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HEROICS INC.

Part Ten

Night had fallen, shakily righted itself and balefully glared 
down at the Martian landscape, muttering and rubbing its bruised 
elbows all the while.
        In direct proportion to the increasing gloom a strange 
radiance burst forth from the cover of Merlyn's fil-a-hex, 
lighting the way ahead.  Even a magic book, however, could not 
enlighten Sir Bastable's confusion.  The bulky knight was 
experiencing an uncomfortable clash of loyalties This new mystical 
companion did not speak much and the few words that he had spoken 
had been abruptly contemptuous of Sir Bastable's garbled detailing 
of their location.  However, a goodly knight did not take umbrage 
at the opinions of such an obvious stranger.  Apology would, no 
doubt, shortly be made, once their relative stations in life were 
made clear.  The problem was that the Knight was bound by two 
oaths; a promise to his Squire to return by night-fall and another 
to Alexander the Great to play a game of chess.  It was 
dishonourable, unheard of in fact, to break a promise, and yet he 
tarried, fascinated by the mysterious man at his side, anxious to 
learn more.
        As the distance between the travellers and the Knight's home 
shrunk, the size of his quandary increased.  At last, Sir Bastable 
could take no more.  Pausing only to shout, 'The city lies just 
over yon rise,' he rapidly made off in the indicated direction, 
moving with startling speed for one of such impressive girth.  
Squire Abel would need to have advance warning of this coming.
        Merlyn halted, slightly startled by his companion's abrupt 
departure.  Nothing made sense; he had been awake now for some 
time and nothing, not one thing, made the slightest sense.  He 
struggled to remember whether they had ever made sense in that 
previous time.  He seemed to think that they mostly hadn't, but 
things were vague.  He had a slight recollection that this 
nonsensical aspect of life, the "stuff happens" aspect, had been 
the reason for his slumbers.  He had become more and more confused 
by daily existence. Belief in magic had been waning and most of 
the reputable mystics had given up, retired.  But retired to 
where?  He anxiously searched for an answer.
        "Mystic kings, buzzard wings, wizard's things.  No!  Wizard 
Springs."  That was it, he realised with grateful relief. They had 
all retired to Wizard Springs on Alpha Centuri. The lucky so and 
so's had all got condominiums at the "Runespeakers Rest".  The 
good life.
        But something was unclear.  Questions I were raised by this 
recollection. What had happened to his condo?  Why had he not made the 
journey? He struggled to pierce the cobwebs that enshrouded his 
mind.  Some things were so clear, others so nebulous. He could not 
remember.
        "Wait a minute!  That was it. He could not remember."  
        Remember the spell.  The retirement benefit claim spell.  The one 
spell not in a fil-a-hex. 
        Merlyn was cheered by the knowledge.  At least now he 
remembered what he had forgot.  He had been suffering from absent-
mindedness. Someone had hexed his late night liquid pick-me-up, 
addled his memory and appropriated the relevant spell.  Merlyn had 
not been able to remember how to claim his retirement benefits and 
get to Alpha Centuri.  That was the reason why he had chosen the 
elixir of sleep, substituting one type of rest cure for another.
        The plaid enshrouded druid looked around at the red desert. 
It was beginning to seem as if he had also been rather vague about 
the correct dosage of the resting spell.  He started to follow the 
Knight's deep footprints, all the while, as he neared Shepard 
City, the wizard tried to recall who had stolen the spell.  But 
all he got for his pains was blankness, and an orange blankness at 
that.






The Orange Thingy chuckled foully. It had forgotten the 
wizard, about stealing the spell.  Mind you, when you have done as 
many awful and horrific things as an Orange Thingy, it was not 
that hard to forget. It had just been part of the Thingy's 
galactic unfitness regime: Do ten thousand unwholesome things 
before breakfast.  Far more satisfying and good for you than push-
ups.
        Merlyn had been only one that morning.  There had been 
another 9,999 pointlessly evil or spiteful incidences galaxy wide; 
easy to overlook, simple to accomplish.  It had been amusing 
though, and had cheered the Thingy up all day. Merlyn, the last of 
the real Druid folk on Earth, had decided to celebrate his final 
night on the planet with a farewell drink, a cosmic cocktail with 
that little extra Thingy something, then to sleep with a mind full 
of brochure images and anticipation.  The look on the poor dolt's 
face when he had awakened with no spell, no brochures and a 
defective memory had been worth treasuring.
        With fetid breath the 0range One permitted itself an acid 
tinged, Thingy-style, happy sigh, secure in the knowledge that, on 
the way to the MADID, there would be many more such hapless 
expressions to look forward to.






