The Educated Ape and Other Wonders of the Worlds

by Robert Rankin

Genres: Fantasy

Synopsis

The year is 1899 and the world is coming to an end. An epic in four movements, this is the third book in Robert Rankin's highly acclaimed meta-Victorian series, after Japanese Devil Fish Girl and The Mechanical Messiah Comparable to Terry Pratchett or Douglas Adams, the father of far-fetched fiction has pulled out all of the stops with this riotous tale of wicked women, a dangerous detective, and Darwin, the educated ape. Lord Brentford has a dream: to create a Grand Exposition that will showcase the wonders of the worlds and encourage peace between the inhabited planets of Venus, Jupiter, and Earth. Ernest Rutherford has a dream: to construct a time ship, powered by the large hadron collider he has built beneath the streets of London. Cameron Bell is England's greatest detective and he, too, has a dream: to solve the crime of the century before it takes place, without blowing up any more of London's landmarks. Darwin is a monkey butler and even he has a dream: to end man's inhumanity to monkey and bring a little joy into the world. Lavinia Dharkstorrm has a dream of her own, although hers is more of a nightmare: to erase man and monkey alike from the face of the Earth and to hasten in the End of Days. Then there is the crime-fighting superlady, all those chickens from the past, and the unwelcome arrival of the Antichrist. Things are looking rather grim on planet Earth.

Release date: October 1, 2013

Publisher: Gollancz

Print pages: 314

Sample

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

he Bananary at Syon House raised many a manicured eyebrow.

Although it was in its way the very acme of fin de siècle modernity, it so forcefully scorned the conventions of how a glass-house, intended for the cultivation of tropical
fruit, should look as to cause tender ladies to reach for the smelling-salts.

Syon House itself was an ancient pile, the work of Robert Adam, embodying those classical features and delicate touches that define the English country house to create a dwelling both noble and
stately. A venerable residence all can admire.

The Bananary, however, was something completely different. It boldly bulged from the rear of Syon House in an alarming fashion that troubled the hearts of those who dared to venture within, or
viewed it from what was considered to be a safe distance.

The geometry was deeply wrong, the shape beyond grotesque. For although wrought from the traditional mediums of ironwork and glass, these materials had been tortured into such weird and
outré shapes and forms as beggared a sane description. This was clearly not the work of Sir Joseph Paxton, whose genius conceived the Crystal Palace. Nor was it that of Señor Voice,
the London tram conductor turned architect whose radical confections were currently making him the toast of the town, and whose bagnio in Baker Street had been showered with awards by the Royal
Institute of British Architects. The Bananary at Syon House left most folk lost for words.

One gentleman who was rarely lost for words was the Society Columnist of The Times newspaper. He had recently visited Syon House to conduct an interview with its owner Lord Brentford.
His lordship had, four years earlier, been pronounced ‘lost, believed dead’, having gone down, as it were, on the Empress of Mars when she crashed into a distant ocean upon her
maiden voyage. His apparent return from the dead had caused quite a sensation in the British Empire’s capital. His horror at the Bananary, built in his absence and adjoined to the great house
that was his by noble birth, had been – and still was – profound.

The Society Columnist of The Times had made a note of his lordship’s quotable quotes.

‘If this abomination is to be likened unto anything,’ Lord Brentford had fumed, ‘it is a brazen blousy harlot who has unwelcomely attached herself to the well-tailored coat of
a distinguished elderly gentleman!’

‘What manner of man,’ Lord Brentford further fumed, ‘could bring this blasphemy into being?’

‘It is –’ and here he employed a phrase that would be reemployed many years later by a prince amongst men ‘– a monstrous carbuncle upon the face of a much-loved
friend.’

It would soon be torn down, Lord Brentford assured the Society Columnist, and he, Lord Brentford, would dance upon the scattered ruins as one would upon the grave of a conquered foe.

Strong words!

Exactly what the designer of the Bananary had to say about this was anybody’s guess. But then he was not a reader of The Times, nor was he even a man.

He had, however, been born upon Earth, unlike many who, upon this warm summer’s evening, gaped open-jawed at the Bananary and thronged the electrically illuminated gardens of Syon
Park.

Fine and well-laid gardens, these, if perhaps overly planted with tall banana trees.

The moneyed and titled elite had come at Lord Brentford’s request to celebrate his safe return and see him unveil his plans for a Grand Exposition: The Wonders of the Worlds. His lordship
had spent his years in forced exile planning this extravaganza, and all, it was hoped, would soon be explained and revealed.

