Previous Post For lack of anything new finished to post I thought I’d try and keep things moving with this rather ancient repost. Here’s the very first Parodyverse appearance of Sir Mumphrey Wilton from 1999. His stories were initially posted anonymously but Lisa quickly deduced that I was his writer. These tales, occurring at the cusp of the Parodyverse developing a proper ‘continuity’ also include a lot of information and development that later became part of the collective backstory of our characters; for some it was their first treatment outside jokey humour-only tales, for others my first attempt to use them in a narrative way. So settle back by your open hearth, put on your slippers, toast a crumpet, sip a sherry, and enjoy… The Journal of Sir Mumphrey Wilton, Extract One: In which something damned peculiar happens down at the office Today was a rather peculiar day. Started out as usual, of course. Woke up, felt across for Madge, found the little dip in the mattress where she used to sleep, remembered that I’d never roll over and find her there again. Damn. I suppose after two years I should remember that she’s passed on, but old habits and all that. Anyway, no point dwelling. Must keep busy. I did the usual bathroom stuff. Bit more grey creeping into the muttonchop whiskers. To be expected. Drove to the City, observing the speed limits, being polite to pedestrians. Arrive about 7.55am. Always does to keep the staff on their toes. Caught young Prentiss illicitly using that computer internet thingie they’re always talking about to chat with some friends in-line or whatever it is. He kept spluttering apologies all morning. Wish I knew how to use those computer gadgets. Checked the post. Letter from Felicity’s husband, wanting to borrow more money. Never known a man back so many bad businesses. Madge would have had something to say about her son-in-law’s behaviour. Letter from Roland, duties to dear father and all that, but what he was really saying between the lines was isn’t it time I stepped down from Wilton Industries and gave him a crack at being top dog. Suppose I’ll have to some day, but it’s hard to make someone top dog when they’re such a poodle. Some curious letter from a German nobleman regarding a patent I apparently bought up a decade or so back. Apparently wants to buy it off me. Something a bit odd about the letter and the chap’s eagerness, so I told Miss Dawkins to prevaricate while I looked into it. Lunch at Ffoulks’, then back to my desk at 2.15. Had a briefing meeting with Seddings from the Tunbridge plant. Man’s an idiot. Doesn’t he talk to his shop floor people? It’s been months since I got up there but the jolly first thing I did was have a buttie with the workforce and get them to tell me what’s really going on. Didn’t work up a multi-million pound empire just by listening to the Seddings of this world. Was just about to offer him some much needed management advice in the form of a kick to the pants when the office wall shattered into shrapnel. Seddings fainted dead on the spot. Man wouldn’t have lasted a minute in my regiment. He wouldn’t have lasted a minute in my House at school, for that matter. Man’s an oik. Anyway, in came six quite extraordinary chappies and two chapesses. Better describe ‘em because I’m not sure I’ll believe them myself in the morning. In charge was a woman wearing, I swear it’s the truth, a cow’s head. Must have been damned difficult to breathe through all that. Told her as much later, and she admitted that it was murder on her perm. The other young lady was a rather topping-looking gal with a pony tail. Reminded me a bit of the fillies at the riding club, sort of horsey but nice with it. Oh, and she had wings, with feathers. Fascinating. The men were nothing like as interesting. There was a thug in a black slimy all-over body stocking with a huge red tongue. There was a foulmouthed young man who I very quickly told to mind his P’s and Q’s. Miss Dawkins was in the next room after all. A chap with a scythe for one hand which must have made having breakfast or doing his flies up very uncomfortable. Said as much to him and he didn’t like it. Weedy looking chap pointing a stick at me. Big strong fellow who must work out a lot with a big red W across his chest. Not too bright in my view, but made a special point to be nice to him in case he was one of the simple folk. And there was another chap who it’s very hard to describe, as the eye just kept slipping off him. Actually gave the man my tailor’s card. Told him that old Edmund would fix him up with something stylish and sharp that would make him a bit more noticeable. Fellow seemed overwhelmed that I’d taken the trouble to notice him and speak to him. Probably a bit shy. I was told later that these fellows are actually desperados, some sort of nasty club called the Scourge of Baron Zemo’s Lair. American-style super-chappies. The cow-woman was the diabolical Dr Moo, the others were Pegasus (the pretty lady), Venom, Jam, Grim Reaper, Wonderbooster, the late great Donald Blake, and the Man Who Wasn’t There. Dashed strange names, don’t you think? Anyway, even though they’d really been quite rude in smashing the wall down I invited them to come in, buzzed Miss Dawkins for some extra chairs and to get somebody to cart Seddings away and opened up the drinks cabinet. No excuse for a breach of hospitality, even though the Scourge people seemed surprised to be offered a snifter. I suppose it was a bit early in the day. Turns out that Dr Moo had been sent to get that patent the German chappie wanted. Seems they needed the plans that went with it as well, because their boss, this Baron, wanted it for “one of his masterschemes.” In conversation it became clear that he wasn’t actually a very nice bloke. “Do you mean to tell me,” I accused them in no uncertain manner, “that you work for the same Heinrich Zemo who’s the wanted war criminal? A Nazi? How can you look yourselves in the faces in the mornings? Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves? What would your mothers think?” One or two of them had the good grace to blush at that, I noticed. The horsie-gal and the chap with the big W for example. But the cow-woman just got annoyed, and then Venom threatened to pull Miss Dawkins’ head off. Well good secretaries are hard to come by, so of course I had to take them down to the vaults where I keep my important bits and pieces. By now the police had all arrived outside and hostage negotiators were already on the phones trying to set up their book deals, so there was quite a cafuffle happening on the street. That Man Who Wasn’t There and the cane chappie Blake stayed above ground to keep an eye on the long arm of the law while the rest came with me. By this time it was pretty clear to me that I really didn’t have much choice. The desperados wouldn’t leave without hurting anyone unless they got what they wanted. The Baron needed this patent and plans for some nefarious scheme which was probably not going to do people a lot of good. And here I was surrounded by strange super-powered bounders. Like I said, I had no choice. So I took the key off my watch fob and undid safe-deposit box 666 and removed the contents. It wasn’t the patent and plans, of course, but they didn’t know that. My old pocketwatch was as shiny and bright as the day I put it away there back when Felicity was born. Brought a happy tear to my eye as I remembered holding the girl as a new babe. Anyway the old chronometer seemed as good as new. The cow-headed one was just objecting that this wasn’t what they’d come for when I pushed down winder one and slowed time down sufficiently for them to notice that something was terribly wrong. The old reflexes all came back to me as if it wasn’t twenty-five years. The Grim Reaper pointed his scythe and fired some kind of crackly-energy-bolt thingie and Dr Moo shot off something that looked like milk from a sort of water-pistol. That was what I’d been waiting for so I fully stopped time and rearranged them so that they were facing each other. The nice young lady had been polite throughout so I only handcuffed her to the vault doors. The big chappie with the W looked a bit tough to me so I connected him up to the mains. Then, and this was the yeuchky part, I wrapped that chap in black’s big prehensile tongue round Wonderbooster so he’s get the benefit as well. By this time the chonometer alarm was chiming to warn me that the charge was almost used up, but I couldn’t resist dashing out to the vault washroom and getting some soap for that Jam’s mouth before handcuffing him as well. As the chronal charge expired I just got out of the way and watched the sport. As soon as the electricity started to flow it zapped right through Wonderbooster and seared venom as well. I was a bit alarmed because neither of them was actually knocked out by it but since both got the idea that the other had attacked them they got into a terrible brawl and finished each other off anyway. Meanwhile the scythe-chappie was writhing around as if the milk on him was acid or something before finally fainting. The cow-lady had been stunned senseless by the scythe-blast. I apologised to Ms. Pegasus for the inconvenience of handcuffing her. The Jam fellow was saying the most terrible things again so I had no choice but to replace my pocketwatch on its waistcoat chain and ding him on the head with it. That discouraged him. Of course there were still the two vagabonds upstairs. Fearing that the police might try and storm the place with riot police or something and that somebody might get hurt I used the partially-restored chronal charge in a way I don’t really like to, stopping the hearts of the Fellow Who Wasn’t There and Mr Blake just long enough to put them out. Always risky that, the moreso because I’m out of practise. Still, needs must and all that. Detective Inspector Gallowglass was quite surprised when I opened the front door and invited him in. Explained that they’d had a sort of a squabble and must have done for one another. Felt a bit sorry when they led Ms Pegasus off in the Paddy Wagon though. Must have fallen in with a bad crowd or something. Fished out patent and plans they were all so interested in but couldn’t make head nor tail of them. Sent letter to Herr Zemo telling him that he was a bounder and a cad and a damned Nazi to boot and he could whistle for his patent. All in all rather enjoyed today. For some reason haven’t put the old chonometer back in its box. Think I might start wearing it again. Amazing how right it feels there on my waistcoat. Feel younger than I have since Madge died. Must ding more malefactors round the head. Expect haven’t heard the last of Zemo. These Nazis are a persistent breed of oik. Decided I’d better work out what these plans are all about before more of the ungodly come knocking. Contacted old business acquaintance who had a knack for gadgets and was shocked to find he’d been dead for more than five years. Son running business now but apparently also has a way with dooberries and therefore willing to take a scan at the patents and plans and try and make some sense of ‘em. Flying over to the Philippines to meet young Mr Bautista next Friday. Read paper. Did crossword. Read chapter of The Good Companions. Brushed teeth. Said goodnight to Madge (as always). Went to bed. The Journal of Sir Mumphrey Wilton, Extract Two: In which some uncouth chaps are unsporting and the ungodly therefore require smiting Not been to the Philippines before, so I was rather interested to have a look around. Seems like a country of many contrasts, but was impressed with how polite people are. Good manners always sign of good people. Remember old Bautista snr. as being rather a nice chap. Curious how that car accident happened. Heard his boy had a similar crash a few years later – deucedest coincidence, think they were Kennedies or something (poor Johnny was another nice chap), but when young Jaimie met me at the airport he seemed perfectly alright. Brought young lady with him too, very nice gal called Tina, to whom he seems to be somewhat attached. Must be quite a bright lassie too. We’d been driving out of town towards the Bautista Plant when Tina warned young Jaimie that there was somebody following them. Can’t work out how she knew. Anyway, junior Bautista pushes some button on his dashboard (more buttons on his car dash than in my entire wardrobe of waistcoats – and that’s a lot of waistcoats) and this sort of James Bond radar-thingie starts bleeping. “Two cars,” he says, and suddenly his voice has changed a bit and he’s looking rather older and more responsible, a bit like if a mask has dropped away. “And a couple of helicopter gunships.” Well, I knew that that cad Zemo wanted to get his hands on the papers I was carrying, but this seemed a little bit excessive and I said so. I mean, there was a young lady present in the vehicle who might have been injured. “Going to stealth mode,” says young Jaimie. Not quite sure why that involved hammering the dashboard with his shoe, presumably some security measure, but it worked anyway. There was a sort of rippling outside the vehicle, and when Jaimie swung the wheel round and took us off the track into some vegetation the two cars completely failed to spot us and zoomed off away. Noticed that Tina and her young chap were exchanging glances. “You’d, you’d better go and summon your bodyguard,” Tina told young Bautista. I enquired about this. Turns out that Jaimie designed this top-flight armoured tin can suit which can fly and zap things and so on, and he’s equipped his bodyguard with it. All sounds very exciting. If it had been me able to make a suit like that though you’d not be catching me giving it away to somebody else to wear, nosireee. The suit’s called the NTU-150. Not sure what NTU stands for though. Probably something very macho. Not sure what happened to the 149 before it either. “Better stay here with the car in stealth mode,” Jaimie tells Tina and I. I started to protest that I don’t need coddling but then it occurred to me that the young fellow probably hoped to impress the girl by going off and doing something brave. Can’t say I blame him, we all go through that. I remember some of the daft things I did to get Madge’s attention back in my glory days. Anyway, Jaimie vanished off into the undergrowth with only his briefcase so I stayed and chatted with Tina while those black helicopters were spiralling overhead trying to locate us. “I wonder why Zemo wants these so badly?” Tina wondered. “You know Zemo?” I asked, because from the tone of her voice it’s pretty clear that she’s come across the blaggard. She gave me a funny look and shrugged. “He’s the most persistent archcriminal on the planet,” she told me. Explains a lot. Knew he wasn’t tickety-boo when he bugged my London office and then sent his thugs to get what he couldn’t convince me to sell to him. Just then lots of chappies in black pyjamas jumped out of the trees and landed on the car. I warned them to mind the paintwork. They had black masks too and were carrying a curved sword in each hand. Orientals, I’d hazard. Then suddenly there’s this blur of red and gold and things start exploding. Small trees, rocks, that sort of thing. And these black-pyjama wallahs are getting blown head over heels by the detonations. There was a sound like a jet engine and this most remarkable metal fellow actually zoomed down from the skies and landed between the baddies and the car we were in. “You chose the wrong car to ninj on,” NTU-150 (for it was he) told the malefactors. “Put down the weapons and surrender.” Well I could have told NTU that no villain in the history of villaindom has ever responded to that line with “Oh, very well. Sorry, guv’nor. It’s a fair cop.” On the other hand, it’s nice to see the traditional forms being upheld. So they all charged and the chappie in the armour game them a damn good trouncing. Meanwhile, it seemed that my lovely companion had also recognised these marauders. “They’re Yakusa assassins,” she breathed, “working for Akiko Masamune!” Well it turns