin. “Ring-a-ding-ding here can rustle you up anything you want.”

“Anything?”

“Yeah. Just name it, Mr. Beefstew, and it’s yours.”

Michael rubbed his hands together with glee. “In that case,” he said greedily, “have you ever heard of a Waldorf Salad?”

 

***

 

Well, thought Beefeater, I’ve tasted better, but I’ve also had worse. The asparagus was a bit over-salty and the Black Forest gateau could have done with a shade more kirsch, but on the whole it wasn’t bad. Even a decent brandy to go with it. I wonder if this idiot would like a job as a chef in the hotel? Admittedly, the smelly little furball might give me a few problems with the public health inspectorate, and there might be a little difficulty explaining to the guests why all the food is green, but you can’t have everything, can you?

At the back of his mind, a little voice was muttering something about a rumor he had once heard about Green Lantern rings needing to be recharged every so often, and wondering what would happen to the food in his stomach when G’Nort’s ran out of power, but he pushed that to the back as he knocked back the last few drops of green brandy from his green glass. He looked up as G’Nort walked past and up to the cabin door.

“Hey, Mr. Bicycle Repair Man. You can come out now. We’re there!”

“We are?” said Beefeater, rising. The motion brought into his field of vision what had previously been behind his back, and his heart almost stopped as he saw the great banded globe of Jupiter hanging over the port side of the ship. “Good God!”

“Are we home? Please tell me we’re home,” came a small voice from the other side of the door.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Bicycle Repair Man,” G’Nort said cheerfully. “We’re home!”

The door opened and Colin Privet crept through it. He caught sight of the Beefeater and the green table behind him, then looked up – and promptly fainted again.

“Cheeze,” said G’Nort, catching him with a power-ringed cushion. “I never saw anybody relax so easy as this fella.”

The Beefeater, meanwhile, had got over his initial shock at seeing Jupiter close up. He strode up to G’Nort. “All right, shift him downstairs. My turn for the comfy berth, I think, even if it is a bit pushed for headroom. I could use a nap after that gorgeous meal.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go back to sleep if I was you, Mr. Beefstew,” said G’Nort. “We’re here.”

Beefeater grabbed G’Nort’s waistcoat in both hands. “That’s it!” he said, going nose to nose with him (and instantly regretting it as his flared nostrils filled with the heady scent of nervous dog), “Firstly, my name is Beefeater. BeefEATER, got that? Not ‘Beefstew’, ‘Beefcake’, ‘Beefbroth’ or anything else. BeefEATER. Repeat that, please.”

“Uh … BeefEATER,” said G’Nort.

“Secondly, what do you mean, ‘we’re here’? Forgive me if I’ve got this wrong, but Jupiter is a big ball of gas, yes? There’s nowhere to land. And even if there was, there’s a small matter of the gravity being about a squillion times that of Earth or whatever. Do you see what’s wrong with this picture?”

“We’re not gonna land, Mr. BeefEATER,” said G’Nort, still repeating the capital letters. “THAT’s where we’re going!”

He pointed, and Beefeater did a double-take as he saw a bizarre sight growing steadily bigger as the ship homed in on it. It looked somewhat like a giant pearl necklace badly strung together – a collection of metal spheres joined with flexible cables or tubes – and strangest of all, the spheres were colored chartreuse! This bizarre apparition was growing bigger and bigger now until it threatened to dwarf Jupiter itself in their field of vision.

“What is it?” said the Beefeater.

“That’s the Cluster,” said G’Nort. “It’s the great Martship of Lord Manga Khan, Supreme Trader of the Stars – and we’re here to rescue two guys he’s holding prisoner!”

Beefeater stared. “You – can’t – be – serious!” he gulped. “You want to take on something the size of a small planet with an antique Tudor sailing ship?”

“Nah, we’re not gonna FIGHT Manga Khan, Mr. BeefEATER, we’re just gonna go in, grab the two guys he’s holding and get out again.”

“Ah,” said the Beefeater flatly. “I see. Just like that. We just knock on the door, or hatch, or whatever, they let us in, we say ‘Excuse me, nice alien monsters, but would you mind awfully if we rescue your prisoners? No? Thank you. So kind’… and then we stroll out, set sail for Earth and everybody lives happily ever after. Silly of me to have even had to ask. You’ll have to excuse me.”

“That’s OK. But getting in is no problem.”

“It isn’t?”

“Nope. Manga Khan loves visitors.”

“It’s getting out again that might present a t-e-e-n-s-y bit of a problemeroonie.”

“Really?”

“Well … no. Not really.”

Beefeater’s eyes narrowed. “Well? Make your mind up!”

“It’s really pretty easy to get out.”

“Are you sure? Now think about this carefully. Listen to the actual words – the ones I’m speaking, not the ones probably speaking in tongues in your flea-bitten head. Is it easy to get out of that ship once you’re in?”

G’Nort did not even hesitate. “Sure.”

“Then what are we worried about?”

“It’s easy to get out,” repeated G’Nort. “It’s getting out ALIVE that’s difficult.”

Beefeater stared at him for long moments. Then he walked down to the other end of the deck, raised his head to the sky (or where the sky ought to have been, although technically at the moment it was all around) and screamed at the top of his voice until his breath ran out.

“Wow!” said G’Nort, moving to his side. “That’s a really impressive battle-howl, Mr. BeefEATER, sir. Manga Khan’ll be really scared!”

Beefeater inhaled deeply and grabbed him by his waistcoat. “Look … it isn’t too late to turn around. We could be home in just a few hours and I can get my chef to cook some nice beef bones for you. Or you could have them raw, if you prefer …”

G’Nort grinned. “Aw, you’re such a joker!” He pulled free and walked back to where Colin Privet lay sprawled out on the deck. “C’mon, Mr. Bicycle Repair Man,” he said. “Time to be heroes!” He ringed up a bottle of smelling salts under the little man’s nose. Privet coughed twice and opened his eyes.

“Are you mad?” cried Beefeater, making one last effort to dissuade him. “We can’t go in there! It would be suicide!”

“Too late!” said G’Nort. He pointed. A long tube had descended from the alien vessel. It touched down on the deck of the Golden Hind and a door opened in its end. A sign flashed up the words ‘Welcome to the Cluster. All major credit cards accepted from a thousand worlds.”

“Welcome to my parlor…” muttered an aghast Beefeater.

G’Nort started up the ramp. The Beefeater hesitated, but decided to follow as he had no desire to be left behind on an ancient wooden ship separated from vacuum only by a green bubble. He had a sneaking feeling that G’Nort might forget to maintain the atmosphere once he got on board the enormous spacecraft. Almost as an afterthought, he grabbed Privet’s sleeve and dragged him along after him.

Catching up, he said to G’Nort, “‘All major credit cards accepted?’ What kind of motto is that to have over the door?”

“A non-threatening one, Pilgrim!”

“One that speaks of welcome and the joy of plentiful shopping!”

“It used to read ‘abandon wallets all ye who enter here’, but people tended to get the wrong impression.”

“Yes, the Cluster is the customer’s friend!”

“Yes, indeed.”

The trio peered ahead. At the head of the ramp were two smallish robots. “Greetings,” said one of them, trundling forward. “I am P-Jayeff.”

“And I am J-Emmess,” declared the other. “Wilkommen, bienvenue, welcome, and other sundry forms of greeting from your beautiful blue planet.”

P-Jayeff extended metal arms and shoved what looked vaguely like a lei over G’Nort’s head – ‘vaguely’, because it seemed to have been carved from a solid lump of meteor rock.

“For you, sweet lady,” said J-Emmess, thrusting a plastic teddy bear into Beefeater’s hands.

“LADY!!!!” exploded Beefeater.