The great and the good were gathered here.

The rajahs and mandarins, princes and paladins,

Bankers and barons and Lairds of Dunoon,

The priest-kings and potentates, moguls of member states,

Even the first man who walked on the Moon.

As the Poetry Columnist of The Times so pleasantly put it.

Before going on to put it some more for another twenty-seven verses.

Here strolled emissaries and ecclesiastics from the planet Venus. Tall, imposing creatures these, gaunt, high-cheekboned and elegant, with golden eyes and elaborate coiffures. They gloried in
robes of lustrous Venusian silks that swam with spectrums whose colours had no names on Earth.

The ecclesiastics were exotic beings of ethereal beauty who had about them a quality of such erotic fascination that they all but mesmerised those men of Earth with whom they deigned to speak.
Although their femininity appeared unquestionable, the nature of their sexuality had become the subject of both public debate and private fantasy. It was popularly rumoured that they were
tri-maphrodite, being male and female and ‘of the spirit’, all in a single body. Nobody on Earth, however, knew for certain.

The ecclesiastics wore diaphanous gowns that afforded tantalising glimpses of ambiguous somethings beneath. From their delicate fingers they swung brazen censers upon long gilded
chains, censers which this evening breathed queer and haunting perfumes into an air already overburdened by the heady fragrance of bananas.

The Ambassador of Jupiter was also present. Typical of his race, he was a fellow both hearty and rotund, given to immoderate laughter, extravagant gestures and a carefree disposition that most
who met him found appealing. His skin, naturally grey as an elephant’s hide, was this evening toned a light pink in a respectful mimicry of Englishness. His deep-throated chucklings rattled
the upper panes of the Bananary, eliciting fears of imminent collapse from the faint-hearted but further mirth from himself and his Jovian entourage.

It was difficult not to like the Jovians. For although tensions between the three inhabited planets of this solar system – Venus, Jupiter and Earth – were oft-times somewhat
strained, the jovial Jovians found greater favour amongst Londoners than the aloof and mysterious visitors from Venus.

Although there was that certain something about the ecclesiastics . . .

There were, of course, no Martians present at this glamorous soirée, for the Martian race was happily extinct!

The story of how this came about was known, in part, to almost every child in England, told as a bedtime tale to put them soundly asleep.

‘Once upon a time,’ so they were told, ‘in the year eighteen eighty-five, Phnaarg, the evil King of Mars, declared war upon Earth and sent a mighty fleet of spaceships to
attack the British Empire. These fearsome warships landed in Surrey and from them came terrible three-legged engines of death. The soldiers of the Crown fought bravely but could not best the
Martians, who employed most wicked and ungentlemanly weapons against them. All would have been lost if not for patriotic bacteria in the service of Her Majesty the Queen, God bless her, which
bravely killed the horrid invaders, and everyone lived happily ever after. Now go to sleep or I will give you a smack.’

Which was all well and good.

There was, however, a second half to this tale, but few were the children who ever heard it.

‘To avoid the risk of further Martian attacks,’ so the unheard half goes, ‘Mr Winston Churchill took control of the situation and formulated a top-secret plan. With the aid of
senior boffins Lord Charles Babbage and Lord Nikola Tesla, several of the abandoned Martian spaceships were converted for human piloting. They were then passengered by the incurables from the
isolation hospitals of the Home Counties and dispatched to the Red Planet. It was effectively the birth of germ warfare, and it put paid to all the Martians of Mars.

‘Thus the British Empire encompassed another world and Queen Victoria became Empress of both India and Mars. With the evil Martians now defeated, other inhabitants of the solar system came
forward to establish friendly relations with Earth, which then joined Jupiter and Venus to form a family of planets.

‘British engineering combined with captured Martian technology allowed Mr Babbage and Mr Tesla to take giant steps forwards in the field of science and by eighteen ninety-nine, the British
Empire had reached the very height of its glory.

‘The End.’

It was all in all an inspiring tale with a happy-ever-after, but not one that the British Government sought to publicise. The British Government felt that the British public would not take
kindly to the business of the incurables from the isolation hospitals being sent off on their one-way trips to Mars.

The British ‘public’ were tonight notable only for their non-presence at Syon Park. The British Government, on the other hand, were most well represented.