out that this Masamune woman is head of a clan or a tong or a ping or something like that, and is the oriental delegate to the International Organised Crime Cartel which runs the rackets planetwide. In short, another lady who’s clearly misguided in life. “But if they’re from Masamune they might have come prepared to face NTU-150!” Before I could ask Tina what she meant and before she could warn the johnny in the armour-plating, the final hidden assassin popped out of the bushes and fired some sort of elaborate ray-gun device at NTU-150. Jaimie explained later that this was an EMP gun, which apparently fires, well, presumably EMPs at people. But EMPs, whatever they might be, certainly played havoc with that armour that NTU-150 was wearing and for added badness took down the stealth shield around the car. That meant that the two black helicopters spotted us and started approaching until we could see their gunports looming. Tina is a very brave young woman. She was out of the car and hovering over the fallen NTU-150 even though there was this fellow with the big sword and the EMP gun approaching. She frowned at him but he just touched a rather elaborate and mechanical looking headband he was wearing and kept coming. Well clearly it was time to do something. Can’t have brave young women cut down just for tryin’ to rescue the fallen hero, can we? And those approaching gunships were looking distinctly menacing. So I popped out the old pocketwatch, dialled it for timestopping, stepped outside time for a spot, and borrowed the pyjama-chappie’s EMP thingie. Then I let time slip forward just enough so he could feel the impact of a left uppercut. He might have been a whizz at kung-fu or whatever they do these days but he’d clearly never met the Marquis of Queensbury. Crumpled like a yuppie in Wolverhampton. Been a while since I hefted a rifle as well but this thing didn’t even have a recoil. So I just pointed it at the helicopters to find out what would happen. Turned out they just stopped heli-ing and crashed into the trees. Dropped the EMP-gun safely in the bushes, resumed normal time before all the watch’s chronal charge was exhausted, and went to assist young Tina to jump start NTU-150 from the automobile’s battery. She and NTU-150 were both a bit puzzled by what had just happened. I suggested perhaps the EMP gun had somehow hit the gunships and they decided that must be it. No point confusing the youngsters with explanations about chronal pocketwatches, is there? Eventually got to the plant, met up with Jaimie again (who had somehow managed to make it back in time to debrief NTU-150) and finally got young Bautista’s take on the plans and patents that Baron Zemo, and now it seems Akiko Masamune, were interested in. Turns out to be some kind of energy converter, does something with ions apparently, and requires some incredibly rare substances to make it work. Whole thing was patented by an American inventor twenty years ago and I picked it up for a song after he passed away a few years back. Just a speculation. Never got round to following it up. Jaimie was pretty keen to have a go at making the converter, just to see what it did. Tina was less keen. I said we’d better try, although getting some of the bits might prove a little daunting. Still, it’s better than another dreary day in that big City office pushing paper, or in that cold empty house without Madge. Next step while young Bautista’s making a list is to get somebody to chase up the original patent filing. Tina suggested an American lawyer she knows, so I’m flying up to meet Ms Waltz in New Orleans where the patent was filed. According to her answering machine no client leaves unsatisfied. On the whole there’s something to be said for being chased around the world by exotic villains. Almost as stimulating as the Times crossword. Probably got more chasing to be done yet, I shouldn’t wonder. Better take precautions to ensure Ms Waltz’s safety. The Journal of Sir Mumphrey Wilton, Extract Three In which Ms Waltz and Mr Kotyk kindly provide legal assistance against another kind of bloodsucker My ongoing enquiries into the energy-converting device whose plans and patent I snapped up for a song a decade or so back appear to have upset quite a few people. First the apparently infamous Nazi criminal Baron Zemo and then the Yakuza head Akiko Masamune have sent out unpleasant people (although I feel it unfair to include Ms. Pegasus in so broad and boorish as generality) to retrieve the plans. However, young industrialist Jaime Bautista has already cleared one of his laboratories by the simple expedient of mixing a few chemicals and causing an almighty explosion, and intends to reconstruct the device one we can secure the appropriate components. I have spent the last few days in the rather jolly city of New Orleans, a delightful place which has all the joys of French cuisine and the Parisian joi de vivre without actually having to go to France. I confess that I have sloped off from my quest to find more about the gentleman who filed the original patent once or twice, because the little alleys and hidden bookshops all seem so very inviting. I seem to be behaving as if I was twenty again, which is absurd in a man of my years. My years! If only I was a younger man I could fall very deeply for the solicitor whom young Tina recommended to assist me in my enquiries. Ms Waltz and her two assistants arrived yesterday. Mr Kotyk is a rather eager young chap, somewhat naive I feel but he appears to be of the right stuff. Why when the zombies had us all cornered… but I get ahead of my narrative. The only real peculiarity in the lad is his constant affectation of sunglasses, but perhaps the lad is a martyr to hey fever or something. The other young person was somewhat harder to comprehend. Lisette – she apparently owns no other name, claiming that like Madonna she only requires the one (although I pointed out that actually the Blessed Virgin was properly known as Mary of Nazareth) – speaks some strange language which I have yet to fathom. I quietly offered through Ms Waltz to contribute towards a more decorous ensemble for the young lass since she clearly cannot afford clothes which are not torn at the knees and appears to have a shocking lack of foundation garments, but Ms Waltz tells me this is by choice rather than circumstance. It is a strange world. As for Ms Waltz herself, she is a lady of immense intelligence, sophistication and kindness, 5’5” of sleek beauty with reddish-brown hair and hazel eyes; and with a good deal of what in my day we called vim and guts. Hardly had we begun our enquiries at the central records office than the doors flew open and a bunch of what I at first took to be unkempt local individuals burst in. From their shambling gait they appeared to me to be drunk, but Ms Waltz identified their condition at once. “Zombies!” she gasped. Apparently Zombies are something of a seasonal phenomenon in Paradopolis where Ms Waltz practices. Memo to self: enquire regarding the reference to “Disco Hitler”. In actuality Ms Waltz was correct. These chaps did appear to be somewhat lacking in the life department. “Beware, Ms Waltz, they may be after our flesh,” I warned the brave attorney. “Nothing new there,” Ms Waltz replied. And from nowhere I could discern she produced a long bullwhip and proceeded to keep the undead at bay whilst we sought a means of exit. “This has got to be because we were getting too close!” young Kotyk declared, scooping up the armful of books and papers we had been consulting. Ms Waltz instructed him to get them to safety, and the lad vanished the moment my back was turned. “This place is full of books and papers,” Lisette shouted excitedly. “Let’s burn them out!” And she produced from her rucksack a bottle which I now know to have been filled with petroleum spirits, since when she lit a rag protruding from the top and hurled it a conflagration quickly ensued. There was no time to remonstrate with the young person. There were others present in the library apart from ourselves and the zombies, and a storehouse of history and culture should not be lightly sacrificed. Hence I flipped out my pocketwatch and dialled back the last few moments. The firebomb returned to Lisette’s hand and this time I was able to intercept her before she hurled it. In the meantime the resourceful Ms Waltz had somehow managed to batter down the rear exit by the means of a pickaxe or hammer which she concealed about her person. I presume that Paradopolis is a dangerous place, and I suppose an attractive young woman cannot be too careful in the precautions she takes. She led the way into the alley behind the reference library; but unfortunately there were more of the loathsome zombies there. Then there was the sound of a revving engine and as if from nowhere (I swear there was a flash of sunlight at the exact moment which blinded me to his actual arrival) Kotyk rammed the shambling monstrosities with a jeep he had somehow acquired. We all piled in and I surreptitiously accelerated time around us to facilitate a speedy getaway. We retired to our hotel somewhat exhausted. Ms Waltz suggested a relaxing bath, but I had to inform her that unlike her own suite mine did not have anything but a shower. This seemed to disappoint Ms Waltz inordinately. Mr Kotyk and I examined the papers whilst the ladies were obluting. The filer of the patent was one Leonard Hopkins, and what was remarkable about the forms he filed was that it was obvious that he had not got the slightest idea what his invention did. More ominously, Mr Hopkins had died in a freak roller-skating accident mere hours after filing his claim on the technology. In the meantime what young Bryan (as I came to call him later) and I did not know was that Lisa was about to have a night-time visitor. Even as she soaked in the tub, apparently polishing the hammer which she had used to dextrously earlier, a shadowy form had appeared on the next-door balcony to Lisette’s room. Staring deeply into the legal secretary’s eyes the cloaked gentleman asked her politely if he could come in, to which she apparently answered, “Sure, dude,” which means, “Indeed yes,” in English. It was the work of a moment to entrance young Lisette, and then the caped intruder slipped into the adjoining apartment and thus crept upon the unawares Ms Waltz as she bathed. One feature of Ms Waltz’s retinue remains undescribed; indeed, almost impossible to describe. Suffice to say that apparently vampires can scale walls like spiders and walk through cobwebs without disturbing them, but this particular one couldn’t avoid treading on the tail of Ms Waltz’s pet cat. This particular feline, a ginger tom of malignant disposition and daunting odour, thereupon took a dislike for the vampiric interloper and launched itself at the unfortunate undead’s throat. And this contretemps alerted first Ms Waltz and then Mr Kotyk and myself of the intruder’s presence. The more I consider it, the more I’m convinced that cats are the perfect anti-vampire weapon. The nosferatu summoned rats and bats, which were simply playtime to Lisa’s psychopathic pet. The vampire tried to tame it with his hypnotic stare; but who can outstare a cat, especially one that’s just clawed your nose? Bryan and I burst into the apartments just in time to see Lisette stepping off the balcony into the mists beyond. The young man acted with sterling courage and dived after her, tumbling with her into the cobbled street below where the remaining zombie minions of the vampire awaited them. In the meantime I recalled some fragment of lore from Mr Stoker’s excellent novel, grasped the shower hose, and tested how the creatures of the night enjoyed running water. It irritates them. Hurling aside the feline, the vampire oriented upon me. Ms Waltz bounced her hammer off its head, stunning it momentarily and giving me time to fiddle with my timepiece. Temporary time-jumps are always tricky to set up. In this case however all I did was shift the vampire away for exactly four seconds – twelve hours into the future. When it was daylight. Another useful Stoker nugget. Little blighters don’t like it. Result: pile of ash on carpet four seconds later. I think Ms Waltz attributes it to her hammer. Once the nosferatu was properly sorted out all the zombies lost interest in being zombies and became piles of dead person, so Bryan and Lisette managed to get away unscathed as well. I averted my eyes and loaned Ms Waltz my jacket immediately the crisis was over, of course. The only clue to the vampire or why it might want to stop us discovering the history of Mr Leonard Hopkins was in the form of a little amulet we discovered in the ashes. Even now, after the delightful Ms Waltz and her compatriots have returned home their work completed I sit here puzzling this next clue in what is becoming a very perplexing trail. Must close now. A man in a red bathrobe has just appeared in my room claiming to have information about the talisman. Says his name might be Xander the Improbable. The Journal of Sir Mumphrey Wilton, Extract Four In which a very odd chappie renders his assistance but I end up with a headache all the same Most perplexing fellow, Xander the Improbable. Best way to describe him is as sort of fairly young but dusty, innocently cunning, and irritatingly useful. Sort of chap one would prefer on the team, but preferably somewhere in front where once can keep an eye on him. The mysterious cove appeared to me back in New Orleans, where I was puzzling over the helix-shaped amulet worn by the vampire that had attacked to prevent us learning about Leonard Hopkins. Hopkins was the fellow who patented but clearly didn’t understand some ionic device two decades ago, the gadget which Zemo and the Yakusa seem so keen to get their hands on. “Looks like you have some twisted strands before you,” were the odd little codger’s first words. Not sure if he was talking about the situation or the amulet’s design. Well, a fellow doesn’t like to be interrupted over his cocoa without so much as a by your leave, but common courtesy compelled me to offer this Xander a mug. Got chatting. Turns out he’s a ‘master of the mystic crafts’. Asked if that was a bit like a mason. Tried making winking gestures whilst rolling my trouser-leg but couldn’t catch him like that. Eventually got so baffled asked him for quick Xander factsheet. Anyway, Xander opens up plumbers bag, carefully balances stone carved into hamster shape on pile of books he unpacks, then produces small jeweller’s eyepiece. Invites me to examine amulet through it – and blow me down if it isn’t made up of teeny-tiny circuitry. Dashed odd for a vampire to have as decoration, I comment. Yes, says Xander, except that this is (must check note made on Times margin to get this right) psycho-interactive circuitry enhanced to interface with a necromantic psionic signature. Wade through ten minutes more of cryptic hints but keep playing the baffled Watson to his Holmes until he gives in and explains the whole thing. Usually works with these clever chaps if you keep it up long enough. Seems that this amulet is a little device which plants suggestions in the sleeping mind of its wearer – suggestion number one presumably being to keep this little amulet handy. Somebody’s enhanced this one so it works even on an undead mind. So it seems as though the vampire that came after Ms Waltz and her party was actually having its strings pulled by someone else. Xander suggested departure to another continent before the someone else turned up. I asked where. So here we are in Australia. Been to Australia before of course. Used to pop out fairly regularly once upon a time back when England had a cricket team, as opposed to those namby-pamby nancies that couldn’t hit a wicket if they were three feet away with a bowling ball who call themselves the England team nowadays. Must write another stiff letter to the board of selectors. Last decent player was Truman, and since then the game’s gone to the dogs. Don’t even wear proper whites these days. Next it’ll be cheerleaders