“Don’t worry, it’s free!” said J-Emmess reassuringly. “Courtesy of our sponsor, Garguax Plastic Novelties Inc. It has a picture of a human vital organ on it…”

Beefeater turned it over in his hands. Sure enough, on the chest of the teddy was something vaguely resembling a bleeding liver which had been freshly plucked from some live sacrificial victim. He glared at the robot and thrust the teddy back into its mechanical arms. “I am NOT a lady!” he said between gritted teeth.

“Aw, don’t be so hard on yourself, toots!” said P-Jayeff. “We’ve seen worse, haven’t we, J?”

“I mean, you microcephalic mechanical morons, that I am not female. I’m a man!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes… I mean… what the bloody hell do you mean, ‘am I sure’?”

“You’ve got flowers on your shoes.”

Beefeater snorted and brandished his staff under where P-Jayeff’s nose would have been had either of the robots actually possessed anything resembling olfactory organs. “This, you tin-plated twit, is my costume. It is based on the ancient and noble uniform of the Yeomen of the Guard, guardians of the Tower of London. It’s considered very manly where I come from.”

“Is it?” Annoyingly, from Beefeater’s perspective, this came not only from the two robots but also from G’Nort and Privet.

He flushed beneath his mask. “Well… it USED to be. A few hundred years ago. Honest…”

During this interchange, J-Emmess had been trying to plant a second solid stone lei over Privet’s head. With the robotic equivalent of a sigh, he gave up and gave the overall-clad little man the teddy bear instead. He turned to Beefeater and held up the lei, looking hopeful.

Beefeater growled. “Don’t even think it.” J-Emmess nonchalantly tossed the lei behind his back, where it fell with a crunch, denting the ramp.

“So…” P-Jayeff said brightly. “How can we help you, Pilgrims? Perhaps,” he said, looking directly at G’Nort, “sir requires a present for his bitch – I mean, his lady love?”

G’Nort was still struggling to extricate himself from the half-ton lei, which, being of a slightly yellowish hue, was impervious to his power ring. He finally struggled free and leapt to his feet. “You see this,” he said, displaying his ring. “I am a Green Lantern!”

“So you are,” said P-Jayeff. He turned to J-Emmess. “Do we give credit to Green Lanterns?”

“Don’t think so,” said the other robot. “We accept Darkstar Express and the Omega Men have an account with us, but I don’t think…”

“It means I can do this!” said G’Nort. His ring flared and his power beam lifted up the two droids and tossed them behind him. They rattled down the ramp, out of the door and onto the deck of the Golden Hind.

“Er… was that a sensible move?” Beefeater said.

But G’Nort wasn’t listening. The canine GL was already at the top of the ramp and disappearing around a bend. Sighing, Beefeater grabbed Privet’s sleeve and hurried after him.

 

***

 

“Ah, the wonder of it all!” The words were intoned in a carefully-cultured baritone voice and emanated from a figure in gleaming golden armor who stood before an enormous window through which the millions of stars of the Milky Way blazed in unison. “Sometimes, one becomes carried away by the enormity of it all, by the sheer magnificence of God’s greatest creation. That one should be alive now, in this time, in this place – what a miracle it all is. That one should be so fortunate to be the bearer of this gift to those less fortunate than one’s self. Ahhh… it does my heart good to contemplate the ineffable majesty of it all.”

A small mechanical noise sounded at a height level with his waist. It was something like a cough, or what a cough might sound like if programmed into a speech simulator by a being from a distant galaxy who had not ever actually heard a real cough. “Er… you don’t actually HAVE a heart, M’lord Manga.”

The golden-armoured Lord Manga Khan continued to stare out of the window. “Neither do you, L-Ron. You’re a robot!”

“I, er, actually know that, M’lord.”

Manga Khan sighed. “You take everything so literally, don’t you, L-Ron? You’ve no romance in your soul.”

“No, M’lord,” agreed L-Ron. “Largely, I believe, because I don’t have a soul either. I’m a robot.”

“I just said that, L-Ron.”

“I know, M’lord.”

Manga Khan sighed again. “Did you actually want something, L-Ron, or are you just determined to interrupt my contemplation of the greatest wonder in the universe for its own sake?”

L-Ron seemed to think about this for a moment. “The greatest wonder in the universe, M’lord? I presume you mean the stars?”

“No, L-Ron. I can contemplate the stars any time. The greatest wonder of the universe, my mechanical minion, is shopping. We have customers, I believe?” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

“Yes, M’lord. You asked me to run an ident check on them.” L-Ron hesitated for a moment, then lowered his voice slightly. “You also asked me to let you know if you started talking to yourself again, M’lord…”

“Ah. Did I? I mean, was I?”

“Yes, M’lord.”

“I see.” Pause. “Ah, the terrible loneliness of command. To be at the very pinnacle of one’s chosen profession – to know that one has no equal in this universe… it is a marvelous thing, yet at the same time an unfortunate one, having no peers with whom to converse on equal terms – having no-one with whom to share a joke, an affectionate smile, a moment of love. It is…”

Cough. “You’re doing it again, M’lord…”

“Ah. Yes, I suppose I was. What were we talking about, L-Ron?”

“The customers, M’lord. You wanted to know who they were?”

“Yes, of course. Well, go ahead, my computerized crony. Report.”

“Yes, M’lord,” said L-Ron. He made another noise as if clearing his throat.

“Get that fixed, L-Ron, it’s starting to irritate me.”

“Yes, M’lord. The customers. I’m afraid I’m unable to positively identify two of them. They seem to be natives of Earth.”

“Earth? Where’s that?”

“The third planet of this system, M’lord? Where we were heading before that creature crippled the ship?”

“Ah, yes. That. And how are the repairs progressing?”

“They aren’t, M’lord – largely on account of the mechanics you hired still being locked in the brig.”

“Have they agreed to my demands, yet?”

“No, M’lord, but – ”

“Then in the brig they stay. Who is the third customer, L-Ron?”

“He’s a Green Lantern, M’lord. His name’s G’Nort.”

“Never heard of him. What’s he done of note?”

L-Ron hummed. “Well, that’s not easy to track down, M’lord. It seems he was assigned to the space sector that the Oans designate 2112…”

“That seems unlikely. There’s no life form in that sector more complex than an amoebae. And believe me, L-Ron, amoebae make very poor customers. They never want anything bigger than they can engulf and they don’t have any money.”

“Yes, M’lord. Well, it seems that G’Nort is one of a whole group of Green Lanterns who seem to be currently headquartered on Earth.”

“Really? A whole group of them? Make a note of that under ‘prospective buyers of domestic appliances with no yellow in their color scheme’.”

“Yes, M’lord. Anyway, the only arrest attributed to this G’Nort in our database is that of the Scarlet Skier, on stardate…”

“WHAT????? Is he mad?” Manga Khan whirled about to face L-Ron for the first time. “He arrested the scouting agent of Mister Nebula?”

“Yes, M’lord.”

“Make another note, L-Ron,” said the suddenly rather agitated Lord Manga. “We are not going to Earth after all. If Mister Nebula should come looking for this G’Nort while we’re there…”

“Yes, M’lord,” said L-Ron.

Manga Khan began to pace, then suddenly stopped and stared at his robot PA. He pointed. “Speaking of Mister Nebula, is that…?”

“One of his? Yes, M’lord.” L-Ron was obviously incapable of blushing, but his body language, or the robotic equivalent thereof, betrayed his embarrassment over the outer shell he was currently sporting.

“PINK, L-Ron? With lime green polka-dots? And a fluorescent blue fin protruding two feet out from your head? And what are those… those THINGS hanging from your eyestalks?”

