And Now For The Weather....

Incoming Tsunami Haruka ETA 23 hours. You must remember to use your underground bunkers for approximately 67 hours. Check your compression tanks and oxygen supplies. On re-arrival to your work-places check your ear pod services and your eye pod services for updates on subsiding water torrent reports.

Incoming Hail Storm Loki Class 9 ETA 20 hours. Duration ten minutes. Fasten your outer shells and wear armoured gloves at all times if you are outside of a contained environment.

Incoming Dry Electric Storm Baphomet Class 10 ETA 19 hours and twenty minutes. Followed by Heat Wave Medusa Class 66 so prepare that mix of factor 29 and factor 57. During the electric storm keep at least twenty meters away from communication antanae in external environments where possible. Avoid skin contact with any internal antannae and expect periodic communication shut-down for 15 to 18 minutes. If travelling stay in your vehicles.

Incoming Sand Storm Annubis ETA 15 hours. Duration 3 hours and 40 minutes. Stay inside. If travelling stop your vehicles. Do not leave your vehicles. Do not panic. Hover Craft will be sand blowing for 27 minutes following the storm. Do not leave your vehicals. Do not panic. There will be intermittent communications breakdown.

Incoming Monsoon Kali Class 13 ETA 9 hours and 45 minutes. Duration 5 hours and 15 minutes. Intense humidity expected. Keep your dehumidifyers on the omega setting. Increase oxygen supplies in contained environments by 15% whether stationary or travelling. Increase the outer-casing of all vehicles on a defcom setting of five.

Incoming Blizzard Eris Class 3 ETA 3 hours and 45 minutes. Duration 3 hours followed by Heat Wave Medusa Class 66 so prepare that mix of factor 29 and factor 57. During the blizzard make sure face masks and goggles are secure whilst outside. Breathing equipment must be on at all times. Keep your oxygen cards topped up. You must make regular payments to your Oxygen accounts. If you have concerns about your ability to pay you must consult your Oxygen Account Manager.

Incoming Twister Lilith Class 58 Super-Tube ETA 33 minutes. It’s gonna be a biggie. As your weather reporter I can’t deny I’m excited about this one. Areas affected will be allowed a three day recovery period. Relocation Offices will prioritize survivors of a direct hit with special cut-price offers. My only advice for those near the epicenter is "duck and cover".

Lilith will be passing through our city on a Beta three serpentine trajectory for approximately 13 minutes and this onslaught will be followed by moderate to light showers.

Have a nice day.

Please remember that these are all approximate times.

Leave all corpse retrieval to the corpse retrieval corporations that are licenced for your neighbourhoods. Unlicenced corpse retrieval is a serious offence with the severest penalties.

We have a city to run.

Claims can be made for any surviving artefacts at your local company brokers. Relatives and loved ones should have the relevant documentation where a will has been written. Check daily. After 28 days any goods will be available for purchase.

And now for more sporting news....

Jerry Cornelius switched his ear and eye pods to a Pirate Radio Station playing Switch music. ’John Dee’s Goat Priests of Bedlam’ were playing Sonic Attack by Hawkwind. He put his foot down and overtook an armoured police carrier on The Golden Gate Bridge.

Craig High 10/3/08

{while a storm with 60 to 80 miles an hour winds rages outside of our flat on the slope of a valley in West Wales}

THE L.U.V. BUG

Steve Baker and Craig High

25th January 2008

Miss Jeri Cornelius adjusted her wide-brimmed, black Panama hat and lit a spliff. Her gold hoop ear-rings shone with the reflected light from a flashing neon sign that was shorting out intermittently. The sign read SEX SEX SEX SEX.

She was in a red light zone. She'd had a very profitable day. Being paid to 'rub out' a physically abusive pimp by The League of Prostitutes had been the kind of job she could get her teeth into.... literally.

She walked out of the street of iniquity and the flashing lights of sexual commodification were quickly replaced by disused warehouses and industrial units.

There was now no sign of life as the full moon spread a glistening sheen over the tarmac stretching out in front of her. "Foxy Lady" by The Jimi Hendrix Experience played on her

I Pod.

Jeri smoothed down her purple crushed velvet jacket and tightened the bullet belt that was fastened around her purple crushed velvet flares. She strolled nonchalantly into a restricted area.

An automated voice shouted out a repeated warning as she broke a lazer beam with her snake-hipped gait...

'YOU ARE ENTERING A RESTRICTED AREA. PLEASE LEAVE IMMEDIATELY. WARNING WARNING! AUTOMATED SECURITY MECHANISMS ARE IN OPERATION! THE PROPRIETORS CANNOT TAKE ANY RESPONSIBILITY FOR THE SAFETY OF TRESSPASSERS! WARNING WARNING YOU ARE ENTERING A RESTRICTED AREA!'

Jeri continued without any attempt at secrecy or stealth. Her body language exuded a sense of predatory confidence. Gas jets started hissing either side of her. A psychotropic chemical was released into the night air. Jeri swooned and slid into a full-blown TRIP.

A sudden rush of hallucinations sent her spinning feverishly from one side of the street to the other. Jeri then lost consciousness as the sound of helicopter blades descended in the still night air above. The chopper landed on the roof of a massive warehouse overlooking the street. Miss Brunner climbed out. She was dressed in hunting pink, a black riding hat and white jodhpurs. She smacked a riding crop against the side of one of her boots as she made her way towards the stairs leading down to where Jeri lay prostrate.

Jeri came to. She looked down at her body as it hung crucified from a giant metal cross. She appeared to be connected to a machine. There were electrodes attached to various parts of her head and body.

'How do you like my interrogation chamber?' Miss Brunner stared up at Jeri.

'Seen better,' replied Jeri grinning.

'The sex change suits you lover.' Miss Brunner blew him a kiss. Jeri winced. Miss Brunner scowled, 'That expression on your face is gonna cost you you ungrateful beast!' Her rage pulled a grimace across her raddled features as she rushed to a console littered with dials, switches and levers.

She feverishly pushed, twisted and pulled a variety of protuberances sending Jeri's body into spasms of electric pain. Miss Brunner laughed maniacally as Jeri screamed and screamed and screamed.

The walls seemed to dissolve and spiralling luminous shapes fanned out around Jeri. She started tripping again and stopped screaming as wave after wave of abstract hallucinations distracted her from the intensity of Miss Brunner's torture. Tunnels of light coruscated in Jeri's mind as inorganic beings started flying around her. Their continually accelerating series of mutations in this dance of chaos detached Jeri's consciousness from her physical form.

She had a visionary experience...

Jeri found herself carrying a viral program developed by her old friend Professor Hira. The Latent Utopia Virus appeared as a phial of pink liquid in her hand. Jeri looked down at it and for the first time since she left her body she noticed her new one. It was the same shape and size as her old one but instead of skin, velvet and leather her flesh, clothing and foot-wear was constructed from a multicoloured array of 0's and 1's.

She looked around and seemed to be standing in the street again but instead of bricks and concrete the whole environment was made up of a similar interlacing binary code.

A voice in her head shouted 'SMASH IT!' It was the professor's voice.

Jeri smashed the phial on the ground.

All around the world every piece of digital communications technology suddenly broke down. On every monitor, every mobile phone display, every advert screen in every city and on every TV the following words replaced everything....

"JC LUVS U JC LUVS U JC LUVS U JC LUVS U JC LUVS U JC LUVS U JC LUVS U JC LUVS U JC LUVS U JC LUVS U JC LUVS U JC LUVS U JC LUVS U JC LUVS U."

From Department of Social Security print outs and weapons guidance displays to scrolling message boards outside evangelical churches, they all relayed this same message.

The state technocracy was over in a matter of seconds.

Jerry opened his eyes and was back on the cross. She stared at Miss Brunner with a look of smug satisfaction on her face.

'WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?' Miss Brunner screamed as she twisted around to face him. The computer monitors behind her all said the same thing.... "JC LUVS U."

'WHAT HAVE YOU FUCKING DONE!' Miss Brunner was still shouting, 'YOU LET ME CAPTURE YOU! YOU'VE USED ME!'

Jeri looked down at her and said, 'I've assassinated Big Brother.'

Before I Do Anything Else

23rd January 2008

Jean Bonnin

The ceiling had tightened its grip around my head once again as the chanting re-emerged. Bulb swing on a piece of string and a dank bed glued to my consciousness. Autumn caped the room.

MY-NAME-IS-JERRY-MY-NAME-IS-JERRY-MY-NAME-IS-JERRY...

The voice said. Never lose sight – I told myself; lose that and they win. I took something to dull the pain. I got up and dressed.

But, that was much earlier...

I guess before I do anything else I should tell you where I'm at at the moment...Funny really but I don't really do this sort of thing...

Anyways, yeah, it's hard to explain really –

I guess the best thing to do is just tell you about an average day...

Today for example.

I took the metro to the innerskirts of this...of this...PLACE.

I don't think I'm that happy at present, but y'know, it's hard to tell. The nuances have become so slight these days, and y'know, the memories are so distant now. Memories of anything other than THIS.

I don't think they know you know –

I really don't think they know you know.

I'm good at the game – in short bursts. I can sort of, you know, look like

someone who doesn't feel the way I do. But it needs concentration – I've gotta build up to it, I couldn't do it everyday. A few times a month maybe.

Anyway, what was I saying? Yeah; an average day of dasein. So, I take the metro to where the trees are replaced by lampposts and where the buildings hide a million different secrets; where loneliness and crowds of people are a juxtaposition that has lowered the bar and become the norm.

Unquestioned, as it is, because it is the overpowering zeitgeist that has crept and seeped into every pore and it is as though it has always been this way and in any case nobody remembers it as ever having been different.

And the buildings shadow a million secrets – and there is much contact and yet there is none at all.

So, I took the train to this place and I walked and I walked and the grey water-washed sky was only a slightly different shade from the bricks that surrounded me...

Yet, I'm no artist, no genie from a bottle; a bottle of turpentine washed away the colours that I was daubed in a long time ago.