        'So, what do you think?' said Will, abruptly changing the 
subject from his lengthy whinge about walking, tiredness and the 
sudden gloom.
        'What?' replied Sulphur, caught unawares, having stopped 
paying attention several miles back .
        'What sort of approach should I have to leading a group of 
intergalactic desperadoes...'
        'A cautious one.  I should think,' muttered Sulphur.
        '...on an adventure?'
        'Probably,' Sulphur said, after brief but weighty 
consideration.
        'Yes?'
        'In this case, definitely.'
        'Yessss?'
        'Downwind is the best bet.'
        'I mean style of approach, Maggot-ronic brain,' Will said 
testily, 'I fancy a sensible one.'
        'Sensible. You?' the dragon struggled valiantly to remain 
deadpan.
        'Yes, conservative, corporate and businesslike.'
        'All concepts synonymous with your name.'
        'I've given it a lot of thought.'
        'Obviously.'
        Will was oblivious.  In a strange world of his own,
        'It just keeps echoing in my mind.  Be businesslike, be 
businesslike.'
        "It would echo, with the amount of space you've got in 
there.  The acoustics must be great."  Sulphur dourly thought to 
himself.
        'I think this approach can only help to make it FUN!' Will 
was on a roll.
        'FUN?  Interesting choice of word there Will.' Sulphur 
grimaced, staring straight ahead.  The dragon' s weary shake of 
the head was purely mental, It grimly concentrated on putting one 
rounded leg in front of the other.
        "FUN INDEED!"






At top speed.  Sir Bastable Fitche barrelled into town, 
Looking neither right nor left, the Knight's sure-footed progress 
directed him straight towards the Bar.  So single-minded was his 
approach that, not even the solid legs of a war-horse pointing 
stiffly towards the stars were permitted to divert his attention.  
Sir Bastable did not seem to see the remains of his original 
beloved Leonidas as, with a mighty leap, he cleared the authentic 
western hitching post in front of the bar and landed with an 
impact that severely shook the front of the fragile building.
        'Squire!  Squire!'
        As Bastable eagerly rushed in, the dealer, Abel Surd, looked 
up with irritation, his good eye twinkling brightly in that 
shrivelled walnut of a face.
        'Not now, Fitche.'
        'But!  Squire......'
        'I said, NOT NOW!' Abel said emphatically, adding a 
ferocious whinny just to be sure.
        Moving from foot to foot, like a bear tap-dancing on a 
barbecue, the Knight restlessly quietened, brim full of news that 
he could not deliver.  Aside from a few sidelong curious smirks, 
the assembled group of historic or fictional celebrities paid the 
armoured figure scant attention.  All senses were directed towards 
the game.
        It was getting tense.  Al Capone, Richard the Third and 
Cardinal Richelieu were out.  It was just Wyatt Earp and Abel. 
The atmosphere was almost palpable, one move could spell disaster.  
Wyatt paused, unsure, eyes narrowed, his fingers caressing the 
tips of his cards.  At last,  the marshal made a decision. 
Throwing down a card with a contemptuous flourish, saying the 
words through gritted teeth.
        'Mr Bun, the baker.'
        Thrilled and mesmerised by the frontiersman's audacity, the 
onlookers tensely waited for Abel's response.  Savouring the 
moment, he picked up the discarded card, delaying his false-
toothed smile of triumph until he said the words.
        'Happy families.  The dealer wins again.'
        You could almost play tiddly-winks with the audience's 
disappointment - it was so real.
        'Dealer wins again." Recited Al Capone, giving the tally.  
        Big Al always got the job, he had a reputation for being good with 
figures.'
        'Abel wins forty-seven thousand, six hundred and seven 
games.  The rest win - seventeen.'
        'It's lucky he lets us win one at Christmas," said Wyatt, 
        'or it would be plain embarrassing.'
        'I wish held get us a new deck for Christmas,' replied Al 
dryly.
        As the dealer excused himself.  Julius Caesar took his place 
at table and the Same recommenced.
        'Fitche!'
        Abel pointedly indicated his office with a gnarled finger.  
A silent path was cleared by the knights embarrassed peers.  With 
head held high and tread a good deal firmer than he felt, Sir 
Bastable followed, passing through the door just beyond the bar.