“Fluffy dice, M’lord,” said L-Ron glumly.

A low growl escaped from somewhere under Lord Manga’s helmet. “If I have told D-Orr once I have told him a dozen times – find someone else to model the spring fashions. I will not have my right-hand droid decorated in fluffy dice and Day-Glo fins.”

“No, M’lord. But genuine Nebula creations ARE a big seller, M’lord.”

“Among the denizens of Pseudocronkite IV who have no eyes and therefore no concept of color, yes!” said Manga Khan. “But not on my staff!” He flicked one of the fluffy dice, which skittered across the deck before sprouting legs and running away to hide behind a chair.

“But enough of this,” Lord Manga said, crossing to the monitors. “Let’s see what our customers are doing. I presume they have money or a suitable credit chip?”

“I haven’t been able to determine that, M’lord.”

“Well, no matter. We’ll just do the usual and repossess their home planets if they can’t pay. Show them to me.”

L-Ron joined his master at the monitors and skillfully operated the controls. A screen burst into life which showed G’Nort, surrounded by a cohort of yellow-coloured robots and looking very worried. “I see the Green Lantern has encountered our specialist sales staff,” muttered Lord Manga in a satisfied tone. “But where are the others – the Earth creatures?”

L-Ron adjusted the controls. Then adjusted them some more. “Now this is odd, M’lord,” he said.

“What is?”

“I can’t find them, M’lord Manga. We seem to have lost track of them!”

 

***

 

“We’re lost, aren’t we?” said Colin Privet.

Beefeater ignored him as he pretended to study the inscription on a large plaque over the only door they had so far come across in the corridor they were now in. Of course, the inscription was in a totally incomprehensible alien language, but he wasn’t about to admit to Privet that he had no idea what it said.

The problem, of course, that what it said could be anything. It was POSSIBLE that it said ‘This way to an alien harem where you will be treated like gods by nubile three-breasted alien nymphettes’, but it was equally likely that it might say ‘Do not open this door under any circumstances as there’s nothing but vacuum beyond’.

Naturally, as he was contemplating this dilemma, Privet just had to come out with the words he was dreading: “So what does it say?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Beefeater blustered, tugging on the handle. And indeed, it was, once they had looked inside. It said: ‘Broom closet’.

“We really are, aren’t we? We’re lost?” said Privet, who was nothing if not persistent.

“A true hero is never lost,” said Beefeater indignantly. “This way!” He marched off down the corridor, thinking that wherever it was leading, it was designed to get there by as circuitous a route as possible.

“Not very nice here, is it?” commented Privet, his nose wrinkling at the smell emanating from a brown liquid dripping sluggishly from a suspicious damp patch in the ceiling. “You’d think on a spaceship you’d keep everything nice and clean, wouldn’t you?” Beefeater continued to ignore him.

It was, though, he had to admit, a fairly accurate, if simplistic, description of their present surroundings. At this point, therefore, it might be expedient to discourse on certain facts about starships, and Manga Khan’s in particular…

Once upon a time, starships were spotlessly clean, all gleaming metal surfaces with glossy black and red trim. However, fashion is a fickle beast, and the current fashion for starships was a look that could best be described as ‘grungy’. The main reason for this was a creature from Aldeberan IV named Zprog Vinnity. Zprog was regarded as something of a style guru among starship designers, and it was rumored that even Mister Nebula was an avid reader of his syndicated column which graced all of the galaxy’s most fashionable periodicals.

Two years previously, while on a sightseeing trip to Proxima Centauri, Zprog had intercepted a broadcast from a nearby star system which his ship’s computer had decoded from a primitive system known as ‘television’. The broadcast had featured a popular movie produced by the inhabitants of said star system, which focused on a group of humanoids on a starship having some difficulty with a large and aggressive life-form which had found its way on board. Zprog had been initially taken by the resemblance of this alien intruder to his own species, and had quickly drafted a letter of complaint to the producers of the movie, citing racial discrimination and insisting that they re-shoot the whole thing with the humans as the villains. However, his computer pointed out that 1) no-one on the originating planet would be able to read the letter, even if they recognized it as such, as Aldeberanean ‘writing’ comprises mixtures of oily liquids in a bowl which are read by sensors on the ends of their fingers, and 2) there was about as much chance of the average Khund taking up flower arranging as there was of the natives taking any notice of it.

Abandoning the letter, Zprog turned his attention to the background of the film, and instantly fell in love with the vista of poorly-lit corridors, some apparently dripping with water from an unspecified source, chains hanging down for no apparent reason, disorientating flashing red lights…

He immediately dashed off his next column, praising the movie makers for their artistic vision and describing what he had seen as ‘some day, all starships will look like this’.

Enter Manga Khan, who firmly believed that the successful entrepreneur should always keep up with fashion if he were to keep the custom of today’s bright, go-getting, upwardly mobile young alien. On reading Zprog’s column, he immediately ordered L-Ron to set about obtaining several tons of rusting chain, a thousand or so rotating flashing red lights and as much assorted dubious liquids as he could get his hands on.

… which explains why the Beefeater and his reluctant companion, having long since given up on trying to figure out where G’Nort had disappeared to, found themselves traipsing miserably through corridors that bore a greater resemblance to the sewers of Paris than to the USS Enterprise…

 

***

 

 

“Oh, if only we had bicycles…” said Colin Privet wistfully.

“What??” Beefeater said, stopping dead in his tracks.

“Bicycles,” repeated Colin. “They’d get us through these endless winding corridors much faster.”

Beefeater raised his eyes to the ceiling, and only narrowly avoided a drip catching him squarely in one eye. “Privet, these corridors are ankle-deep in muddy water. At least, I THINK it’s water,” he added, noting how his shoes were smoking slightly. “Can you imagine how hard we’d have to pedal to make progress on bikes?”

Privet seemed not to be listening. “You can’t beat bicycles. There’s nothing quite so beautiful as a gleaming new bicycle. You know, I just DREAM of the day when cars will be banned from Devon and we’ll all be riding around on gleaming, sleek bicycles. That will be a great day for the environment, Mr. Beefeater.”

“Y-e-ss,” said the Beefeater. “And it won’t be a bad day for the man who owns the only cycle repair shop in Brixham, either. Yes, very nice, Privet. A new golden age, I can see. And there’ll also be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover, Johnny will sleep in his own little bed again and God will stop making those little green apples…”

“There is NO need to be sarcastic!”

“Oh, you’re absolutely right. Sarcasm will get us nowhere. So what would you prefer? Cynicism? Irony? Satire? Or shall I just punch you in the mouth and save the strain on my ears?”

Privet blanched. “REALLY, Mr. Beefeater…”

“If you’re going to insist on jabbering incessantly, ‘Bicycle Repair Man’, then at least come up with some sort of practical suggestion which will help us out of this mess we’re in!”

“I think I can help you there!”

“You DO?” said the Beefeater, staring at Privet in astonishment.

“I didn’t say anything!” said Privet.

“Then who -?”

There was a faint cough. “It was me,” said a voice.

Both men looked around in puzzlement. “Where’s it coming from?” said Privet.

“Silly, brother. They can’t see you!”

“That’s a different voice,” Privet observed.

“I noticed.”

“I know they can’t see me. Be quiet. They look confused enough as it is.”

“Well, SORRY! I’m only trying to help!”

“Well, you’re not helping, all right? This is hard enough as it is…”

Beefeater cleared his throat. “Harrumph… excuse me? Who’s there?”

“And where are you?” added Privet. Beefeater shot him a withering look.

“Ah… hello. Can you hear me?” said the first voice.