I walked the streets, and crossed over pavements cracked and bleeding from the still damp skies. I trod out a path and chose my route carefully, arbitrarily and maybe unwieldy – unwieldy to the onlooker. But, there were none, NONE that counted, none that I counted; none that counted on me.

There never were. My path, as I say, was deliberate. Although it may well have looked like a solitary man walking a random route – it was I! I chose my steps carefully (I didn't count them, this time).

I went to the crossroads where the traffic lights shone out their instructions and turned left. Crossed over and took a side way, around the corner and through the arch.

I was succumbing to my compulsion to spell out my way...

As I walked I spelt a word, WORDS, a sentence. The curly parts of the letters were difficult in this gridline world. It mattered little I figured as I chose a cuboid typescript – ancient computers and quadrangles.

I walked and I walked and I sang to myself as I did – I'm sure no one noticed me. I ended in the park – the final 'curl' to the final letter. In my hours of waking I had spelt out the words GOD IS DEAD I AM GOD.

Gunfight In Cardigan High Street

22nd January 2008

Craig High

The four aliens fanned out from the corner of Cardigan High Street in West Wales. It was 3:30am and no passers-by were in view. The aliens all raised their weapons and pointed them at Jerry Cornelius.

Each had a pulse-rifle loaded with a different human experience that they had stolen from abducted bodies they had bought on the internet in 2008. It was now 1993. They had returned from the future after having applied their technology to the job of emotion extraction. Crystals housed in their weaponry stored the experiences that they sought to unleash on their victims. One had "The Deep Despair Gun", another had "The Uncontrollable Mirth Gun", a third had "The Extreme Sorrow Gun" and the fourth had "The Multiple Orgasm Gun". Each weapon also delivered volleys of condensed sound that could punch holes through six inch steel let alone a human skull .

The trick was to over-power the enemy, extract information while they were emotionally wrenched and then kill them all within a few seconds. Telepathy was the ace card in the speed at which the aliens could extract information. If these aliens all hit Jerry with their powerful emotion beams at once he was in real trouble! He'd lose his will to live whilst laughing and crying in hysterical ejaculation. They'd suck his mind clean of all of its memories & then blow him apart with sonic shells.

The aliens were supposed to have got the bodies for their experiments with emotion extraction from Jerry Cornelius. Not some unscrupulous human trafficker fifteen years in the future. Jerry had ear-marked heads of state, military leaders, the odd celebrity and one or two religious maniacs with too much power. The four aliens facing him had become greedy and impatient and had broken the agreement their corporation had made with Jerry and Harold Ritchie.

Ritchie lay dead in the road next to him. His face, an expression of shrieking, howling, miserable lust, pulled tight as he stared upwards, frozen in a rictus, screaming grin.

Their killing of Richie had upset Jerry... lots. He & Richie had enjoyed a thirteen year relationship involving sex, drugs, altruistic deeds, insurgency and the provision of political asylum for thousands of exiles involving whole family units, whole swarms, herds, packs and tribes of aliens who would otherwise have been exterminated by imperial despotism. They'd come from a hundred different star systems & from hundreds of different universes. Cornelius and Richie had even presented the famous "Harry and Jerry" daytime TV chat show which had influenced the hearts and minds of a whole generation of humans.

Jerry had contacted the home planet the four aliens facing him came from. These four were not welcome back there. They were considered extremely dangerous and to be disposed of as soon as possible. Jerry was being paid in alien gold to do it. Tons of it. He also needed to free up the space port Richie had had built in Surrey Quays. For months now these four had dominated it's usage, preventing the arrival of those seeking political asylum & accepting money from those planets responsible for genocidal military projects. Harold and his good self had already taken out their "firm". It had cost Harold all his men. Now the four that remained had taken out Harold so it was left to Jerry to settle the score.

Jerry faced them wearing two six-guns "Western" style. A full moon shone down on the spectacle. The aliens, wearing their helmets filled with green liquid, dressed in their orange space suits and silver chain-mail, raised their pulse cannons... their bolts charged and ready to sow emotional discord and death. Jerry Cornelius was dressed in a black wide-brimmed Gaucho's hat, a black silk shirt, a black waistcoat, silver metal arm-bands, silver cuff-links shaped like skulls, black denim drain-pipe trousers with silver studs down the sides and silver studded holsters on either thigh. He'd hung his black pin-striped jacket from the door handle of a video rental shop. He'd had no need for an overcoat. Nineteen Ninety Three had been a fairly hot summer. It was very mild for 3:30am.

Jerry's black, studded boots glinted in the moon-light. He wore a belt full of silver bullets. His long, black, dishevelled hair fell in shimmering curls over his shoulders. He puffed on his spliff.

His black gloved hands hovered over his six-guns.

The aliens all fired their beams at once fixing Jerry in a four-way blast of conflicting emotional excess.

Jerry let them.

He wanted a piece of that kind of action before he blew holes in their liquid helmets.

Before each one died in exploding glass and green liquid they picked up only one thought from Jerry as he laughed, cried, screamed, fired four times and ejaculated again and again and again and again.

As Jerry took them down one by one in a neurotic display of quivering mania the only thought they could read in his head was.... " very tasty".

Not a single one of his adversaries was fast enough to release a single sonic shell.

As Jerry replaced his steaming six guns in their holsters a black transit van screeched to a halt next to the alien corpses. Two men got out dressed in black suits and black pork pie hats. They were wearing black wrap-round shades. They quickly loaded the bodies into the back of the van and in a few seconds were accelerating up the high street at great speed.

Jerry mopped his brow with a lace handkerchief. He then wiped his cock with it and threw it in a nearby rubbish bin.

Jerry Cornelius and The Cult of Him Bak Ha.

By Mark Brayford 23/12/07.

Jerry Cornelius stepped out of the Grand Hotel In Crystal Palace and checked his watch. It was 11.23pm exactly. If Professor Courtney's theory was correct (and lets face it he was never wrong) the beacon they had placed on top of the Palace transmitter would have been emitting it's high quartile Gamma signal for the last 15 minutes. Within another five minutes they would know if the experiment was a success. Even now the high frequency sine wave was penetrating every corner and crevice of South London transmitting its irresistible call to the mutated acolytes of the cult of Him Bak Ha. Jerry was pleased. No more running, no more hiding, no more watching from the shadows as another mutilated body was tagged and bagged and put on a trolley ready for the morgue. The sound of a dustbin lid crashing to the ground reverberating around the alley to his right. A sewer cover groaned in agony as it was slowly pushed to one side to his left. From behind he heard an inhuman nervous high pitched giggle. He turned in one fluid motion the needle gun slipping into his grasp with well practised ease. 'Bring it on,' thought jerry. 'Bring it on.'

Waiting for the new age Jerry Cornelius stood at the top of Primrose Hill with his arms folded across his chest and watched impassively as the 'end of days' played across the city. It had finally happened, someone somewhere had triggered the 'Reality Bomb' and literally nothing would ever be the same again. It did not matter if it was the work of fundamentalists, a political splinter group, an occult terrorist cell or some crazy scientist who had undertaken one experiment too many into dark matter research. The result was the same. Reality, our reality was being radically rearranged and there was not a damn thing anyone anywhere could do about it. Neasden had been lost completely to a temporal whirlpool. No one had heard from the Borough of Hammersmith and Fulham since it had become a primeval subtropical forest. A few intermittent internet communications had got through from Sheperd's Bush, the footage was grainy but it appeared an evolved Lizard society had been juxtaposed onto our world there and they were taking control in the most brutal fashion imaginable. The great and the good, the high and the mighty were huddled together in the pews of Westminster Cathedral and watched in slack jawed horror as the stones turned to dust and the statues came to life. Meanwhile a Big Issue seller was eaten alive outside of Victoria tube station by hundreds of giant caterpillars while the police watched on helplessly. Faced with end of the world some prayed, some cried and some made plans but in the face of such an onslaught all options were rendered nigh on meaningless. The sky had turned blood red and another moon had appeared in orbit. Jerry sniffed the air 'still breathable' he thought to himself and smiled. Almost absent-mindedly he looked at his wristwatch one last time took it off and ground it to pieces under the heel of his boot. 'Time to take in the sights,' he said to himself as he casually started to make his way down the hill.

Jerry Cornelius –Three meetings with the Professor.

By Mark Brayford 1/1/08.

Meeting One – Convergent Evolution.