The young and dashing Mr Winston Churchill was here, discussing the merits of Jovian cigars with the young and equally dashing Mr Septimus Grey, Governor of the Martian Territories. Sir Peter
Harrow, a gentleman generally described on the charge-sheets as being the Member for North Brentford, conversed with the playwright Oscar Wilde regarding the conspicuousness of prostitution in the
Chiswick area. ‘Conspicuous by its absence,’ was Sir Peter’s considered opinion.

The controversial cleric Cardinal Cox shared a joke about beards and baldness with his cousin Kit, the celebrated monster-hunter and first man on the Moon. The Society Columnist from The
Times had quite given up on writing down names from a guest list that read like a precis of Debrett’s and had taken instead to ogling the ladies and tasting the champagne and crisps.

Hired minions of the foreign persuasion moved amongst the exalted congress bearing trays of sweetmeats, petits fours and canapés. Champagne danced into cut-crystal glasses and ladies
brought loveliness to a pretty perfection while Mazael’s Clockwork Quartet did battle with the unearthly acoustics of the Bananary. The Moon shone down from a star-strewn sky and a distant
church bell chimed the hour of nine.

All seemed right with the Empire upon this magical evening, all at peace and the way that all should be.

With such champagne and such nibbles and amidst such glittering company, the more charitable present could almost forgive the Bananary.

Almost.

But not quite.

But almost.

And as Lord Brentford strolled amidst the assembled multitude, bound for the flag-decked rostrum from which he would deliver a speech that had been four years in the preparation, it did not
cross his mind that anything untoward might possibly occur to confound his schemes and spoil this grand occasion.

But sadly there can sometimes be a fly within the ointment, no matter how clean one has kept the pot or tightly screwed on the lid. For even as Lord Brentford strolled, his mind engaged in
worthy thoughts, something that could truly be described as ‘untoward’ was rushing backwards through the aether, bound for Syon House.

No fly was this, although it flew.

For it was indeed a monkey.

A monkey that through its actions would come to change not only the present, but the past and the future, too.

Onwards rushed this anomalous ape.

As onwards strolled the oblivious Lord Brentford.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

oth bearded and bald was Lord Brentford, yet oddly birdlike, too. His eyes were as dark as a raven’s wing, his nose as hooked as a
seagull’s bill. His suit was cut from kiwi pelts and his burnished and buckled big black boots had trodden moors on pheasant shoots. His hands flapped somewhat as he spoke and he liked
poached eggs for breakfast.

As he made his way to the flag-hung rostrum, as unaware as ever he had been of impending monkey mayhem, the crowd politely parted, polite converse ceased, polite applause rippled and the members
of his household staff bowed their heads with politeness.

Upon his unexpected return to Syon House, the noble lord had been appalled not only by the beastly Bananary but also by the extraordinary number of servants the present
incumbent had in his employ. There were pages and parlour maids, chore-boys and chambermaids, gentlemen’s gentlemen, lackeys and laundrymen, kitchen boys, coachmen, porters and porch-men,
bed-makers, tea-makers, chaplains and cheese-makers, carers and sweepers, cooks and housekeepers and even a eunuch who tended a parrot named Peter. Not to mention a veritable garrison of gardeners
(all highly skilled in the arts of tropical horticulture, Lord Brentford noted).

To say that this multitude swarmed the great house and gardens like so many two-legged bees would be to paint an inaccurate picture of the situation. The majority of the minions draped
themselves over settles and settees reading newspapers or playing games of Snap. To the now fiercely flapping Lord Brentford, it appeared that the present incumbent had, for reasons known only to
himself, chosen to employ this substantial staff as little more than adornments to Syon House.

His lordship noted ruefully that the exception lay with the gardeners, whom he found to be hard at work cheerfully uprooting the century-old knot garden preparatory to the planting in of further
banana trees.

Lord Brentford sacked each and every one upon the instant, then took down his now dust-cloaked double-action twelve-bore fowling piece from above the marble fireplace and went in search of the
present incumbent.

The present incumbent, however, was not to be found. The staff, now packing their bags and cheerfully helping themselves to portions of his lordship’s family silver, had little to offer
regarding the present incumbent or his whereabouts.

During his search of the premises, Lord Brentford came upon a wardrobe containing a selection of the mystery fellow’s clothes. Fine hand-tailored clothes were these, bearing the label of
his lordship’s Piccadilly tailor. This discovery now added mystery to mystery, for the missing person, this despoiler of English country houses, was clearly not as other men. The clothes had
been tailored for a being who was positively dwarf-like, possessed of arms of a prodigious length and some kind of extra appendage that sprouted from his backside – for each pair of trousers
bore a curious snood affair affixed to its rear parts.

