Chapter 2: Chapter Chapter Two

Edinburgh University shines out as a redbrick oasis of colour in an otherwise gloomy grey-stone city. It is raining and almost dark, in spite of being just mid-afternoon on a miserable winter’s day. Inside the neglected Victorian building is a seated receptionist attending two standing men. She smiles and holds up her hand, ‘please wait.’ She picks up her telephone and speaks.

‘Mr. Mandrake, there are two…’ she eyes the two athletic-looking men, ‘…gentlemen to see you.’

In his office two floors up, Harry jolts bolt upright at his desk. He speaks nervously into the phone. ‘Gentlemen you say? What are they like?’

The receptionist looks up at the two enormous hunks again. Embarrassed to answer, she whispers into the mouthpiece, ‘They are Americans.’

’So they’re bloody ‘Americans’… they are human, I take it? What the hell are they like for Christ sake?’ He yells into the phone, cradled under his chin, as he nervously and energetically gathers his papers, ‘Are they big? Are they mean? Are they wearing black hats or white hats? Jesus Christ girl, use your bloody loaf!’

The receptionist, miffed at his ratty attitude, retorts: ‘Sod off! I’m sending them up.’ She bangs the phone down.

‘No no no! Oh, Christ! Stupid bitch!’ cries Harry, letting the phone drop from his chin. Without bothering to replace it on the receiver he dashes about his office with inspired panic, grabbing coat, hat, and diary, and as many papers as he can carry. Then he’s off into the corridor, avoiding the elevator, leaping down the emergency stairs three at a time and crashes out through the doors into the square.

In the college quadrangle, Harry runs for dear life through the drizzling rain.

One of the Americans steps in front of him. ‘Henry Mandrake?’ He challenges.

Harry stops dead, almost falling into the big man’s arms. ‘Christ almighty! You scared the hell out of me. ––Mandrake? No. Why? What do you want with him?’

‘Calm down, buddy.’

‘Mandrake left ages ago,’ says Harry, dismissively, ‘Can I give him a message? I’m in a deuce of a hurry… freezing cold… papers getting soaked, do you see?’

‘Look… I know you’re Henry Mandrake,’ says the American, ‘I got your photograph. Whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong! I’m from the Carnegie Space Agency PLC. We want to talk to you… to your advantage… money! Savvy?’

Harry blinks nervously at the American, hardly understanding. ‘Money, you say? Money! What the Devil do you take me for?’

‘Let me introduce myself. I’m Rex, and this is Hamish.’ The other American now joins them.

Harry, feeling the immediate danger having passed, begins to take interest. ’Right, right you are… Rex. ‘Money’ you say?’

‘A great deal of money,’ winks Rex.

‘I know a place – Oh… you have expenses? Of course, you do… silly me. Let’s get out of the rain… I’ll lead the way. The name is Henry, but I prefer Harry, Hal to my friends. My father named me after Monmouth Harry.’ They look bewildered. Harry continues. ’Henry the Fifth, part one… Shakespeare… Azincourt, Harfleur, ‘once more into my breeches’, do you see?’ Still no response, Harry shrugs in dismay, ‘Dear God! – I take it you have transport? Follow me. Mine’s the vintage Roller.’

The granite façade of Gentlemen’s Club, The Deacon Brodie, glisters wetly out of the Edinburgh mist. Harry jauntily enters the foyer of the oak-panelled mansion – a relic of Victorian grandeur – followed by Rex and Hamish. He beckons a waiter.

‘Right, Robbie… table for four… a lady will probably join us later – the Deacon’s Cabin, I think. Some drinks for starters and a bit of privacy.’

Robbie looks apologetically to Harry, and speaks to him aside from his guests, ‘I must remind you, Mr. M, your account. Sorry, but it’s from the top. Nothing I can do.’

‘No worries, old sport,’ sings out Harry, ‘the good old Yankee dollar!’ He turns to Rex. ‘Look here, Rex, you’ll have to leave your plastic with Robbie, do you see? Bit embarrassing… you’ve no idea how little a lecturer’s pay is. I’m just going to make a phone call. You follow Robbie.’

Rex fixes Harry a sour stare as he hands over his American Express card to Robbie’s outstretched hand, then he and Hamish follow the waiter’s lead into the annexe: a glass panelled cubicle in the centre of the dining room.

