Part1, Chapter3, of RFV.

THREE

 

    When they landed, Roger readied himself. He removed his smoking-jacket and brushed down his Fleet Pilot’s dark blue jump suit then strode to the Exit Bay.

    He could picture the scene outside after they’d received his message. The full Fleet Command would be there waiting impatiently. The Fleet Commander would probably rush up to him as soon as the door opened, in which case he’d better adopt a pose.

    Eventually he decided on a ‘leaning against the wall pose’ and an opening line �" after all the Commander would probably be desperate for news about the Black Cloud.

    He’d pretend it wasn’t such a big deal to him, as if he made such discoveries regularly. He’d ask if Keith had kept those back copies of ‘Astronomers Weekly’ for him.

    “Door opening,” the Computer announced.

    Roger added some nonchalance to his pose. A collage of medals, speeches, Amanda, being the Hero of Earth and being in bed with Amanda flashed across his mind.

    The door slid open.

    “Did Keith keep those back copies of--”

    “Welcome to Greater Albania!” a voice said.

    “...‘Astronomers Weekly’ for me? Welcome to where?”

    The small balding man in the cardigan and glasses smiled understandingly. “Greater Albania,” he repeated. “Your Visa please.”

    The Computer sniggered in the background. “Told you!” it muttered gleefully.

    “Visa? What Visa? This is Earth!” Roger said indignantly. “Where is everybody? Where are the top chaps from Fleet Command?”

    “Everybody’s gone,” the small man told him. “Something about a Black Cloud which is going to destroy Earth, I mean Greater Albania. Visa please or you can’t come in.”

    Roger slumped against the Ship’s doorway, his vision of a Hero’s Welcome vanishing quicker than an ice cube on a hot rock.

    “Everybody’s gone?” he asked, deflated. “Absolutely everybody?”

    The small man nodded.

    “Why haven’t you gone then?” Roger asked him. “Who are you?”

    “Who am I ?” the small balding chap said. “Who am I ?”

    Proudly he drew himself up to his paunchy five feet three inches. A shaft of sunlight fell on him and for a moment, the shabby cardigan, the bottle-bottom glasses and the sparse moustache all disappeared. He stood there at attention this citizen of Greater Albania and for just a moment with the sunlight falling on him he looked even worse than before. Then the sun went behind some clouds and he only looked bad again.

    “Who am I?” he repeated. “I’m Norman Penge, citizen and ruler of Greater Albania and I’m warning you,” he went on, removing his thick glasses and cleaning them on his grubby shirt, “I can be a real b*****d, a tyrant. So watch it,” he warned, myopically addressing a shadow away to Roger’s right. “Understand?”

    The shadow didn’t answer.

    “I’m over here!” Roger shouted, waving and trying to attract his attention.

    “What?” Norman said, replacing his glasses. “Ah! So there are more of you, eh? Trying to get in without Visas? Where did that chap go?” He peered round about but the shadow had gone.

    “There’s nobody else,” Roger told him. “Only me.”

    “Ha! Trying to cover up for him, eh? Wait here and don’t move. I think he ran round the other side of the Ship.”

    Norman trotted off to search for the illegal illusion. The Computer sniggered again in the background.

    “You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?” Roger said resignedly.

    “Affirmative,” said the Computer.

    “Why didn’t you warn me?”

    “You wouldn’t listen.”

    Just then Norman reappeared from the other side of the Ship. “Who were you talking to?” he asked sharply.

    “The Ship’s Computer,” Roger explained.

    Norman looked at him suspiciously. “Sure there aren’t more of you in there? One of you’s escaped already.”

    “No, there’s nobody else,” Roger said, irritated. “Look, I’m coming off the Ship.”

    “You can’t,” Norman said quickly. “You haven’t got a Visa.”

    “But I live here!” Roger said indignantly, stepping off the Ship. “I don’t need a Visa.”

    Norman’s eyes, for years dull and lifeless because of their owner’s lowly unimportant existence, now glittered feverishly as they caught sight of Roger’s feet on the ground.

    “So you don’t have a Visa?”

    Roger shook his head.

    Norman veritably glowed. For such a moment as this with its attendant implications he had waited almost a lifetime. He savoured the moment and a smile of triumph slowly spread over his face.

    “I hereby arrest you feet for being in the territory of Greater Albania without a proper Visa!” he announced.

    Roger glanced down at the offending feet. “How can you just arrest my feet?” he questioned. “That’s silly.” Then he jumped back into the Ship, just to be on the safe side. “What about the rest of me?” he asked sarcastically.