Inside, the room was huge.  In previous years, if what 
remained of the faded velvet hangings and Victorian style wall 
decoration were to be believed, it had obviously once functioned 
as a plush private salon.  Perhaps the very room in which the long 
departed mining magnates had wined, dined and luxuriously 
entertained themselves, whilst plotting to expand their economic 
domination of the third and fourth planets.  Now, however, like 
everything else in this terminal terminus, the room had fallen on 
hard times.
        It was a shambles.  Who-ever had been responsible for its 
tidiness could have almost challenged Grendella for the 
intergalactic bad housekeeping award.  Not that the objects 
scattered about could really have been classified as litter.  
There seemed to be a purpose, an analytical mind at work behind 
the disorganisation of cogs, bolts, micro-chips and body parts 
that lay strewn over every available surface.  There was so much 
of it; an arm here, a leg there, would not perhaps have been so 
bad, it was the sheer quantity that rendered things unmanageable.  
Mountains of mutilated machinery, filling every nook and cranny, 
compressing the room's size and looming threateningly over 
the fragile seeming figures of Abel and Fitche.  It was no wonder 
that Sir Bastable's defunct horse had not made it to this office.  
There was just no room. The cannibalised carcass had been left 
outside to take its chances in the dust storms, although Fitche's 
first-generation personification mind had been programmed not to 
notice his ex-mount as a slight concession to decency.
        Abel Surd had been the creator of this crisis, and like Sir 
Bastable Fitche, was partially a product of it.  Now at an age 
when he had outlived his human confederates, the wizened 107 year 
old had only one real interest left; apart from telling awful 
jokes and moaning about the good old days. This little old man 
with the leathery skin and the twinkling eye had raised the level 
of his tinkering with scrap machinery to an art form.
Abel was unique in many ways: The last of Mars' miners and 
the last native-born Martian left, he had an impressive local 
lineage. The illegitimate son of Phineas Shepard, named in honour 
of his fathers assertion that: "The mere thought of having 
children is an ABSURDITY." 
        Abel had inherited little from his father besides a 
crotchety temperament.  He had, however, been left one portion of 
the paternal estate that had changed his life.
        Back in the far off days when COMS had first set about its 
business and had yet to develop its full powers.  Phineas had 
bartered them some much needed Martian mining rights in exchange 
for a rag-bag collection of outdated mechanical parts and a motley 
crew of disinherited first-generation Personifications.  These 
models had been surplus to COMS requirements after the abandonment 
of plans to extend its range of Educational Prototype Interaction 
Centres/ Services.  People had laughed at Phineas and his 
ludicrous swap, but Phineas had not cared.  The wily multi, multi-
billionaire had a two fold motive for his actions, reasoning that: 
(A) Even basic robotic staff were cheaper to keep and easier on 
the intellect than their self obsessed human equivalents, and (B) 
Machines could not control things, because they would eventually 
break down or go wrong, and spare parts would one day be as 
valuable as diamonds.
        Phineas had never got the chance to prove the validity, or 
not, of theory (A). However, he must had been posthumously 
consoled by the knowledge that at his first attempt to use one of 
his new mechanised acquisitions, the carpet cleaner had gone 
wrong.  As a result of this mishap, the ownership and care of 
"Shepard Scrap Enterprises" had passed to his illegitimate son, 
mainly because none of Phineas' legitimate heirs had wanted them. 
In the way of such things, what had started as a small part-
time hobby for the curious youngster had gradually crept up on 
him, piece by piece, to become his life's work. For decades, Abel 
had toiled, upgrading and developing possessions that became 
friends, unregarded by COMS.  He had given the personifications 
sight instead of mere retinal recognition, individual behaviour 
patterns instead of pre-programmed responses.  He had become their 
father, their mentor, their king even, and they had repaid him 
with a companionship and loyalty that went far beyond anything 
their original creators had envisaged.
        When the ageing Abel's energy and health had begun to fade, 
the personifications had reacted in emulation of their role model. 
"If a part is faulty, fix it.  If unfixable, replace it". As a 
result of these sundry efforts to protect him from the grim 
reaper's advances, Abel had become a slightly more customised 
version with each passing year.  His right arm, both legs, 
digestive system, right eye and ear, all owed more to modern 
alloys and technology than to human cell reproduction.  The latest 
addition had been made necessary by the sudden arrival of a 
determined throat cancer, intent on doing Surd in.  Desperate, or 
rather, destrier measures had been called for.  Abel's larynx had 
been replaced with a shiny new system, hardly used, with only one 
careful owner: Sir Bastable's horse. Abel now spoke through a 
tasteful little grid in his neck and was reasonably happy with the 
arrangement, but had to admit that he could to without the whinnys 
and neighs that now punctuated his conversation.
        There was an additional point of interest about all Abel's 
add-ons, a certain reverse snobbery at work.  Despite the fact 
that all the extra parts could have been seamlessly matched to the 
ex-miner's own skin tones, Abel had insisted on an obvious shiny 
chrome finish.  As a result, he looked like Isaac Asimov's worst 
nightmare; the baggy, aged wrinkles and bright smooth metallic 
plate tended to clash.
        This contrast of coverings was not, it had to be admitted, 
uppermost in Fitche's old model XXO1 Magatronian mind, as Abel 
turned on him, his "good" eye glittering with a furious 
illumination almost equal in brightness to his red round 
mechanical one.
        'Why are you late Fitche?'
        'Methinks Squire, that I will not tell you, as punishment 
for your unseemly impertinence.' Sir Bastable haughtily replied, 
his moustache struggling to appear brave and bristling.
        'Impertinence?' Abel was astonished.
        'Aye, sir, impertinence, I am a knight of noble bearing and 
degree.  I am not accustomed to being kept waiting whilst my 
squire finishes a game of chance.'
        Surd mentally cursed. Of all his companions, this plump and 
dotty knight with the outmoded courtly hallucinations was probably 
his favourite.  Certainly, Sir Bastable had received more work on 
his character development than most, perhaps a little too much.  
The odd disappearances, in search of the grail or to chase 
invisible dragons - these were acceptable, within limits.  Even 
this business of believing that Abel was a squire had at first 
seemed amusing.  Lately, however, like all jokes or affectations 
that had outstayed their welcome, it was becoming a right royal 
pain in the derriere.  
        'Listen, Fitche,' Abel said impatiently, sounding almost as 
menacing as his shiny bits made him lock, 'If you don't tell me 
why you're late this instant.  I'm going to switch you off and 
then, I'm going to take a chainsaw and...'
        'The quality of today's staff is an outrage,' Bastable shook 
his head with pompous regret, 'you never would have been 
acceptable as a squire in my young days.' 
        As Abel started to reach for the threatened chainsaw.  
Bastable quickly changed his conversational emphasis. 
        'I'm late because we have a visitor.'
        'Visitor?' Abel was stunned, stopped in his tracks, The bar 
had not been visited in years.  Then Abel remembered who he was 
talking to. 'You're not imagining this, are you ?'