and body armour, you mark my words. And don’t get me started on the bodyline issue! Where was I? Oh yes, the Antipodes. Having been there before I know a little bit of the native lingo. I’ve lifted a sollicker nobbler or two to prove I’m no jackaroo in the woop-woop. Strangely, Xander hides behind trees every time I demonstrate my understanding of the local lingo. Asked the fellow why of all the continents to choose from we should go for one with the longest flight time. He tells me that it’s imperative we get to some place called Uluru because it’s the very best dreamtime interface and we’re going to need that if we want to deal with what’s behind the amulet. Also hands me bill for consultation so far. In actual fact, however, we didn’t end up at this Uluru place but at a big lump of stone in the outback called Ayers Rock. And dash it all if having made it all the way to Australia having to charter a private jet and everything if this Xander chappie doesn’t just pull a little straw hat from his red academic rig, pull it down over his eyes, and go to sleep in the shade, right up there on the big rock. Still, it was very pleasant out there out of the direct sun. There are plenty of crevices and hollows where a chap can settle down and read a good book, so I dug out The Barchester Chronicles and spent a bit of quality time with old Septimus Harding. Before I know it I was dozing as well. Most unpleasant dream. Madge’s funeral. Felicity howling, Roland blubbering, Felicity’s pointless husband delicately testing to see if I’m ready to liquidate the company and share out the cash. And Madge in that box, except not really being there because none of the spark and the energy and the love were in that lump of old lifeless flesh. And I hear something scratching inside the box so I go over and brace myself and lift the casket lid and there are hundreds of albino rats crawling all over Madge and then they swarm out and go for me. These last few days I’ve fallen back into old habits. I reached for the pocketwatch, but true to the period of the nightmare I didn’t have it, it was still locked away far from the chapel of rest. I tried my best to pull off the dratted rodents but there were so many of them. I was struggling on the floor when I saw Felicity and Roland and What’s-his-name all coming towards me. My expectations that they were going to help me came to naught when they all pulled long nasty knives and started to slash at me. Then Madge’s corpse sat up and grinned a ghastly smile, co-ordinating my destruction. Except the nightmare had gone too far. Madge wasn’t like that, never could be. Nothing could corrupt her that way, not the devil himself. And suddenly it seemed all a bit… unreal. “Think you might have dropped this,” Xander said to me, appearing in the way that people do in dreams, handing me my pocketwatch. Without thinking I dialled in a chronal acceleration and aged the rats to death. What’s-his-name hacked at me with a knife so I dinged him one on the nose and he crumpled like the little weed he is. Couldn’t bear the thought of hitting Felicity or Roland so I just stopped time around them while I dealt with the real problem. Once I’d time to think it was pretty clear that the corpse in the dream was co-ordinating things. As I approached it, it dropped it’s illusions and became this nasty nightmare creature, as malevolent a blighter as I have encountered in all my born days. “Ah, it’s the Dream Demon,” Xander muttered behind me. “A minor minion of Baron Zemo’s.” “Minor?” the creature hissed, orienting on the little fellow in the red gown. “Petty mage, you shall die along with your charge.” Well I was pretty miffed by now. I’m a bit sensitive about Madge at the best of times and this fellow had been an utter bounder in dredging up a nasty nightmare like this. I was reasoning by now that this was a dream, so I concentrated hard to get what I needed. The Dream Demon was stalking towards Xander. “Any last words?” it snarled as it cornered him. “How about, ‘We’ve harnessed the power of dreamtime so that Sir Mumphrey here can actually harm you if his will’s strong enough’?” Xander suggested. That was when I let the Dream Demon have it with both barrels. If you’re imagining a sawn off shotgun, might as well make it double barrelled, don’t you think? The beastie screeched and went all to pieces then – quite literally. In fact Xander grabbed a fragment and stuffed it in a jam-jar ‘for later’. “Take a little while for him to re-form,” the mage shrugged. “You appear to be going through Heinrich’s entire villain catalogue. Keep an eye out for Membrain.” Then he snapped his fingers and we woke up. There was this foul-smelling black ooze all over the rocks near us. Anyway, all of that solved the little mystery about who the vampire and zombies were enslaved to, and it was rather jolly to see a dark-hearted sadist treated to two barrels of best buckshot. Due to travel to Hong Kong tomorrow to pick up some rare bit or other that young Jaimie Bautista needs in building this whatchamacallit that was on Hopkins’ plans, and Ms Waltz had kindly arranged for me to have a couple of guides who might be able to negotiate with the Yakusa if things turn nasty in their backyard. Meeting a Mr Visionary and a Mr Yo at Hong Kong International Airport at 11.15 local time. Almost reluctant to get to sleep tonight after my earlier experience, but Xander tells me the Dream Demon won’t be coming back for quite a while, and never after me again. Perhaps I’ll dream about Madge as I sometimes do, in that white dress, laughing in the big meadow at the back of the house, my Madge. It’s worth having nightmares sometimes if they’re the price we pay for having dreams. The Journal of Sir Mumphrey Wilton, Extract Five In which everybody was kung-fu fighting, except that strange fellow in the Zorro outfit Turns out I had a party of four waiting to meet me in Hong Kong, not the two that I’d been expecting. The two gentlemen whom Ms Waltz had recommended as being experienced with the local Yakusa – a sort of grubby criminal fraternity not unlike the Mafia or Inland Revenue, and led by a lady called Akiko Masamune – were a confused sort of chappie who goes by the unlikely nomenclature of Visionary, and a dapper young blood who has chosen the cognomen Yo. Their two additional colleagues (although only one was in evidence until I popped on my spectacles) were a girl in her mid to late teens bearing a remarkable resemblance to Ms Waltz, and an extraordinary robotic performing flea. Don’t know which was more remarkable. I asked the gel, Asil, whether she was perhaps Ms Waltz’s relative, and she told me that “Lisa’s a big pooty-head,” which I assume to be American slang for cousin. As for the little robot (amazing what the Japanese can do these days), he is called Fleabot, and appears a very erudite fellow. He’s certainly a challenge to take on at chess. Visionary seemed a little bit confused as to why he was there. He pointed out that the only time he’d ever really met Ms Masamune was during “the karaoke incident” and that she’d scared him spitless then. Apparently only his terror of Ms Waltz had convinced him to fly out at all. Miss Asil reassured him that everything was going to turn out just perfectly since he was there to handle it. Nice to see young people with a positive attitude. Young Yo also encouraged him, saying, “Cute Visionary is not to be fearing uncute Yakuza killing killers while friend Yo is here to be stopping killing killers before they are to be killing cure Visionary.” That was when I realised that English was not Yo’s first language. I have therefore spoken loudly and carefully to him ever since. Fleabot reminded the youngsters that Ms Masamune had an alliance with them, and that they were considered part of the family. I explained our mission to them. Bautista Enterprises is trying to reconstruct the whatever-it-is that Zemo and the Yakusa are separately so interested to get their hands on, but needs some rare element called Vibratium to line the doobery-whatsits with according to the plans from the late Leonard Hopkins.. Now Vibratium’s a pretty rare substance, but there’s a chappie in Hong Kong who’s apparently got a line on the stuff, so I volunteered to pop over and have a word, see if we couldn’t purchase a few dollops. So we were here to see some shady underworld spiv by the name of Low-Blo. Visionary admitted to not having the first idea where to find such a blighter, so I hit on the idea of going and asking Ms Masamune. After all, we needed to clear up the business of why she was having people ninj at us and presumably she was familiar with the local low life. At least Visionary had her address. Little Asil seemed particularly impressed by that. Visionary didn’t seem too keen to “walk into the middle of an assassins’ guild,” but young Yo was ready enough. “Yo is convinced that Yo can fu and kung as well as anybody is being,” as he put it. So we went along so narrow allies into the Old Quarter. Lots of people selling livestock on every corner. Mixture of neon lights and traditional paper lanterns. Stealthy blighters surreptitiously stalking us as Fleabot pointed out. Visionary asked his friend if Yo minded asking one of the secret followers some directions as he was getting a bit baffled by these alleyways. Fleabot said something about Visionary being able to get baffled tying his shoelaces. Asil stoutly defended the young man, saying Visionary could tie shoelaces better than anybody. By this time Yo trotted back happy pulling two stunned tong thugs with him. Politely asked them directions to Ms Masamune’s house. Visionary was convinced that they only let us into the Yakusa stronghold on the grounds that “we are patently the least threatening bunch of soon-to-be-dead victims ever to knock on the door of a criminal mastermind intent on massacring us.” Lad has a good sense of humour. Hope his wife appreciates it. Got led into big courtyard where lots of people in white pyjamas were kicking each other, throwing pointy stars at things, hitting people with sticks, and doing some sort of what I presume is disco dancing with curly swords. Lady in pink on big throne clapped hands and everything stopped. All watched as we went up to see her. Gave her calling card and asked if she was Ms Masamune. Turns out she was. Young slip of a girl, hardly much older than Asil, with the biggest and prettiest eyes you ever did see. Very pretty dress. Told her as much. Several Oriental chappies flinched for some reason, a few dived behind solid objects. Asked why such a pretty and nice young gal would associate herself with ruffians and vagabonds like this. Asked why on Earth she should send black pyjama chappies and helicopters and things all the way to the Philippines to be nuisances. Fleabot referred to this as either a unique approach to criminology or an innovative new form of suicide. Ms Masamune explained that it was not customary for crimelords (which is her current occupation) to dress in pretty pink frocks, and that nobody has ever dared to comment on her choice of attire. I replied that this was a damn shame, as it was most becoming. Pointed out that those ninja chappies might look a bit better in pink themselves and Ms Masamune agreed. She told us that there was a hundred million dollar reward for any agency bringing the plans to Baron Zemo, so she’s had her laddies look for it just to see what was getting old Heinrich that steamed up. I asked her to stop, please. “This is a major villainess,” Visionary objected, “although clearly a woman of immense integrity, talent, drive, and character,” he added quickly, glancing at her. “She’s not just going to let us go.” “He’s right,” Ms Masamune answered, with, I thought, a glance at two of her closest advisors, a massive brute of a chap and a smaller one with a cut-your-throat-sooner-than-tell-you-the-time look to him.. “It’s all about face. I’d lose respect if I just cancelled my orders to retrieve the secret plans.” Took the point. Young gal in big job, and a couple of nasties dogging her footsteps waiting for her to make her first mistake so they could bring her down. Had to do something about it. Suggested that we should settle the matter right there and then. A contest of champions. Visionary perked up at this, said he’d been in one before and his arm was in good form. Yo said something about the Fluffy Bunnies of the Happy Place or somesuch. Suggested that our two young chappies might take on any two of Ms Masamune’s minions, winner takes the plans. Young Visionary had choking fit. Miss Asil patted him on the back. Ms Masamune nominated two shifty-looking advisors, as expected. Settled down with excellent cup of tea to watch contest with Ms Masamune. Noticed that Asil was rather agitated. Turns out after chatting with her that she’s been “genetically manipulated” by that cow-headed villainess Dr Moo to be obsessed with young Visionary. Poor gal. Can see how this could be a bit of a strain on both of them. Don’t suppose Mrs Visionary’s too happy about it either. Must have word with Dr Moo later about sorting this out for them. Big thug chap turns out to be One Ton Wong, the Sumo Strangler. His vicious little partner is No Lee Way, master of the martial arts. Yo seemed confident and happy to be fighting the big chap. Visionary seemed much less confident. Lad has low self esteem. Doesn’t think he can do what he has to, yet never balks when it needs to be done. That’s the right stuff. He just needs to recognise it. Lad’s got a good heart, and that counts for a lot. Said as much to Asil and Ms Masamune. Soon as contest began so did cheating. No Lee Way produces cheesewire garrotte and hooks it over Visionary’s head. One Ton Wong picks up spectator to use as club against Yo. Well, I’d been sort of expecting this. Could tell these chappies wouldn’t play cricket. So I was sitting with one hand in my waistcoat pocket so I could invoke my pocketwatch to even things up. Wouldn’t have interfered if the other side hadn’t cheated, of course. First aged that garrotte into brittleness. No Lee Way looked rather surprised as it snapped, and even more surprised when Visionary used the sudden luck to turn round and kick him on the shin. When he went for young Visionary with a concealed knife I just carefully slowed his movements enough for the young fellow to dodge aside and biff him on the nose. Martial artist with nosebleed not as terrifying. Next turned attention to young Yo, only to find that young Yo was stronger than he looked, and was currently lifting One Ton Wong over his head and swinging him about. Kept doing this until One Ton Wong got dizzy and redistributed large portion of that morning’s breakfast (about a quarter ton of sushi by the looks of it) over ninjas on the front row of the audience. Nice to see blood feuds being started amongst the ungodly. Checked back on Visionary. No Lee Way took another few thumps and decided enough was enough. Drew compact sub-machine gun from concealing robe and fired at Visionary. I had to concentrate hard for this one. Speeded up the young man so that he could actually see the bullets coming and move fast enough to knock them out of the air. Heard gasp of amazement from assembled criminals as all they saw was a fellow knocking aside machine-gun fire, his arms a blur. Even Visionary couldn’t believe he was doing it. No Way Lee certainly couldn’t. Even after the clip was empty he stared in disbelief at the unharmed Visionary. So Visionary belted him. No Way Lee staggered backwards, slipped on the sushi vomit, went down with a bang on his head, and that was it. Young Yo had just about finished off One Ton Wong as well. He somehow had the sumo hung on a wall hook by the back of his loincloth, unable to get down or do anything but grunt. Ms Masamune declared these two failures unfit to be Yakusa, and had them cast out. She seemed quite pleased about it all, really. She promised no more Yakusa interference over the plans etc. She was a bit reluctant when I asked for directions to Lo-Blo and asked me if I realised he