The Mechanical Messiah by Robert Rankin Page B

with much-needed monies.’
    ‘Fifty-fifty,’ said Darwin the monkey.
    ‘Pardon me?’ said the colonel.
    ‘Fifty-fifty we split up the profits.’
    ‘Ah,’ said the colonel. ‘I see.’
    Darwin stuck out his hand for a shake. He knew at least that the colonel was a man of honour. Although perhaps it might have been wise to ask just what the colonel’s plan entailed before agreeing to anything. But Darwin was, after all was said and done, a monkey, and as such he did tend towards the mercurial, even in his most thoughtful of moods.
    ‘Allow me to explain,’ said Colonel Katterfelto.
     
    Now a Gaming Hell is a Gaming Hell, no matter how you dress it. You can dress it grandly, as in the casino at Monte Carlo. Or you can clothe it in rags, as in the back-alley dives of old Shanghai. In London there were many ways of dressing it. And many many ways there were of gambling. From the whelk pits of Whitechapel, where East Enders of the sporting persuasion would lay bets upon the fortunes of a single man of sterling bravery who would match himself against as many as twenty wild whelks (that’s twenty wild whelks!) with nothing to defend himself but a three-pound brickie’s club hammer …
    … to the swank casinos of Mayfair.
    Somewhere in between was The Spaceman’s Club. Colonel Katterfelto was a member of The Spaceman’s Club. An honorary member was he. Due to his medal-winning bravery, not amongst the wild whelks of Whitechapel, but the murderous Martians from Mars. The colonel had not only blasted the blighters in Battersea during the Second Worlds War. He had later led his regiment across the wastes of the red planet to mop up any Martian survivors. Not that there had been any Martian survivors to mop up. But there had been plenty of big-game hunting and this takes bravery, also.
    The Spaceman’s Club shared something with the Music Hall in that it, too, was egalitarian. As long as you had travelled in space and could prove it, you could become a member. Assuming of course that you could afford the membership fees.
    Jupiterians, or Jovians as they were more popularly known, were known to be big spenders at the gaming tables. Unlike the svelte, aloof Venusians, who drifted about rarely speaking to others than their own, Jovians were boisterous, gregarious, rumbustious (although this is very much the same as boisterous) and always up for a wager, no matter how mad it might seem.
    Many Jovians frequented The Spaceman’s Club, and as they did not subscribe to the Earthly hours of eating and sleeping, they tended to gamble all around the clock.
     
    ‘Good morning, Colonel Katterfelto,’ said Mr Cohen of Cohen Brothers Pawnshop, from his seat behind the counter. ‘Have you come to redeem your ray gun and medals? I’ve kept them all polished and safe.’
    Colonel Katterfelto sadly shook his head. ‘Regretfully, no,’ was his reply. ‘I still find myself lacking in necessary funds. I am forced to pawn more of my valuable possessions.’
    Mr Cohen rubbed his hands together, as any pawnbroker might. And as any pawnbroker did, he rubbed them together beneath the counter and out of sight of his client.
    ‘That is indeed sad,’ said he. ‘But if I were not here to help out gentlemen such as yourself when they are in need, what indeed would be my purpose on this planet?’
    There were elements of disingenuousness in this statement. Although not in as obvious a way as might be supposed. Mr Cohen did have a purpose upon this planet, but it was not to help out fallen gentlemen. It was indeed to seek the lost Ring of Moses, as Mr Cohen was a practising Cabbalist. Small world!
    Colonel Katterfelto smiled upon Mr Cohen. ‘It is a very delicate matter,’ he said, ‘and a most private matter also.’
    ‘Go on,’ said Mr Cohen. Leaning forwards towards the bars of the steel cage that separated himself from his grateful clientele.
    Colonel Katterfelto made as if to affect a thoughtful disposition. He gazed all around and