Jerry Cornelius walked up to the counter of the Sheriff's office in New Jerusalem Texas, removed his bespoke black leather gloves and deftly rang the bell on the counter. A bored looking policeman in mirror shades and a wide brimmed hat casually made his way from the back office pausing momentarily to spit out a considerable wad of chewing tobacco into a nearby bin and wipe his brown stained lips with the back of his hand. "Hello officer", said Jerry in a deep southern drawl, "I have come to represent a certain guest you have here, a Professor Nathaniel Courtney", and he produced a card which boldly stated in embossed red lettering "Jeremiah Cornbluth – Lawyer'. The man gave the card a cursory glance. "You mean the crazy Englishman" he said shaking his head. "You had better follow me boy." He was ushered into a sparse cell with what appeared to be mathematical equations scrawled all over the white washed main brick wall. In the far corner a man was on his hands and knees dressed in a dirty white long sleeved t-shirt a bright Hawaiian shirt and scruffy brown combat trousers writing furiously. "Hey boy" the cop said. "You got yourself a visitor." The figure carried on writing " Go away can't you see I am busy." "Like I said Crazy" the cop said to Jerry. " Good luck if you are going to represent him. A lot of people in this state don't care for his kind of blasphemy," and he sauntered out of the cell closing the door behind him. Jerry stood a while restlessly slapping his leather gloves into his open palm and coughed politely. "Er Professor" he began. The figure leapt to his feet and turned. "What is it that you want?" He said slowly through gritted teeth as though he was desperately trying to control his irritation and failing miserably. "I was contacted by a representative on the C.B.N.O who knew I was in the State on business and asked if I could secure your release." The Professor walked into the centre of the cell muttered something unintelligible to himself then said. "I bet it was that maniac Captain Sterling. He is always interfering in my business." The Professor,s face was lit up by the solitary bare light bulb. He was thin and very very pale and looked between 35 – 40 years old. He had thick bushy black eyebrows and a large nose with manic staring bloodshot eyes. He looked crazed in a weird kind of way like a villain out of an old black and white silent movie who had somehow been infused to the very core of his being by the dark side of psychedelia. All in all the effect was most disconcerting and now Jerry was really confused. " Why would the higher echelons of the C.B.N.O be interested in helping you?" "Because I precisely don't want them to!" The professor replied. "You know what a perverse bunch they are. They just do it to wind me up. I'm sure of it." "Well that may be the case but I have made arrangements for your extortionate bail and transport to get you safely out of the State. If I was you I would not pick the Bible belt to publish a paper on convergent evolution. They still shoot people for Sunday shopping out here you know." The professor replied dismissively, " I am finished with all that evolution stuff, that was just a hobby but I can't go home yet, it is totally and utterly inconvenient." "I'm sorry?" Jerry said unable to believe what he had just heard. "So you should be," the professor replied and leaned close up to Jerry. "You are the tax collector and I am Coleridge," he winked knowingly. Jerry sighed and made a mental note to have a serious word with Captain Jack next time they met. " I have been to quite a lot of trouble not to mention expense to ensure you are released and taken to a place of safety before these rednecks lynch you." "That's as may be," he said gesturing at the wall, "but I am on the cusp of solving a particularly difficult conundrum regarding quantum physics and I need a little more time. Twelve hours at the most." Jerry took another look at those bloodshot eyes. "I think you need to get some rest professor." The professor glared. " Do I look like I have time to sleep? I do not know if you have noticed but I am a little busy solving the mysteries of the bloody universe!" Jerry threw up his hands in despair. " Professor in twelve hours I have to be somewhere else!" "Then wire the money through later on and rearrange my lift. Do I have to think of everything!?" Jerry paused for a moment a little unsure of what to do next. Then he smiled to himself, ' ah what the hell,' he thought, 'I will do what he wants,' he nodded to the professor while he rapped on the door to be let out. Just as he was about to leave the cell the professor, now back to his equations, shouted, " Nice gloves. Hand made?." "Yes" Jerry said sarcastically. " Saville Row, one of a kind."

Meeting Two – 'Dark Matters'.

The second time Jerry Cornelius met the professor was six months later in the auspicious surroundings of the Royal Society when he was attending a prestigious lecture on the future of research into dark matter. The auditorium was packed with the great and the good in scientific research all waiting for the undisputed leader of this field; the eminent Dr. Elijah Waltenberg, to begin. The lights dimmed and a distinguished grey haired man of about 70 made his way to the lectern to a ripple of polite applause. Waltenberg started and the appreciative audience listened intently to his well-formed views. Everything was going fine until slide 26 when Dr Waltenberg displayed a complicated mathematical equation to explain his theory of collapsing stars when a loud voice shouted from the audience. "Wrong, wrong wrong!"

" I beg your pardon?" the doctor said to the darkness. " So you should be." the voice replied in a rather slurred voice. " You've got your maths wrong!"

A man lurched down the aisle holding an open bottle of brandy and made his way to the front of the stage. 'Courtney,' Jerry thought to himself. 'who else.'

The doctor and the audience stared in disbelief at the dishevelled figure who, after several attempts, managed to climb the step and came face to face with the doctor. "Perhaps you have lost your way Sir?" the doctor said sarcastically, "The homeless hostel is down the road."

The audience cheered with approval. The man turned and roared. " Shut up you morons! I might be blind drunk but I am still the smartest man in this room!" He grabbed the laser pen from the doctor's hand and began to rewrite the equation on the slide there and then. "Your big mistake was to conclude that the density signatures occur at random and that their affect is imperceptible. The critical spacing is in terms of the square root of the first eleven primes. After that is included everything else falls into place." The audience began to react. " My god I think he has point," said someone from Harvard and then others began to nod in agreement and discuss the new improved equation. However by this time the somewhat unprepared security had finally been mobilised and Professor Courtney was literally dragged off the stage and unceremoniously thrown out into the street. Needless to say the lecture ended in pandemonium. Jerry stepped out into the night and smiled to himself. ' Not quite the evening I had expected but never the less very entertaining,' he thought to himself. In the distance he could see a now familiar figure staggering down the road and against his better judgement he began to follow. After about five minutes a dark car screeched to a halt next to the professor and three men in suits jumped out. Jerry quickened his pace and by the time he had caught up one of the men had the professor's arm and was trying to escort him into the vehicle. "Give it to us," one of the men hissed at the professor, "or there is going to be trouble." "Is there a problem gentlemen?" Jerry asked. "Keep your nose of our business," one of the men said in an American accent. The professor rubbed his bleary eyes with his one free hand. " The tax collector, what are you doing here?" The second stepped menacingly towards the professor and Jerry grabbed his wrist and twisted. The man was forced to the ground in agony while Jerry simultaneously sent the man who was holding the professor flying with a well executed kick. " Very Steven Seagal. You should get a pony tail," the professor drunkenly observed as he swayed but managed to remain upright. A crowd had now begun to form and the last remaining man opened up his jacket to reveal a gun in a brown leather holster. Jerry Cornelius drew himself straight and looked the man with cold dead eyes. "If you pull that ugly, imprecise lump of metal. I will kill you." The man froze. "We just want back Mr Murdoch's account details," he said, raising his hand to show a identity card from News International security. " You stole Rupert Murdoch's credit card?" He asked the professor incredulously. " No. Of course not. I hacked into his accountant's off-shore financial transactions and then I cloned his special account." He produced a grubby plain piece of white plastic with a magnetic strip down the middle. In scruffy CD pen the name Michael Jackson had been crossed out and replaced with R. Murdoch. " This man has been bleeding that account dry!" the man exclaimed. " Yeah." The professor giggled. " The one the tax man does not know about." The man winced. " Mr Murdoch is willing to let the matter drop if the details on that card are returned. You aren't really a tax collector are you?" he added for good measure. "Of course he isn't. He is my English Assassin and if you don't hop it. I will set him on you." Jerry shook his head in disbelief and helped the two men to their feet snatched the card out of the professor's grasp and handed it over. As the car disappeared into the distance Jerry turned to the professor. " You are an idiot."

"I like you, tax collector, assassin, whoever the bloody hell you are. Fancy a quick drink, just one for the road?" he slurred. "No Professor. I don't. Let me get you a ride to take you home," and he hailed down the next available passing black cab.

Meeting Three – Needle-gun.

Jerry Cornelius was walking down the Portobello Road when his mobile phone rang. He casually took it out of his pocket, looked at the number and frowned. The number was unfamiliar and that, quite simply, was impossible. The phone/mini computer was top of the range, black-op issue and had cost a small fortune. Only five people in the world had access to the number and two of those were supposedly dead. Theoretically there should be no way anyone else could gain access. Jerry put the phone to his ear. "Hello," he said impassively. "Hello there Tax Collector, it's me," the voice on the line said cheerfully. "Professor Courtney, how did you get this number?" "Oh, that was easy. Never mind all that," he said in that irritatingly dismissive manner of his. "I've got something for you, meet me at The Wolseley, 11am tomorrow morning. I will even buy you a late breakfast." "How do you know I'm not busy?" "Oh I hacked your computer and put an appointment in your diary. See you tomorrow." He hung up.

Jerry was impressed by the professor's choice of meeting place. The Wolseley is a café-restaurant in the grand European tradition located in St James' on London's most famous of boulevards, Piccadilly. In 1921, Wolseley Motors Limited commissioned the architect, William Curtis Green, to design a prestigious car showroom in London's West End. He drew on Venetian and Florentine influences and made the interior very atmospheric with its grand pillars, arches and stairways. Today it is known as one the best places in London to have breakfast and is frequented by the rich and the famous. Once he had made himself known at the foyer he was escorted by the Maitre D' to a private booth. Inside, Professor Courtney sat with a shoebox in front of him with a red ribbon tied round it looking quite lucid and sober. "Jerry, Jerry," he said and offered out his hand, which Jerry took limply. "Who's paying for breakfast?" he asked, suspiciously. "Elton John," the Professor replied waving another piece of grubby white plastic. "In that case I'll have a full English and a bottle of Don Perrignon." Jerry said cheerfully "Good man," the Professor replied. "I'll have the same. In fact bring an extra bottle of champagne as well Henry. He did torture us all by the re-release of candle in wind after all." "Certainly Sir. I shall return shortly." The Maitre D closed the ornate booth door firmly behind him as he left. "Aren't you going to ask what is in the box? It is a present for you and if I do say myself it is brilliant," he said pushing the box over. Jerry carefully untied the red ribbon and carefully opened the box. Inside was what could only be described as an exquisite hand-gun of a design Jerry had never seen before. Slowly he lifted the gun up to the light and it glistened like a piece of highly polished black granite. "Marvellous isn't it?" The professor said. "It is made from a polymer plastic of my own invention. It is of course totally undetectable by any security system currently in operation in the world and I used black in honour of those lovely one of a kind gloves you had in Texas." The gun felt good in Jerry's hand. It was light and perfectly balanced but far too light to hold bullets. " What does it fire?" he enquired with a professional detachment. "I knew you would ask that. Needles. Powered by compressed air. It is all the things a normal gun isn't. It isn't ugly. It isn't imprecise and it isn't made of metal. It is just the thing a man like you needs." Jerry was genuinely touched by the gesture. " How can I ever thank you professor?" "Well there is one thing," and for a moment a manic glint flittered across his clear eyes. "What is that?" he replied now slightly concerned at making such a wide ranging statement. " You couldn't possibly kill Captain Sterling and the other 4 C.B.N.O leaders could you?" he said almost in an embarrassed tone as he passed a hand written list across the cold marble table. Jerry sighed and took the piece of paper and crumpled it into a ball and spoke to him as though he was a naughty schoolboy. "No professor I couldn't. You know that would not be the right thing to do don't you? You know as well as I do no member goes without in the C.B.N.O. Not even you." The professor reluctantly nodded. " Well it was worth a try I suppose. He said nonchalantly. "Keep the gun anyway. You never know you might find it useful." "Thanks I will. Just one more thing professor." " What's that?" " Why are you wearing a first world war flying helmet?" "I've just bought a gyrocopter. Well, not me, Mel Gibson technically put up the cash." And he grinned like a Cheshire cat. "Got any other purchases in mind, Professor?" "Actually, I'm thinking of getting Bill Gates to buy an island." "Don't you think even he will notice something that expensive?" "I shouldn't think so, it's off the coast of Scotland and it's dirt cheap." "Fair enough," Jerry replied, "if I was you I'd go for it." "Shall we get drunk?" the Professor asked. "Why the hell not," Jerry replied, "why the hell not."

