“Into your driving seat, my man,” ordered the Colonel. “And convey me at speed to the Crystal Palace.”

“Off to the launching, is it?” The cabbie tapped ash from his cigarette.

“And get a move on.” Colonel William stood before the passenger door, waiting for the cabbie to open it. “I was given to believe that you were in a hurry.”

“Nah, not really. That was just to wind you up.”

“Kindly open the passenger door.”

“Lost the use of your ’ands ’ave you?”

“You surly lout!”

“Life’s a laugh, innit?” The cabbie swung open the passenger door and Colonel William climbed into the cab. His mum came out to give him a nice wave off.

“Are you not coming too?” Colonel William asked her.

“No thank you, dear. You know what it’s like. If you’ve seen one moon launching, you’ve seen them all.”

“But this is the first one.”

“So I don’t want to spoil myself for the rest.”

“Damned idiot woman.” Colonel William tapped briskly upon the glass partition that separated the cabbie from himself. “Crystal Palace, as fast as you can.”

“Send me a postcard from the moon,” called his mother.

“Good grief!”

The cabbie engaged the Babbage’s electric drive system. Electrical power, broadcast from a nearby Tesla tower, set wheels in motion and they were off.

“You didn’t answer me,” called the cabbie over his shoulder.

“You didn’t ask me anything,” replied Colonel William, settling back upon padded leather cushions and taking in the view of the streets that he’d played in as a child.

“I asked you whether you were off to view the launching,” called the cabbie.

“Hardly to view,” Colonel William called back. “I am the pilot of the moonship.”

“You never are!” The cabbie glanced into his driving mirror.

“Indeed I am!”

“Well I never. They should have put your picture in the paper.”

“Grrrr!” went Colonel William.

“Although.” The cabbie glanced down. Upon the polished Bakelite dashboard of his cab was his copy of today’s Brentford Mercury. Upon it’s front page was that photograph.

The cabbie glanced once more into his driving mirror. Although it wasn’t so much of a glance this time, more of a stare.

“Keep your eyes on the road!” called the Colonel, as the cab struck a cyclist a glancing blow and sent him into a hedge.

“Right, sir,” said the cabbie, but his eyes darted once more towards the paper’s front page, and towards the text which Colonel William had not read in full; to the bottom of the text in fact, the bit that mentioned the reward, the one thousand pounds reward, generously donated by the Chiswick Townswomen’s Guild for the recapture of Jack the Ripper.

“Bless my soul,” said the cabbie. “This is my lucky day.”

“What was that?” called Colonel William.

“Nothing guv’nor. You just sit back there, have a bit of a snooze if you like. It will be a long journey, but I’ll get you there as quickly as I can.”

“I shall,” called Colonel William. “I’m still somewhat groggy as it happens. Bit of a late night with the chaps. A quick forty winks will sharpen me up for my flight,” and the Colonel snuggled himself down and closed his eyes.

“We’ll see all about that, Jack,” muttered the cabbie and he pressed the button that engaged the cab’s central locking system. The clicking of the passenger door locks went unheard by Colonel William who was settling into slumber.

“And out you come, my laddie!” Colonel William was suddenly rudely awakened. Rough hands were being laid upon him. Pullings were occurring, hither, to and thus. “Don’t make a fight of it, or we’ll have to truncheon you down.”

Colonel William looked up. A constable, with bandages showing from beneath his regulation helmet, had him by the throat.

“Unhand me, you oaf!” cried the Colonel.

“That’s it. Constable Meek, club this villain senseless.”

“With the greatest of pleasure,” and the clubbing-senseless began.

And it didn’t end within the cab itself. It continued in the street, and into the Brentford police station, and then down to the cell, and then in the cell, where savage bootings were added to the clubbings senseless.

“Why are you doing this?” moaned Colonel William, who still had some degree of senseness to his account.

“You won’t escape from us a second time,” said Constable Meek joyfully putting the boot in once more.

“I’ll definitely get my thousand pound reward, won’t I?” asked the cabbie, putting in a boot of his own.

“Why?” called Colonel William. “Why?”

But then a truncheon really went down, and the Colonel’s lights went out, without any ten-nine-eight-seven-six, but only with one big ZERO.

34

The afternoon papers will filled with the tragedy.

MOONSHIP HORROR

Dozens dead and hundreds injured

And speculation was being given its evil head.

It was another assassination attempt upon the Queen, said some. The work of anarchists, said others, or Johnny foreigner, said still others. But one thing was clear in the minds of all the writers. This was not an accident. British technology did not fail in such a spectacular and terrifying manner. The moonship had been sabotaged, and the chief suspect had already been named, by most of the papers: Colonel William Starling of the Queen’s Own Aerial Cavalry Regiment.

He had failed to appear at the launching. A regimental colleague, a noble officer by the name of Algernon “Chunky” Wilberforce, had stepped in to save the day and pilot the ship. “Chunky” Wilberforce was to be awarded a posthumous VC.

The villain of the piece was clearly Colonel William Starling. His photograph tfo-graced the front pages of every afternoon newspaper, but for the Brentford Mercury, which featured the first chapter of the Brentford Snail Boy’s autobiography.

Plain Will Starling sat with Tim in the public bar of the Golden Rivet, Whitechapel. Plain Will Starling munched upon pork scratchings, his munchings punctuated by great drafts of porter. Plain Will Starling was a very worried young man and one having difficulty munching his scratchings.

“Take your muffler off,” Tim told him.

Will readjusted the muffler that covered his face. “I can’t,” said he. “Look at the afternoon newspaper. I now have the face of public enemy number one.”

“Seems very unfair on our great-however-many-times-granddad.” Tim was presently unmuffled, but then it wasn’t his face on the newspaper. “You don’t think he did it, do you, Will?”

Will sighed. “We know he didn’t,” he replied between muffled munchings. “Joseph Merrick, the Elephant Man, did it.”

“We should turn him in to the police.”

“We’ve been through all that. Stop it.”

Tim made a thoughtful face and pushed back handfuls of hair. “So what do you propose to do next?” he asked.

“What would you do next?”

Tim made another thoughtful face, but it was indistinguishable from the first. And just because you make a thoughtful face, it doesn’t necessarily mean that the thoughts going on in your head amount to very much.

“Well,” said Tim, thoughtfully.

“If you want my opinion, chief,” said Barry.

“I don’t,” said Will.

“Don’t what?” Tim asked.

“Barry was asking whether I wanted his opinion.”

“I’d like to hear it,” said Tim.

“Well I wouldn’t. The way I see it, is this.”

Tim prepared himself to listen. He made a thoughtful, listening face.

“I haven’t a clue,” said Will. “I’m sorry to say it, but I’m totally lost. My other self is missing, our many times great-grandfather is missing. You and I are both wanted by the police, me somewhat more than you, it appears. We have Martians squaring up to attack Earth if the British Empire launches another moonship. We have witches up to goodness knows what evil. And let’s not forget those terminator robots. I’m sure I’m due for another visitation from one of them quite soon. And there’s Rune dead, and for all of my other self’s talk, I really have no definite idea who Rune’s murderer is, nor why he murdered those women. And that’s probably not even the worst of it.”