Sir Bastable's unimaginary visitor had reached the outskirts 
of the city. Pausing on a slight promontory, Merlyn threw some of 
the red soil into the air with a dramatic gesture and abrupt 
incantation.  Light briefly flared all around him as he raked the 
city with a keen searching gaze, taking every advantage offered by 
his raised position, his mind hungrily feeding on every detail 
offered by his vision.  As gloom returned, Merlyn remained still, 
bathed in the strange lights and shadows provided by the glowing 
cover of his book.
        Thoughts of displacement, of culture-shock, came tumbling 
unbidden into his brain, mingling uncomfortably with a feeling of 
wonderment.  The tall, smooth buildings, the wide thoroughfares, 
architectural opulence and grandeur reminiscent of Rome in its 
heyday - all these mighty buildings, lifeless, rundown, empty?  
What plague, what pestilence or foul enchantment, was capable of 
driving away the populace?  He had to know.
        Approaching the nearest building, Merlyn brought his long 
fingers into play, outlining shapes and lines on the wall, 
chanting an accompaniment from the fil-a-hex, his speech patterns 
eager and energetic.  At last, the wizard stood back, breathing 
heavily, waiting, watching.  Part of the wall seemed to clench, 
then become fluid.  Features started to become distinct, following 
the pattern outlined by his fingertips, pushed out and remoulded 
by the solid surface.  Eventually, the spell's work was finished.  
The wall had grown a face, and a grumpy looking one at that.
        'Is this some sort of sick joke?' The building queried 
belligerently.
        'Joke?' Merlyn was puzzled.
        'Yeah, joke!  I'm sick to death of you cells, making cracks 
about "Walls having ears" or "if only they could talk." It would 
get on my nerves, if I had any.'
        'What are "cells"?'
        'You don't know much do you?  Cells are part of a larger 
shell.  They mostly exist, breed and function inside that shell, I 
know my Masonic biology.  I'm a larger shell.  Therefore you are a 
cell.'
        'But, I'm not inside you,' replied Merlyn warily.
        'You are obviously very stupid,' the building said 
disdainfully, 'I will therefore explain this slowly.  Cells are 
part of larger shells or organisms.  A shell such as myself is 
like a body part, encased in the larger shell of the city.  The 
city, in turn, is encased by the larger shell of the planet, which 
is encased in the larger shell of the solar system.  Just as your 
cells move through your system from organ to organ, or body to 
body, you cells move freely between shells of different volume.  
Now have you got that?'
        'Yes.' Merlyn conceded.
        'Well!  WHAT DO YOU BLOODY WANT THEN?'
        'You are a very rude wall.'
        'You think this side's rude!  You should see the graffiti on 
the inside!'
        Merlyn ignored the quip, walls graffiti-Ed or otherwise were 
not renowned for the subtlety of their wit.
        'What happened to all the .... Cells?'
        'They all got sick.' replied the building sullenly.
        'A plague?'
        'No home-sick.  They got fed up and went home.'
        'But where's home?'
        'Home is where the heart is.'
        'WHERE'S THAT?' roared the wizard.
        'Earth, of course, Terra.  The home-ward of the Cells. 
Ungrateful, I call it. I give them a place to live, a shelter, 
years of faithful service and what do they do?  Smash my windows 
and cover my innards with their moronic daubings.'
        Even with the smooth translation afforded by his linguistic 
spell, it took a while for the building's words to register.  
Merlyn's voice was almost a whisper but something about its 
delivery demanded immediate answer.
        'This isn't Earth?'
        'No, this is Mars, Where have you been?
        'What year is it?'
        'I don't know for sure. I've been here a long time.  My 
foundation stone's over on the left. That should give you an 
idea.'
        'Merlyn locked to the left of the graven face.  He read the 
words that said: This foundation stone was laid by Phineas T. 
Shepard, 2nd November 2161.  Above it was a sign that read: This 
Property is condemned as unfit for human habitation.  By order of 
COMS. lst January 2245.
        With misted, unseeing eyes, the wizard turned and walked 
away, moving unsteadily towards the centre of town.
Ignored, the building blurted, half-indignant and half-
scared.
        'You can't leave me like this!' It tried persuasion.
        'Look, if you come back, I'll give you more information.  
        There's a group of cells in the bar at the centre of Main 
Street - the cute little number with the raunchy architectural 
features. Please come back!  I'm sorry I was so testy.  I've been 
alone for a while.  I've forgotten how to be sociable.  COME BACK!.  
Let's talk...I can speak any language you want: Swedish, Urdu, 
Esperanto.'
        The building strained its newly-acquired aural senses.  It 
seemed to hear the wizard repeating the same word, over and over 
again, as he walked away into the distance.
        'Ages... ages.... ages.'