Harry makes his way to the phone booth in the foyer. Inside he looks up a telephone number in his little notebook, dials, and waits as the phone connects. ‘Ha ha! Guess who? Yeeees, Sweetie, righ–’ The phone goes dead. Unruffled, he looks up another number and dials. ’Ha ha! Guess who? Right Sweetie, ‘Harry!’ Going to buy you din– Steady on, of course, I’m paying. Sor– let me get a word in. Sorry about that. I’ll make it up to you. You know how, ha ha. And I’ve got a little pressie for you,’ he twists a pretty necklace through his fingers as he continues, ‘been in the family for yonks… sparkly. What say, Sweetie? … You will! Good girl. Get a cab to my club… ask Robbie to put it on the bill. Oh, and bring your overnight bag. See you in an hour, mwar, mwar, mwar!’ he kisses down the phone, then tosses the hand-piece back onto the receiver with rakish style, letting out his cry of triumph as it lands neatly into place: ‘Bloody bingo!’

Rex and Hamish sit patiently waiting, arms folded and staring indifferently into space. They are seated at an elegant antique dining table that is set in the small, casement-windowed annexe in the centre of the main dining room, The Deacon’s Cabin – a room within a room.

They come to attention as Harry, now in top form, opens the door, speaking as he enters, ‘Right, Rex, Hamish what do you want in the trough?’ They look bemused. Harry expands, ‘What’s it to be… eats, drinkies?’

‘Just mineral water for us.’ says Rex, dismissively.

‘Slice of lemon with mine,’ adds Hamish. Harry smiles and takes his seat at the far end. Robbie knocks on the door and enters. He raises his eyes to Harry, prompting the order.

‘Two mineral waters, one with a slice of lemon,’ says Harry, ‘and I’ll have a triple G&T… O, and a bottle of Moet and one glass… and whatever you’re having, Robbie… on the old billy-do.’

‘Jessus!’ Rex rolls his eyes to the ceiling in amazement as Robbie goes about his business. He then shakes his head wearily. ’Okay, Harry, to business: I take it you’ve heard of the USS Junairo, the Mars space shot?

‘The starship that caught both titties in the mangle?’ says Harry with a liberal hint of sarcasm.’

’Yes… literally! Damn good analogy – four ‘titties’, to be precise. Now, I want you to realise something, Henry–’

‘Harry, please.’

‘Harry… pretty Harry… what I’m about to give you is privileged information? Do you want me to go on?’ Harry remains silent. Rex fixes him with an uncomfortably long stare. At length, he continues. ‘Because if I do go on, and you then refuse to help, things could get nasty. So I repeat, do I go on?’

Harry mulls the unquantified proposition, of which he is extremely wary but he’s also extremely short of money and things are already ‘nasty’… namely Radcliff, his thoughts on whom quickly resolve the quandary. ‘How nasty?’

‘Nasty, nasty.’

‘Humm… That nasty? Go on.’

‘Okay Harry, but first I need to know more about you and your late uncle, Barnaby Mandrake, Lord Melrose. How well did you know him?’

’Very well, and I hope to know him very well again. He’s only ‘missing, presumed dead’… I’m hoping he’ll turn up.’

There is pregnant silence for a few moments. Rex picks up his drink and takes a swallow, his eyes not leaving Harry.

‘He’s been gone eight years, Harry,’ says Hamish, now taking over. ‘That’s a long time to be missing. Rumor has it he blew himself to kingdom-come with a rocket engine he was developing… sounds about right to me.’

’As I say, ‘missing’.’

’So, with him being ‘officially deceased’ you inherit everything… the entire estate, I understand?’

Harry shrugs, ‘Well, you understand wrongly, old sport. Do you imagine I’d still be wintering here if I had monies?’

‘We were told–’

‘–You’re partly right – Encumbrances.’

Hamish puts his hand to his jaw as he considers.

Rex gives a shrug, and finishes the last of his drink. ‘Encumbrances, you say? Explain.’

‘Yes, old man… encumbrances: To inherit I have to pass my Master’s degree, marry and produce an heir… Marry! I bloodywell ask you… do I look the marrying type? – So, I stay here under sufferance, as chief lecturer on PXL.’

‘P X L?’ demands Rex.

‘Possibilities of Extraterrestrial Life,’ explains Harry. ‘I’m quite a success, much to their annoyance, particularly with the ladies. Ha ha. Do you see?’

‘No, I don’t see. Under sufferance – to their annoyance?’

Harry, realising that Rex is troubled, quickly adjusts his story: ‘Yes… well, you must understand… the old man, my illustrious uncle injected a massive wedge of monies into the founding of the academy, creating the new PXL section of the science faculty. With added proviso that I have top place as lecturer and custodian of his papers, cetera-cetera, blardy-blar… Gets up their noses, I suppose.’