“Of course we can bloody hear you!” snapped Beefeater. “Or perhaps you think we’re receiving you by telepathy! No, better still, by miniature radio receivers implanted in our skulls.” He slapped his forehead. “Damn it, of course! I forgot about the little fish in our ears that pick up communications from the ether…”

“Are you SURE you want these two to help us?” said the second voice.

“Who else do you see?” said the first. “The Green Lantern has been captured. There isn’t anyone else.”

“I suppose they’ll have to do, then…”

“Do you MIND?” yelled Beefeater. “I don’t know who you are, but could you please argue with one another on your own time?”

“Sorry,” said the first voice.

“That’s better. I mean, saying ‘they’ll just have to do’??? That’s charming, I don’t think.”

“We did say we were sorry,” said the second voice.

“I should think so, too. Now who are you – and WHERE are you?”

“We’re about twenty zpospels from your current position, talking to you on the internal tannoy system. Manga Khan thinks it’s on the fritz in this part of the ship, but my brother and I fixed it.”

“Twenty WHAT?”

“Sorry,” said the voice. “I don’t know what units of measurement you use where you come from.”

“We’re from Earth,” said Privet, trying to be helpful.

“EARTH???” The two voices erupted in an excited babble. “Do you know the Metal Men?” said the first voice.

“They’re our heroes,” said the second. “They saved our lives.”

“No, sorry, I don’t – look, never mind that!” snapped Beefeater. “What do you want?”

“We’re prisoners here,” said the first voice. “We’re being held against our will, but we’re innocent, honest.”

“Really?”

“Really. Look, sirs, we can see you’re lost. Help us get free and we’ll help you get out of here too. Our ship is in the docking bay: if we can reach it, we can all escape.”

Beefeater and Privet stared at one another. “That’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard all day. All right, how can we help you?”

“There’s an access panel twenty-one zpospels from where you are. Er… keep walking and I’ll tell you when you’ve reached it.”

Beefeater shrugged and started forward, with Privet slogging after him. After about twelve yards, the voice ordered him to stop. “It’s on your right.”

“Left!” said the second voice.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry. Left! I always get those confused!”

“Gordon Bennett!” muttered Beefeater. He examined the panel. It looked simple enough, but there was one problem. “I’d need a large Phillips screwdriver to get this off,” he said.

“I’ve got one!” declared Privet. Beefeater stared at him in amazement as he set to work on the panel. Within two minutes he had it off, revealing a short tunnel beyond which had a grille at the other end.

“Righto,” said Beefeater. “Out you come, then!”

“We can’t,” said the first voice.

“You’ll have to come in and free us from our chains,” said the second.

Beefeater sighed.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” said Privet.

“So have I,” Beefeater agreed. “But, what the hell? It’s par for the course for this bloody awful day!” He got down on all fours and began to crawl down the tunnel, clutching his scepter tightly and hoping that, if he needed it now, it would actually work first time for once.

Reaching the other end, he tentatively pushed against the grille with the scepter. It swung easily outwards. Now, he thought. Let’s have a look at these clowns before I commit myself. If they turn out to be slavering, man-eating alien monsters I can bugger off back down the shaft before they can…

However, at that point, Privet’s head bunted him in the rear and he shot forward through the open grille, landing in a large room filled with what appeared to be assorted junk. He looked up and saw who – and what – the two inhabitants of the room were.

“My God!” he exclaimed. “What ARE you?” He blinked. This wasn’t what he was expecting at all. Well, truth to tell, he hadn’t been even remotely sure WHAT to expect, but if he had been, this wouldn’t have been it.

“Are you all right?” said one of the creatures.

Before Beefeater could reply, Privet came tumbling out of the tunnel and landed on top of him. “You blithering idiot!” screamed Beefeater. “What’s the bloody matter with you?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Beefeater, I just wanted to…” The sentence trailed off as Privet looked up at the room’s other occupants. “What – what are THEY?”

“I wish I knew!” Beefeater’s gaze moved back to the said occupants. They appeared to be robots – but not robots made from shiny metal and plastic, like the ones they had seen when they came on board.

Oh, no.

These robots, which stood slightly taller than Beefeater’s six foot three, appeared to be made of wood. In fact, not even made of purpose-cut wood. Their heads and torsos seem to have been cobbled together from barrels, with various bits stuck on the head barrel to give the appearance of ears and noses. Spindly legs and arms protruded from the torso barrel, terminating respectively in clumsy-looking feet yet many-jointed and quite dextrous-looking fingers.

“Oh, sorry,” said one of the wooden robots, trying to move towards them but finding its progress hampered by chains. “I’m Loof.”

“And I’m Fpok-bmud,” said the other.

“Are you,” said Beefeater, in more of a statement than a question. There was something about those names…

“Er… pleased to meet you,” said Privet, regaining his feet. “My name is Colin Privet. I repair bicycles. And this is…”

“I can introduce myself, thank you,” said Beefeater, standing up and pushing Privet rudely to one side. “I am the Beefeater, England’s greatest champion.”

“Oh,” said Loof. “Wonderful. Isn’t that wonderful, Fpok-bmud?”

“Very much so,” said Fpok-bmud. “Wonderful indeed. We are honored, The Beefeater.” He paused. “Where’s England?”

“It’s -” began Privet.

“Never mind!” snapped Beefeater. “Look, I think I’ve had quite enough of this place. You say you have a ship and you know how to get to it from here?”

“Yes,” said Loof.

“Good. Then lead the way, if you please.”

Loof and Fpok-bmud stared at one another. Then, as one, they lifted up their arms and rattled their chains. “We can’t,” said Loof.

“Lord Manga chained us up,” said Fpok-bmud.

“Why?” asked Privet.

“Because we couldn’t do the job he hired us to do,” said Loof. “I told him, didn’t I, Fpok-bmud, that we specialized in repairing robots, but would he listen?”

“He wouldn’t listen at all,” Fpok-bmud agreed miserably.

“Look, I’m not interested in why you’re here,” said Beefeater. “You could have strangled Manga Khan’s pet hamster for all I care….”

“He hasn’t got a hamster,” said Loof.

“I think L-Ron has a pet rat, though, if that helps,” said Fpok-bmud.

“He has. Its name is Harold.”

“For God’s sake stop blithering like the bloody chipmunks and shut up while I free you from those chains!” shouted Beefeater.

“Yes, sir, Eht Retaefeeb,” said Fpok-bmud.

“Eht Retaefeeb?” said Privet. “That’s ‘the Beefeater’ backwards, isn’t it?”

“Sorry,” said Fpok-bmud. “Force of habit.”

“Turning people’s names back to front,” said Loof. “Always doing it. Embarrassing sometimes!”

Privet seemed to be thinking about this. “So if you habitually turn names around, then yours must be really…”

“And you shut up, as well!” screamed Beefeater, becoming progressively redder. “Why is it nobody ever does as they’re blasted well told any more?”

“Sorry,” said Loof.

“Zipped up,” said Fpok-bmud, literally zipping his mouth up.

Beefeater glared at Privet. “I didn’t say anything!” said the little man.

“Just as well.” Beefeater raised his golden scepter and switched it to ‘on’. Taking aim at the chains holding Loof, he took aim and fired.

Nothing happened.

He fired again. Or tried to. The weapon steadfastly refused to discharge even the tiniest of splutters.

Sighing, he lowered the scepter and turned to Privet. “You haven’t got a file somewhere about your person, have you?” he asked.

 

***

 

“OK, try that,” said Fpok-bmud, handing back the scepter to Beefeater. The latter took it and stared at it dubiously.

“What have you, er, actually done to it?” he asked.

“Oh, just fixed the firing mechanism,” said Loof. “It was sticking, wasn’t it, Fpok-bmud?”

“It surely was,” said Fpok-bmud cheerfully.