Ashton.  Iowa : Early 21st Century, August.

        'Not our sort of people at all.'
Cecil Bland said, in the sort of adenoidal voice usually 
reserved for politicians in ancient newsreels, train spotters and 
other assorted in British comedy shows.
        'No dear.'
        Cecil's wife, Primrose, distantly agreed.  Having honed and 
developed her inattentive agreement skills to their peak, she 
managed to remain completely absorbed in her copy of "Cosmo".
        'I mean, look at it,' Cecil waved the paper about the 
breakfast nook for the umpteenth time.  Trying to look really 
stern and disapproving and instead looking rather like a gerbil 
with PMT, ' ... its embarrassing.'
        'Yes, dear,' responded Primrose on cue before turning her 
attention to the ungainly-looking child behind her husband. 
        'Camilla, will you please stop drawing in that Gideon Bible?'
        The child scowled up at her, threatening mutiny.
        'But Mum.'
        'I've told you already Camilla - it's pointless to edit the 
bible.'
        'King James the First did,' pouted Camilla.
        'Well, dear.  King James the First probably had parents with 
absolutely no sense of discipline.'
        'It's culture, innit.'
Primrose closed her eyes with a look of infinite pain.
        'Must you talk like a guttersnipe?  Camilla.'
        'But Mummmm! I wanna be a writer.'
        'Well don't start there, Camilla.  It's not our property.' 
Primrose tried to sound sensible, 'However many times you write 
it, you won't alter the fact that there isn't an llth commandment: 
"Thou shalt not smuggle."  Go to your room and play writers!!"
        'See what I mean?' Cecil voiced his outrage once again as 
        Camilla skulked dramatically away.
        'Embarrassing.  Even our daughter knows our shame. Look at 
it!'
        He pointedly jabbed the paper's front page with its pictures 
of Leicester Square, and of Casper and Blossom, standing in 
handcuffs, their faces registering almost total bewilderment. Once 
again, Cecil read the familiar textual highlights aloud.
        ' "Ashton couple held at centre of major British furnishings 
smuggling investigation... Charged with vandalism of Central 
London landmark..." How will we face the neighbours?' 
        'You've argued with most of them dear.  They're not talking.  
Besides, I'm sure the papers over here exaggerate just as much as 
the ones in England.  No one can smuggle that much without someone 
noticing.  Two beds, three sofas and the rest of it, they're 
hardly the sort of things that fit into a handbag...'
        Cecil refused to be placated by his wife's words.  
        'They're Americans, Primmy; Weirdo's! They're probably devil 
worshippers.  We've swapped our home with Satanists.  We're like 
as not go home to find gory circles on the walls and dead cats in 
the bathroom.'
        Primrose calmly interrupted, speaking as if to a small 
child.
        'Really, Cecil, you've got such a lurid imagination. I can 
see where Camilla gets it from.  The Titwillegers have been very 
nice to us.  They've booked and paid for this motel, they hired us 
that lovely car...which has been stolen.'
        'Losing the car wasn't my fault.  I normally leave the keys 
in the ignition at home.' Cecil said defensively. 
        'That's because nobody wants our Trabanth, dear.'
Cecil would not be distracted
        'They only paid for the motel because their house was full 
of rocks.  They're already a national scandal.'
        'That may be true.  However, there's no point getting worked 
up about it now.  Mrs Titwilleger's brother is flying all the way 
from California to explain things and we should wait until he 
arrives.'
        Cecil gradually calmed from boiling to slow simmer. He 
started munching a piece of toast distractedly.
        'You're right as usual, Primmy.  I'll wait for this 
evangelist chappie to arrive.  What was his name again ?'
        'Wilbur Prince.'