worked for the Devil Doctor. Said I’d never heard of any Devil Doctor but be assured that if he was a cad and a bounder we’d deal with him. So in the end she gave us an address just over the bay in mainland China, warning us to beware the claws of the Devil Doctor. Thanked her for the tea, gave smelling salts to revive the fainted Visionary, and went to find him. Lo-Blo actually quite helpful. Hasn’t got any Vibratium but knows where it can be had. Sauntering down to Antarctica tomorrow to acquire some, again with special guides who come highly recommended. Visionary asked me if they needed to come along and I said thanked him politely but could see he wanted to get home to his lovely wife. However, suggested that I could use an amanuensis and invited young Asil to come along if she wanted. Always useful to have a secretary about when one’s arranging flights and provisions and things. Pointed out to both of them that only way for young Asil to get over Visionary fixation is to do some things away from Visionary, try and wear it off. Fleabot’s other suggestions ignored as cruel. Young lady will think about it overnight and let me know in morning, when I go to meet with my guide Mr Caveguy. Slightly surprised when Yo kissed me goodnight. Could have sworn he was a chap, but has clearly been a young lady dressed up in man’s clothing all along. Suppose she felt safer in foreign climes in man’s attire. Can’t say I blame her. Actually rather cute woman. Can’t fathom how I didn’t notice before. Must be getting old. Also slightly surprised to find twelve bucket-head-masked lurkers in my hotel room, all rendered unconscious with a note saying “Compliments of Akiko.” Knew she was a nice young woman after all. The Journal of Sir Mumphrey Wilton, Extract Six In which we explore the splendour of the Savage Park but unfortunately lose our sandwiches This is a quite remarkable place. One flies due south towards the Antarctic, pops over this unmapped mountain range through some mists, and lo and behold one’s in this little tropical jungle surrounded by volcanoes. Nearly crashed into a pterodactyl landing, which made the pilot a bit unhappy, but have since fed him two and a half bottles of best Scotch so don’t expect him to be causing any difficulty until he wakes up sometime tomorrow afternoon. Asked our guide what this place was and how it came to be. Mr Caveguy waggled his club expressively and answered, “Hooga!”, which his translator, a Greek gentleman called Mr Elsqueevio, kindly interpreted as “How the hell should I know, it’s the first time I’ve been here. But it looks as if those fire-mountains provide a micro-climate suitable for the Jurassic vegetation manifested here and might possibly explain the pre-Cretacious indigenous lifeforms which we have so far observed.” It was clearly a very expressive Hooga. Asil, who had decided at the last minute to tear herself away from Visionary, appeared from the back of the plane in a very fetching tropical outfit. She had wiped away the tears she’d been shedding for almost the entire journey and had a notebook at the ready. I’ve hired Ms Asil as my amanuensis for the duration of our little voyage. So far she is both more intelligent and more decorative than Miss Dawkins. Wish Patricia was a bit more lively like this. Certainly don’t see Asil marrying herself off to a chinless wonder like What-his-name. Had a bit of a look round. Within twenty minutes Caveguy had pounded to death seven giant snakes, two small feral predators, a Jurassic squirrel, three trees, and a rock that looked at him a bit funny. I consulted with Mr Elsqueevio on the map which we had got from Lo-Blo, the Chinese chappie (who apparently works for some fiendish Devil Doctor), which shows where the Vibratium that young Jaimie Bautista’s going to need to construct a gadget for us is to be found. Mr Elsqueevio suggested that we follow a small stream into the interior; seemed convinced that this would get us where we were going. Left Lo-Blo’s pilot dozing happily safe in aircraft and started to hack through jungle. Surreptitiously checked pocketwatch to see if there was any kind of temporal disturbance here, but there wasn’t. These old dinosaur thingies seem to be from this time period. Wondered why they hadn’t evolved further in all the hundreds of thousands of years they must have been living here. Ah well, that’s probably a question for the scientist boffins. All was going pretty well until realised that hadn’t remembered to put chutney on sandwiches. Can’t be having a picnic in a Savage Park without sandwiches. Can’t have cheese and cucumber without pickle. Told others that I’d pop back in just a few minutes. Retraced path through hacked undergrowth, using pocketwatch to speed me up so as not to keep the other waiting. Properly modified sandwiches from essential supplies. Returned to find others. Found signs of struggle and others missing. Discovered Mr Elsqueevio’s hat. Looked bad. Fiddled with pocketwatch to arrange replay of events. Net dropped on Mr Elsqueevio and Asil as they walked through clearing. Many apelike creatures fell on them. Mr Caveguy, a little ahead of the others, turned round, mouthed something (presumably Hooga! But the watch doesn’t do sound) and got into fight with twenty or so of them. Little hairy chap doing quite well against monkey-things until their leader, a bigger monkey-thing wearing a chain of skulls round it’s neck (and a strategically placed one on it’s lower regions) pointed a strange silvery wand thingie at Mr Caveguy and zapped him. By this time Mr Elsqueevio had somehow snapped the ropes and was coming to help. He got zapped too. Then young Asil somehow managed to shrink herself down to the appearance and size of a toddler and wriggle free through the net mesh. By the time she’d resumed her form of a teenager she too was zapped. Must remember to ask Asil about that little trick. Clearly more to what Dr Moo did to her than meets the eye. I kept the temporal images running as the three fallen people were carted off by the ape-chappies. In this way I was able to discover the hidden path that led to their dormant volcano base. Spotted actual monkey-blokes with their prisoners. Bit surprised to find a big silvery tower there, not in keeping with the rest of the local décor. They banged on the door (with Caveguy’s head) until it was answered by this tall fellow with armour and a silvery facemask answered. They returned the silvery zapping wand to him and showed off their captives. Noticed the name of the tower was written on a little plaque next to the letter box: Dunmutatin. Well, the tall silvery chappie pulls out some kind of sensor device and starts running it over Caveguy and Mr Elsqueevio. He gets quite excited. “Yes, yes, this is just the sort of material I need for my work! Well done!” But he wasn’t as happy about Asil, “Pfah! Corrupted clonal genetic material! Take it away! Do what you want with it.” Nasty moment here. Clearly Messers Caveguy and Elsqueevio were in need of help, facing who-knows-what sinister torments at the fiendish hands of the silvery blighter; on the other hand can’t leave a fair young damsel at the mercy of hairy man-beasts under any circumstances, what? Therefore used rest of remaining chronal charge in timepiece to accelerate the two fellows’ return to consciousness and followed the hairy hunters and Asil, relying on own wits to rescue the lady. No option really. Bit tough keeping up with them. Not as young as I used to be. Finally caught up after they’d lashed young Asil to this big stone pillar, just as they were sounding this really huge gong. Wandered out there and called to them. Warned them in all fairness that I was an Englishman and had been pretty good at boxing back in my Eton days. Played Rugby for Oxford. Better step away from the lady before I gave them all a damn good thrashing. They all fled away into the jungle. Was just congratulating myself on showing them what’s what when a seventy foot high ape loomed overhead and reached down for Asil. In the meantime the silvery chap, whom we later found out was called Maximess, from some strange hidden people called the Abhumans, was intending to strap Caveguy into this genetic-tinkering device he’d cobbled together and perform nameless experiments on him. So it was a bit of a surprise when Caveguy woke up too soon, picked up a Klystron Generator, and clobbered the bounder with it. Turns out however that Maximess is something of a hypnotist. Recovering from the unexpected blow he turned his mesmerising eyes on the hairy little chap and paralysed him with a glance. Just then however Mr Elsqueevio also awoke. Unbeknownst to me Mr Elsqueevio has a little trick as well, of controlling small waters. So he used it on Maximess. The silver-clad villain suddenly found he’d lost all bladder control, which is awkward in those all-body armour suits. And that was enough to distract him from Caveguy long enough for Caveguy to break free from his mesmeric trance and hit him over the head again. After that it was just a matter of Caveguy going outside, retrieving his club, and having a word with the man-apes. He took on their big leader last of all, and from what I hear he bashed his skull in. Not the one on his head, either. Pretty clear from the notes that Mr Elsqueevio found that this whole Savage Park was an experiment from long ago by these Abhumans, and that Maximess was still pottering around with it in the hopes of rediscovering techniques which his people have long since outlawed. Meanwhile Caveguy dealt with the problem of what to do with the unconscious Maximess by dropping him into one of the volcanoes. Not exactly my own solution, had I been there, but nobody can say he wasn’t firm but fair. Which just left me with the giant ape problem. As it hoisted young Asil up in it’s massive fist I checked the chronal charge on the timepiece. It was pretty low, certainly not enough to stop time around something that big. I had just about enough temporal energy to make one little change and that was all. Asil was screaming, not so much out of terror as because she felt it was traditional, and also because she’d spotted me on the ground was trying to distract the monkey while I climbed up a ridge to get more or less to eye level with it. Anyway, when I was in position, I called to it. “Hoy! Big monkey-chappie! Over here!” When the ape saw me it turned round, waving Asil like a doll, and snarled at me. Bad breath. While it’s mouth was open I bowled my sandwiches down it’s throat with a googly like I haven’t used since that Gentlemen vs Players testimonial match at Lords. It hardly noticed them, of course, until the rapidly-ageing chutney began to do terrible things to its digestive system. Fortunately it put Asil down on a ledge as it doubled over with wind. That was worse than the bad breath. I scrambled over to ensure that the lady was alright, but Asil is nimbler and faster than I am so he actually helped me down the rocks. The big ape was hiccuping and fartin’ like a Crown Judge after a big meal, and it was going to get worse before it got better. The chronal charge on the chutney was set to corrupt any semi-digested matter it came into contact with, and the ape had eaten a lot of stuff recently. Still felt a bit sorry when it keeled over though. Hadn’t expected to give it terminal heartburn. Asil was sad too. “Why did it have to die?” she asked tearfully. “It couldn’t be helped,” I assured her, giving her a comforting hug. “T’was chutney that killed the beast.” Found a big store of vibratium in Maximess’ workshop, which we packed up and loaded back on the plane. Caveguy and Elsqueevio didn’t come back with us. Mr Caveguy wanted to stay for a while and try and find a sabre-toothed tiger cub for some reason, Mr Elsqueevio explained. Asil and I flew back with Lo-Blo’s pilot. It was dark so we didn’t notice that we’d actually landed in a different destination to the one we were supposed to be at – at least not until we were surrounded by piratical-looking fellows with pigtails pointing weapons at us and telling us that the Devil Doctor wanted to see us. Possibly wants to apologise for the boorish behaviour of his minions? The Journal of Sir Mumphrey Wilton, Extract Seven: In which the insidious Devil Doctor reveals his true colours, and nobody is quite who they seem to be The Devil Doctor was a scary blighter. About seven foot all, dressed in mandarin robes, with fingernails a foot long if they were an inch, he rose up from his chair and stood in the green lights of the pagoda braziers and glared at us with eyes that shone with red fire. Asked him what the deuce he thought he was up to, kidnapping a British citizen and Miss Asil like this, and demanding that he explain himself pretty damn quickly. “Silence, dolt!” he hissed. Put him down as one of the melodramatic type of nasties, very much keen on himself and no sense of humour. “You have served my purpose, in retrieving the mineral vibratium from the Savage Park. Now all that remains is your slow, painful demise.” Such a relief not to have another baddie trying to get hold of the plans for the gadget that we needed the vibratium for that I almost smiled. Instead reassured young Asil that the chap was a no-good scoundrel and they always come to a bad end. Pointed out no need to be frightened of chappie who can’t even pick his nose without giving himself lobotomy. Got thrown in execution dungeon. Asil comforted me with thought that Visionary would come and rescue us. Gently pointed out that genetic imperative placed on young gel by Dr Moo was showing again. Asked about trick she’d got of apparently changing ages. Asil explained about how she was cloned from Ms Waltz by Dr Moo, who turns out to be the other Ms Waltz, sister of the charming advocatrix. Got rather lost in bit about multiple Asil clones becoming the Visionary Vixens but ended up with general gist that Asil’s even younger than she looks, although a very agreeable lassie and good company for an old fellow locked in a dungeon. Two other blokes waiting for execution as well. One apparently from the American Ministry of Agriculture and fisheries, been kidnapped by the Devil Doctor’s minions while investigating plot to poison every hamburger in the US. Other little Chinese fellow who’d been caught trespassing on the DD’s private hunting ground, trying to recover a missing waterfowl apparently. Decided it was time to escape and thought I’d best bring these other bods with us. Was about to use pocketwatch to shift door one minute into future and walk through gap when the Ag and Fish fellow slips out of his chains, tells me not to worry and he’ll save me, and promptly picks lock on condemned cell door. Remarkable. So our little procession made it’s way through the dungeons. Ag and Fish fellow remarkably good skulker. Began to suspect not necessarily Ag and Fish desk jockey. Asked Asil if US Ag and Fish department have special undercover agents like Special Air Service. Mental image of chappies with flame-throwers parachuting into fields of non-standard turnips. Asil not sure. Slight hitch when we reach the giant spider chamber. Ag and Fish chap a bit put out. Preparing to offer services when little Chinese fellow slips past, gesturing for us to stay in cover. Then there was a bit of growling, a whumf like a gas fire lighting, a flash of flame, and the little Chinese bloke beckoning us to come past. Giant spiders pretty much squished, and in some cases, flambéed. Began to speculate that little duck-hunting chappie might know kung fu or something. But those spiders were awfully flat. Similar events with scorpion pit. Little Chinese fellow and Ag and Fish man disappeared off up corridor, obviously looking for something. Took advantage of the time while we waited for them to dictate a couple of letters to Asil. One to Patricia, explaining why not in office at the moment and warning probably wouldn’t make Sunday dinner as in mad Devil Doctor’s secret Honshu fortress. Other to Roland with some business instructions, particularly along the lines of ignoring