Anything But Secret.

Another Jerry Cornelius story - mark brayford 15/12/07.

My name is Dave Stopham and I make a very good living, if I do say so myself, from writing in the tabloids about the exploits of Jerry Cornelius.

I never intended to become the media's unofficial expert and main commentator on his behaviour. It just sort of happened but of course the catalyst was the Membleson trial. In fact I was one of the few journalists in the public gallery that first day when Jerry went from a nobody to the top celebrity in Britain.

The upcoming Membleson case had caused a minor stir previously in the press and I had been sent by my editor because of the bizarre charges which had included the novel use of a needle gun on a very sensitive part of a junior minister's anatomy, the kidnap of a pedigree pig, the theft of two crates of the world's most expensive champagne and a love triangle with a world famous supermodel.

At the time I thought the best I would get out of it was a small article on page twelve and my major concern was thinking up a witty headline. However, that all changed within minutes of the trial starting. The prosecution's case against Jerry was centred around the events that took place on the 23rd July at the junior ministers country retreat.

The prosecution barrister was the infamous Gerald 'Killer' Castle who gravely set out his view of the events.

"And so it was on the evening of the 23rd July that you, while a weekend guest of my client, kidnapped his pedigree pig from it's pen and removed it to a location as yet undisclosed, maliciously wounded my client causing severe pain, psychological damage and humiliation and drank without permission two crates of a rare vintage champagne valued at £53,000."

Jerry Cornelius who had made the unusual decision to defend himself stood and melodramatically addressed the jury.

"Nora the pedigree pig had been specifically bred for her almost perfect bacon making flanks but she also had the most beautifully mournful eyes and I took one look at the poor creature and I knew I had to save her. It is true her location is still a secret but I can assure the jury she is happy and she is free."

Jerry then began to pace around the court almost absent-mindedly.

"As for the wounding charge that was all a misunderstanding and in my defence I would like the court to note that I also pierced my own penis straight after Peter fainted with the pain even though he was supposed to do it to me after I did it to him and I am quite happy to show the jury my Prince Albert as evidence if they wish to see it."

Jerry paused for a moment as though to gather his thoughts seemingly unaware of the jurors open mouths and the judge's mounting fury.

"The Champagne was consumed in a fit of passion with Kate while Peter was still unconscious and I would like to take this opportunity to announce to the world that the rumours are true. Kate has left Peter. We are now officially a couple and we are willing to sell the exclusive rights on our life together to the highest bidder."

The Judge could barely contain his anger, "Order! Order!" he shouted. "I will not tolerate such a flippant attitude to the law in my court. One more opportunistic outburst like that Mr Cornelius and I will hold you in contempt! Sit down immediately."

I remember looking around at the other people in the public gallery who were staring at each other in amazement. The trial had only been going for two minutes and I already had enough material to fill a front page. In fact from a media point of view it could not have gone better if it had been a planned marketing campaign and without thinking I instinctively began to do the maths. The animal rights activist's, vegetarians and the kids would love him for saving Nora the pig. The readers of the gossip magazines would all want to know how this unknown man had just snatched the most eligible woman in the world from under the nose of one of the most up and coming politicians in the country and everyone else would want to hear about the man who has a cheeky smile and a healthy disregard for authority.

Jerry stared at the Judge and a cold expression flashed across his face. "Very well your honour," he said flatly and sat down, now looking extremely bored. The trial continued and Jerry was called to the stand. If he was intimidated by the ferocious reputation of the prosecution barrister he did not show it and he sat in the witness box impassively and sighed as though trying to explain a difficult concept to a child while trying to answer yet another prosecution question.

"As I have said before," he said heavily emphasising the last word. "Circumstance has forced me to adopt this role. Therefore I am the victim of circumstance."

Gerald Castle rose to his feet and raised a distinguished white eyebrow to the jury and smiled like a killer whale homing in on a baby seal in distress.

"So, Mr Cornelius, if you are a victim in this matter before the court today which includes kidnap, theft, wounding and numerous public order offences who may I ask do you think is the criminal?"

Jerry Cornelius slowly turned to take one long whithering look at the Judge above him and then returned the prosecutors stare, "Why isn't it obvious?" he replied in a calm voice, "People like you & your client."

The packed public gallery burst into spontaneous laughter. The judge banged his gavel as the court was cleared. Jerry was literally beaming as he was dragged from the witness box by court security.

Later that year when the media group I worked for had finally accepted Jerry's stringent terms and outrageous fee for an exclusive interview I asked him why he had looked so happy when he had been escorted from the dock. Without any hint of shame he just said two words to me, "Mission accomplished," and he gave me that now famous grin. He was right of course. Jerry had become the most talked about celebrity in Britain and now the media would listen and dissect everything he said and did and the public would get to hear about it all. Lets face facts the media and the public cannot get enough of Jerry and are totally infatuated with him and I know the reason. Nothing about Jerry Cornelius is a secret - he wants you to know it all.

THE BIRTH OF THE HASHISHIN

Craig High 10/12/07.

Jerry turned to his sister Catherine…
"This is well psychedelic!"
Catherine turned to Jerry, grabbed his hand and led him towards the dance-floor. Banging Techno steered Ravers this way & that as a heady mixture of MDMA, LSD & Amphetamines caused swooning, hugging, animated conversation, wide-eyed staring & open-mouthed looks of euphoria. It was 1996.
Instead of dancing Jerry & Catherine stopped short of the main hall & sat in the corner of a corridor on a lime green fake-fur bench. They were on the ground floor of "Megatripolis" under Charing Cross Station in the middle of London. It was 3:30am. They stared at a mural painted in ultra-violet sensitive materials. As U.V. light played over it the images shone with a brilliant clarity. An astronaut in a silver space suit was striding across a lunar landscape. Colourful planets hung over an inky horizon. Amidst the blackness silver stars gleamed in a wash of bright pinpricks. Catherine and Jerry agreed that it looked as though you could walk right into this panorama of rocky splendour and so Jerry duly did just that.
It wasn't that he wilfully did it. It seemed like his mind automatically did it while his body stayed where it was next to Catherine.
Jerry wandered into a room in the painting.
Above his head as he passed through an ornate baroque doorway he noticed a sign carved in red, stone Gothic letters. The sign read "The Magic Theatre".
Before he could take stock of the area around him everything started spinning and he knew the LSD he'd had was taking hold again. The spinning stopped and everything around him became tangible.

It seemed he had resurfaced in the palatial offices of the Sultanate of Persia in 1073 A.D. This room was flickering with the urgent shadows of candlelight. Three phallic domed pillars stood in firm splendour in each corner of this triangular chamber. The ceiling was a colourful fresco of interlacing spirals. As they wove their way towards centre-point in a greater overall spiral they diminished in size. This gave the entire mandala the vaginal three dimensionality necessary to evoke the image of a corridor. It was as if the three pillars were massaging the perimeter of what Tibetans would describe as an intricate, painted yoni.
Directly beneath the centre of the yoni sat three men. Each had their back to each of the three pillars and sat on each side of a triangular table. Giant golden candlesticks stood five foot high on each of the three corners of the table. Since each candle measured at least two feet apiece each flame's tip was about seven foot from the table's surface. A lamp stood in the centre of the table and the Djin that it housed blew fire out of its spout to further illuminate the proceedings. It was a particularly powerful Ifrit that sat in miniaturized form listening intently to the conversation in the room.
The three men wore tall turbans and sported moderately long, pointed beards. One sat in front of a thick ledger. He leafed through its pages with his left hand as his right rested on a jewelled sceptre of office. His name was Nizam Al-Mulk. The second poured red wine into a golden cup from a tall green bottle. He offered it to the other two and they declined. He then tilted his head back and drank the wine in one swift succession of thirsty gulps. His name was Omar Khayyam. The third pressed resin, leaves, buds and oils into the bowl of a silver, jewelled hookah pipe. He then offered the mouthpiece to the other two and they declined. He lit the bowl with a taper he had held over the lamp's flame and sucked on the mouthpiece. As the poppy resin and hashish combusted their smoke was cooled in the bubbling eddies of the pipe's watery belly. Once chilled the smoke was then drawn into the lungs of its inhaling recipient. He waited for a few seconds and then blew a long plume of smoke into the glimmering air. As sections of this exhalation entered auras of candlelight they became detailed curling wisps in a blue brown ballet of gases. This third man's name was Hassan I Sabbah.