    Norman pursed what passed for his lips at this interesting technicality. He decided on the magnanimous approach. “Since the rest of you hasn’t exactly touched the ground, it’s free,” he announced grandiosely.

    “But this is silly!” Roger said, stamping his foot.

    “Stop stamping that foot,” Norman ordered. “It’s under arrest. I’m impounding it and the other one.”

    “It’s my foot. I’ll stamp it if I like,” Roger replied petulantly.

    “Go ahead,” Norman said generously, knowing he held the trump card. “But you won’t get your Visa.”

    Roger froze in mid-stamp. “Visa? You mean I could get one?”

    Norman considered this second technicality in the space of a few minutes. Hmmm, there was a lot more to being a tyrant than people thought. He tapped his teeth but had forgotten they were false and dislodged the upper set. There followed some undignified, untyrant-like fumbling while he tried to right them. Not wishing to prejudice his possible host by witnessing his embarrassment regarding his dentures, Roger pretended a sudden and temporarily all-consuming interest in a distant  fluffy cloud.

    His teeth back in position, Norman coughed and tested them for firmness. They held. “I suppose I could issue you with a temporary Visa,” he conceded. “Except for your feet. They’re still under arrest and they’ll have to be imprisoned.” He turned and began strolling away from the Ship.

    “But I wouldn’t be able to get around without my feet,” Roger said after him.

    Norman ignored him and strolled on.

    Then for once Roger managed to say the right thing. “I’m sure an important chap like you could find a way round it!” he called.

    Norman halted. He glanced round about then turned back to Roger. “Are you talking to me?” he asked, trying to disguise the hope in his voice.

    Roger nodded.

    “Sorry, I thought there was somebody else.” He eyed Roger anew and flicked some dandruff from his moustache. “An important chap like me, eh?”

    Roger smiled and nodded.

    “A way round it, eh?” Norman said. He scratched the back of his head and a clump of hair fell to the ground. “Any ideas?”

    “How about just arresting my boots?” Roger suggested. “I mean it wasn’t really my feet that touched the ground.”

    “Your boots?” Norman said and considered the idea. “That sounds okay. Take them off and I’ll imprison them then I’ll get you something else to wear.”

    Roger quickly slipped out of his boots and handed them over. Norman strolled off with them, disappearing into a Control Room. He reappeared a couple of minutes later carrying a pair of yellow slippers which had bright pink pompoms on them.

    “Sorry,” he said, handing them over, “they’re all I could find. But I brought your Visa as well.”

    “Thanks awfully,” Roger said, taking the Visa and pulling on the slippers.

    “You can come off the Ship now if you want to,” Norman told him.

    Smiling, Roger stepped off.

    “Visa!” Norman demanded instantly.

    “But you just--”

    “Visa!” Norman barked.

    Roger handed it over and Norman inspected it. He took a long time inspecting it. Eventually his eyes left the paper and travelled slowly up to Roger’s.

    “Where did you get this Visa?” he asked coldly.

    “You just gave me it,” Roger said.

    “Me sir?” Norman said. “I’ve never seen you before in my life, sir.”

    “But--”

    “It’s out of date, sir and it’s a forgery. A bad forgery at that. You could be in trouble here, sir. A lot of trouble.”

    Cold watery eyes stared at panicky blue ones.

    “Trouble? What kind of trouble?”

    “Serious trouble. Imprisonment for a long time kind of trouble.”

    “But you--”

    “Of course, there is a way round it, sir.”

    “A way round it? What? How?”

    “Well sir, I’d be prepared to overlook this demeanour if you stood on one leg, flapped your arms about, spun round and sang, ‘Maybe it’s because I’m an idiot, That I love spinning round.’”

    “Is this a joke?” Roger asked.

    “Guards!” yelled Norman. “Bring the Dobermans!”

    “Maybe it’s because I’m an idiot,” sang Roger, standing on one leg, flapping his arms and spinning round, “That I love--”

    Norman burst out laughing. In the background the Computer applauded and laughed too. Roger stopped singing.

    “It is a joke,” he deduced.

    “Always wanted to do that to somebody!” Norman confessed then was repossessed by hysterics.

    Roger tried to remain aloof. Suddenly he remembered what his old psychologist had taught him about how to handle situations like this �" nothing. It didn’t help.

    “You were very good,” Norman conceded, hysterics abating. “Come into the Control Room and have some tea. Your Visa’s fine.”

    He strolled off and after hesitating a bit, Roger plucked up his courage and remained where he was. Then frightened of being reduced to a minor character, he pompom’d his way across the Greater Albanian soil after Norman.