any advice Donald Seddings might be offering him. By time I’d finished those off two mysterious coves were back, quite excited at having found the Devil Doctor’s secret lair. Bit of a debate then as to whether they should get us to safety first or go and investigate. Cut through the argument by striding straight into lair, pointing out that this Devil Doctor was a nasty blighter and it was the job of all right-thinking fellows everywhere to squash such excreciencies for the public good. Asil agreed, pointing out that she was a genetically-enhanced version of “Lame-O Lisa” (presumably a term of endearment for her genetic donor) and well capable of taking care of herself, and any possibly fake men she was with if she ever saw Visionary ever again. Secret lair rather impressive, I must admit. Big piles of treasure strewn all over the shop, interspersed with benches covered in bubbling liquids and improbable glasswork, and a display of stuffed adversaries under glass at one end of the room. The little Chinese chappie got very excited about some notebooks he happened to find on one of the desks. “Look here,” he called to Ag and Fish. “See this writing. It’s Makluan. This Devil Doctor guy had definitely been plundering old Makluan technology.” Asil asked what Makluan was. Admitted not up on names of all former colonies. Suggested possibly new name for Ceylon. Writing looked foreign enough, all squiggly symbols that looked like a spider had fallen in an inkpot and then had an epileptic fit. While others were admiring strange log book I took the time to re-pocket most of the vibratium the Devil Doctor had confiscated. The room suddenly filled with piratical chaps. Became pretty clear that the Makluan volume was alarmed. Baddies with nasty pointy weapons once more surrounded three of us – somehow Ag and Fish chap had vanished into the shadows, although I never saw him go. Devil Doctor strides forward, red eyes burning. “You have trespassed on sacred ground, petty mortals. What final words have you before I grant you long and painful deaths?” “Mortals?” snarled the Chinaman. “Just because you have salvaged a few artefacts from the Makluan starship crash and built a little empire on it you think that makes you equal to a Great Wyrm?” Then the Chinaman took off his skin like a waistcoat and seemed to turn inside out. And the inside was a lot bigger and more scaly, with a tail and spine ridges and claws, and it breathed fire. “That’s Fin Fang Foom,” breathed Asil. Turns out the chap is a shapechanging dragon who’s something big in one of those American superhero teams that are so popular these days. Apparently quite nice fellow (if shy) occupying the body of this draconic alien from the planet Makluos after some dragons crashed here centuries ago. Whoever he was, he was a big blighter. “No, I don’t believe myself to be more than mortal because I found a few Makluan trinkets,” the Devil Doctor sneered back. Then blow me down if he didn’t peel of his skin and become another bloody big dragon. “I believe myself to be more than mortal because I am the last true survivor of the Makluan refugees who crashed her lo those many years ago. What say you now, pretender in the skin of a true Makluan? Tremble and face your doom.” Well Fin Fang Foom seemed a bit stunned by that, so I nudged him on the flank. “Go on, young dragon-me-lad,” I urged him. “Give that villain a damn good seeing to.” Turned round to deal with piratical types but found most of them already stunned on the floor with some gent in a long dark cloak standing over them. Worked out later that he must have been the Ag and Fish fellow. Asil tells me he’s known as the Dark Knight and he often works with Fin Fang Foom. Asil helped polish off the remaining pirates. Rather reminds me of that jolly young woman in the catsuit who used to help John Steed out on that TV show back when there was anything worth watching on the box. Wonder if Asil would like a catsuit? The two dragons had taken an instant dislike to each other and were therefore trying to tear each others’ heads off. It got very hot very quickly as big gouts of flame melted piles of gold and ignited arcane experiments. Dark Knight gestured for us to follow him to safety. Explained that they hadn’t anticipated that the Devil Doctor might actually be a Makluan, thought he was just pirating their technology, which is why the two of them had disguised themselves and got captured. Sounded a bit worried for his chum Foomy. Didn’t like to ask where he’d concealed that costume he was wearing. I noticed a rather interesting bit of kit at the far end of the room. The missing bit of our vibratium was in it and it appeared to be controlling the pressure of some kind of refraction process. Can’t run Wilton Enterprises without a bit of understanding of chemistry, don’t you know? Used chronometer to shift pressure forward half and hour, which meant that it would inexplicably double at that point, doing bad things to the vibratium. Wasn’t leaving the Devil Doctor to enjoy the rewards of his criminal behaviour. Not done. Meanwhile Fin Fang Foom not doing too well against Devil Dragon. Fiendish monster points out that Mr Foom hasn’t had the benefit of Makluan draconic combat training, and therefore fight is a bit like boy scout versus marine. Good point. Lad’s heart is in the right place (well, wherever the right place is for a dragon) but he wasn’t ready for this battle. Fella’s a trier, but it was clear to see he was on the ropes. Dragons are a bit big for a time stop but on the other hand I didn’t need to freeze the Doctor for more than a few moments, just long enough to let Fin Fang Foom line up a really good thump. Nobody even noticed I’d intervened though it took me a full chronal charge. The Devil Dragon came out of the time suspension to see a massive hammerblow heading right for his snoot, and went down hard onto his lab tables. Came up screaming. Some sort of flesh eating virus experiment, Dark Knight estimated. Made a mess of the Devil Doctor anyway. Lunged away fizzing as his skin melted, howling like a banshee. Foom sort of tottered and managed to shift back to a Caucasian human form before keeling over. Looked like he’d done fifteen rounds with Joe Bugner. Helped the Dark Knight drag him away to this sleek black vehicle that just crashed through a wall to pick us up. Lots of agitated Oriental chappies wanted to stop us leaving, but Dark Knight just drove through ‘em. Single minded sort of cove. Satisfyingly large explosion behind us as effect of pressure wave on vibratium clinically established. Dark Knight and Fin Fang Foom dropped us off at Shanghai, then went back to see what had become of the Devil Doctor. I told them it was good riddance to bad rubbish, but they seemed to feel that the world would hear from him again. Have hired plane to take Asil and I to Calcutta, then commercial airline to get us back with the vibratium and see what young Bautista can make of it, what? Asked Asil if she was sorry she’d signed up, but she told me we’d handled it almost as well as Visionary could have done. Remarkable young woman. Sent postcard to Patricia letting her know that we’d escaped the Devil Doctor and now only had to worry about Baron Zemo’s death squads. Bought new walking stick. Went to bed. The Journal of Sir Mumphrey Wilton, Extract Eight In which some sinister blighters attempt to shanghai us back to Shanghai and have to be reproved Shanghai International Airport rather spiffing modern facility. Even able to purchase copy of Times, and Miss Asil got a catsuit that she took fancy to. Said she’s never had salary before, and was also looking forward to saving up and buying nice present for Visionary. Pointed out that genetic imperatives bred into her when she was cloned from Ms Waltz once again cutting in, and that perhaps the young chappie would be just as happy with a postcard. Hope Visionary has large postbox as Asil unable to decide which postcard he would like best. Flew in local flight from Shanghai to the Grampus Islands, where we can pick up connecting plane to San Francisco. Remember San Francisco as rather jolly little town, but of course, there was a rather nasty earthquake since then, wasn’t there? Grampus Islands international airport not quite so impressive as Shanghai, in that it was one turf landing strip and a breeze-block terminal. Still, locals did their best to make us welcome with mango punch and grilled swordfish, so can’t complain. Now I had noticed that one of the passport people had looked at us a little bit strangely back in China. At the time I’d thought that it was probably because Asil’s date of birth was eight months ago. It was only at Grampus International that we learned that in fact he was tipping off a devious and sinister international terrorist organisation to our passage. Yes, another devious and sinister terrorist organisation. Well, two as it turned out. Since we had a bit of a wait spent some time chatting with fellow travellers, a Japanese businessman who was very keen to do something clever with microchips, which I presume are very small bits of potato, a rather plump lady returning to visit her son, complete with many photos of grandchildren whom I’m sure must be more delightful than they appear, a young couple returning from their honeymoon (Asil rather puzzled about all of this, suggested she have a quiet chat with her “doody-head”, which is apparently a technical term for genetic material donor), and others. All in all not an unjolly time. It was sunset when the large mechanical flying octopus loomed out of the skies to overshadow the little airport. Certain degree of panic amongst fellow-travellers and airport staff as around a hundred chappies in puke-coloured outfits with buckets on their heads slid down ropes from the great beastie and starting pointing futuristic zap guns at people. Some massive speakers on the big flying cephaloid started blaring out, “Hail HERPES! Apply Penicillin and another rash shall come forth within six weeks!” It didn’t take a genius to work out that the chances were that another baddie agency was trying to collect the large reward which the nefarious Baron Zemo had put out for recovering some mysterious plans I’d stumbled across. I mean, before I found out that I’d more or less accidentally come into ownership of the patent and design drawing for this puzzling dooberry I hadn’t been attacked by nefarious paramilitary organisations for years. So I decided it was time to do a bit of a disappearing act. There was a big fan grille behind where we were sitting and it seemed like a good idea to shift it half a minute or so into the future using the pocketwatch and absent myself behind it. By the time I’d turned round, however, young Asil had already got the mesh off. Resourceful gal, my amanuensis. There was a certain amount of confusion in the terminal as the baddies burst in. The security guard fainted dead away. The loud fat lady warned the villains that her son knew the mayor of Hicksville, PA. The new hubbie protectively cradled his bride in the proper manner. Approved. The Japanese businessman… well, he just wasn’t there! Jotted telephone number down on bit of paper and suggested that Asil crawl through ducts (after all, self is getting a bit portly for duct-crawling these days) and call a bit of help. Old chum I remember from last war, keeps his hand in. Thought I’d probably need help against so many agents of HERPES (which, I am told, stands for Hero Elimination Revenge Project Extermination Squad). Rather nasty chap strode forward into the middle of the hostages. Only one not wearing bucket on head, which in his case I can’t say was an improvement. Told him as much later on. Big bald fellow with monocle and nasty-looking scar along one half of his face. “Wilton!” he shouted out, grabbing the newlywed lass and putting his pistol to her forehead. “You have ten seconds to identify yourself and surrender to me or this young woman’s death will be on your conscience.” Damn, I hate well-briefed villains. Well, of course I couldn’t let him harm the lady, so I had to step out from my hiding place. “Here I am, you slimy gumboil,” I called out. “Now release that girl and I’ll not give you the damn good thrashin’ you so richly deserve.” Monocle seemed annoyed by this. Can always spot the real bastards, and he was one of them. “You are brave now, Englisher, but soon you will grovel and plead for your miserable life before Count Wolfgang Fokker.” Actually misheard his name. Said so. Still, now he was pointing gun at me rather than young lady. Whole point of exercise really. Unfortunately the Count wasn’t as stupid as he looked. “Very clever, Englisher,” she sneered, realising what I was up to. Then he swung round and shot the girl. “No!” shrieked the bridegoom. The American lady screamed. Urgently wound back time to just before the fatal bullet. Then froze time long enough to shift girl over to ventilation duct where I’d been hiding. Took time to unload all but one shot from Fokker’s pistol, just in case. This time when he fired (one remaining shot) the girl just wasn’t there. Told him it was an old fakir trick I picked up from a hoodoo-man back in Cawnpore. He didn’t believe me. Things might have turned nasty just then if the next set of baddies hadn’t arrived. “Gaaaaaahhhh!” came a loud cry, and suddenly the dozen or so bucket-heads guarding the hostages fell over. Looked up to see some young fellows in black robes standing over the fallen HERPES fellows. There was also a tall fellow with red face paint carrying a nasty-looking double-ended energy sword. He strode forward to confront the Count. “Starseed!” Fokker snarled. “Hardly,” hissed the newcomer. “We serve the Dark Side of the Gah! We have come for the Englishman.” “Dirth Vortex!” the leader of HERPES snarled even more. “HERPES… attack!” And suddenly there were lots of Dark Gah! acolytes and HERPES minions battling each other. It was a damned difficult job shifting the innocents around so that none of them got hurt in the cross-fire. Was concentrating so hard I hardly heard the click as Fokker cocked his revolver against my head. “You vill come with me, Wilton,” he warned. Well, since I knew his pistol wasn’t loaded I knocked it aside and beaned the oik on the chin. “That’s Sir Mumphrey to you, you oily blighter!” I explained. Waited for him to get up and then knocked him down again. Of course, bounders like that always have some sort of concealed weaponry, don’t they? In Count Fokker’s case it was some sort of electro-nunchakas (these were identified for me later. I thought it was two metal bars with a chain between them that zapped people, but what do I know?). Very nasty. Fortunately just then Dirth Vortex sliced across with that energy-blade of his, severing the weapon in two. “The Englishman is mine,” the Dark Gah! Master warned. “I already have his companion hostage. He will render up the plans to me of she will suffer the vilest of fates!” Well, he may have captured young Asil but she’d clearly made the phone call, as the loud explosions from the artillery barrage on the HERPES octopoid now demonstrated. And another big loudspeaker called out, “Awright, you yahoos! This is Dan Drury of SPUD talkin’ atcha! You got exactly three seconds ta stop being sphincter-suckin’ bad guys and git ya hands in the air ‘fore me and my boys come down there and kick the living spit outta ya!” The noise came from the absolutely massive flying fortress thingy which they tell me is the helicarrier for an agency called the Super-Menace Principal Undercover Directorate. My old army buddy Sergeant Drury has come up in the world and is now Director of this agency that smites the ungodly. Well, now we had three lots of johnnies in uniform hitting each other rather than two. Contributed by thumping Fokker again just to be certain he knew he was a repugnant pustule before chasing after Vortex. Out of corner of my eye saw young bridegroom running to embrace new wife, fat lady sitting on Gah! acolyte, and discarded clothing of Japanese businessman indicating that he