Hassan looked long and hard at Jerry who stood to the side of one of the gigantic pillars. It seemed to Jerry that he had become a part of Hassan's hallucinations. This explained why the other two acted as if he weren't there. After a minute or two of silence while Omar Kayyam stared lovingly at his bottle, Hassan looked at the other two and spoke.
"It is a universal belief that the pupils of the Imam Mowaffak will attain to fortune. Now, if we all do not attain thereto, without doubt one of us will, what then shall be our mutual pledge and bond?"
Omar and Nizam replied, "Be it what you please."
Hassan continued, "Well," he said, "let us make a vow, that to whosoever this fortune falls, he shall share it equally with the rest, and reserve no pre-eminence for himself."
Omar and Nizam looked at one another.
"What was your reply all those years ago when we made this pledge?" asked Hassan.
"Be it so." answered Omar grinning as he poured some more wine.
Nizam Al-Mulk stared at Hassan with a serious look on his face. Eventually he spoke.
"I have attained to fortune."
"Indeed you have," said Hassan "In fact you are not only extremely rich but you are now the most powerful man in the Sultanate."
Nizam replied, "This is true. Since the Sultan Alp Arslan died earlier this year his son Malik Shah has inherited the throne. It is also true that he has made me Grand Vizier and political leader of his empire. The Turks are generous."
Hassan sucked on the hookah and offered it to Nizam. He declined and offered it to Omar Khayyam. Omar inhaled deeply and his mouth split into a wide grin and a second later he issued forth.
"And David's Lips are lock't; but in divine High - piping Pehleri, with Wine. Wine. Wine. Red Wine. - the Nightingale cries to the Rose. That yellow Cheek of hers to incarnadine."
With this he offered the bottle and pipe to Hassan who then drank and smoked with a series of graceful manoeuvres. Omar then took the bottle back and offered it to Nizam who refused. He then poured himself another and this time sipped at it and looked mischievously over the brim. He was the only one with a drinking vessel.
Hassan spoke "The Turks are perhaps generous that they place a student of Naishapur at the head of a Persian Empire."
Omar Kayyam jumped to his feet as the fusion of wine, opium and hashish wrenched his mind away from speechless consideration.
"Awake, for Morning in the Bowl of Night Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to flight: And Lo. the Hunter of the East has caught The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light."
He sat down grinning. Hassan turned to him and was also grinning.
"Omar, it is true that there are none wiser than the Fool." Nizam's officious countenance softened slightly and at length he said "Just as I have always known you both."
"How so?" asked Hassan.
"Well look at Omar" as Nizam said this they both turned and regarded Omar Khayyam. Nizam continued "Omar, you are ever busied in winning knowledge of every kind, and especially in astronomy where you have attained to a very high pre-eminence. Your Epicurean audacity of thought and speech cause you to be regarded askance in your own time and country. You are often especially hated and dreaded by the Sufis, whose practice you ridicule, and whose faith amounts to little more than your own when stripped of the mysticism and formal compliment to Islamism which you will not hide under."
Omar inhaled some more of the proffered hookah and spoke.
"The ordinary people are quite as quick of doubt as of belief, quite as keen of the bodily senses as of the intellectual and delight in a cloudy element compounded of all, in which they can float luxuriously between Heaven and Earth, and this world and the next."
Omar then sipped at his wine. "On the wings of a poetical expression, that could be recited indifferently whether at the mosque or the tavern," he added.
Hassan cut in "You, Omar, are too honest of heart as well of head for this. You, Omar, have failed to find any providence but destiny, and any world but this. You set about making the most of it, preferring rather to soothe the soul through the senses into acquiescence with things as they are, than to perplex it with vain mortifications after what they might be."
A silence descended on the company.
They assessed one another. Omar looked long and hard at Hassan and at length he replied, "My worldly desires, however, are not exorbitant; and I take humorous pleasure in exaggerating them above that intellect in whose exercise I have found great pleasure, though not in a theological direction."
Omar stood up suddenly and started pacing around the table and tugging at his beard as he spoke again, "However this may be, my worldly pleasures are what they profess to be without any pretence at divine allegory: My wine is the veritable juice of the grape: my tavern is where it is to be had: my saki, the flesh and blood that pour it out for me: all which, and where the roses are in bloom, is all I profess to want of this world or to expect of Paradise. Ah, my beloved, fill the cup that clears TO-DAY of past regrets, and future fears - To-morrow? - Why, to-morrow I may be myself with yesterday's sev'n thousand years."
He sat down and looked up at the vaginal mandala spiralling into and out from the centre of the ceiling. Still looking up he spoke in a calmer tone "Here with a loaf of bread beneath the bough, A flask of wine, a book of verse - and thou, beside me singing in the wilderness - And wilderness is Paradise enow."
Hassan and Nizam stared at Omar while he continued to look upward. Then, in the blink of an eye, he blew a kiss in the direction of the mandala and returned his gaze towards the other two.
Nizam spoke "You, Omar, are also a mathematician who regulates his fantasy, and condenses his verse to a quality and quantity unknown in Persia, perhaps in Oriental poetry, help'd by its very virtue perhaps to render you less popular with your countrymen. If the Greeks were children in gossip, what does Persian literature imply but a second childishness of garrulity? And certainly if no ungeometric Greek was to enter Plato's school of philosophy, no so unchastised a Persian should enter on the race of Persian verse, with its "fatal facility" of running on long after thought is winded."
Hassan turned to Nizam and cut in…
"Omar is not only the single mathematician of this country's poets; he is also of that older time and stouter temper, before the native soul of Persia was quite broke by foreign conquest. He is like his great predecessor Firdusi, who was as little of a mystic; who scorned to use even a word of the very language in which the new faith came clothed; and who was suspected, not of Omar's irreligion, indeed, but of secretly clinging to the ancient fire religion of Zerdusht, of which so many of the kings and queens he sang were worshippers."
"I fear we digress" said Nizam.
"Not at all," continued Hassan, "is this not an analysis of Omar as our contemporary representative for all the poets of Persia?"
"Perhaps" interjected Omar as he rose from his chair again. He walked behind Nizam and whispered in his ear.
"They say the lion and the lizard keep the courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep; And Bahram, that great hunter - the wild ass stamps o'er his head, and he lies fast asleep." He then, with an elegant speed, walked around the table and stood behind Hassan and whispered in his ear. "I sometimes think that never blows so red the rose as where some buried Caesar bled; That every hyacinth the garden wears dropt in its lap from some once lovely head." He then went and sat down grinning. He poured more wine.
At length, and with a greater look of seriousness on his face, Nizam looked down to his ledger and then looked up & spoke.
"One of the greatest of the wise men of Khorassan was the Imam Mowaffack
of Naishapur, a man highly honoured and reverenced, - may God rejoice his soul; his illustrious years exceeded eighty-five, and it was the universal belief that every boy who read the Koran, or studied the traditions in his presence, would assuredly attain to honour and happiness. For this cause did my father send me from Tus to Naishapur with Abd-u-samad, the Doctor of Law, that I might employ myself in study and learning under the guidance of the illustrious imam. Towards me he ever turned an eye of favour and kindness, and as his pupil I felt for him extreme affection and devotion, so that I passed four years in his service. When I first came there, I found two other pupils of mine own age newly arrived, Hakim Omar Khayyam and the ill-fated Ben Sabbah. You two. Both of you were endowed with sharpness of wit and the highest natural powers; and we three formed a close friendship together. When the imam rose from his lectures, you used to join me, and we repeated to each other the lessons we had heard. You, Omar, are a native of Naishapur, while you,Hassan Ben Sabbah, are the son of one Ali, a man of austere life and practice but heretical in his creed and doctrine. One day you, Hassan, said to me and to Khayyam, "It is the universal belief that the pupils of the Imam Mowaffack will attain to fortune. Now, if we do not all attain thereto, without doubt one of us will; what then shall be our mutual pledge and bond?" We answered, "Be it what you please." "Well," you said, "let us make a vow, that to whosoever this fortune falls, he shall share it equally with the rest, and reserve no pre-eminence for himself."
Hassan jumped up and shouted, pointing his finger at Nizam "And reserve no
pre-eminence for himself. And reserve no pre-eminence for himself!"
"Sit down Hassan!" screamed Nizam as he too rose from his chair. They both
froze, staring at each other angrily. Omar sank into his chair and, grinning,
said.... "Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd of the two worlds so
learnedly, are thrust like foolish prophets forth; their words to scorn are
scatter'd, and their mouths are stopt with dust."
Hassan and Nizam both looked at him and then sat down. At length Nizam
spoke "Hear me out," he looked back down to his book and carried on, "As
Hassan suggested we share it equally with the rest, and reserve no pre
eminence for ourselves. "Be it so," we both replied; and on these terms we
mutually pledged our words. Years rolled on, and I went from Khorassan to
Transoxiana, and wandered to Ghazni and Cabul; and when I returned I was
invested with Office, and rose to be Administrator of Affairs during the
Sultanate of Sultan Alp Arslan The Lion. Years passed by and then one day
Hassan visited me and insisted on his share of my success. I was generous
and kept my word. Hassan demanded a place in the Government, which the
Sultan granted at my request."
Nizam closed his book and looked at Hassan. He then said "So, Hassan,
apart from whatever strange passions Omar may request as his third of my
success why have you returned to discuss it further?"
"You know only too well Nizam." Hassan spat these words out.
"Enlighten me Hassan," said Nizam seeming officious yet sarcastic in the
manner of politicians.
Hassan replied, "As you have already indicated Alp Arslan has died and his
son, Malik Shah, has come to inherit his father's throne. He has made you
Grand Vizier of his whole kingdom. The post you have given me is way
beneath your former one let alone your present one, and I am now, in effect,
little more than an errand boy."
"How can you be so churlish as to compare the importance of posts in as
intricate a system of government as ours." countered Nizam. Hassan rose
from his chair again and shouted towards the double doors separating this
chamber from the outside world "GUARDS!"
In rushed two men with broad scimitars in their hands. They looked at
Hassan with an air of anticipation.
"Who is your master here?" asked Hassan.
"Why the Grand Vizier Nizam Al Mulk my Lord." said one of the guards with
a look of extreme seriousness on his face.
Hassan continued "If I were to ask you to kill the Grand Vizier would you do
it?"
"No my Lord."
"If the Grand Vizier asked you to kill me would you?"
"Yes my Lord."
"Good. You may leave."
They both looked at Al Mulk and he gestured that they should do Hassan's
bidding. When they had closed the double doors behind them Hassan turned
to Al Mulk and said "Who is the richest and most powerful out of the three of
us?"
Omar jumped up on the table and bellowed.
"How sweet is mortal sovereignty - think some. Others - How blest the
Paradise to come. Ah, take the cash in hand and waive the rest. Oh, the brave
music of a distant drum."
"Get off the table Omar." shouted Nizam.
Omar turned to face him and carried on.
"Look to the rose that blows about us - Lo, 'Laughing', she says, 'into the
world I blow: At once the silken tassel of my purse tear, and its treasure on
the Garden throw.'."
"Sit down Omar." insisted Hassan.
Omar turned to face him and carried on.
"The worldly hope men set their hearts upon turns ashes - or it prospers; and
anon, like snow upon the desert's dusty face lighting a little hour or two – is
gone." He then jumped off of the table and sat down in his chair with a look
of extreme mania on his face.
Hassan turned to face Nizam and said, "You are a liar, a cheat and a traitor to
your word. Only time will tell what bitter ripples of retribution are spawned
by the stone you have cast into the waters of our friendship."
Nizam replied, "Thou ungrateful wretch Hassan. I have done all that I can. If
this is insufficient look to your own uncontrolled ambitions for an answer."
Hassan stood up when Nizam said this and pointed a long finger at the
Vizier. "Nizam you have assumed the full mantle of your office. You have
learnt the art of diversion so common to your post. Whatever the issue and
however serious it may be you will ever contrive to bounce your moral
responsibilities off of some other party. Your methods ever lean towards the
art of blaming others regardless of your own short-comings. You now have a
power that can never be seen to err in any way. Thus it has corrupted you so
that the true victim of your change will always be the truth. The truth is the
mortal enemy of politicians and you are now the principle among them in
this empire. As a consequence your words are always further from their true
meaning than those of those with less power than you. Power corrupts and
the most powerful are the most corrupt. That corruption is nowhere more
evident than when it performs a lie. The size of the lie becomes unimportant
for you as the act of lying itself becomes the very substance of your position."
Hassan sat down.
At length Nizam spoke. "Why then are you so keen to share this power with
me? Surely by your own admission you too would become corrupt and
insincere."
Hassan replied.... "Of course, but I would then seek to overthrow our very
own sovereignty and save both your morality and mine from this State's
rancid exploitation under the Turk."
"How would you do that?" asked Nizam.
"I would reveal the true nature of the relationship between Kings and show
the people how false and contrived are the wars they are made to fight on our
behalf."
Omar Khayyam then jumped up from his chair again and said....
"Heed my words you players of games and manipulators of the common
good. You cannot change the system from within but may only truly take
apart a hierarchy from outside of its constricting borders. An empire can be
reformed from within but any improvement made will still leave that State's
fundamental inequalities intact. Look at Rome. It was not until pagan tribes,
who existed outside of the laws of the empire, took down that empire's walls
that humanity saw an end to that empire's hierarchy. One last thing to bear
in mind. Change as we perceive it will not arrive in any fundamental way as a
result of the interplay between powerful men and women. Fundamental
change can only be achieved when the masses decree it. Without that decree
one leader will merely replace another and their varying states of morality
will still ultimately be victim to the deceit and corruption their posts
demand. True change will not arrive by their hand but can only arrive from
below. The ladder of inequality and hierarchical privilege can only be taken
down at the base. That responsibility therefore rests with the people and not
their rulers. It is only when this deed has been effected that the next stage of
enlightenment can be achieved. Each stage of enlightenment can only be
reached in the ruins of the empire that preceded it."
Nizam stood with a look of horror on his face. At length he said "Why change
a society as successful as ours?"
"Success is not to be found in your corruption Nizam." said Hassan.
"It is relative Hassan," cut in Omar.
"It may be but the truth of those who suffer in slavery is an indisputable fact
in this society." replied Hassan.
"True." agreed Omar.
"To hear you both talk one would believe that you were ungrateful in the
light of our teachings under the imam. Is not our wealth and power the
reward for the wisdom he imparted on us?"
"NO." answered Omar looking suddenly angry. He continued, "Our quest for
improvement is the reward of wisdom. Wealth and power are not the result
of wisdom. Wealth and power are not the result of improvement. Wealth and
power at this level are the enemies of wisdom."
"I agree." said Hassan.
"Then I can no longer discuss our pledge." Nizam said and he picked up his
book and his sceptre. As he turned to face the doors, Omar shouted out to
him…
"Nizam hear this and regard my morality. I am not ungrateful for the house
and modest funds you have already given me. They have enabled me to
continue my quest for truth and the liberation from ignorance. I would, on
the other hand, have done this regardless of your gifts but I am nonetheless
thankful for your consideration."
Nizam spun round… "So you should be for am I not your Vizier?"
"Outrageous impertinence." screamed Hassan.
"I gather," said Al Mulk, "that you do not share Omar's gratitude?"
"I certainly do not." replied Hassan.
"Then make your own way and plague me no longer with your thirst for
what's mine." As Nizam said this he spun around and carried on towards the
doors with his gown of office trailing behind him. Hassan threw a last volley
of verbal outrage at the Grand Vizier…
"Would that you had understood the nature of my desire. I fear your lack of
honour and fairness have made us enemies."
Nizam spun around with his hand tightly gripping one of the golden door
handles and his other hand firmly holding his sceptre while his ledger was firmly lodged under his arm. At length he said "I have had men slain for less threatening behaviour than that."
"Then you truly are lost." said Hassan as Nizam left the chamber and
slammed the door behind him.

