“Best keep a low profile,” said Russell withdrawing once more into hiding.
Bobby Boy passed within feet of them, a frightened look on his long thin face. He took a couple of faltering steps and then broke into a run.
And then came the sounds of a terrible clanking. As Russell and Julie looked on, the two horrendous iron robots went by at the trot in pursuit of Bobby Boy.
“Let’s hope they catch him,” said Russell. “But I don’t understand how –”
“Look.” Julie pointed. Men in black uniforms with swastika arm bands came marching down the mall. They marched into the electrical shop and approached the chap behind the counter.
“Come on,” said Russell. “We’re innocent by-standers. Let’s go in and see what’s on the go.”
Inside the shop, an officer type, with Heinrich Himmler glasses and a bad attitude, was interviewing the counter chap. Russell mingled close to catch an earful.
“He walked into the shop,” said the counter chap, wringing his hands and cringing as he spoke. “He wore the black. Naturally I assumed he was a party member. And he looked at the Cyberstar system and he wanted to know whether the holograms could be made to do anything he wanted. Things not in the movies they’re programmed to re-enact. And so I said, yes of course, sir, and so he said he would take one. But when he eyeballed the screen for retina and iris identification, the alarms went off. He is unregistered. How can this be?”
“This cannot be,” shouted the Himmler person. “Unless –”
“Unless, capitan of security?”
“Unless this is the fellow mentioned in the document. The one we have been expecting. How was this fellow? Was he tall, very thin, with a tricky little mouth?”
“Got him in one,” whispered Russell.
“You have him in one, my capitan.”
“Then all is well. You are not to blame, citizen, carry on with your business, the cost of the system will be taken from your wages.”
“You’re too kind, my capitan.”
“Yes, I am the nice one.”
Russell glanced down at the counter. There all on its own stood the programmer.
“The thief will be apprehended. All is well.”
“Thank you, my capitan. Oh and one thing, my capitan.”
“What is it?”
“Well, sir, in his haste he left without the programmer. The system is useless without it. I have it here. Oh, I don’t have it here.”
Outside in the mall, Julie said, “You stole it, Russell, I saw you.”
“Yep,” Russell patted at the pocket which had had so much use lately. “And I’m keeping it. We can stop all this right now. If Bobby Boy never gets the programmer, he can’t work the Cyberstar equipment. And if he can’t work that, they can’t make the movie.”
They walked back along the mall.
“I hope you’re right,” said Julie.
“And why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well, there’s something bothering me.”
“And that’s what?”
“Well, we both agree on what we just saw, don’t we?”
“We just saw Bobby Boy steal the equipment. We must have arrived here only moments after he did, when he made the journey from the allotments.”
“That’s what’s bothering me.”
“Go on.”
“Well, Bobby Boy came here in the Flügelrad, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“And we came here in the Flügelrad, didn’t we?”
“Yes again.”
“And you think that we landed in exactly the same place he did.”
“Yes again, again.”
“But I didn’t see another Flügelrad parked nearby, did you?”
“Ah,” said Russell. “No I didn’t.”
“So how would you account for that?”
The worried look returned once more to Russell’s face. “I don’t know,” he said. “I think we’d better get back to the park.”
They didn’t run, they didn’t want to draw attention to themselves. But they walked very fast and they were soon back at the little park behind the something-strasser.
They were just in time to see several black VW flying cars lift off and sweep away into the sky.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Julie asked.
“I’m afraid that I probably am.”
They searched the bushes and all about the place. They crossed and they recrossed their tracks. But all they found were three neat depressions in the soil. The marks of tripod legs.
The Flügelrad was nowhere to be seen and they were now trapped in the future.
18
Strictly Bar-Room
They sat on one of the benches in the pleasant park. It had a little brass plaque on the back. Donated to the Schauberger Memorial Park by the Nostradamus Ate My Hamster Appreciation Society.
“The way I see it,” Russell said, “we landed only moments after Bobby Boy landed and we landed in exactly the same place. And I mean exactly. To the inch. And there couldn’t be two Flügelrads, that were the same Flügelrad anyway, occupying the same space, so ours sort of merged with his. The two became one. It probably obeys some basic law of physics. Remember when we landed and everything went out of focus, then went back together again? That must have been it.”
“And so Bobby Boy leapt into his Flügelrad, which was also our Flügelrad, and escaped back into the past.”
“Yes, but I have the programmer.” Russell gave his pocket a pat. “Oh damn.”
“Oh damn, what?”
“I don’t have my dad’s gun any more. I must have left it in the Flügelrad.”
“You’re not really a ‘gun’ person, Russell.”
“No, I’m most definitely not.” Russell got up from the bench and stretched his arms. “I could really do with a drink. What say we take a look in at The Flying Swan?”
“Do you think that’s wise?”
“What’s the worst that can happen?”
They left the park and walked hand in hand along the something-strasser.
“Do you have any money?” Julie asked.
“Not a penny,” said Russell.
And they reached The Flying Swan.
“After you.” Russell said, pushing open the door.
“You are such a gentleman, thank you.” And inside they went.
Russell glanced all about the place. This was not the interior of The Bricklayer’s Arms. Nothing like. Here was a far more splendid affair. An alehouse with dignity. Etched-glass partitions, long polished mahogany counter with brass foot rail (and spittoon?). Mottled dartsboard over near the Gents. An elderly piano. Six Britannia pub tables. And that certain light. That pub light, all long shafts with drifting golden motes, catching the burnished silver tips of the eight tall enamel beer pulls to a nicety.
Russell breathed it all in. It felt right.
There were folk all about. Casting darts, discoursing at the bar, quaffing ale and smiling. They looked right. No stiffness of the limbs, no vacant eyes. Real they seemed, and right.
Behind the bar the barman stood, for such is where he does. Tall and angular, slightly scholar-stooped, pale of complexion with a slick-back Brylcreme job about the head. He wore a dicky bow and crisp white shirt and he looked nothing at all like David Niven. He looked noble, though.
“Good-afternoon, madam, sir,” the barman said as they approached him.
Russell looked up at the battered Guinness clock above the bar. It was afternoon. It was one o’clock. It was lunch-time. Russell’s stomach rumbled. He was hungry. He was penniless.
How best to approach this problem?
“First drinks are on the house,” said the barman. “Always are to new patrons. And do help yourself to sandwiches. There’s a plate on the counter there. Ham they are and very fresh.”
“Right,” said Russell. “Thank you very much. What will you have, Julie?”
“A Perrier water please.”