‘Gets up their noses? What in hell does that mean?’

‘They don’t bloody like it, matey… Jealousy! Nothing they can do about it.’

‘The 1950’s Mandrake Experiment, Harry…’ says Hamish, pushing the conversation on, ‘…One man eaten alive in his flying suit the other left a homicidal maniac?’

‘Good Lord! I’m surprised you’ve even heard of that, let alone believe it. Most people don’t give it a dot of credence.’

‘We have an open mind, Harry,’ says Rex, offering a face of reason. ’We can’t afford to overlook anything. It’s the only account of PXL, as you call it, that is anyway similar to our, shall we say, ‘dilemma’.’

‘And my God…’ says Hamish, ‘… is it similar?’

‘Your government won’t release all the data,’ continues Rex, ’Some of it is still in the archives ‘under embargo’, so they say. They won’t be moved. I smell a rat.’

‘Yeah, a great big dirty rat!’ Hamish chips in.

‘Dirty?’ says Harry, seemingly puzzled.

‘Yes, very dirty,’ says Rex, raising his voice. ‘We think that rocket engine Lord Melrose was working on was nuclear, and that it was designed in Nazi Germany by a man named Ulam. The Russians captured it after WWII. They were scared, or didn’t have the expertise, to test it. You Brits traded the Rolls Royce jet engine and the turbo-jet technology for it. You know what I’m saying here?’ He stops and studies Harry, waiting to see if he comprehends what he’s implying.

‘Of course, I know what you’re saying… you are, after all, speaking bloody English… of a kind. Go on.’

’The Russians used that jet engine in the Mig 15, smart-ass. We lost a lot of boys in Korea because of it.

‘What total rubbish.’

‘That’s a goddam fact, buddy,’ growls Rex, ‘Your crazy uncle used his wartime connections to broker that deal. With what he got in return for that jet technology, he was able to send a manned atomic fucking ballista! – a goddam ironclad battleship space-shot – to Mars.’

Harry feigns aghast, ‘You’re thinking of the 1948 Project Orion. That was a crazy American thing. But that came to nothing. I mean to say, dumping little atom bombs out the back of a spaceship and catching the blasts with a pusher-plate… absolute lunacy.’

‘It was nothing to do with Project Orion,’ yells Hamish, exasperated. ‘Your crazy uncle’s Mandrake Project was the lunacy. He enlisted a British submarine-expert to build a spacecraft. That engine was so powerful the vessel rounded Mars and crashed back to Earth, leaving a trail of poisonous radiation. It was under full power, both ways!’

‘Never! You don’t seriously believe that, do you?’

‘Yes, we, fucking, do, believe that! I further believe that reactor leaked and contaminated the crew. The radiation was so intense it disintegrated one man and sent the other crazy. That, you insufferable Limey creep, is exactly what I think!’

‘Now, steady on!’ says Harry, deeply offended, and turning to Rex for support.

Rex shakes his head. ‘Sorry, Harry, that’s what we all think. So… ?’

‘Yes, well, that’s as maybe, Rex, old sport, but–’

‘–A great deal of money, Harry… So… ?’

Harry considers. He’s got two options: one, do what they ask, or two, do what the Gorbals’ nightmare asks. ‘Okay… I’ve got the official edited version of the flight, and transcript of all data plus various specimens.’

‘Just the transcript, Harry?’ says Rex, unimpressed.

Harry conceders a moment, then decides to juice up his story a little. ‘Look here, old man, I’ve got exclusive access to archive material... and–’

‘Just access?’ says Hamish.

‘I’ll let you boys into a little secret,’ says Harry, tapping his nose and lying through his teeth, ‘I’ve got the original film. They don’t know it yet, silly buggers.’

Hamish shrugs, ‘How come?’

‘I’ll tell you, how come?’ Says Harry, desperate to think of something that will satisfy. ‘I’ll tell you how come… ah, yes, right: Well, you see, there’s a hell of a lot of material there of which I’m not supposed to have access to, let alone take out of the place. It’s all kept together and I’m given what I ask for by an ever-present attendant. He decides what I can and cannot see. So I go there, regularly. They think it’s for material for my lectures–’

Hamish shrugs impatiently, ‘So, how come you got the original film?’

‘I’m coming to that. So I snoop, photocopy and… purloin, steal the originals. But here’s the best, I took my edited copy film there, for comparison with the master. The old twot of a projectionist actually handed me back the original un-edited negative, by mistake. It was still in its original spool. Anyway, it’s mine, isn’t it? – It’s my bloody living for God sake.’