might have been disguised Dirth. Also spotted Dan Drury with torn shirt ploughing his way through bucket-headed chaps to have a word with Fokker. Gathered it was something of a reunion. Caught up with Dirth Vortex on the runway, where a little shimmering grey rectangle about the size of a doorway hovered in mid-air. Number of Dark Gah! acolytes leaping through it, so I assume it was some kind of escape route. “You will bring us the plans, Englishman,” Vortex hissed. “The girl is safe only as long as you do exactly what you have been told. You will be contacted. Do you understand?” Understood all too well. Used pocketwatch to take a few precautions and then nodded. Vortex and minions vanish through grey oblong which then also vanishes. Damnedest thing. Went back to see how Drury was doing to find HERPES excrecences in full retreat. Smouldering flying octopus escaped into ocean, which Drury thought was cheating. Nice to see Drury again. Didn’t mention kidnapped Asil, as per instructions of Dirth Vortex. Got to play this carefully. Will be contacted in 24 hours and therefore have only a little time to lay plans and make Dark Gah! Master Dirth Vortex sorry he ever thought of laying a finger on my amanuensis and sorrier still ever heard name of Mumphrey Wilton. Clearly needs to be taught lesson he will never, ever, forget. Looking forward to it. The Journal of Sir Mumphrey Wilton, Extract Nine In which Dirth Vortex comes to bitterly regret the kidnapping of Miss Asil The Dark Gah! Master must’ve been pretty confident that he’d got me on the ropes. After all, he’d managed to kidnap my young amanuensis Asil and knew that I’d fork over the secret plans he wanted to save her from a horrible fate. He had her safely stored away in a secret volcano hideout (Have you noticed how many baddies want to hide out in volcanos? Serious character flaw, in my opinion) surrounded by his acolytes who were studying the dark side of the Gah! No way anybody could work out where he was or how to find him. Or so he thought. You might recall that just before the Dirth made his exit through some sort of grey rectangle that served as a transport conduit, I took the opportunity to use my temporal pocketwatch to stop time and make a few arrangements. Well, number one was clearly to have a look through that teleportation whoosit and find out where the other side was. Didn’t have time for much of a look round, just enough for the old chronograph to work out where we were in longitude and latitude (Side effect of the time jumping function, don’t you know. No point shunting an hour into the future and finding that your planet has continued orbiting the sun without you. Very much last resort shutting off those safety protocols.). Also set up chronal charge in base’s computer designed to trigger off in just over twenty-four hours from then. Exhausted rest of charge in arranging temporal micro-shift of less than a second but again putting a bit of a time delay on it for when it’s needed. Had chat with old chum Dan Drury, now director of the Super-Menace Principal Undercover Directorate. Got him to give me a dekko at the files he’s got on this Gah! thingie. Turns out it’s some kind of underlying force which gets picked up by people specially trained to use it. Usual method of channelling it through shouting “Gah!”, apparently. Masters of the Gah! force can actually transmute themselves in pure Gah! energy, which is sort of a spotty purple. Only known master still living young chap called Starseed, with contact address at what I presume is a gentleman’s club called the Anti-Wonder Man League. Presume this to be all-male club that is against wonders. Can’t say I blame them. Give me a bit of certainty any day. Sent wire to this Starseed, enquiring what he knew about Dirth Vortex. Was surprised to find purple spotty glowing chap hurtling down to meet me when I got off the SPUD helicarrier in San Francisco. Equally surprised by number two Gah! chappie he had with him, a strange fellow in a grubby white outfit with initials SG embroidered on chest. Trousers obviously a bit tight as this fellow had whipped them off complaining of chafing within five minutes of landing. Starseed seems reasonable and professional chappie, but there’s something about him that makes one a bit wary; sense of danger I suppose. Like standing next to hungry tiger. Anyway, Starseed jolly keen to hear about Dirth Vortex. Turns out this sort of misuse of the Gah! is rather frowned upon. All other Gah! masters (goodies and baddies) mutually wiped out in the Gah! Wars generations ago (long, long ago, and apparently in a garage far far away). Not quite sure how this Starseed chappie came to become a Gah! Master nowadays. Didn’t like to ask. Other fellow introduced as Spaaaaaace Ghooooost. May have a drink problem. Could smell it on his breath. Definitely got the DTs in my opinion. Anyway, had a chat with these fellows re Dirth Vortex, explaining plan to them and modifying it to fit them in. Went home and paced floor waiting for instructions about where to bring the plans. Oh, sent vibratium off to young Bautista. No reason he shouldn’t be getting on with this gadget building really. Checked mail. Cautious letter from Patricia gently trying to find out if old father has gone potty. Son-in-law Whatisface clearly hoping to bang one up in a loony bin and scoop the jackpot. Sent a few pithy remarks back about hell freezing over before he sees a penny. Suggested developing moral turpitude and growing spine. This and the Times crossword pleasantly filled time (and diverted from worrying about young Asil) until Dark Gah! Acolyte creeps into hotel room to take me to rendezvous. Pausing only to wash and shave as clearly annoyed DG!A, went with him through mysterious grey rectangle. Pleased to tell from chronometer that in same underground complex as before. Dirth Vortex present, and demanded plans. I demanded to see young Asil, pointing out that my accompanying briefcase was rigged by Mr Bautista to explode if tampered with, and he wasn’t going to get it until I saw the young lady was unharmed. Chose words carefully. Plans weren’t in briefcase, were actually in jacket pocket, but no need to tell him that was there? Never said plans were in briefcase. Can’t be held responsible for what the villainous chappie assumed. Asil brought forward, struggling with captors, upset at being used as hostage. She felt she’d let me down. Suggested that she needn’t worry, that all was under control, and that this was no worse than the giant monkey incident and might end up much the same way. Asil looked for sandwiches. Well, I had to do the decent thing, so I offered these baddies the chance to surrender. Only fair. Promised them a fair trial and that I’d put in a word for them if they all came quietly. “You begin to try my patience,” Dirth Vortex hissed, activating that nasty double-bladed light sword thingie of his – also glows purple spotted by the way, but darker than Starseed’s spots. Interesting that. “Give me the briefcase.” Well, that’s what he asked for, so I handed it over and placed myself between Asil and his Gah! goons. Surreptitiously moved drum barrel of her handcuffs into future and felt her stiffen a bit as she realised she was no longer chained up. “Steady,” I warned her. Timing’s everything in this sort of caper. Vortex opened the briefcase. Times, copy of Nicholas Nickelby, little tea caddy (Americans do really good coffee but have never yet found any decent tea, so usually carry small supply when in the New World), appalling good luck fetish thingie I bought off a street vendor in Hong Kong because I felt sorry for the small child. No plans. “You seek to trick me?” the Dark Gah! Master snarled. Time. The temporal charge I’d left brewing in the computer systems moved what I fervently hoped to be the important bits (Asil tells me it was the hard disc drive of the server, whatever that is) vanished ten minutes into the future. Lots of sirens started shrieking and all but some flashing red lights went out. Defence grid and cloaking systems flopped (I think that’s the computer term) too, apparently, since the base suddenly became very obvious to Dan Drury’s SPUD colleagues on their helicarrier and they started shelling it. Then there was this thunderous “Gaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!” sound and Starseed literally came through the wall to confront Dirth Vortex. Then there was the sound of “SpaaaAAAANNNnnnk Raaaaaaayyyyyy!!!!!!!” and a zapping noise as half the Dark Gah! Acolytes present clutched their backsides. Extraordinary. Mr Ghooooooost leaped through the hole that Starseed had made and started tormenting them. “Dance, varmints, dance!” he shouted. “I’ll teach you to eat begonias without a license!” A few acolytes rallied and tried to corner the bizarre chappie but he raced away singing “A Hard Day’s Night.” Starseed and Vortex were both very purple and bubbly right then, both shouting at the top of their lungs, and both trying to do grievous bodily harm to the other. Problem was Dark Gah! Acolytes creeping up on Starseed. I shouted to warn him. “Use the force! Look!” Asil more practically used the fire hose. Can’t shout Gah! if they’re too busy going glub. Took a few liberties and accelerated time for Asil and I so we could avoid these Gah! chappies and get away (after retrieving briefcase; just got to good bit in Nicholas Nickelby). Asil located grey rectangle equipment but apparently needs computer to operate. Therefore took emergency stairs, pausing only to retrieve Mr Ghoooost on the grounds that he was tough but probably not tough enough to wrestle a volcano. Y’see, that last little temporal shift I’d arranged, albeit moving matter for only a second or so, was a one inch channel all the way down to the live magma. I was working on the theory that once it found it’s path it was not going to give up too easily. So there we were, Space Ghost racing ahead of us shouting, “You’ll never catch me, gurl! When I get home to you, you’ll find the things that I do…”, when the whole mountain shook brining down our escape tunnel. Hope Mr Ghooooost got out alright, he was probably ahead of the rockfall. But Asil and I were trapped. “What do we do now?” the poor gel asked. Closest I’ve seen the plucky young lass to panic. Fortunately had contingency plan. Could only do this once but on the other hand now seemed a jolly good time. Triggered the time call function of the watch to bring us a rescue vehicle. Shimmering tingly sort of effect and the most bizarre cross between a bicycle, a euphonium, a bathtub, and a modern sculpture you’d ever seen appeared. We quickly climbed on while the chronal charge held and then whizzed away with it as it wore off. Just as well. Whole mountain blew at that point, doing terminally nasty things to Dark Gah! Acolytes, and causing hell of an insurance claim for secret volcano base. Starseed and Dirth Vortex in middle of blast, but not sure if they even noticed it they were going at it so hard. Of course, it was only later that we found out what devastation we had wreaked on Vortex and his plans for world domination. Right then we were sitting on that bizarre contraption as it gently pinged itself cool again. I turned round to thank the old chum with the orange and green waistcoat with the smiley faces on it. “Miss Asil, may I introduce my good friend, the EccentricEtherInvestigatorInventor!” The Journal of Sir Mumphrey Wilton, Extract Ten In which we visit with an old friend and get the finest tea ever brewed on a steam-powered extrophohelioscope Phineas Halifax Quimby is without a doubt one of the brightest chappies ever to grace the Empire. Odd as a curate’s egg, of course, with his little eccentricities like the orange and green waistcoast with those smiling circular faces on it, and his encyclopaedic knowledge of the works of Jules Verne, Robert Louis Stephenson, and H G Wells, but sound as they come. First met him back during the Curious Affair of the Exploding Vicar and kept in touch with him for years after. As I recall it was 1901 when he first posited the possibility of using that remarkable substance he invented, the Ether of the Improbable, to actually break through the barriers of time. He’d been fascinated by the possibilities ever since he’d first witnessed me using my chronometer. Reasoned that since his Ether could mimic the properties of other substances by “the law of mutable probabilities” whatever that means (don’t pretend to be clever, and old Quimpot could lose me ten words into his expository lectures) then if I passed a chronal charge through it he could harness that and try a leap through time itself. Main problem was finding temporal co-ordinates to jump to. Eventually located distinctive signal almost a century into the future and aimed his steam-pumped sugar-fuelled exochronosledge towards it. Old Quimpot never would tell me if it worked or not, and never asked me for another chronal charge. Phineas disappeared a few months after that and none of us ever saw him again. Until now. As described, used pocketwatch to get Miss Asil and self out of tricky situation viz exploding volcano by sending distinctive temporal signature identical to the one old Quimpot had picked up back in the Earlies. Y’see, I’d finally worked out what had happened back then, at least in part. So when the EccentricEtherInvestigatorInventor! (as we sometimes called him in jest) appeared on his bicycle-euphonium contraption, Asil and I were able to hop on and get a dizzying ride through time/space back to the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and two. There we were, back in the great man’s workshop, just as I remembered it. Half-constructed gadgets strewn across workbenches, massive piles of popular periodicals and penny-dreadfuls covering every chair, and Quimpot’s ever-faithful assistant Fogherty wringing his hands in worry about his friend’s latest dangerous experiment. “Hello, Froggie, old wart!” I called out cheerfully as we shimmered into the room. Noticed Fogherty and Quimby staring. Was about to remonstrate with them, as while Asil’s catsuit was probably a trifle shocking to Victorian eyes a gentleman wouldn’t make the lady self-conscious, when I realised they were looking at me. Of course. Last time saw Mumphrey Wilton KBE was dapper young chap looking in late twenties. Now saw wheezing old buffer with out-of-control waistline and receding grey hair. Bit of a shock, time travel. Must admit seeing Quimpot and Foggers there like that brought a lump to own throat; but doesn’t do to show these things. “Mumph?” Froggie asked cautiously. “Of course it is, Fogherty, you young blemish!” I assured him. “Of course, for me it’s been a few years.” A few years! I was reminded that in this era Madge hadn’t even been born yet! Had to explain to Quimpot and Foggers that I’d hung up the pocketwatch in 1963 and had aged naturally alongside a Lady since that time. “Well, where are my manners?” EEII! declared, suddenly remembering in his absent-minded way that a lady was present. Hauled a big pile of papers off one armchair to allow Asil to sit. Set to work bleeding pressure from the pipes of his time-travelling contraption via little spigot. Turned out to be rather good tea inside tubing. Multiple uses, his gadgets always had. Poor Asil clearly a little bit boggled by all of this. Suggested we all dress for dinner and sort it out over a good meal at Simpsons’. My treat. No point in time-travelling if one can’t visit one’s favourite restaurants long after they’re gone and forgotten now, is there? Quimpot happened to have a lady’s evening gown handy for my amanuensis. Noticed it resembled the one worn by Lady Alicia Redmayne in the Affair of the Left Handed Corkscrew and the Launderette of Doom (which, by my calculations, must have happened only a few days before this), but didn’t comment. A gentleman doesn’t ask. Foggers a bit anxious about going out I thought. Asked Phineas if he thought it’d be safe. As if inspired by word safe, Quimpot opens small wall vault (after deactivating phlogiston