Lord Brentford strutted, stormed and flapped from room to room, discharging his fowling piece into the frescoed ceilings, which helped to prompt a rapid departure by the servants he had so
recently and unceremoniously dismissed.

At length, and with the aid of brandy from a bottle laid down fifty years before that had happily remained untouched in his cellar, he finally calmed himself to a state resembling that of reason
and produced from his pocket a copy of The Times.1

Having located the section dedicated to Domestics, for the hiring of, he applied himself to the telephonic communication device that he of the freakish trousers had taken the liberty of
having installed and demanded the operator connect him to Miss Dolly Rokitt, the proprietress of a Mayfair-based domestics agency.

Lord Brentford’s requirements were swiftly made clear. He wished to employ the following.

A chef. ‘And not a damned Johnny Frenchman.’

An upstairs maid. ‘And make her a pretty ’un, not some frumpish strumpet.’

A monkey butler. ‘Cos a gentleman ain’t a gentleman without an ape to serve him.’

And a bootboy and general factotum. ‘And get me one by the name of Jack, for such is the noble tradition. Or old charter. Or something.’

Miss Dolly Rokitt was politeness personified and replied with eagerness that just such a four-person staff had lately been signed to her books and were even now crated up in her cellar awaiting
a call such as his lordship was now making. So to speak.

‘Then bung the boxes on a four-wheeled growler and dispatch them here post-haste,’ was what his lordship had to say about that.

Miss Rokitt complied with these instructions and then returned to that dearest indulgence of feminine fingers, embroidery.

Lord Brentford poured himself another brandy and lazed in his family seat.

In truth, the concept of ‘crating up’ servants was a new one to him. But he had been away for a very long time and consequently was presently out of touch with many of the latest
innovations, fashions and whatnots.2

His lordship shrugged his shoulders, rose to his feet and with all the grace of gait normally attributed to a Devonshire dancing duck set off in search of a crowbar.

Presently a four-wheeled growler crackled the gravel before Syon House and a cockney coachman, cheerful and chipper as any of his caste, stilled the horses, stepped from his conveyance, raised
an unwashed hand and knocked with the unpolished knocker.

Presently the door swung open to reveal Lord Brentford, now somewhat far gone with the drink.

‘Have at you, blackguard!’ the inebriated nobleman declared, fumbling at the place where the hilt of his sword, had he been wearing one, would have been.

‘No blackguard I, sir, guv’nor,’ replied the cockney character, a-hitching up of his trousers and tipping his cap as a fellow must do when addressing himself to the gentry.
‘But ’umble ’erbert is me name. Come as to deliver your staff.’ And he gestured with a grubby mitt towards the four large packing crates that rested on his growler.

‘Rumpty-tumpty,’ said his lordship. ‘Had you down as some Romany rogue, come to strip the lead off me roof. Sorry pardon and all the rest of it. Get ’em down from your
wagon and hump ’em around to the servants’ quarters.’

‘That would be a two-man job,’ observed the chirpy chappie.

‘That would be a kick up your ragged arse,’ Lord Brentford observed, ‘if you don’t do what you’re told.’

‘Right as ten-pence, guv’nor.’

Lord Brentford slammed shut the door.

The cockney coachman muttered certain words beneath his breath. Paeans in praise of the landed gentry, in all probability. Then he drove his growler around to the servants’ quarters,
shivering slightly at the sight of the Bananary, drew his horses to a halt and with the aid of his hobnailed boots relieved himself of his cargo. The job now done to his satisfaction, he stirred up
the horses and left at a goodly pace.

Lord Brentford was forced to do his own unpacking. But he was pleased at least with what he had received: an upstairs maid who was spare and well kempt; a portly chef both bearded and bald; a
monkey butler in waistcoat and fez; and a bootboy by the name of Jack.

A month had passed since this day and Lord Brentford had, during this time, managed to restore a degree of order to the chaos that had reigned in Syon House. Whether word of his return had
reached he of the freakish trousers was unknown, but he had not returned and so had not been shot at.

Tonight, upon this special night, his lordship’s new staff stood with heads bowed in politeness as Lord Brentford mounted the flag-bedecked rostrum and smiled upon all
and sundry.

The all and sundry whose heads were not bowed returned smiles to the noble lord. The Jovian ambassador raised a thumb the size of a savoury sausage and offered words of well wishing.

‘Cheers be unto thou, bonny lad,’ he said.