Rex looks reasonably impressed. He continues in a slightly friendlier voice, ‘Okay Harry, I’ll go on, but you’ve been warned. As you so rightly say, the Junairo failed… a bug got in the works, not radiation or gamma poisoning. Two men, Captain Leonard Cowen, Allen Fitzgerald, and a woman, Rose Hawkins, blasted off from EarthlabOne in August… perfect. Closed on Mars in October… perfect. They took some mind-blowing pictures, you probably saw some of them in the press?’

‘Yes, very impressive.’

‘Then the trouble started. Junairo went behind the planet and… zilch, nothing. They were not to land on the planet’s surface, just to soft-land survival modules: provisions and fuel, at various proposed sites for future planned landings.’

‘What!’ exclaims Harry, flabbergasted, ‘You mean they went all that way and were not going to land?’

‘That’s right,’ says Hamish. ‘There were to be two more journeys before the actual landing… the stay would be three months. Have you any idea how much support material that would take?’

‘Yes, I have, actually. But the cost… what amount are we talking?’

Rex studies Harry. ‘I don’t think you need to know that, Harry. The goddam President don’t even know that. He thinks the money is for some cockamamie star-wars project of his, defense against UFO’s – oh yes, he claims he’s actually seen them – Elvis is alive an’ living in fuckin’ Disneyland.’

‘Hey!’ says Hamish, ‘show some respect for your President.’

‘Respect! I had respect for that guy ever since I saw him in The killers. Anyway, let him think what he likes, it keeps him off our backs. So… the Junairo Starship is permanently in space and is fuelled and refuelled from EarthlabOne. It is reusable, endless times. The cost is negligible, that’s all you need to know.’

Harry shrugs, duly impressed. ‘So… what went wrong?’

‘We don’t know, we lost all contact. We didn’t pick it up again until it was almost on top of us. Our screens were down – jammed with some weird form of static. When we got to them, the men were… gone!’ He stops and puts his hands over his eyes, wanting to blot out the offending conundrum.

‘Go on, go on!’ says Harry, eager eyes, and willing ear.

Rex shrugs. ‘Christ, it sounds crazier every time I hear it. Damn it, they were turned to ash and slime! Like they glimpsed the goddam Medusa or something, just the woman was left. But–’

‘–Sounds very similar, Rex, old man,’ says Harry, ‘Very similar in deed!’

‘That’s not all, Harry. There are two of them.’

‘Two? I don’t understand.’

Hamish, now over his malaise, takes up the story. ‘The same! Two women exactly the same: Rose Hawkins and an exact double, a doppelganger!’

Rex bangs his hand down on the table emphasising the dramatic, implausible explanation. He studies Harry’s expression. Harry nods uncomfortably. Rex leans very close into his face, deliberately invading his personal space. ‘You’re the only person outside the Agency in on this, Harry. ––Let me explain something to you: whereas the Agency is a private concern, it has, in many areas, been in direct collusion with the US government’s so-called Star-wars Space programme, EarthlabOne. We are allowed certain, shall we say, latitudes… because it’s in everyone’s interest.’

‘We can do things, Harry,’ says Hamish taking up the story. ‘We, unlike the US Government whose space-exploration budget was put on hold for the duration of the Vietnam War, are not encumbered with military restriction. We’ve done a secret deal with them. They have their voters to answer to, we have our shareholders.’ He stares into Harry’s eyes for an uncomfortably long time. Harry doesn’t look away.

‘Go on, old man.’

‘We have a private financial consortium,’ says Rex, continuing the tale, ‘You Limeys, the Japs, French and the Germans, even the goddam Ruskies are on the payroll – no government can do it alone. Conglomerate money is the way to the stars, private enterprise – we take the money and don’t ask no questions, from all comers, both sides of the law… we’re connected you might say.’ He gives a menacing stare as he continues. ‘So you see, Harry, if anything of this leaks out… if anybody jeopardises this project… if we’re grounded... very nasty.’ He winks again. Harry nods back uncomfortably. Rex studies him for an overlong time, then winks again.

‘Will you stop bloodywell winking at me!’ growls Harry, infuriated. ‘I understand, Rex, I understand! Dear God!’

‘I don’t think you do, Harry. It’s like you Brits with your monarchy. You give them enough wealth and power to make them, supposedly, incorruptible. Then, if one does fuck up, the chop, literally. I like you, Harry, don’t fuck up.’

‘It’s like this, Harry,’ says Hamish, now playing good cop, ‘we need to protect ourselves, our people. The Agency can’t risk a crew again until it has that protection. We understand your uncle had developed a shield. We want you to release all your data to the Agency for six months. Name your price.’

