The Toyminator by Robert Rankin Page A

Eddie said, when Tinto had wheeled away and the spaceman had moistened his throat, “the clockwork monkeys.”
    “What a racket they make,” said spaceman. “Or, rather,
made
. Tin on tin. If I had teeth, that noise would put them on edge. I don’t approve of willy-nilly blasting with death rays, but I feel that in this case it was justified.”
    “I suppose that’s a matter of opinion,” said Eddie, tasting beer. “I’m not so sure that the monkeys would agree with you.”
    “Each to his own,” said the spaceman. “It takes all sorts to make a Universe.”
    “So it was
you
who blasted the monkeys?”
    The spaceman shook his helmeted head. The visor of his weather dome snapped down and he snapped it up again. “Not me
personally
,” said he. “I come in peace for all mankind. Or in this case all toykind. It would be the vanguard of the alien strikeforce who did for those monkeys. And I know what I’m talking about when I tell you these things. Trust me, I’m a spaceman.”
    Eddie sighed once more. He really couldn’t be doing with sighing, really. Sighing was
not
Eddie’s thing.
    “Do you know where this vanguard of the alien strikeforce might be found at present?” Eddie asked.
    The spaceman made a thoughtful face, although some of it was lost on Eddie, being hidden by the shadow of his visor.
    “Was that a yes or a no?” Eddie asked.
    “It was a thoughtful face,” the spaceman explained, “but you couldn’t see much of it because it was mostly lost in the shadow of my visor.”
    “Well, that explains everything.”
    “Does it?” asked the spaceman.
    “No,” said Eddie, “it doesn’t. Do you know where they are, or do you not?”
    “They could be anywhere.” The spaceman made expansive gestures. “Out there, Beyond The Second Big O. The Universe is a very large place.”
    Eddie sighed once more. Loudly.
    “Or they could still be right here. They said they fancied going to a nightclub, to hear some jazz, I think.”
     
    There was no jazz playing at Old King Cole’s, only that terrible scream and that piercing white light. And then there was a silence and a stillness and even some darkness, too.
    Jack, who was now on his knees holding Amelie to him and shielding them both as best he could, looked up.
    A great many of the light bulbs in Old King Cole’s had blown and the club was now lit mostly by tabletop candles. Which gave it a somewhat romantic ambience, although this was, for the present, lost upon Jack.
    “What happened?” asked Amelie, gaining her feet and patting down her skirt. “That screaming, that light – what happened?”
    “Something bad,” said Jack. “Be careful, now, there’s broken glass all about.”
    Amelie opened her handbag, pulled out certain girly things and took to fixing her hair and touching up her make-up.
    “Nice,” said Jack, and then he peered all around. They appeared to be alone now, although Jack couldn’t be altogether certain, what with the uncertain light and his lack of certainty and everything.
    The stage was now in darkness; beyond the broken footlights lay a black, forbidding void.
    “Dolly?” called Jack.
    “Yes, darling,” said Amelie.
    “No,” said Jack. “Dolly Dumpling. Dolly, are you there?”
    No voice returned to Jack. There was silence, there was blackness, there was nothing more.
    “I don’t like it here now,” said Amelie, tucking away her girly things and closing her handbag. “In fact, I didn’t like it here at all before, either. They were horrid, Jack. I’m glad you hit that horrid man.”
    “I’m glad you hit his horrid partner,” said Jack. “Perhaps they are still lying on the dancefloor.” Jack made tentative steps across broken glass, reached the dancefloor and squinted around in the ambient gloom. “I think they upped and ran,” he said.
    “Let’s go too, then,” said Amelie. “I know much nicer places than this. We could go to Springfellows, where all the clockworkers hang out. Or the