Omar offered Hassan the wine and Hassan took a succession of long gulps
from the bottle. As he did this Omar looked in the direction of the doors and
said.... "And much as wine has play'd the infidel, and robb'd me of my robe of
honour - well, I often wonder what the vintners buy one half so precious as
the goods they sell."
Hassan handed him the bottle. Omar looked long and hard at Hassan and then said "Ah Love. Could thou and I with fate conspire to grasp this sorry scheme of things entire, Would not we shatter it to bits - and then re-mould it nearer to the heart's desire."
Hassan spoke, "I will effect a succession of fatal attacks on prestigious men of power starting with Nizam. I will popularise the concept of single attacks on political and religious leaders and therefore open up a new channel of fear in the minds of those in power. No longer will they only have each others treachery to look out for. I will legitimise the concept that anyone, no matter how humble their origins, can walk up to a man of power and, in reasonable anonymity, see that man dead. The idea of warfare as a mass conflict involving large numbers of mainly poor subjects under regal leadership will be countered by a threat to those leaders of quite a different kind. I will name my killers "Assassins".
"After your own name Hassan?"
"Indeed."
"Then you do have one thing in common with Nizam."
"What could I possibly have in common with that cur?"
"Your ego."

Hassan seemed to ignore this comment. He continued, "If an individual is prepared to give their life for a cause and if an attacker is almost certainly risking death in order to kill a political target then I consider it only fitting that they should enjoy a paradise on Earth as the day of their deed draws nearer. I will promise eternal paradise if my agents fulfil their tasks. I will provide them with a taste of that paradise as an incentive. I will build a secret garden for this task of intoxication. Amongst the things I will use to supply this "impression" of paradise will be an abundance of hashish. This will not be an attempt at some sort of bribe. I will pick devotees of political and religious doctrines in whose names they will be prepared to die. My targets will be within the boundaries of Ismailian aims, ambitions and political perspectives. There are plenty who have tired of this repression under the Turks. I will employ Fatimids. Fatima is the first true imam after all. She was the only offspring of Mohammed himself. Fatimids will rid us of the woman-hating scum that surround the Sultan & his court of revisionists! I will embark on an unbending and singular struggle against the existing Sultanate. I will employ men who would risk certain death in an attempt to eliminate persons in positions of political power. I will find a hidden valley for the site of my paradise. I will grow a luxurious garden stored with every delicious fruit and every fragrant shrub that can be procured. Palaces of various sizes and forms will be erected in different parts of the grounds, ornamented with works of gold, with paintings and with furniture of rich silks. By means of small conduits contained in these buildings, streams of wine, milk, honey and some of pure water will be seen to flow in every direction. The inhabitants of these places will be elegant and beautiful damsels, accomplished in the arts of singing, playing upon all sorts of musical instruments, dancing, and especially those of dalliance and amorous allurement. I will attract young men from the surrounding countryside, particularly those whom I mark out as possible material for the production of killers. Every day I will hold court, a reception at which I will speak of the delights of paradise and at certain times I will pick ten or a dozen men and & have them conveyed to the several palaces and apartments of the garden. Their senses will be struck by delightful objects & they will be surrounded by lovely damsels, singing, playing, and attracting their regards by the most fascinating caresses. They will be served with delicious viands and exquisite wines, until, intoxicated with excess and enjoyment, amidst actual rivers of milk and wine, they will believe they have had a taste of Paradise itself. They will feel an unwillingness to relinquish its delights. When four or five days have thus been passed they will be carried out of the garden on chairs of gold & silver. Upon being returned to my presence and questioned by me as to where they have been their answer will be "In Paradise, through the favour of your highness". Then, before the whole court who will listen to them with eager astonishment and curiosity, they will give a circumstantial account of the scenes to which they have been witness. They will say "We have the assurance of our Prophet that he who defends his Lord shall inherit Paradise and if you show yourselves to be devoted to the obedience of his orders that happy lot will await you". I will grow to great infamy with my use of hashish and houris experienced in the arts of seduction in order to heighten the pleasure afforded my rebels. I will use preaching & cunning as the way in which to capture a castle and single killers as a more effective way to destroy an enemy. My followers will become known as "The Hashishin" owing to their use of hashish."

Omar looked at him in shock. At length he spoke, "Could you not turn your attention to study & intellectual pursuits? Could you not apply your vivid imagination to the arts & to love itself?"
Hassan glowered at him.
"Only a suggestion," said Omar looking a bit deflated as Hassan began to look more & more crazed.

After a moment of silence they walked out of the room and Jerry Cornelius was left to consider its shadowy corners and the amazing fact that he had been able to understand every word they had said. He noticed the genie in the translucent gold & glass lamp. It's shadowy figure writhed & chuckled as it strove for a more comfortable position in its womb-like abode. "The translation must have been down to that creature," thought Jerry.
Behind one of the phallic pillars a long plume of smoke suddenly curled away
towards the ornate ceiling. Following the rotating direction of this stream of
psychoactive gases came the slow appearance of a Reefer. As the Reefer
twisted into view the hand holding it appeared. Following the hand came an
arm and then out of the shadows the full presence of a smiling man appeared.
He stood in fawn military trousers, fawn military shirt and was wearing knee
length, brown military boots. His clothing seemed to be that of a European
from the early part of the twentieth century. He wore a paisley cravat and
Jerry noticed that his spliff was in a cigarette holder. He looked at Jerry
and his acknowledgement of Jerry's presence seemed to suggest that he too
had witnessed the proceedings & had had the benefit of the Djin's translation.
It seemed that they were both sharing the same time-trip. The man had
receding hair and seemed to be in his early forties. His smile was both
enigmatic and comforting. Jerry then realised who it was. In an instant he
was gone.