Merlyn could not believe it.  He had obviously slept for 
centuries and awoken on a strange world.  How much had he missed?  
How many generations?  Why had he really been awakened after so 
long? There were so many unanswered questions.  So many puzzles.
        He registered the light in the distance and resolutely 
steeled himself to face whatever was to come, whatever had been.  
A light meant life, it meant possible solutions.  Although still 
in a state of mild shock, he approached the illumination with the 
eagerness of a moth let out of a coal cellar.  Ignoring the worn 
dark shells of the other buildings on Main Street, his attention 
focused totally in one direction.  Soon he could take in every 
detail of his destination. Merlyn's first reaction was that the 
building he had just spoken to had possessed lamentably poor 
taste.  Whatever else this place was, it certainly was not "cute".  
        It was obviously one of the oldest buildings in the city.  
Large, ramshackle and rambling, paint-work faded that had once 
been startling, crumpling advertising hoardings making wildly 
extravagant claims about the quality of the entertainment held 
inside, arbitrarily chosen and positioned plaster statues 
sprouting everywhere, coated in a dozen hectic hues.
        He was captivated by the large neon sign that pulsed over 
the door.  The sign said "MA_S BAR", it had once been "THE MARS 
BAR" but a previous owner had had the "R" removed.  He was 
suitably impressed by Mankind's progress; it was his first 
exposure to electric power and it was thrilling to learn that 
humanity had harnessed the lightning for its purposes.  Merlyn 
curiously drew nearer, lengthily scrutinising the remains of Sir 
Bastable's horse, fascinated by its innards, by the tangled 
profusion of mechanical parts.  Here was great magic indeed.  This 
solid simulacrum had been designed to mimic a flesh-and-blood 
creature.  Merlyn's mystic soul exulted at the knowledge of the 
new enchantments that could be learned.  Abandoning all cares and 
trepidation, he boldly strode towards the murmuring voices, into 
the bar.






On the outskirts of the city, Balidare squatted on his 
haunches.  Touching the soil with those thick fingers, hazily 
sensing the nearby presence of his fellow pilgrims, feeling their 
power.  He slowly opened his eyes, his vision making a nonsense of 
the gloom as they easily picked out the remote bar.  That tall 
figure in the plaid seemed strangely familiar, but it was 
impossible; "He" had retired to Wizard Springs centuries before.
        Balidare slowly rose and made his way into town.  There was 
time enough for answers and they would not be provided by that 
curious building over on the left, whatever loud-mouthed claims it 
might make to the contrary.






Merlyn entered the bar.  Its interior was as multi-coloured 
and over ornate as its exterior.  Having been asleep at the time, 
he was not to know that the bar's decoration was an attempt to 
recreate an American Wild West saloon, even down to fake 
bloodstains on the floor and the spittoons.
        owever, he felt that it was a bit much for his taste. 
Drawing on his new-found stores of language Merlyn could see why 
the place had been christened Ma'e Bar.  Every wall, every free 
surface was decorated with baby photographs of the most saccharine 
kind, all depicting the same sickly looking child.
        Having scrutinised the environment, the Wizard turned his 
attention to its inhabitants.  The large group around the card 
table had silenced as he had entered.  They watched him now with 
wary eagerness.  Merlyn stared back, most of the faces were 
unfamiliar but there were a few that he recognised: Alexander, 
Mark Antony, Cleopatra, Augustus, Julius Caesar - Britain's first 
real tourist.  Merlyn smiled as he remembered: "I came, I saw, I 
skirmished, I littered, and left as quickly as possible." 
        Was this Caesar? Was this Augustus? these creatures 
certainly resembled them.  They had both been dead for centuries 
by the time he'd slept.  Merlyn had to concede that claiming to 
conquer death was par for the course for the self-important Roman 
propaganda machine.  There was always the chance that those pesky 
Latins had been right about "Jove" and having friends in high 
places. Still, something was not quite right.  It was more as if 
someone had restored their statues to life than the actual men or 
women.  Gone were their warts and their paunches.  Gone were their 
scars and imperfections.  They were finally fully-qualified to 
serve as leaders.  Merlyn came of a culture that had once asserted 
that only one who was physically perfect was fit to lead, but he 
had grown flexible since, he had had to.
        Conscious that the silence was becoming strained.  Merlyn 
stepped forward with a friendly smile.
        'Hail Caesar, It's been ages.'
        The Roman stared back, There was no recognition in his eyes 
and uncertainty in his voice
        'Do I know you ?'
        Merlyn grinned his appreciation of the jest.
        'Does he know me, indeed.  He asks does he know me?'
        'Well, does he?' the puzzled personifications asked the 
wizard in unison.
        Merlyn paused.  Even allowing for changes wrought by the 
linguistic spell, this was wrong.  Their voices ware not the 
voices of his far-off friends and foes.  Why did they all have, 
like Fitche, the word "CANCELLED" stamped in red across their 
foreheads?  These creatures were impostors, someone was trying a 
joke at his expense.  If there was one thing Merlyn hated above 
all else, it was cheap satire.  He reached for his Fil-a-Hex; 
someone was going to pay for this.
        A door opened and a familiar voice arrested the wizard's arm 
in mid movement.
        'There!  I told you so, you poxy varlet!  Greetings 
Magician, we are well met.' Sir Bastable Fitche stood grinning in 
the office doorway while a strange little man struggled to get 
around him.
        Muttering curses, Abel tired of his futile efforts to 
squeeze past Fitche.  He pressed a hidden button, and neat little 
wheels lowered out of his mechanised feet.  With a hefty shove and 
a stylish, flowing movement, he encircled the gabbling Knight and 
skated gracefully up to the astonished Wizard,
        'Greetings, Sir.  Please ignore my assistant.  How can I 
help you?'
        'Merlyn was totally bewildered by the situation, It was not 
every day that, even he, was approached by a small, wizened 
apparition, who appeared to be half coated in perfect shiny 
armour, on wheels.  All the while, the large knight kept burbling 
about "Crusades and Grails", whilst the crowd of others in their 
wildly clashing costumes, looked as bewildered as Merlyn felt.  It 
was all a bit much to take.
        'CAN YOU PLEASE,' he bellowed, 'TELL ME WHAT'S GOING ON?'