Harry sits back, picks up his gin-and-tonic and raises it as if in toast. ‘Hamish, old love, I’ll do better than that,’ he drinks it off in one swallow. ‘You get the data, and you get me into the bargain. We’ll consolidate my fee later.’

‘You’ll come along, Harry?’ says Rex, seemingly aghast, ‘To what purpose?’

‘Use your loaf, Rex. I’ve studied this since I was a child, day in day out. I couldn’t get away from it, bloody thing haunts me.’

‘So… ?’

‘So I know things, theories, hunches, things you won’t find in any data.’

‘How come?’

‘My uncle spoke of nothing else. He knew this would happen, he knew it was out there waiting. That’s why he developed a shield.’ Harry stares at Rex, then to Hamish, and then back to Rex, wallowing in their rekindled interest.

Hamish pinches his eyes shut in renewed exasperation. ‘Go on…’

‘That’s also why he set me up here, at the University. He wasn’t sure he’d be around. And anyway, I’m custodian of his works, I must insist. I owe him that much.’

Rex studies Harry, staring at him, again for an uncomfortably long time. He suddenly leaps across the table, ‘Good! Excellent! You’re in!’

‘Christ!’ gasps Harry.

Rex grabs Harry’s hand. ‘When can you leave?’ Harry tries to pull his hand away, Rex holds on to it. ‘When, Harry?’

‘Ready when you are, squire,’ says he, as the spectre of Radcliff, subliminally flashes into his mind’s eye, ‘Sooner the bloody better.’

Rex lets go of Harry’s hand and leans back in his chair, seemingly contented. Harry looks nervously to Hamish. Rex looks back and smiles. ‘In two days, that’s when we go back. Midnight Saturday. We’ve booked your flight already… an expedient. We expect you to give a complete debrief on your 50’s Mandrake Experiment on Monday. What do you say, Harry?’

‘Call me Hal, old sport,’ says Harry, now sporting a winning smile. ‘And I say, done deal! Now, to show your good faith I’d like a small advance. Oh, and settle my outstanding account here when you pay the bill. I have to leave my affairs in order… do you see?’ He gives a nervous shudder as he again considers the Radcliff debacle, ‘I have a few other things to put in order,’ he winks at Rex, ‘So, how say, old man?’

Rex nods ‘yes.’ Hamish rolls his eyes. Harry opens the champagne, pours and drinks off a huge glass, refills and drinks another.

A tap-tap on the door. Robbie sticks his head in. ‘Excuse me, Mr. Mandrake, the lady has arrived. Shall I show her in?’

Harry gestures for Robbie to wait. He turns to Rex and smiles. ‘I take it we’ve finished business?’

‘Yes. I’ve no need to remind you of the gravity of this discussion, Harry?’

‘Hal. No need. Don’t concern yourself, Rex old man, no need.’

‘Remember, Hal,’ says Hamish, with menace in his voice, ‘what we said – cabbages and kings – the chop!’

Harry winks. ‘Lips sealed,’ says he, ‘wild horses… cetera-cetera, blardy-bla.’ He turns to Robbie. ’Send the lady in, old luv… Oh, and bring another bottle of Moet and another glass. And Robbie, add my entire account to this bill.

Robbie nods and walks off.

Rex hands Harry an envelope. ’Your ticket and expenses plus your advance: half in ‘Yankee dollar’, half in Sterling. Again, anticipated. We’re leaving now. See you at Heathrow, VIP lounge. Bring everything.’

‘I take it it’s first-class.’

‘Of course!’ says Hamish, slightly aggravated.’

‘Right you are, then. I’m impressed.’

Robbie returns, ushering an attractive young woman. She eyes the two tall Americans with flirtatious smiles.

Rex and Hamish nod hello/goodbye then follow Robbie out of the annex without further word.

Harry calls to Robbie, ‘Tot up the bill, old luv. Wendy and I will dine and stay the night. Oh, and breakfast, you know the sort of thing… stick it on the bill, the nice American gentleman is paying.’ Harry winks again at Rex, standing just outside the door. Rex does not reciprocate.

Robbie leads the two Americans to the desk. They stand idle while Robbie tots up the bill. He hands it to Rex.

‘Son-of-a-bitch!’ gasps Rex, for the first time losing his cool, ‘Look at this! That’s goddam pounds, not dollars.’ he shoves it under Hamish’s nose, ‘Jeeesus!’

Hamish shrugs, ‘Pay it.’

Rex rolls his eyes, ‘Son-of-a-bitch!’