Jerry blinked and there was a flash.

When he opened his eyes he had switched dimensions again.
The man reappeared wearing a brown peaked military hat and twirling a
silver-tipped baton that sent lightening bolts this way and that. He was
standing on a stage in front of hundreds of people. The man in the fawn military dress with the hat and baton was the singer & poet Robert Calvert. Jerry had once taken acid at a gig featuring Robert Calvert and one of his bands.... "The Starfighters". It had been at "The Town and Country Club" in Kentish Town in North West London. That had been in 1988. Jerry assumed that this was the year he was now in.

As the band cranked up the volume Calvert paraded around the enormous
stage. Jerry was surrounded by what looked like gnomes and pixies. More
bolts of lightning seemed to fly from the end of Bob's baton as he began to
sing. As Jerry faced him now, he realised he'd been transported forward in time to that gig. He looked down at the pint of lager he held in his hand. A swirling vortex spun into view as the liquid started spinning in its plastic vessel. It sucked Jerry into it & he fell into his drink both shrinking in size & twirling around at an ever increasing speed. The vortex receded into distance as he flew backwards through a syrupy liquid tumult. The liquid then receded and shrank in size and he realised it was the surface of another pint that he was staring down into as he held it in his hand!
He was back, sitting next to Catherine in "Megatripolis", in 1994.
"Have you been here all this time?" he asked Catherine.
"What, all of the five or six seconds since you last spoke to me?" she replied.
"Jeeeesus!" said Jerry.
"This acid's rather strong." said Catherine.

No compass for up and down...

Jay Charles Novello 19/12/07.

It was very hard pacing around in constantly smouldering wreckage. People scurrying like rats, some times followed, or seized and whisked away by unseen things, or horrid versions of humanity policing the area for ...whatever government had formed, or just toppled. The madness never seemed to end, or come to a settling point. Just a global, rapid fire, daily race for survival. Franz just kept reselling the world, and all its resources to those unknown things. Celestial obscenities, or grotesque haters of humanity...aliens waiting in the clouds for these times. For those who could travel in and out it was just a bad dream, but for those who had to live here...it was a travesty of ungodly proportions. Suicide was clearly better than dwelling in this manner...with no corner left to hide on the planet. Exhaustion and terror were all a day was worth now. Why remain?

Where was he? "Franz, you couldn't be hiding far...after all, you had to display your merchandise to the "buyers", eh?"

Franz was in a celestial trance, spinning in infinity...obtaining a sick universal orgasm of god-like sadistic pleasure. "I feel it!"

"He couldn't be hard to locate...I'm sure he's giving off his signature code in waves of galactic bursts."

"Tracking down old friends and developing the gadgetry needed to meet him are far from likely." "I'll have to muster what I can of my borrored psychic manna, here in my head...reach what friends are left...in me."

Franz had only just started in other worlds...there was time there. "He was still mostly bound to human law and can only be one place at a time," Jerry thought to himself.

Again...the trusty lotus position...he began a grim chant, an uneasy envisioning, and a nauseating thought process. Jerry reached his required "state" and began to chant uneasily... "Haughty harlot, slut of the clouds, tempter of angel and devils, if you still lust me, I will trade my seed on this night," He felt that familiar dizzying feeling almost immediately...he continued... "if you see my need, and know i am your slave, will you provide for me, in exchange for my seed?" "I am willing, I am weak, I am humble...and I offer you, me." "Your most delicious conquest, folds at the ready...put me in your painted maw, and have me whole...to dwell within you, take all the manna from my glowing skull, in exchange for a bite of God for us both."

A huge eruption dropped the structure on which he was sitting and disrupted his foul prayer. He fell 5 stories into rubble. Smashed and bruised...bloodied face, and hands. "Another fucking lazbomb," he concluded. This is why he stood on roof tops, to see who was coming, but sometimes these mad fuckers just keep the peace by destroying anywhere a human could hide. He tried to move from the rubble and realized his knee and wrist were probably shattered. Along with a rib, he assumed. His litany of curses were interrupted. He saw boots and combat pants next to his ash covered face. A mysterious hand helped him up.

As he rose his eyes scanned the soldier, only to realize...this was a woman. As the overly strong female pulled him to his feet she grabbed his throat and pinned him to a torn wall. He gasped and realized...this was she goddess of whores.. "Abraxas!"

Her eyes turned gold and her flesh suddenly ran blue. Her "uniform" dropped from her sculpted form. Yellow claws squeezed into his neck and she pressed her face against his. She whispers...both booming, and soothing, like a quire of drums and swallows. "Taste...of you...I will..." She hums. Jerry, near fainting at the overwhelming sexual odour coming from her mouth.

In seconds...he was pulled aloft. While in air he was healed, and bitten, scratched and kissed, shown the faces of disease, and joy, ultimate love, and horror, change in her face. As he remained motionless...he realized she was going to toy with her once unobtainable prey. "Delicious, delicious," she said as she lapped at his slash marks. "The thought of your unending flush of joy and agony has stirred a wicked, wicked side of me. You know I desire you wholly, but also, I cannot consume as you as my lust would want, because it would give me only over to one side, and that is not my nature. I too must constantly struggle. But I have you my lusty toy, and toy with you I will."

Immediately Jerry felt himself swirling far upwards, like eagles locked in violent fornication. He was overwhelmed in passion, and agony both. He had no control. He was very much a passenger on this flight...one whose loins and body were required instrumentation.

From far away the denizens of this place could see yet another satellite launched into space, albeit this one had a strange lusty glow.

'Invasion: 1980' Part Two: 'Blitzkrieg Bop'

A second Jerry Cornelius/Gerry Anderson/Barrie Keefe adventure

by Daniel Love Peacock 12/12/07.

"What I claim is to live to the full the contradiction of my time, which may well make sarcasm the condition of truth."

Roland Barthes (1915-1980)

"There's nothing to winning, really. That is, if you happen to be blessed with a keen eye, an agile mind, and no scruples whatsoever."

Alfred Hitchcock (1899-1980)

'Genocide? How you planning to do that? Kill everyone in the world by shagging them to death?'

Jerry Cornelius adjusted the Gentilly lace cuffs on his velvet sleeves, straightened his eighteenth century cravat, swiped from the throat of Beau Brummell himself, and inserted the monocle he had taken from his fat friend.

'It has been known,' he said. 'Shall we go Harold?'

He and Shand strode out of the boozer, delayed only by Harold's having to glad-hand a number of old lags who owed him favours before he could shoulder the door open into the fuggy night.

'I left Razors ready with the motor,' Shand said, 'but I told him to park out of sight, round the corner.'

'Worried about being followed?' Cornelius lit an opium-dipped cheroot. 'You're on the winning team now, Harold. Flaunt it.'

'I'm always on the winner's side, me,' Shand said, marching across the road to the brown Jaguar parked under a dead streetlight. 'And don't you forget it. No reason to take chances, all the same. People who do tend to end up dead. Usually because I've done 'em in first.'

Razors looked up, folded his paper and started the engine.

'I've got to watch it 'cos of this new streak of piss Maggie's put in charge of the Met, this Commander Straker,' Shand said, his face creased. 'Flaming hot-dog muncher! Yank. Come out of nowhere he has. New broom, know what I mean? Making my life a misery. He's hand in glove with them Mafia bastards. No, hand in bloody arse more like.'

The doors on the passenger side sprang open.

'You're in the front seat,' Shand said. 'Where I can keep an eye on you. I don't feel too secure having you behind me. Not yet, anyway.'

Razors slid the engine into gear.

'Where to, boss?'

'Matey here's giving the directions,' Shand said. 'You tell him, Jerry.'

'Ladbroke Grove,' Cornelius said. 'I thought I'd arrange the meet on my turf.'

Razors said nothing. The car glided into the night, passing still streets, rusted, box-like cars, stray punks and skinheads, anarchos and lost city workers, zombied by late-night drinking.

The house on Ladbroke Grove was dark. Wooden slats covered the windows. Jerry ripped them down and kicked open the doors.

''Ere, 'ere!' Shand was agitated. 'Golden rule of breaking and entering is you don't go making a bloody noise so the world and his missus know what you're up to.'

'Relax Harold. This is my own place.'

'Why's it all shut up then?'

'Time travel, Harold. I move into the future at speed but the house has to take the long way. Besides, you said it yourself. No reason to take chances. There are plenty of people I don't want to know I'm around here. The government especially.'

'What trouble you got with them?'

'Don't get me started.' The door broke open in a cascade of dust and cobwebs. 'Mind the threads.'

'Bloody hell!'

Shand stooped and entered, ducking a final wooden barricade near the lintel.

'Stay here and keep an eye on things, Razors,' he said to his enforcer. 'Any sign of trouble, you get the old claret flowing.'

'You going to be all right in there, boss?'

'No,' Shand said. 'I don't imagine I am, but I'm not going to risk having anything happen to you too. If it all goes tits up, I'm going to need someone to haul me out of there.'

'I'll keep 'em peeled, boss.'

''Ere. None of that!'

Shand entered the Cornelius house. He picked his way along a corridor that was well carpeted but covered in masonry dust. He saw images of the Cornelius family, including photographs of both father and son receiving their Nobel prizes. Various portraits of his host by the artist Mal Dean lined the webby walls. Shand entered a large drawing room and saw Cornelius busy fussing with powerpoints and cables, busying himself switching on a stack of electrical equipment.

'What's this all in aid of?'

'I want to have all three TV channels on at once,' Cornelius said. 'Plus these eight-tracks playing The Ramones and the MC5 at top volume, and a cassette tape I've had specially sent over from the USA, with a recording of Dr. Demento's radio show, especially to feature Bobby "Boris" Pickett's 'Monster Mash', also two turntables and a microphone feeding back Fifty Foot Hose and Black Widow.'