It took some time.  After Sir Bastable Fitche was banished 
to the corner, and placed, like the rest of his personified peers, 
under strict instructions to say nothing, the Martian and the 
Mystic sat down to talk. At first, when Merlyn had explained his 
situation, Abel had thought that he was a Personification gone 
wrong. A little physical examination had reassured him on this 
point. Of course Surd had not fully discounted the possibility 
that he was dealing with a mad man, but the aged miner liked a 
good story and a good chat and had been deprived of both for a 
very long time.  He was content to humour the imposing figure in 
plaid.
        They talked of much.  Merlyn spoke of his past; Abel told 
the story of COMS, explained about machines, about how his 
Personifications had been cancelled stock.  As he went on, Abel 
started to really enjoy both their conversation and the wizard's 
incredulous exclamations.  He felt he was just warming up, filling 
in the merest of gaps by catering for the wizard's millennia-
consuming hunger for historical knowledge .
        Outside, concealed by the window's dusty grime, Balidare 
watched the vibrant discussion.  He had been right, It was Merlyn.  
This was no synthetic creation with a cancellation stamp on his 
head.  Those, dark weathered features were all too familiar.
How had he managed to return from Wizard Springs?  It was 
supposed to be a one-way trip.  Come to think of it, why had he 
ever wanted to go there in the first place?  Balidare's phenomenal 
powers of recall stripped aside the upper layers of a memory that 
went back through millions of years.  It was as if it were 
yesterday, when Matholug had told him of the Druid's plans.  
Balidare had cursed his old friend for a fool; not believing he 
was capable of falling for the hype put about by the "Druid's Union 
Pension Enterprises."
        Even when Balidare's sense of imprisonment, when the hatred 
of Earth and its confining solar system had been at its worse, he 
had never thought of using that tired old spell.  Back in the days 
just after Atlantis, there had been a saying: "Better death, than 
Wizard Springs!". The place was rumoured to be synonymous with 
senility and boredom.  There was only so much galactic golf and 
sunbathing a being could take.  Eternity without remission seemed 
like overkill.
        Balidare almost smiled, suddenly touched by the silliness of 
it all.  Here he was, condemning Wizard Springs, sight unseen, 
whilst standing an this red world, where golf was a faded memory 
and sunbathing a dusty trial.  Most planets only had to die once; 
it was Mars' misfortune to have to enact a repeat performance.  
Well, he thought, attracted by the theatrical metaphor, the drama 
cannot proceed unless we actors respond to our cues.  Time for a 
reunion scene.







        "Time for more than one", The Purple Thingy slimed 
impatiently, way past time. "Never again!" It putridly promised 
itself; working with these outmoded creatures that used actual 
physical effort to travel.  
        It was pathetic.  The whole thing seemed to take forever.  
The Thingy had evolved life-forms in the time it took these beings 
to get to the city, and a lot more efficient life-forms at that.  
The whole process was ridiculously slow, like trying to construct 
a skyscraper out of rice-pudding.  The Thingy wanted to give vent 
to its temporal frustration; it wanted to howl and shriek, but it 
controlled itself, aware of the disastrous consequences, the 
shredding of reality, the resultant implosive black holes.  Not 
for nothing was it said that: "In space, nobody can hear a Thingy 
scream."  Nobody lives long enough, nobody or nothing for light 
years around.  The Thingy exercised gallant restraint; it waited 
and fumed in reeking silence with every one of it plentiful acid-
soaked intellects soundlessly shouting: "Get on with it!"