The Beefeater continued to examine the weapon with a look of deep suspicion in his eyes. He had already reached the conclusion that these two refugees from a bierkeller were morons – especially when Privet had pointed out what their names were when spelt backwards. It also didn’t help to learn that they were members of a race of space faring robots called the Srelbmub – he’d figured out what THAT was backwards, too!

“You can use it to free us, now,” said Loof.

“Please,” added Fpok-bmud.

“Look, are you sure?” said Beefeater. “This thing has never been all that reliable.” And frankly, he added mentally, you two don’t look as if you’re capable of fixing a sandwich, much less a deadly weapon.

“Well, you’re never going to find out unless you try it, are you?” said Privet, who was looking increasingly nervous. It had finally penetrated through to him that they were potentially in mortal danger, especially if Manga Khan’s forces were to realize they were trying to spring their prisoners.

Beefeater gave him a stony glare. “You keep out of this. You have no idea what this scepter can do if it goes wrong.”

Fpok-bmud moved closer. “Interesting tegdag, though – I mean, gadget. Where did you get it?”

“It belonged to my father,” said Beefeater, puffing himself up. “He was the original Beefeater, and partner to General Glory himself.”

“Who?” chorused the other three. Beefeater felt himself deflate. Typical! Nobody seemed to believe that the original Beefeater even existed! And yet, here was his weapon, as tangible proof…

He hefted it in his hands. He had never really thought about it, but where HAD his father got the scepter from? That idiot Hanson at Scotland Yard had tried to laugh it off as a prop from Maurice Fecktiffe’s amateur dramatics days, but the fact remained that it DID work. Well, all right, it had worked ONCE. And on that occasion it had nearly killed him. But it certainly wasn’t a fake. And if these bumblers really HAD repaired it …?

He raised the weapon and aimed it at the chains binding Loof’s arms. “Wait!” cried the robot. “Make sure it’s set on rewop pol!”

“On what???”

“Low power. He means low power,” said Fpok-bmud. “If you set it on maximum it could blow us all up!”

“Oh,” said Beefeater flatly. He stared at the weapon again. “There are variable power settings?”

“Good God!” muttered Privet. “Didn’t you KNOW? What kind of super hero are you?”

“I won’t tell you again!” snapped Beefeater, swinging the scepter towards Privet, who ducked behind a packing case and cowered there, quivering.

“It’s here,” said Loof, pointing. “You turn that ring there. Right to increase the power, left to decrease it.”

“Thank you,” said Beefeater. He turned the ring all the way to the left and aimed it again. “Wait a sec,” he said, a sudden thought occurring to him. “Given your ludicrous tendency to get things back to front, are you absolutely SURE that’s the right way round?”

Loof and Fpok-bmud went into a huddle. Seconds later, Loof turned again to face him. His face was made of wood, but Beefeater could have sworn he was blushing. “Er… left, not right.”

“What?”

“You turn it left to increase the power, not right. Sorry.”

“Right.”

“No, left.”

“That’s what I meant. Left. Right.”

“No, not both!”

“What?”

“Not left AND right!”

“Well, if it’s not left or right, what’s left?”

“That’s right. Left!”

“AAAARRGGHH!” Beefeater screamed, moved the ring to somewhere in the middle and fired. There was a blast of energy and Loof’s chains disappeared. So did part of the table behind him. “Oops!”

Loof stood quivering on the spot. “thank you…” he said in a very small voice.

“Er… me, now,” said Fpok-bmud. “But please turn the intensity down a bit. That was just a t-a-d extreme!”

“Which way to do that?” asked Beefeater. “Left or right?”

“Right.”

“Sure?”

“Yes. Definitely. Right.”

“Just checking,” said the Beefeater, with an evil grin on his face. He turned the ring a little to the right and fired again. A somewhat smaller blast shattered Fpok-bmud’s chains.

“Well, I’ll be,” said Privet, crawling out from under cover. “It works!”

Beefeater rounded on him. “Works? Of course it bloody well works, thank you very much for you vote of confidence. Didn’t I tell you it would?”

“It didn’t until they fiddled with it.”

“It was stuck, that was all! Tell him!” he added, turning back to point the scepter towards the two robots.

“Yes, indeed. Stuck!” said Loof in a strangled voice.

“Absolutely.”

“Well,” Beefeater said smugly. “That’s that, then. Let’s get out of here and find your spaceship.”

“Thank you,” said Loof.

“We are eternally grateful,” said Fpok-bmud.

“Indeed. We owe you our lives.”

“Our lives are yours, mighty hero.”

“Yes, yes!” snarled Beefeater. “Save it for later, for God’s sake, or we’ll be here all day.” He turned the scepter up to full power and blasted a hole in the wall big enough for them to get through without having to climb back through the duct. He pointed. “Are we going, or what?”

“Indeed,” said Loof.

“Then lead the way!”

The four of them stepped through the hole and back into the corridor. Loof and Fpok-bmud immediately set off at a brisk trot, seeming to have a pretty good idea of where they were going. Sure enough, just a few minutes later they arrived in a hangar where a bizarre-looking wooden spaceship stood.

“Our ship!” announced Fpok-bmud.

“Thank God for that. Well, let’s get to it and get out of here and back to Earth.”

“Just a sec,” said Privet, tugging on his sleeve. “What about your Green Lantern friend? The dog-man, or whatever he is?”

“What about him?”

“Well, we’re not just going to leave him here, are we?”

“That is the idea, yes.”

“Well, that’s not terribly heroic, if I might say so.”

“No, you may not say so!” snapped Beefeater. “He got into this mess himself, he can bloody well get out of it himself.” He sighed. “Look, if it’s bothering you that much, we’ll get in touch with the Justice League or somebody when we get back, all right? They can sort out this mess. It’s right up their alley, bloody posers!”

“If you think that’s best…”

“I do. Now come on.” He nodded to Loof and Fpok-bmud, who closed the distance to the parked ship…

… and then suddenly they were surrounded by robots, every one training a deadly-looking weapon on them!

“Oh, sod…” said Beefeater.

A golden-armoured figure in a scarlet cloak swept through the ranks of gun-toting droids. “Thus is the fate of all who tempt the wrath of … Manga Khan!” he said, making a theatrical flourish with his cape as he spoke the final words.

This was followed by an exaggerated deep sigh. “Many have tried,” he said, “and all have failed.” He held out a hand an a robot thrust a deep purple rose into it. He held the flower up to the face plate of his helmet and pretended to sniff it. “Many there are who glance longingly at the midnight sky, vainly waiting for their loved ones to return – loved ones who believed they were cleverer or more powerful than I. Long have they been dispatched to that great emporium in the sky where no product is ever out of stock, and yet still those faithful widows keep their eternal vigil, for where there is no news, there is always hope that some day those brave if foolish ones may return. Alas, the very thought of their plight moves my humble heart…”

A small pink robot decorated with fluorescent green polka-dots trundled up to his side and made a small sound suspiciously like a cough. Manga Khan glanced down. “… or would do, if I had a heart.” The robot seemed to nod approvingly. “What is it, L-Ron?”

“You’re doing it again, M’Lord Manga,” L-Ron said in a low voice.

“Doing what?”

“Talking to yourself, M’Lord. Most eloquently as always, of course, but might I draw your attention back to the prisoners?”

Manga Khan looked at Beefeater and the others, as if seeing them for the first time. “Oh. Of course.” He strode right up to them. “Humans, eh?” he said, scrutinizing Beefeater and Colin Privet.

“According to G’Nort,” said L-Ron, “they’re human super heroes. The big, thin cross-dresser is called the BeefEATER and the small scruffy one is Bicycle Repair Man.”

“I see,” said Manga Khan. He looked Beefeater in the eye. “And how may I help you?”