defence system, of course) and removes small leather pouch to pocket. “Quite safe,” the inventor assures his companion. Excellent meal. Nowhere else but Simpsons’ can cure a chap of the phobia for boiled cabbage inculcated upon one from an early age at Preparatory Boarding School. And their mutton chop is quite frankly one of the seven wonders of the world! One bite brought back all those heady days of my relative youth, the bittersweet adventures that one has when one is innocent and believes the world is a place of adventure and opportunity! Only wished could have brought Madge to show her this. Still, Asil very charming companion and very excited to see late Victorian London. Asil obviously also very curious re whole time travel thingie and how I could have been around in 1902. Had to explain a bit to her about the chonometer and other gadgets I separated from that devil-woman who ran the Westminster Necropolis Company. Most often use pocketwatch, of course, and by now the old thing’s come to rather like me I suspect. It certainly never liked Her Evilness. Side effect of having pocketwatch is, of course, that one is immune to the effects of time. Stayed aged late twenties for damn near a century before found out it was more important to grow old with Madge. Would give up another thirty years for one more day with her. As I said, dinner excellent, but rather spoiled at cigars and brandy stage by arrival of little threatening note from mysterious Egyptian gentleman, threatening dire consequences if EEII! didn’t return the Star of Anushla to its sacred guardians immediately. Overcame Quimpot’s reluctance to talk business in front of a woman (something to be said for century of womens’ suffrage) and prised the story from him. Turns out that EEII! and the faithful Fogherty recently investigated series of gruesome strangulations done with centuries-old spice-dyed bandages. All the victims were archaeologist chappies, and a bit of digging (no pun intended – but it was rather good, don’t you think, if it had been deliberate) turned up that they’d all handled this gem dug up from a tomb in the Lower Nile Valley. EEII! spotted the hidden cultist, thwarted the plan to mummify the fair Lady Summerville (making creative use of a little Ether-driven vacuum pump to deal with the trained attack scorpions), and tied up the case. Was given the gem as a keepsake. Was, of course, little package he’d slipped in his pocket for safekeeping. Except that the dashed cultists kept on trying to get it back off him. And while he’d certainly have handed it over if they’d just asked nicely, it had become a bit of a point of honour (and here he cited three dozen literary examples of everybody from Nemo to Alan Quartermain to Lemuel Gulliver who’d have dug their heels in under those circumstances) since they were being such blighters about it. Blighters they were. Tried to ambush us as we hailed a hansom cab in the strand. Six vicious fellows with pointy weapons, all dressed in sacred mumbo-jumbo of vicious Eastern cult. Ambush plan failed as all adventurers in Victorian times know never to take the first nor the second carriage which presents itself. Hence rather alarming attack on poor old Lord Throgwharton who had taken first carriage, and embarrassing moment for Sir Marmaduke Upton and the young lady who was apparently his niece (rum goings on in that family is all I can say) and who had allegedly dropped her earring inside her bodice and required help retrieving it in the second cab. Cultists attempted spirited response, charging down road towards us. Bobby sounded whistle but cultists clearly hoping to butcher us before Peelers could arrive. Used pocketwatch to slow ‘em down enough for Asil to clobber them. Even hampered by skirts she had three of them down before they realised that a lady could be a threat. Gal’s very vigorous. Could tell Quimpot and Froggie were impressed. Dinged one round the ear with heavy pocketwatch myself and he lost interest in being ungodly. EEII! and Froggie had absolutely no problem taking one down each. Quimpot was a bit of a boxer back in college I believe, although a few years after my day. And always suspected Fogherty to be a good deal more competent than pretends. Play same trick myself, sometimes. Anyway, result was that bobbies arrived to drag away six blissfully reposing cult chappies, and good riddance to them (heathen cultists I mean. Can’t expect HM’s police force to be everywhere). Had bit of a brainwave. Agreed to return Star of Anushla for EEII!, but take it with me to 1999 first. Teach the cads a lesson but return the property as seemed proper, so to speak. IIEE! very taken with idea. Fogherty taken with idea of not having place crawling with cult assassins any more. Put a couple of chronal charges into Phineas’ gadget with a bit of a twinge. First one would get Asil and I back to our year of departure, with a bit of a modification to put us in Egypt to return the Star. Then we could get on with the ongoing mystery of the Hopkins plans. But the second charge… well, presumably that was for Quimby’s next journey, the one he never came back from. And it’s just not done to change the past, no matter how tempting it is to go back and meet Madge all over again. So I had to use the chronometer to put a temporal spin in the second phial of Ether, knowing that it would send the poor EccentricEtherInvestigatorInventor! off to an uncertain fate. Said goodbye again to two old friends, shook their hands, thumped their backs and told them they were stout. Enough said. So back to the present, with a simple delivery to make and then off the see how young Bautista is getting on. Can still taste that cabbage and mutton, though. The Journal of Sir Mumphrey Wilton, Extract Eleven In which a delightful honeymooning couple assist in the matter of returning the Star of Anushla, and, as everybody was probably expecting, the mummy walks. Have always rather liked Luxor, with its massive ruined temple. There’s a really excellent bit with hundreds of columns ten feet thick in rows reaching up to the sky. Just try walking alone through that with the starry African sky as your roof, and see if it doesn’t make you marvel at the abilities of man and God alike. Of course, Asil and I had job to do, returning Star of Anushla to rightful resting place in temple raided by archaeologists a century ago and al that; but dash it young Asil got so very excited as we walked through the marketplace surrounded by people trying to haggle with us and barter with each other that it seemed utterly unfair not to do a little bit of the tourist thing. Took fellukah ride on Nile and pony trap trip along Eastern bank. Didn’t tip cab driver as can’t stand to see animals mistreated. Told him so. Telegrammed Tina, young Bautista’s friend, to let her know we’d got Asil unkidnapped etc. Asil e-mailed Visionary. Apparently e-mail a bit like telegram but done with computers. Seems like a lot of effort to make a delivery boy cart a big and delicate machine like that up to somebody’s house just to give ‘em a message, but Asil assures me it’s very quick and efficient. Long as bicyclist doesn’t wobble and make computer fall of (what they call a crash) I suppose. Arranged visit to Museum of Antiquities tomorrow to find out who rightful owner of Star of Anushla is. Booked in to Luxor Hilton, only place to stay in Southern Nile Valley. Had sharp words with desk clerk who assumed wanted shared suite with young lady companion. Standards falling everywhere. Not like that back in Carter’s day, I can tell you. Guest waiting to have baggage taken to honeymoon suite agreed, commending one on one’s way of ticking off oiks. Couldn’t place chap’s accent but clearly cultured intelligent fellow. Therefore invited him for snifter. Didn’t quite catch first name but think he’s called Pierson Porter. On world tour honeymoon. Good luck to the young couple, I say. That’s the way to launch a marriage. Met Mrs Porter at dinner, which Asil and I joined them for. Rather surprised at bridegroom’s pet name for rather lovely blonde wife. Called her Moo. Awkward connotations for me of appalling woman who crashed into my London offices leading Baron Zemo’s Scourge rabble, but no comparison between this sophisticated and delightful lady and the diabolical cow-headed Doctor Moo. Never did find out Mrs Porter’s given name. Asil very quiet at dinner. Seemed overawed by Moo, who was after all a very well-informed and well travelled lady. Can see why this young couple are so in love, well suited with similar temperaments and interests. Lady had some kind of pet in a basket under the table whom she fed choice titbits from the very acceptable apple-stuffed ham which we ate. Probably a small dog, given the sort of grumbling noises it was making. Porter seems knowledgeable chap, so consulted him on issue of Star of Anushla. Asil not keen on this, but Moo advises her not to worry, and my young amanuensis seemed to take this to heart. Porter suggested using some scientific apparatus he has to backtrack its previous spacial vectors, whatever that means. Seems to think he can work out where it lay all those centuries anyway. Don’t understand modern science, but probably involves use of e-mail. Porter agreed to have a go in the morning. Didn’t argue, as could see he and Moo were hoping for an early night. Remember all too well those early nights Madge and I used to have. Asil and Moo apparently getting on very well, as Moo came to Asil’s room later that night to give her some advice or something. Unfortunately Asil not present, having slipped off to foyer to post next seven postcards to Visionary and a “glad you’re not here” card to Fleabot. Moo therefore unfortunately stumbled on animated mummy searching Asil’s room for Star of Anushla. Seem to be having fair share of invaded hotel rooms recently. Anyway, Moo hadn’t been expecting trouble and had no time to scream of whatever it was she did. Suffice to say the mummy overcame her and carried her off, believing her to be my young companion. Asil and I were quite puzzled by the ransom note in the morning until Porter joined us looking for missing wife. Soon worked out where mix-up was. Sloped off to scene of crime and used pocketwatch to replay the event, hence learning of involvement of animated mummy. Didn’t tell others. Best not to worry them. Couldn’t track mummy after it captured poor Moo, as chronal charge insuffienct for reconstruction almost ten hours since. Asil not keen on rescue mission; not like her as she’s usually a plucky lass. Suppose idea of shambling bandage-shrouded corpse deterred her – although come to think of it she didn’t know it was a mummy until later on, did she? Anyway, Asil insisted on staying at hotel room, which was a bit of a relief because I do so worry about her. In loco parentis and all that. Pierson Porter seemed very angry. Suggested that if Moo was harmed he would wreak terrible vengeance on whole of mankind. Suggested that he steady on. No point losing head. Now was time for cool deduction and careful planning. Porter produced spacial vector tracker, clever gadget I’d not seen before, and as promised identified place where Star of Anushla had lain for three thousand years. I arranged for us to hire some camels to get to desert location. Porter unsure about using “primitive native quadrupeds of uncertain temperament.” Agreed about temperament, but pointed out that camel is highlt specialised piece of equipment, as fitted for it’s use as a spacial vector tracker. Later, porter suggested that a camel was “yet another reason for the utter eradication of all life on Earth.” Feel like that myself sometimes when the damn things spit and tread on your foot. So to hidden temple in rocks of little valley seen by few white men – well, except the archaeologists who dug it up and traipsed off with the loot, of course. Sunset when we arrived. Had availed myself of a double-barrelled shotgun for security purposes, but Porter only had a sort of torch affair, so I made certain to keep him well covered. All very well young chap wanting to safe his new wife and all that – admire it – but doesn’t do to let him get himself killed, don’t you know? Of course, the temple had all the usual deadfalls, poison darts, scorpion pits etc. Porter proved immensely useful with some of these. Turns out his torch was a little gadget called a Variable Sword, which has a little marble-thingie dangling at the end of this three-foot long really sharp filament. Certainly cut through deadfalls very effectively, anyway. I managed to use my chronomenter covertly to inhibit the moving stonework and poisoned thorns long enough for him to notice them and deal with the dangers. Really took me back, going through a trap-laden temple like this. Felt quite nostalgic by the time we rescued the gal. Of course, this time it wasn’t Madge. Still, in fairness, Moo had done just as well at scuppering the baddies as Madge ever did. She’d somehow scared the heck out of them. The cultists were grovelling at her feet wailing, “Hail Hathor, the great cow of the universe.” All looked set for a jolly reunion when the ancient mummified high priest (for it was he) leaped out of a concealed passageway and wrapped his hands around Porter’s throat, locking on with a supernatural grip. Cultists lost interest in worshipping Hathor and gained new motivation to flee like the wind. Moo tried to detach mummy from hubbie, but was swept aside. Can’t abide violence to ladies. Said as much. Porter clearly not getting anywhere with probably e-mail powered gadget against supernatural nasty of the nether thingies. Checked pocketwatch and detected a sort of chonal inhibition field around the monster, something sort of holding back the ravages of time. Set up centerfield around chronometer. Hit mummy with chronometer. Interesting effect as three millennia of time caught up with high priest all at once. Very dusty. Porter suddenly found that Variable Sword was working on chappie again. End of chappie. “Give me the Star of Anushla!” Porter demanded, very serious-like all of a sudden. Handed it to him, and he did something to it with one of his machines and it started glowing. Placed it back on the altar where it had lain for all those years. “It’s returned,” the inventor-fellow pointed out. “Let’s go. Quickly.” So we left. Just as well, as whole temple destroyed by absolutely huge explosion not long afterwards. Suspect something to do with application of gadget to Star. Moo said she was glad to see both of us. Kissed hubby very sweetly and said that their business with Asil and I was not yet concluded. Bit puzzled by that, as when returned to hotel Moo and Asil vanished for long heart-to-heart and the Mr and Mrs Porter packed up and left almost at once. Never did get to the bottom of it. Still, it’s good to know there are a few nice people left in the world, isn’t it. And they made such a lovely couple. Extract Twelve, from Asil’s Diary In which that big cow tries her usual cowishness and Asil gets a surname This is Asil’s diary, which is written by Asil. I have decided to do a diary because that is what people do, and I am trying to become a person. Once I wasn’t a person, I was a piece of dandruff off that big doody-head Lisa’s head, and that big cow Dr Moo cloned it in me to go and recover the great man Visionary from his long trek of thinking deep and weighty thoughts in the corn. Which I did. Now I have a job and a life and so I think I should have a diary. So here it is. At the moment I am travelling with Sir Mumphrey Wilton, who is the second greatest man in the world. He is trying to solve a big mystery about this strange device that Baron Zemo wants, but as a favour to an old friend he came to Egypt to return a very old sacred object called the Star of Anushla. That would have been complicated enough with just the cultists and the high priest’s mummy coming after us, but in the Luxor Hilton we met two people who were pretending to be a honeymooning couple. But they weren’t. It was really the diabolical Dr Moo and her toyboy that alien called