Lord Brentford did that little cough which in the right kind of society indicates that silence is required, then formally greeted his guests.

‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. He would dearly have loved to have prefaced this with, ‘Your Majesty,’ but Queen Victoria had been unable to attend, having a
previous engagement at a charity Wiff-Waff competition in which she was now through to the semi-finals.

‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen. Emissaries and ecclesiastics of Venus. His Magnificence the Ambassador of Jupiter.’ The ambassador broke wind, which caused some chucklings, but only
amongst his entourage. ‘I am honoured tonight by all your exalted presences. As you will know, I set off four years ago upon the maiden voyage of this world’s greatest airship, the
Empress of Mars, on a journey that was intended to girdle the globe in less than eighty days. That magnificent vessel of the sky came to a terrible end with many fine lives lost – a
sad conclusion to what would have been a marvellous achievement. I was pitched into the sea and later found myself washed up on the beach of a cannibal isle. Alone was I and subject to the untender
mercies of the savages. And well they might have dined upon me had not their instincts, base as they were, revealed to them that as an Englishman I was their natural superior. Within a month they
had crowned me their King. Within two, I had taught them not only the Queen’s English, but also the correct manner in which to lay out the knives and forks for a fish supper.’

There was hearty applause at this, for which his lordship politely paused.

Lord Brentford continued, ‘The island was many miles from the nearest shipping lanes and if I was to return safely to England, it became apparent that a seagoing craft would need to be
constructed. Under my direction the savages built such a craft. With only the most primitive of tools at my disposal and a willing though unskilled workforce, this task took more than three years
to complete.

‘My ship, the Pride of Syon, is now berthed at Greenwich.’

Considerable applause followed this disclosure. Although one or two folk appeared to be finding interest in the Heavens.

Lord Brentford continued once more. ‘During my time upon the island, when not educating the natives or supervising their shipbuilding, I had pause to think long and hard of our Queen and
our Empire.’

There was some applause at this but more folk now appeared concerned with the dark sky above.

‘We stand now upon the pinnacle of history, on the threshold of the twentieth century. Great achievements have been attained, but greater still are yet to come. It is my firm conviction
that at this special time a Grand Exposition should be held, to exhibit the Wonders of the Worlds. Just as the Great Exhibition of eighteen fifty-one displayed the marvels of art and of industry of
this world, so, then, the Grand Exposition will showcase the skills and sciences of the three worlds – Venus, Jupiter and Earth.’

The Venusians displayed enigmatic expressions. The Jovians applauded with vigour.

‘More than this, I contend—’ But here Lord Brentford paused, for more and more folk were now gazing skywards. Gazing and pointing and shifting about in unease.

‘What of this?’ The noble lord surveyed the crowd, then turned and raised his eyes towards the sky. ‘Oh goodness me!’

Lord Brentford fled. He took to his heels with hands a-flapping and his legs goose-stepping, too. Not alone in this was he, for now the crowd was all in a panic, making to escape as best they
could according to their capabilities, running, screaming, tripping and falling, spreading as some human tsunami across the lawns and gardens. Away, away to escape what was to come.

And what was to come was tumbling down from above. It was a dark and terrible something, as would strike much fear in all who saw it coming. Down and down it tumbled, end over end, falling,
falling, down and down.

Those who saw it knew it for the awful thing it was.

A battered Martian man-o’-war, such as was last seen during the Martian invasion.

Down it came, this horrible ship of space, this ugly vessel built only for war, moving now, it appeared, in slow motion, but moving ever down.

Until finally it struck planet Earth with a mighty explosion, a rending and mashing of metal and glass, of blood and bones and who knew what else. It rolled, it skewed, it swerved, it crashed,
and finally it came to rest its terrible self upon the Bananary.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 n unholy silence prevailed in the gardens of Syon.

A silence broken periodically by the occasional tinkling of glass, the settling of stonework and the woebegone grindings of clockwork. For Mr Mazael’s Clockwork Quartet now had a spaceship
upon it.

Gone, all gone, were the glitterati who had adorned the gardens with their fragrant presences. Now but four folk stood amongst the ruin and the mess, four folk who would probably be expected to
play a major part in tidying it up: a portly chef, an upstairs maid, a monkey butler in a fez and a bootboy factotum named Jack. As Lord Brentford had neglected to issue them with instructions to
run for their lives, these obedient servitors to the noble one remained standing where they had been told to stand, with heads politely bowed.