Ashton, Iowa: Early 21st Century, August.

        'Get on with it!'
        Cecil Bland said testily, putting on his best abrupt civil 
service manner.  He was resentful of the ease with which Prince's 
seemed to charm Primrose,
        Wilbur Prince stiffened in the midst of a smile, turning his 
dynamic gaze onto the weedy Englishman, speaking in that rich, 
deep melodious voice.
        'Maybe you're right.'
        Cecil visibly quailed as Prince came towards him. This 
reaction was not prompted by Primrose's poisonous glance in her 
husband's direction; rather, it was a natural consequence of 
sharing space with such a presence. Clothed in a lurid Kaftan, 
Wilbur was hugely commanding, with a voice made for the Gospel 
(courtesy of several thousand dollars worth of acting lesson ) 
and a grey-tinged beard of Biblical proportions.  The founder 
and chief evangelistic spirit of California's: "Church of Mystic 
Enlightenment via the Fundamental Freak-Out and the Love of 
Christ's Glory."  He was massive in bulk and massive in 
personality.
        It was almost as if God himself, or at least Orson Welles, 
were present in their breakfast nook.  Some wild, divinely 
inspired pilgrim with an unkempt mane of carefully arranged hair 
extensions, a John the Baptist style crowd-pleaser of the hellfire 
variety.  Feet hidden by the kaftan, Wilbur seemed almost to slide 
along the floor.  Everything about him seemed to signify the rough 
piety of the prophet, a man who had given up all the pleasures and 
properties of the flesh. 
        This was a quite a feat for someone who, at the last count, 
owned a forty-million dollar Bel-Air mansion, plus other property, 
fifteen limos, six yachts, three planes and kept a score of 
mistresses.  God, with a little help from modern marketing 
methods, had indeed been good to his "humble" servant.  Blossom 
had inherited all the family bad luck.



Wilbur took his time, secure in the knowledge that he had 
overwhelmed this petty bureaucrat and his wife.  With becoming 
grandeur, he lowered himself daintily onto the sofa, offering 
Cecil and Primrose a seat in their own space, without any hint of 
discomfort, waiting with seemingly divine patience as the Blands 
hurried to comply.
The Preacher prided himself on being more than adept at 
handling minor officials.  He paused, fixing the British with his 
most dazzling smile, building up the importance of the words that 
would follow with practised theatricality,
'My sister's...'






        '....name is Brimstone.' The delivery of the brooding 
angular child was muted, self-conscious.
        'Seriously?' Camilla Bland was suitably impressed.
        'Yeah, My dad was on this big damnation kick at the time.'
        They sat under overcast skies.  Two frail children, 
momentarily excluded from the mysterious world of the adults 
upstairs.  They had been told to go out and play, and play they 
had,listlessly tossing pebbles into the Motel's deserted pool as 
they discussed matters of great import to nine-year-olds.They had 
both come to the conclusion that it must be really "neat" to be a 
grown up.  No one could confuse you or tell you what to do.  As an 
adult you had everything under control.  Of course, this concept 
of their elders was about as faulty as their concept of the 
existence of Santa Claus; adulthood has a way of puncturing the 
most convincing notions.
        Everything about her companion thrilled the impressionable 
Camilla, even the kaftan he wore an his father's instructions, 
although it made him look lost and pathetic, like a stick insect 
wrapped in a tent.  Nothing, however, had prepared her for the 
sheer "coolness" of his appellation.  She could see it now, going 
home to St Albans and telling them about the friend she'd made.  A 
friend with a twin sister called Brimstone and an incredible name.  
If the girls at school believed her, they might even stop beating 
her up.  It was essential to get some kind of proof.
        'Sulphur.'
        'No.  Call me Sully.  Me and Sis prefer it that way, Sully 
and Bri.'
        Camilla stared at him hard as her mind ingested this latest 
gobbit of information.  Sully stared back, his eyes full of an 
habitual penitence, a consequence of the overbearing Wilbur's oft-
stated expressions of disappointment in him.  
        'It's only a name, like "Prince"; you can take it or leave 
it. Father took it because it sounded classy.  He says no one 
would go to a church run by Wilbur Pimpleknocker.'
        'PIMPLEKNOCKER!' Camilla chortled her childish glee and even 
        Sully managed a modest smile. Eventually, as her mirth subsided, 
she plunged into thought.  After a while she spoke, saying with 
all the gravity and seriousness a nine year-old could muster.  
        'Sully, I luv you!'
        The boy reacted with a start of alarm that almost propelled 
him into the pool.  Camilla took this as a sign of encouragement.
        'Let's be pen friends.'
        As the sky darkened and the sun disappeared from view, the 
future Mr and Mrs Prince sat, side by side, gazing into a pool as 
mysterious and murky as the future.

© Gary Cahalane