The Chickens of Atlantis and Other Foul and Filthy Fiends by Robert Rankin FVSS Page A

the dials and year-counters.
    ‘We have reached the Royal London Spaceport,’ I said. ‘It is seven o'clock in the evening on the twenty-seventh of July in the year nineteen forty, and according to the barometer we can expect rain later, so we had best take our umbrellas.’
    Now came the question of what would be the appropriate apparel to don for the year nineteen forty. All Mr Bell had to offer on this subject was that we ought to wear ‘something smart’.
    So we repaired to our respective wardrobes and presently emerged in something smart.
    Mr Bell wore a full dress suit, with evening cape and top hat.
    I wore the rather spiffing Germanic military dress uniform that Queen Victoria's cousin Baron Claus von Zeppelin had given to me. Mr Bell had successfully solved a case for this great man. One that involved, if I recall correctly, a music hall dancer, a biscuit tin and a wiener dog named Fritzy. I remain somewhat hazy regarding the significance of the biscuit tin. But it was a really spiffing uniform, bedecked with a great deal of braid, smart golden epaulettes and German eagle motifs.
    With the jodhpurs and jackboots I looked very smart indeed!
    ‘Dashing,’ said Mr Cameron Bell as he looked me up and down.
    ‘You yourself look smart enough,’ I said. ‘Are we going somewhere special, then, tonight?’
    ‘I thought we would visit the Electric Alhambra,’ said Mr Bell. ‘That will bring back a few memories, eh?’
    ‘Not altogether good ones,’ I said. ‘Colonel Katterfelto and I performed there, as you know. He had a knack fordodging the fruit and veg that was thrown by the crowd. I, however, did not. And also that was where the colonel died.’
    ‘I will treat you to a box seat tonight,’ said Mr Bell, ‘after supper at my club.’
    And on that merry note we left the Marie Lloyd  . . .
     . . . To step out onto the cobbled stone of the Royal London Spaceport . . .
    ‘Where has the London Spaceport gone?’ I asked Mr Bell. Because the Marie Lloyd was parked upon grass that spread away to the distance.
    Mr Bell made sad sounds in his throat and pointed up towards Sydenham Hill.
    ‘Where has the Crystal Palace gone?’ he asked.
    We had certainly landed in the right location – there were landmarks which attested to this. But the spaceport, its runways and buildings were gone, and so too the Crystal Palace.
    ‘I bet it burned down once again,’ I said to Mr Bell. ‘But on the bright side, at least this time it wasn't your fault.’
    Mr Bell angled his topper and said, ‘Let us search for some transport.’
    We marched away and found the road and with it a building that both of us recognised. A hotel in which I had lodged and Mr Bell had visited. A hotel known as the Adequate.
    But it was known as the Adequate no more, for it had been renamed the British Bulldog. A swinging sign imaginatively depicted the coloured representation of a bulldog wearing a Union Jack waistcoat and some kind of iron helmet, and smoking a cigar.
    ‘If we have now found ourselves in a time where bulldogs rule the world,’ I said to Mr Bell, ‘I would like to take my leave at once.’
    Mr Bell put his finger to his lips and said, ‘Now, listen to that.’
    Somewhere from far in the distance, a curious metallic wailing sound reached our ears, followed by a number of dull but definite thumps.
    All at once, a gentleman appeared from the doorway of the British Bulldog. He wore upon his head a helmet not dissimilar to the one the dog on the sign was wearing, but his had the letters ‘ARP’ painted upon it.
    ‘Gawd strike me down!’ he exclaimed as he viewed myself and Mr Bell. ‘Surely it's Count Dracula and Kaiser Bill ’iself.’
    Mr Bell grinned painfully. ‘What is that woeful wailing sound?’ he asked.
    ‘The air-raid siren?’ asked the chap. ‘Are you kidding of me?’
    ‘Air raid?’ said Mr Bell slowly, and I swear I saw the colour drain from his face.
    ‘Are you with the circus?’ now asked the