Beefeater, who up to this point had been clutching his scepter to his chest as if it were his only grip on reality, blinked in surprise. “Pardon?”

“I said, ‘how may I help you’?” repeated Manga Khan. “What do you wish to purchase?”

“Purchase?” Beefeater said. “I don’t want to purchase anything. What kind of bloody stupid question is that?”

Loof tapped him on the shoulder. “Say you want to buy something,” he said in a whisper. “Lord Manga hates window-shoppers.”

“I heard that,” said Manga Khan. “And it’s not true. We have some very fine windows in stock, at quite reasonable prices, from the traditional glass type to intelligent windows from Scrodok IV.”

“Intelligent?” said Beefeater, still trying to get his head around this sudden change of mood.

“Absolutely,” said Manga Khan. “They are composed of living protoplasm, and they play a mean game of 4-dimensional chess, I can tell you. If you’ll step this way, I’ll show you some samples…”

“Wait!” said Fpok-bmud. “What about us?”

“What about you?” said Manga Khan. “You were engaged to repair a vital component of my ship and you failed to fulfill your contract. I don’t tolerate failure!”

“That’s a bit mean,” muttered Privet.

“No it isn’t!” snapped Manga Khan. “The Cluster was seriously damaged some months ago by a strange object passing through this stellar system. We can’t get under way again until all repairs are complete. These two idiots are responsible for that.”

“B-but we told you,” said Loof.

“We don’t know anything about repairing toasters!” said Fpok-bmud.

“I don’t believe you! You can go back into the brig until you’ve fixed it.” L-Ron whispered something to him. “And you can repair the brig itself first!” he added.

“Toaster? Toaster?” spluttered Beefeater. “What are you talking about? Are you telling me these two morons were locked up because they couldn’t fix your toaster?”

“Absolutely,” said Manga Khan. “Can’t get under way without a fully functional toaster.”

“Lord Manga is a beast if he doesn’t get his morning muffins,” L-Ron added.

“Ye gods!” exclaimed the Beefeater.

“Now,” said Lord Manga, “about those windows you wished to purchase…”

“All right!” said Beefeater. “Enough is enough! You’re all completely bloody loony and I’m getting out of here.” He brandished his golden scepter. “This thing is loaded and I’m not afraid to use it. Stand aside!”

Manga Khan exchanged a puzzled glance with L-Ron. “Are you threatening us?” L-Ron asked.

“Yes, my little mechanical Care Bear,” said Beefeater. “That’s exactly what I’m doing. My God, I thought my wife’s ideas about running a hotel were mad, but this really takes the biscuit. I’m dragged away from Earth in an antique wooden boat on a supposed rescue mission, which turns out to be to spring two barrel-headed idiots who came here to repair a toaster!”

“It’s a very big toaster,” said Loof.

“And an exceedingly complicated one,” said Fpok-bmud.

“Shut up, both of you, and get into your ship.”

“Yes, very good idea,” said Loof, “but there’s one thing wrong with it. ”

“Just one thing,” agreed Fpok-bmud, pointing.

Neither Manga Khan nor any of his robots had moved.

“Look, are you stupid or what?” said Beefeater. “Good God, it’s bad enough finding waiters these days who understand a word you say to them, but I’d have thought better of a space dictator or whatever you’re supposed to be.” He glared at Manga Khan. “I’ll say it just once more. MOVEE-ASIDEE OR ME BLASTEE. Got it?”

“Why is he talking like that?” asked Manga Khan, looking straight at Privet.

“It’s what we English do abroad,” the little bicycle repairman explained. “Don’t bother learning the local language, just talk very loudly and very slowly as if you’re addressing someone with an IQ in single figures.”

“I see. And does it work?”

“Actually, no,” admitted Privet. “But it’s a sort of tradition, really. Actually, the Americans and the Germans have a much better system – just flash a wad of cash and the natives seem to understand every word. Amazing, really …”

“Look, do you mind?” said Beefeater. “You see this scepter? You see this finger on it? Well, in just a second or two, finger here will press trigger here, and I’ll blast my own path to that ship! Got it now?” he said to Manga Khan.

“Yes, of course. However, I wouldn’t really advise doing that. It will cause you to be late.”

“Late?” blustered Beefeater. “Late for what?”

“Not late FOR anything,” said Manga Khan. “Just ‘late’. As in ‘deceased’ – ‘dead’ -’no more’ – ‘shuffled off this mortal coil’ – ‘pushing up daisies’… you get the idea?”

Beefeater glanced around. There had to be at least fifty robots in the hangar, not counting the two Srelbmub and L-Ron, and all were aiming weapons at him. He hefted the scepter in his hands. Well, a full-strength blast might take out a few of them, but the rest…

He lowered the weapon.

“That’s better,” said Manga Khan, clapping him on the shoulder. “Now, let’s do business like reasonable sentients, shall we? If it’s not windows you’re after, just what can I interest you in? A new pocket-frammistan, perhaps? How about a secondhand ‘responsometer’, only one previous owner? Or how about…?” He gestured. A spotlight went on, revealing a very sorrowful-looking and bedraggled G’Nort, being held up by two yellow-hued robots. “How about one slightly soiled (but otherwise in excellent condition) Green Lantern?”

“G’Nort??” gasped Beefeater. “You want to SELL him to me?”

Manga Khan sucked in air in the manner of used-car salesmen the universe over. “Well, he did invade my ship, so perhaps I should have killed him – but I’m a reasonable fellow and I offered him the chance to redeem himself by buying something. He has no money, of course, so I offered to take his home planet as a down payment. Except that L-Ron, here, pointed out that G’newt smells like a public toilet. And as you can see, I am a sensitive soul. Of all those who trade across the space ways, none is more receptive than I to the simple beauty of poetry, or the subtle aroma of a flower in bloom, or…”

L-Ron made a coughing sound again.

“Ah, yes. Where was I? Right.” He shrugged. “Well, the stupid mutt didn’t have anything worth taking, so I repossessed the Thanagarian Ant Farm that he bought – with, of course, a little extra to make up for wear and tear, not to mention interest.”

“Extra?”

“M’Lord Manga means G’Nort himself,” L-Ron explained. “He had nothing else worth taking – well, except for a power ring, and we didn’t really want that. The Guardians of the Universe tend to get really pissed off if somebody takes their property.”

“And now,” said Manga Khan with a flourish, “it’s your turn.”

“My turn to do what?”

“Your turn to buy something.”

“But I don’t WANT to buy anything!”

There was a stony silence for at least a microsecond. Manga Khan took in another sharp intake of breath. “Show him the sign with the company motto, L-Ron.”

L-Ron opened up a body cavity and withdrew a placard, which he held up before the humans.

Beefeater peered at it in bafflement. “I can’t read that. It’s just covered in alien squiggles.”

“Oh, sorry,” said L-Ron. He shook the placard and the alien symbols on it changed. He held it up again. It now read: ‘SHOP OR DIE’.

“Your choice…” said Manga Khan.

“So, what you’re saying is, I either buy something or you kill me? Right?”

“Quick, isn’t he, M’Lord?” said L-Ron. The little robot had no face, but the Beefeater could have sworn he was grinning.

“Well, that’s just absolutely super, isn’t it?” said the Beefeater. “I come all this way to rescue a pair of failed toaster repairmen, the idiot Green Lantern who brings me here gets himself captured and I’m given the ultimatum – buy your tourist tat or get fried by a horde or animated Meccano toys. Lovely. And what next, I wonder? I know – some grinning moron with a microphone is going to come up, rip off his false beard and reveal that this is all a stunt for the latest ‘the public are gullible enough to fall for anything’ TV show.”