Pierson’s Porter. They are not really married, which makes Moo a huge slut. I am not exactly sure why, but I know you should not go on honeymoon unless you have got married first. They were not dressed in superhero clothes, they were pretending to be people. Sir Mumphrey did not recognise Moo as the villainous scheming mad scientist she is even though he used his temporal pocketwatch to stop her once before in London. She had her cow-mask on then. Now he thought they were a nice young couple. Sir Mumphrey always thinks the best of people at first. He is so naive. I first realised it was the big cow moo when I saw them at dinner with us. I was going to say something to warn Sir Mumphrey when Moo told me not to. She was very clever and made it sound like it wasn’t an order, just a bit of conversation, but she knew that when she made me and programmed me with imperatives like find the wonderful Visionary she also put in one that made me obey her absolutely. That meant that even though I wanted to tell Sir Mumphrey and warn him I was not able to. It was terrible. I went to bed early that evening. Sir Mumphrey thought is might be all the travel and was very nice about it. He is almost as kind as Visionary is, although nobody could be quite as kind as Visionary. I know that I have this imperative to think Visionary is wonderful, but what nobody realises is that I don’t need it because he really is wonderful. Sir Mumphrey is wonderful too but in a sort of old, wrinkly, whiskery way. He is sometimes a bit sad when he does not think anyone is looking at him. Visionary is not yet Sir Visionary but he should be. I will ask Sir Mumphrey who I should write to see about this. I thought about what to do about Moo. I know that Baron Zemo has put out a huge reward for the plans that Sir Mumphrey owns, and she would just be waiting for a chance to get Sir Mumphrey and make him give her the secret. She does not know about Sir Mumphrey’s magic pocketwatch which can do things to time. Only I know, because Sir Mumphrey trusts me. But I was really frightened because I knew if Moo commanded me to tell her all about Mumphrey I would not be able to not tell her about the chronometer. I thought she would probably come to my room to make me talk, so I crept out onto the balcony and climbed across to the next room. There was a man in the next room who was surprised to see me. He kept telling me that it must be his lucky day. I don’t know why. It didn’t seem very lucky for him because he jumped at me and I had to hit him on the nose. Then I went to see if I could telephone Visionary for help, but when I got to the phone I realised it would be very late over in the United States and a great man like Visionary needs his sleep so he can think his deep thoughts. So I decided to ring up doody-head Lisa, because she doesn’t need to think anyway, although I suppose she might needs lots of beauty sleep. But all I got was an automated message saying “The Lair Mansion is either being attacked by giant Space Robots just now or we have gone for pizza. Please leave a message after the beep and we will get back to you, Tee-hee!” So in the end I hid in a cupboard all night with my fingers in my ears. In the morning I made sure I was close to Sir Mumphrey when I went down to breakfast. I wanted to be there when that big cow and Pierson’s Porter made their move, so I could help Sir Mumphrey. The strange thing was that a ransom note arrived saying that if Sir Mumphrey ever wanted to see me alive again he should give the Star of Anushla to the cultists. This was strange because I had not been kidnapped. I checked. I was worried for a while that it might be another one of those horrid Asil clones who were chasing Visionary around a little while ago, but it turned out to be alright. Dr Moo had come to my room last night to make me join her in a plot against Sir Mumphrey, and the Mummy that had come to capture me thought that I was her, which is kind of insulting because I am not a top-heavy blonde megalomaniac. So the cultists carried Moo off to their desert stronghold and waited for the ransom to be paid. Pierson’s Porter was very cross. He and Sir Mumphrey went off to rescue Moo and I still was not able to warn Sir Mumphrey about them being villains. I said I didn’t want to go along. Sir Mumphrey thought I was a bit afraid and he was very nice about it. But I was not afraid. I had a Plan. I changed my age (which is my only super-power) to look as old as Lisa, and I had bought some cheap leather underwear so that I looked just like the big doody. With Moo out of the way for a while I was able to climb into her honeymoon suite through the French windows. I knew just what I was looking for, and sure enough there she was: Davidowicz, Moo’s genetically-enhanced pet companion. A big lab rat. I managed to catch Davidowicz by surprise and got her into a wire cage before she could do anything. So far so good. I told Davidowicz to talk (Davidowicz can talk, otherwise that would have been silly). I reminded her about Lisa’s indestructible ginger cat, and threatened to let it have Davidowicz. I made her tell me about the imperatives that Moo had put on Asil, and I wrote down the verbal codes which would remove the obedience imperative and some other nasty ones I hadn’t known about, like the killing Lisa directive and the exploding directive. I also got the code to get rid of the changing directives by voice code directive. Then I hid Davidowicz. away and I bought a really big box. Sir Mumphrey rescued Moo of course. He is very good at rescuing people, almost as good as Visionary. When Moo got back to her hotel suite she found Davidowicz gone, and a note supposedly from Lisa telling her to come to Asil’s bedroom. When she came I pretended to be Lisa. It was not hard. I just used lots of lawyer words and was horrible and bitchy. I told Moo that Asil was locked and tied up inside the big box (but it was empty) and that if Moo ever wanted to see Davidowicz un-catted again Moo had better give the following verbal commands to Asil. “You realise I will kill you for this, sister,” Dr Moo answered. But I pretended not to be frightened and I made her say the codewords to get rid of the nasty imperatives. She asked should she get rid of the one that makes Asil dote on “that idiot Visionary,” and I was so cross I told the big cow how great a man Visionary really is. Moo’s eyes went very wide. “You are Asil!” she gasped. But by then it was too late because I had got free of her imperatives and I told her that she was a bad woman and said some other rude things to her. I did not make her take away the Visionary imperative. He is a good man and it is fitting that I should think so, I do not even need an imperative to know that he is great. As I suspected, Moo and Pierson’s Porter were plotting to betray Mumphrey even though he had saved Moo. I made them leave Egypt before I would tell them where I had posted Davidowicz off to. I do not think Dr Moo likes me very much. I saved Sir Mumphrey. I cannot tell him because Moo’s command that I don’t say anything to him about all of this still stands, but he does not need to know anyway. So I am very proud that I have stopped being Moo’s puppet and have rescued somebody great. I have decided that I now deserve a surname, like people do. Sir Mumphrey always looks embarrassed when he has to introduce me as “his amanuensis Asil Harrumphpardon.” I considered calling myself Asil Visionary, but Visionary said not to. I suppose I do not deserve that great a name. I wondered if I should be Asil Dance, because the doody-head is Lisa Waltz, but naming myself after her sucks so hard it blows. But in the end Visionary suggested 'Aisling', which is pronounced 'Ash-ling' and means 'vision/dream' in Irish as well. In addition, 'Ashling' seems to suggest being born of ashes and dandruff is kind of like scalp ashes, isn't it? So I am going to be Asil Ashling, which is a modern spelling of the old Irish word, and that is what you should call me. Asil Ashling. The person. This is her diary. The Journal of Sir Mumphrey Wilton, Extract Thirteen In which the most extraordinary detectives provide the most extraordinary revelation The sign on the door said “Banjoooo and spiffy’s Detective Agency.” This had been crossed out and replaced with “spiffy and Banjoooo’s Detective Agency”. A series of other crossings out in a similar vein followed until a sad little amendment near the bottom said “Banjoooo and spiffy (deceased)”. Then “deceased” had been scrubbed out too. Nor was this the only notice on the little landing atop the outside staircase in New Gothametropolis City’s Warehouse District. A piece of cardboard thumbtacked to the frame read “Sea Monkey Embassy”. A crayoned note below it announced, “I used to have a mansion, you know.” “This must be the place,” sighed Asil, my amanuensis, glaring at the letter for recommendation from that dazzling attorney Ms Waltz, who is, incidentally, young Asil’s “doody-head” or genetic clone material donor. I rapped on the door and was bade to enter. I held the door for Asil then curiously entered the cluttered and quite dark room. The evening sun sent horizontal shadows from the window-blinds. A young chap was sitting with his feet up on his desk and almost fell off his chair as he saw my companion. “Asil!” he spluttered. “Of all the detective agencies in all the towns in all the world and you had to walk into this one!” Noticed something odd about this young fellah. Felt compelled to mention it. Regarding the fern that appeared to sprout from the top of his head. Not too common in my experience. Turns out this young chap is spiffy, which is his name not a way of describing a smart spruce object, and the fern is an extradimensional symbiote which confers super-powers on its wielder. Explains a lot. Still puzzled over why no capital letter in spiffy’s name however. Said as much. Then this other remarkable chap wanders in from the kitchenette carrying two mugs of coffee. Nice enough fellow, but the crown-horns, the purple-pinkish scaly skin, and the prawn-like features are a bit of a shock at first. Asil explained that this was Banjoooo, King of the Sea Monkeys. Seems that they’re a genetically-modified undersea race of half-inch-long shrimp-things. Banjoooo was apparently big for his size. Anyway, introduced self and gave short resume of reason I needed detective agency. Explained about coming into possession of mysterious plans and patent registered twenty years ago by some chappie who clearly hadn’t the faintest idea of what they were. Expanded on the long list of people who had tried to scrobble the plans on behalf of that bounder Baron Zemo. Pointed out that we still hadn’t the faintest idea what the damn device was so young Bautista of Bautista International was assembling it even now. This seemed to worry Banjooooo and spiffy for some reason. Asked the two detectives to try and dig up a bit of background about Leonard Hopkins, the filer of the patent, a chap who dies a few years later in some kind of accident. spiffy looked rather uncomfortable. Asked if he was alright. He wasn’t. Turns out his unsuperhero name is Mark Hopkins. Father’s name was Leonard. Now my conclusion is that Banjoooo and spiffy are jolly nice chaps, but they’re hardly Sherlock Holmes. Didn’t take them too long to work out that spiffy’s dad might have died from foul play in that freak roller-skating accident, and that they needed to investigate that as well as how Leonard Hopkins might have come across the plans everyone’s so interested in. But they didn’t draw the other conclusion, and I thought it best to let things lie for now. I broached it at last with Banjoooo after we’d split into two teams. At my suggestion Asil accompanied spiffy to look through his late parents’ papers in hopes of discovering something relevant. Noticed spiffy blushed deep red when Asil joined his team. Suspect young fellah might have a soft spot my Miss Ashling – but is horribly tongue-tied. Faint heart never won fair lady. Must remember to tell him so. The Sea Monkey and I were going to “shake down the underworld”, which apparently means questioning felons regarding their complicity in criminal acts. Thought I’d better get my problem out in the open. Asked how old young spiffy was. “Sixteen,” Banjooooo answered me. “Why do you ask.” I pointed out the maths. Leonard Hopkins died twenty years ago, right after filing that patent. “Oh,” realised Banjooooo. Spent remainder of evening going round series of rather unsavoury bars accosting the lower classes and asking personal questions of them on the subject of assassinations. Seemed a little impertinent, but Banjoooo seemed to enjoy it, and when in Rome… However, in the end quietly asked one rather stunned barkeeper who was in change of the local criminal fraternity and was given address of a fellow known as the Lynchpin. Banjoooo not keen to pay this chap a visit, or “die slowly and horribly” as he called it. Stout chap that he is he did accompany me to see the cove in the end when he realised that I wasn’t going to be deterred.. Speaking of stout chaps, the Lynchpin must have been thirty stone if he was a pound. Could have stood to get a bit of exercise and cut out between meals snacking. Told him as much while Banjoooo was ducking below the desk. Of course, we’d only been allowed into the offices of this crimelord blaggard because like everyone else he wanted to collect some brownie points (and a large reward) with Zemo. Since he thought he’d got us trapped (he pointed out to my Sea Monkey companion that Banjoooo couldn’t grow to giant proportions inside a reinforced building) he was more than happy to gloat over us. I suggested he gloat by telling us who had done the Hopkins assassination way back when, and out of curiosity he got them to look it up. Even he was impressed when it turns out it was a “hit” from a rather nasty piece of work called the Bone, an admanantium-skeletoned mercenary-for-hire who is now semi-retired. Thanked the Lynchpin for the information and said we’d better be going now. Stopped him in mid-laugh by triggering temporal pocketwatch and stepping outside time. Bit of a struggle to drag the time-frozen Banjoooo down sixteen flights of stairs to street level but managed it in the end. Also sneaked a peek at Lynchpin’s rolodex to get contact number for the Bone as suspect young spiffy may want a word with him. When time-suspension finished young Banjoooo was rather confused as to how he had made us both appear in the street. He explained to me that sometimes his advanced genetic makeup enabled him to manifest unusual powers and that this must be one of them. I said that must be a very useful talent. Left before Lynchpin worked out where we’d gone. Some of these fat sweaty blighters can get into a terrible bate if things don’t go their way. Rendezvoused with Asil and spiffy at detective agency. Wandered in and asked them if they’d got any leads. Both nodded silently. Spiffy pointed to the shadows in the corner, where a chap in a grey mantle and cowl lurked in the shadows. “He found us,” Asil explained. Gal sounded intimidated, which isn’t like her at all. Asked this johnny who the devil he was. I swear the bounder’s eyes glowed as he spoke. “You may call me… the Hooded Hood.” *** Continued at The Sir Mumphrey Wilton Stories on the The Hooded Hood's Homepage of Doom Characters described in the really old version of Who’s Who in the Parodyverse Places outlined in Where's Where in the Parodyverse Original concepts, characters, and situations copyright © 1999, 2011 reserved by Ian Watson. Other Parodyverse characters copyright © 1999, 2011 to their creators. The use of characters and situations reminiscent of other popular works do not constitute a challenge to the copyrights or trademarks of those works. The right of Ian Watson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.

He's so green in these early ones eh? Great to see him develop his full Mumph pep as you go on.

One question - whatever happened to Roland? If you told us I've forgotten.

Al B.