'How the fucking hell are we going to hear ourselves think with all that bloody racket going on?' Shand asked, his voice shouting louder as Hammer House of Horror did battle with the Not The Nine O'Clock News and 'I Wanna Be Sedated'.

'We're not,' Jerry said. 'That's the whole point, Harold. The aliens do not speak.'

'How we going to talk to them then?'

'They communicate by mental telepathy.'

'What? Like Uri fuckin' Geller?'

'They don't just bend forks, my boy,' Jerry smiled. 'They bend everything. Your brain, for one. They can drill through the skull, stick their minds up you and operate you like a glove puppet. I don't have the technology here to construct a mental shielding screen, so I'll have to overload our senses such that they cannot take over our bodies when they discuss terms. There'll be too much input flooding the left hemisphere for them to latch onto the cortex. Oh...' He reached into his pocket. 'And we'll need these too.'

A couple of LSD pills the size of milk-bottle tops nestled in his palm.

'Oh no.' Shand stepped back. 'You're not getting me to take any of your fucking hippie junk, mate.'

'It's either that or have them loot your consciousness for their own purposes. You'll have to trust me, my dear child Harold. I've saved you twice now. This is going to be the third time.'

'I don't take drugs,' Shand said. 'Had them offered me enough times. Don't want to know. It's a mugs' game. Dope. Specially round here, know what I mean?'

'Ordinarily, I might agree to see your point Harold, but this is no conventional situation. Think of it this way. You like going on Concorde, right? Do you take a travel pill before you fly?'

'I might.'

'We'll be going a lot further and a lot faster than Concorde tonight, so you'll need the appropriate anti-vomit preparation, won't you?'

'We going up in one of their flying saucers, then?'

'Not if I can help it, but I don't rule it out. I imagine that will be unnecessary, however. These creatures understand that transporting the physical entity is sometimes a lot less important than teleporting the spiritual essence. I don't want them abducting your mind and leaving me with your body just an empty shell. Now, Harold, take your medicine like a good boy. You saw the pictures in the hallways, didn't you? I am a doctor, don't forget.'

Shand's brow creased again, flexed, then relaxed. Cornelius eyed him. This was a big step. The little man was at a crossroads. Afraid to open his mind least he lose control of what monstrosities should bubble up from the murky depths, he was understandably nervous of mind-altering substances. But like all men whose dominance depended on the strength of their muscles and health of their bodies, he was in awe of his physician. Jerry, the good apothecary, took care of his charge.

A quick flick of wrist to mouth and the pills went down. Jerry followed suit.

'That wasn't so bad, was it?'

'What now?'

Jerry checked his chronometer.

'He should be here at any moment. Well, of course, I say 'he' but sex is a more complex issue among the aliens. They are not male or female in the same sense that we are.'

'Speak for yourself, mate. I'm male, I am.'

'I mean that they don't have two sexes quite as human beings.'

'You what?'

'The general will appear to be a man, but he may not be.'

'What? He's like... Danny La Rue? Or the other way around? Get out of it! You're kidding me!'

'Wait and see, Harold. When he enters your mind, I think you'll get the picture.'

'Jesus.'

A blaze of green light illuminated the kitchen. The back door opened. A dark figure crept into the house. Shand grabbed his pistol.

'Put that away,' Cornelius said. 'Don't panic him. He's packing much worse heat himself. We don't want him to use it.'

'I wasn't coming in here without no backup.'

'Admirable, Harold, but tuck it back in your trousers, there's a good lad.'

'How d'you know it's not a burglar?'

'Because this moment is as it is, Harold.'

The general appeared in the room. The alien was wearing human clothes, a tattered demob suit, too short for his long legs, which showed ill-fitting shoes with no socks. The oxygenated fluid the aliens breathed on their inter-stellar flights tended to stain the skin a faint greenish tinge, also accentuating the cheekbones, and the hollows under the eyes.

'He looks like a fucking junkie,' Shand whispered.

The general had a companion, a black cat that kept close to heel. Cornelius regarded it with a curious eye. It was aware of him too, looking in his direction with a green stare. A familiar. He had heard of this. The aliens could possess other creatures or use them as conduits for their telepathic signals. They did not think of human beings are much more than animals themselves, so cats and dogs were as valid a partner as any man.

The general stood. For a moment he turned to examine the array of audio-visual equipment cramming the room, swivelling his head to hear the sounds and catch the capers of Mel Smith and Rowan Atkinson. A mental sweep of the two humans and he understood. The cat was disturbed by the noise. It hissed, then crouched as though about to strike. From the general, a long blink, the alien equivalent of a nod.

Jerry gestured to a third seat he had prepared. The general made no movement towards it, remaining standing. He placed a small cylindrical device on the floor. It opened up, unpacking itself to become first twice its original size, then four times bigger, then eight. Shand shifted in his seat as the object grew larger than reason told him was possible. Then it was still. A pulsing red light emanated from its heart.

'Game on,' Jerry smiled.

A deafening blast of telepathic volume howled into their heads, drowning out all the best efforts the Ramones and electrical amplification could achieve.

'Greetings extraterrestrials. I am John.'

The message arrived in their minds ready formed, pre-packaged and already understood.

'Is that your Earthly name?' Cornelius asked, speaking rather than thinking.

'We are all John. John is all.'

'Okay. We're here to do some business. How's that sound to you, John?'

The two humans squirmed as the brain-wave energy shook their skulls.

'You want this substance, Number 79?'

He produced a bar of solid gold from his inside pocket.

'We understand that Number 79 is prized by your race. Atomic weight, one hundred and ninety-six point nine six six six...'

'Yeah,' Shand spoke up. 'Yeah, we like this seventy-nine. I quite like sixty-nine and all, but that seventy-nine, yeah. I wouldn't mind some of that.'

'We have this material in quantities you require.'

'What do you receive in return?' Cornelius asked.

'The usual.'

A panoply of visual images burst upon their minds' eyes. Disassembled bodies on a conveyor belt, industrial processes for the rendering not only of the physical human form but also of memory, comprehension, consciousness and experience, broken down into constituent parts, refined, distilled. It was an alchemical plant for the perfection of the human soul, for its mass market to the universe. A new Earth with alien and mankind in harmony, with the masses milked for the goodness they could give to their new masters, the old Establishment unsettled, a new class of interplanetary entrepreneurs, the English Assassin and the East End boy on the board of directors.

Shand smiled, grinning at the pleasing vision that swam before his virtual sight. Cornelius dug deeper. In the tide of unconscious display, he saw the general's journey to the solar system: the stolen space vehicle, the threat of rendition, the desperate need to pull off a deal, to save the project, the vastness of space, the deserted Lunar base no longer a threat, his surprise at the ease of arrival through the atmosphere, no rockets no guns, the slip down to the surface, going underground...

The cat hissed and spat. The general shot Cornelius a cautious look, receiving a cynical smile in return.

'You are thinking about a brick wall, general,' he said. 'That's something we have in common.'

Shand had picked up on other thoughts.

'The Docklands! You want a space port? You've got it! I can build you a flying saucer-drome down there. You'll be well set up. City prices, of course, but you can nip in and out like Ronnie Biggs. No bother.'

'You've got a deal. You'll find it's a very tasty world, John. I've had a bite or two myself.'

'Can I have a saucer then?' Shand was hysterical with laughter. 'I'm learning to fly!'

'There will be room to negotiate such exchanges,' the telepathic voice boomed. 'In our turn we are very interested in your time displacement technology, Dr. Cornelius.'

'I bet you are, dears,' Jerry said. 'There's another alien species, rivals of yours I believe, helping the United States with a dimensional overthruster right now. Oh, yes. I know you're worked up about that too. You greedy little ticks. You'll get it all in due course. But you'll get it through us. And you'll pay plenty of Number 79 first.'

'It shall be forthcoming. And now, we shall seal our agreement?'

'In the time-honoured way?'

'Is there any other?' The voice seemed to be coming from the cat this time.

'Not the way I do business,' Cornelius said, undoing his tie. 'Just wasn't sure how you fellows went about things.'

'We are poly, as you are,' the cat said, 'but there is only one physical body type among our kind, unlike your clumsy, two-stage procedure.'

'It suits us most of the time,' Cornelius said. 'It can be somewhat invigorating if you do it right. Oh...' He turned to the cat. 'You may need to up the volume on that gizmo for my dear friend Harold. He's an excellent businessman in his heart, a fine one for doing the business, the how's your father, but he does need his mind opening a little more for him to see that in himself.'

The device on the floor pulsed faster. Shand was roaring with laughter now.

'Off with these, Harold,' Jerry said, undoing Shand's belt and loosening his trousers. 'There's nothing to worry about,' he went on, untucking Shand's shirt. 'Sharing souls is a lot more intimate than sex anyway. That's what we're after here. It's just about how you achieve the union.'

The alien general's hypnogogic device reached its fronds into Shand's mind. It found itself blocked from sucking out his soul into its bio-mechanical intestines by the LSD and musical stimulation Cornelius had used to fill his ventricles. Instead, it forced wide his neural pathways, liberating repressed desires as naturally as a baby releases its mother's milk. Led by his pie-eyed piper, Shand hit the floor and crawled to his daddy.

A twisting, twining of the physical ensued. The sens data flowing from their stiff cocks, probing pseudopodia, stretched anuses and glands massaged to the extremes of pleasure flooded their amygdalas, kicking cage-doors asunder, revealing third eyes. GABA GABA hey!

Jerry was pleased at how well Harold was taking to this. He was born to it, after all, but never dared admit that to himself, let alone others. He, Cornelius, had known from the off, though, Especially in their embrace at the bomb blast. Dead giveaway, that.

Juddering ecstasy followed spurting orgasm. Human, alien and animal mingled bodies, minds, souls and a fourth even more perfect essence of which, until this meeting, human beings had lain in ignorance. Cornelius rejoiced in the celebration of the over-soul, and the cosmic consciousness that this meeting of minds and worlds had brought about. He was both God and with God. This was the start of a beautiful friendship with the divine. The wall of sound thumping from the music decks prevented his being consumed in this encounter, but he would come away part-alien, just as the general would here be initiated into humanity. This act would begin the unweaving of Creation. We will have world enough, he/they thought. And time.