“Er… no,” said L-Ron, slightly confused by this behavior.

“Come on, out you come,” said the Beefeater, looking behind the nearest robot. “I know you’re here somewhere. Come on, I’ve rumbled you. I’ve already figured out where the camera is…”

“L-Ron,” said Manga Khan, “what IS this Earthling doing?”

“I have no idea, M’Lord.”

“Well, if he doesn’t stop doing it within thirty seconds, have him evaporated. I’m beginning to find this unbelievably tedious.”

This was not lost on Colin Privet. “Mr. Beefeater, sir, please stop it,” he said, grabbing the back of Beefeater’s tunic. “They’re serious.”

“So am I,” said Beefeater. “Come on, I’m losing my patience with you now! I know you’re hiding here somewhere.”

With a sigh, Privet walked up to his lanky companion and slapped him around the face.

“Good God!” exclaimed Beefeater. “What did you do that for?”

“This isn’t a TV stunt,” said Privet. “They’re serious. You have to buy something or they’ll kill you!”

Beefeater looked around him as if seeing everything for the first time. “Oh, my God!!”

“He … WE will buy something,” said Privet, supporting the Beefeater to stop him swooning. “How much for the Green Lantern?”

“What?” said Beefeater, suddenly shocked back to his senses. “What do you want to buy HIM for? He’s monumentally stupid and he smells! If you’re going to buy a Green Lantern, at least go for a decent one!”

“Sorry,” said L-Ron, “but this is the only one we’ve got. Now, will you pay cash or credit?”

Beefeater pulled Privet to one side. “Now look what you’ve done! Have you got any money on you?”

Privet felt in his pockets. “Fifty-six pence and a couple of pesetas left over from my holiday in Spain. How about you?”

“I’m a super hero,” said Beefeater flatly. “Super heroes don’t carry money.”

“A bit like royalty, then?”

“Yes … no. This isn’t funny, Privet! My wallet’s with my civilian clothes, back in Brixham.”

Manga Khan and L-Ron were staring at them. “I think we’ve got a slight problem, M’Lord.”

“Not at all, L-Ron,” replied Lord Manga. “We’ll simply invoke the usual clause and take their planet as payment.”

“It’s very small and grubby, M’Lord.”

“Perhaps, but I can trade it up for something better.” He turned back to the two humans. “Well? Can you pay for the Green Lantern or not?”

“Er…”

“We could always try bartering,” suggested Privet. “I’ve got my tools.”

“A few spanners are hardly going to be fair exchange for a Green Lantern – even as tatty a one as G’Nort. Might be worth a shot, though.” The Beefeater straightened up and looked Manga Khan in the eye slits. “Er… your lordship, it’s so nice to meet someone of such refinement and breeding…”

“Yes, I’ve always thought so,” said Manga Khan. “However, don’t change the subject. The Green Lantern will cost … what’s the going rate, L-Ron?”

L-Ron fiddled briefly with an electronic pad. “Ah … fifty squongs twenty-six, M’Lord. Add five per cent export duty, and that comes to …”

“We haven’t got any ‘squongs’,” Beefeater butted in. “Could we trade something instead?”

“Such as?” asked Manga Khan.

Beefeater looked down at the scepter in his hand. It had been his father’s – the weapon of the first Beefeater, partner of General Glory in World War II and Defender of the Free World. Or at least, that was the story.

It was all he had. It was what made him a hero.

But what kind of hero was he if he let a Green Lantern languish in captivity?

Drawing himself up to his full height, he stuck out his chest proudly and held up the scepter. “This is my golden scepter of power,” he declared. “Will you trade the weapon of a super hero for this Green Lantern?”

There was a moment’s dramatic silence before Manga Khan spoke.

“Sorry. Got one.”

“WHAT???”

“There’s one just like it in the hold. I’ve been trying to find a buyer for ages. Nobody wants it.”

“It’s old hat, you see,” explained L-Ron. “Last century’s technology. Today’s heroes want something less flashy, more functional. So, sorry, M’Lord Manga doesn’t want it.”

“I don’t believe this!” said a staggered Beefeater. “Here I am, prepared to make the ultimate bloody sacrifice and you throw it back in my face!”

“Actually,” L-Ron pointed out, “the ultimate sacrifice would be to give your life to save your comrade, but we don’t want that, either. Not much call for human life energy out on the Galactic Rim.”

As the Beefeater was about to phrase an earthy reply, Privet suddenly grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him to one side. “I’ve got an idea,” he said. He began to whisper in Beefeater’s ear.

“I’m getting bored now, L-Ron,” said Manga Khan. “And it’s almost time for my posing practice. Is this going to take much longer?”

Suddenly the two humans broke out of their huddle. Beefeater looked at Privet uncertainly. The little man nodded, and Beefeater addressed Manga Khan once more. “If you’ll just excuse me a sec, I have a suggestion which can satisfy all parties. Just need to confirm something first.”

“Very well, but don’t take much longer. Posing skills tend to atrophy if not practiced regularly, you know. And I’ve a soliloquizing class at seven!”

Beefeater nodded. He turned to face Loof and Fpok-bmud, who were still standing there uncertainly. He smiled. “Tell me, gentlemen,” he said. “What was that you said earlier about owing me your lives?”

 

***

 

 

An observer on Earth’s Moon, had there been one, would probably have been surprised to see streaking past it an emerald-green bubble containing an antique sailing ship, upon whose deck stood three figures – one of them engaged in the act of stretching his leg behind his neck to scratch his right ear.

“I can’t believe you did that, guys!” said G’Nort. “You think maybe we should go back an’…”

“NO!” chorused the other two.

“It was the best solution all round to the situation,” said Colin Privet. “Honestly, everybody was very happy with it.”

“But…”

The Beefeater stepped in. “Listen, doggy, it’s all done and dusted. I’d rather eat my own head than go back to that madhouse of a spaceship. Now just concentrate on getting us home.”

“But you SOLD them!”

Beefeater stared at him challengingly. “Your point?”

“You sold Loof and Fpok-bmud to Manga Khan! They were the guys we came out to rescue, and you SOLD them!”

“Yes, and a lousy bargain we got, too! I still think we should have bought a spaceship instead and left you to rot there!”

“Now, now, Mr. Beefeater,” said Privet. “That wouldn’t have been very nice, now would it? And in any case, without G’Nort, how would we have got the Golden Hind back where it belongs?”

Beefeater looked down at the wooden deck. Well, there WAS that, he mused. He was supposed to be Brixham’s protector. It would hardly have been appropriate in that case to leave the town’s biggest tourist attraction floating in orbit around Jupiter. Still, a spaceship would have been nice. With his own spaceship, he could have really established himself as a super hero! Instead, what had he got? A flea-bitten mutt whose membership in the Green Lantern Corps surely beggared belief!

“Seriously, though, it WAS the best solution,” Privet repeated. “After all, we had nothing else to barter with that Manga Khan wanted.”

“But how could you sell them? You didn’t own them!” protested G’Nort.

“Ah, but I did,” Beefeater said smugly. “Sort of. They said they owed me their lives.”

“We simply applied a very literal interpretation to that statement,” added Privet. “In some societies, if you save someone’s life that means you own them.”

“But.. but… it’s WRONG, guys! You can’t sell people! It’s slavery! What am I gonna tell the Corps when they find out I let you sell two guys who were asking for our help into slavery?”

Beefeater let out a sigh. “Firstly, you flea-bitten mongrel, they aren’t really alive – they’re robots. Secondly, both Manga Khan and they were happy to go along with it. He didn’t really want them as prisoners – there’s no profit in it. However, if he OWNS them, he can sell them back to their people and make some cash out of the deal. Get it?”