In truth not all of them were standing, and those who were, were not quite as clean and tidy as they had previously been. The spacecraft’s concussion had blown off the upstairs
maid’s bonnet, the portly chef’s bald head was smutted and the monkey butler had been toppled from his feet. He lay now with his legs in the air, but his head was still bowed in
politeness. And he still had on his fez.

The portly chef spoke first. He cleared his throat and said, ‘This is a pretty pickle, to be sure.’

The upstairs maid, both spare and kempt, said nothing.

The bootboy, being cockney, tried to see the brighter side. ‘Well, if that ain’t saved ’is lordship the price of a gang of navvies to knock down that there Bananary, you can
poach my Percy in paraffin and use me for a teapot.’ Stealing a glance at the ruination, he added, ‘Strike me pink.’

The portly chef sighed deeply.

‘If it’s Martians,’ the bootboy piped up, ‘I’ll go and cough on ’em – I’ve a touch of consumption on me. That’ll teach the blighters to come
back.’

‘It is not Martians,’ said the portly chef. ‘I perceive this to be a Martian craft converted for use as a pleasure vessel. There will be men aboard this craft, not
Martians.’

‘Men, is it, guv’nor?’ the bootboy chirped. ‘And perceiving it that you’re a-doing? What’s all that about, then?’

‘There is something familiar about that spaceship,’ said the chef, helping the monkey butler to his feet and dusting him down around and about. ‘Are you uninjured?’ he
asked of the ape.

The monkey butler looked somewhat startled, but as he was a monkey, he had nothing to say.

‘I suggest we enter the spaceship and tend to any survivors,’ said the chef.

‘You might be wrong with your perceiving there, guv’nor,’ the bootboy had to say. ‘Best we all just ’ave a good old cough then ’ave it away on our
toes.’

‘Follow me,’ ordered the chef and, turning to the upstairs maid, he said, ‘You should wait here, my dear.’

The upstairs maid remained silent and the chef took the monkey’s hand. If the monkey harboured any doubts, none were apparent from his expression. He ran his long and pointy tongue around
his lips. There now were a very large number of squashed bananas in the wreckage of the Bananary.

‘Follow me,’ said the portly chef. The monkey butler and the bootboy followed.

The Martian hulk was a sturdy affair, and the collision with a glass-house had barely dented it. Some of the paintwork looked a bit scratched here and there, but the enamelled Union Jack and the
nameplate were intact. The chef read from the nameplate. ‘The Marie Lloyd,’ he read. ‘That rings a bell with me somewhere.’

The bootboy slipped on a banana skin and fell upon his bottom. The monkey butler laughed at this, for the classic humour of a man slipping upon a banana skin transcends all barriers of race and
species.

‘Ain’t funny,’ said the bootboy, struggling up.

The chef placed a plump palm upon the spaceship’s hull. ‘Hardly warm,’ said he. ‘It has therefore not plunged down from outer space.’

The bootboy tapped the hull. ‘Anyone ’ome?’ he called.

‘Best display a modicum of caution,’ said the chef. ‘Stand back, if you will.’

The chef threw the emergency release bolts of the spaceship’s entry port with a degree of expertise that surprised even himself. There was a hiss as atmospheres within and without
equalised, then the port dropped down to form an entry ramp.

‘Perhaps both of you should remain here,’ the chef told the boy and the monkey. ‘If folk are injured, their injuries may not be pleasing to behold.’

The monkey butler munched a banana.

The bootboy said, ‘I ain’t never been upon no spaceship. I’ll come in there with you, if you please.’

‘And you?’ the man asked the monkey.

The monkey made a puzzled face, then twitched his sensitive nostrils.

‘Ah,’ said the chef. ‘You smell something, do you?’

The monkey glanced up and a strange look came into his eyes.

‘We had better make haste,’ said the chef. ‘Come on.’

Many of the Martian spaceships, abandoned by their occupants when they were struck dead by Earthly bacteria, had been re-engineered for human piloting. The British Government had taken control
of all these spaceships and as they had only landed in England, this meant that the British Government now had effective control over all human space travel. This caused considerable
complaints from other countries, notably the United States of America, who insisted that they should have a share of the captured technology.

Knowing what was best for all, Queen Victoria decreed that space travel and the exploration of other worlds would remain the preserve of the British Empire. And also decreed that the one and
only spaceport on Earth would be constructed in Sydenham on lands beneath the Crystal Palace. The Royal London Spaceport.

A number engraved beneath the name the Marie Lloyd indicated