“And my fixing his toaster for him helped clinch the deal,” added Privet. “It only needed a new fuse, as it happened.”

“But… but…”

“Oh, just shut up and steer,” said the Beefeater. “We’d like to land on Earth, please, not crash into it.” Something suddenly occurred to him. “You know, it took nearly ten hours to reach Manga Khan’s ship when we set out. We’ve got back in – what? – around ten minutes? Why the hell did it take so long before if you can do the trip in that time?”

“Er… I wasn’t sure where I was going,” admitted G’Nort. “But my ring-a-ding-ding knows the way now. Easy as pie getting back.”

“Hmmmm…” muttered Beefeater dubiously. He decided to shut up and let G’Nort concentrate on reentry. They were already inside the Earth’s atmosphere and it looked as if it was getting pretty hot out there.

A few minutes later they were streaking through clean air across the Atlantic Ocean. “You’re sure you know where to take us back to?” asked Beefeater.

“Sure. Ringeroonie never forgets!” said G’Nort, who seemed to be cheering up somewhat. Well, Beefeater considered, dogs tended to have a fairly short span of attention. He’d probably forgotten about their selling Loof and Fpok-bmud already.

He peered through the green bubble at the coastline looming closer. “That’s sure to be the River Dart,” said Privet excitedly. “Yes, that’s Dartmouth ahead! Only a few more miles and we’ll be back safe in Brixham!”

“Thank God for that,” Beefeater said. As the words left his mouth, however, he suddenly got a sinking feeling as he remembered something. He had been away for nearly twenty hours – since early afternoon of the previous day. He had been absent from the hotel overnight! His wife was going to go ballistic!

“Er… while we’re over Dartmouth,” he said, “could we just stop a minute or two to admire the view? I’ve always wanted to see the place from the air.”

“Sure thing,” said G’Nort, although Privet looked puzzled. The green bubble came to a halt over the river. Heaven only knew what any local residents who happened to be looking up must be thinking, but that paled into insignificance beside the reception he would get from Lisa when he finally got home. What could he possibly tell her? Think! Think! Come on, Michael, he thought. You’ve won yourself some thinking time – so use it, man!

“Are we going to be hovering here for long?” Privet asked G’Nort, glancing at his watch as he did so. “I need to get back and open up the shop. It’s way past opening time.”

In response to this, G’Nort looked pensive. “Time? Time … yeah. Y’know, I gotta feeling I’ve forgotten to do something in all this excitement, guys …”

Suddenly, the glow of his ring died and the green bubble around the ship winked out.

“Oh, yeah …” he said. “THAT was what I forgot to do …”

And the Golden Hind plunged down towards the water!

 

***

 

 

Ken Hanson stared into the slightly murky waters of the River Dart. “I knew this was going to be one of those days when we started out,” he said to Sandie Bremmer. “The media are going to have a field day over this. ‘Would-be super heroes destroy local heritage attraction’.”

Out on the river, a salvage boat was already dispatching frogmen to dive down and check out whether anything was recoverable, but by all accounts the falling Golden Hind had hit the water pretty hard. It would surely have broken its back. “They’re going to blame us,” he said. “I just know they’re going to blame us.”

“We could always try to hush it up, guv,” suggested Sergeant Harris. “Y’know, claim it’s a matter of national security or summit. Official Secrets Act and all that.”

“Probably too late for that,” said Sandie. “The best thing we can probably do is get Fecktiffe and the others out of here before the press get hold of them. I don’t think we can cover up the fact that the replica Golden Hind from Brixham Harbor just fell out of the sky and sank, but at least we can leave it as an unexplained mystery.”

“If we do that, Sandie, we won’t be able to prosecute Fecktiffe and the others.”

Sandie shrugged. “The alternative is giving super heroes a bad press, sir, and that wouldn’t be good for the Department, especially in view of the noises Eddie Stacker is making about our refusal to hand Firebrand over to him. He’d just love an excuse to get Britain’s super heroes under the control of his outfit.”

“Over my dead body,” growled Hanson. He glanced over to where an extremely soggy and sorrowful-looking trio were receiving attention from paramedics. “All right – get those three misfits into an ambulance and out of sight.”

Harris bustled over to do just that. “I want you to get onto the Green Lantern Corps,” Hanson added to Sandie. “Get one of them over here pronto to collect that … thing, whatever he is.”

“His name’s G’Nort, sir,” said Sandie. “He says he lost track of time and his ring’s charge ran out.”

“I don’t care,” said Hanson. “I just want him out of my sight, OK?”

“Right away, guv’nor,” Sandie said.

Hanson gave a last glimpse across the river to the salvage operation. “What a mess,” he muttered. And not even the satisfaction of hauling that idiot Fecktiffe through the courts over it. He turned towards the ambulance, intending to board it himself and give the three soggy idiots the third degree. Harris was just pushing the Beefeater through the door, ignoring the fact that the would-be ‘hero’ was trying to fire his waterlogged scepter at him and getting nothing but a feeble gurgle from it.

Then a smile came unexpectedly to Hanson’s lips. A car had just pulled up on the quayside. The driver was being turned back by police officers, but Hanson waved to them, indicating that they should let her through. After all, it was only fair that Lisa Fecktiffe should be allowed to see her husband.

He started to whistle cheerfully as he strode towards the ambulance. Perhaps this wasn’t such a bad day after all. He wouldn’t want to miss this touching family reunion. Not for the world.

Sometimes, he thought, justice takes the most unexpected forms…

 

 

Epilogue

 

Manga Khan wiped his mouth, a sigh of pleasure escaping from it as he did so. “Ah, L-Ron,” he said. “That was the best muffin I’ve tasted in ages. Well worth letting those idiot humans and the Green Lantern go, I think.”

“The latter was probably a smart move anyway, M’Lord,” said L-Ron. “The GLs tend to get a bit cranky if they find out one of their own is being held prisoner.”

“Whatever,” said Manga Khan, whose mind was already on other things. He rose and waved his hand over a control. A tri-D globe of the Earth appeared in the center of the room. “So, what do you think, L-Ron? Shall we make this our next port of call now that all repairs are completed? I’m sure the Earthlings are just dying to sample some of the delights we have on offer. They’re a primitive people, and we’re well overstocked on beads and trinkets. It should be a good opportunity to offload some of them.”

“What about the risk of Mister Nebula turning up, M’Lord?”

“Oh, I’ve thought about that, L-Ron. It’s only a very small risk and we could be out of there before he even notices us. There’s no other reason to avoid the place, is there?”

“I think, M’Lord,” said L-Ron, a note of concern in his voice, “that you’d be wise to cast a glance over this first.” He thrust a computer pad towards his employer.

Manga Khan at first merely glanced at the pad and made to hand it back. Then he did a double-take, looked at it again and read it very, very carefully. He stared at L-Ron. “Is this information reliable?” he asked.

“It comes from the best seers on Naltor,” said L-Ron.

“This is trouble,” Manga Khan said, handing the pad back. “Big trouble. Earth is not going to be a healthy place to be when this lot hits the fan.”

“No, M’Lord.”

“Well, then,” said Manga Khan, flourishing his cape as he strode towards a window with a magnificent view of the stars. “In that case, I think we’ll stop off at the Srelbmub home world to transact a little deal regarding our newest acquisitions, and then we’ll make for Pluboss III. It’s right across the other side of the galaxy and it’s said to be lovely at this time of year.”

“M’Lord Manga, Pluboss III is a radioactive wasteland populated by hideously deformed mutants!”

“Ah, that sounds like my kind of people,” said Manga Khan. “Order the helmsman to set course, L-Ron. Best speed. Whatever Pluboss III is like, it HAS to be safer than staying here is going to be!”