Part 3, Final Chapter and Press Review, of RFV.

TEN

 

    A mere two hours later, Roger finally arrived back at his Ship. When he’d found the patch of jungle, he’d allowed his experienced Pilot’s instinct to guide him however had entered at the wrong end. So much for his his experienced Pilot’s instinct. There followed a long tramp through the steamy greenery during which time he kept stepping on to things on the jungle floor. Squishy squelchy things that screeched when he stepped on them, spurting up green and yellow goo. Eventually he reached his Ship.

    It was a weary Roger who finally strolled into the Bridge to pats on the back from Thropely and Stan and a hug from Doris.

    “Welcome back, Captain White!” announced Angus the Computer.

    “Thanks,” said Roger, slumping on to a couch.

    “Ye look exhausted, love,” said Doris.

    “I am,” agreed Roger. “I got lost coming through the jungle.”

    Angus sniggered sympathetically.

    “How did you get into the Ship?” Roger asked Thropely.

    “Ah, that was me,” Angus told him. “When these people explained that they were friends of yours and were leaving with you, I decided to allow them in.”

    “Just in case any patrollin Germans saw us,” added Stan.

    “That’s alright then,” said Roger.

    “So what happened after Germans took ye, lad?” Thropely asked.

    Briefly Roger explained about Kapitan Kurt, the BlackJackBoots Quiz Show and the film scene.

    “Ah well, at least ye got here safely,” remarked Doris.

    “Oh by the way, lad,” said Thropely, “while we were waitin, me an Stan took a look at yer main Drive engine.”

    “Oh yes?” said Roger.

    “We noticed a slight malfunction in the Variable Helium Choke Ioniser in the Booster Quadrant o the Atomised Delivery Unit for the Ultra Destabilisin Compressor. We sorted it out. Hope ye don’t mind.”

    “Not at all,” said Roger. “I was going to do it myself anyway.”

    Angus laughed derisively. “You don’t even know where it is,” he mocked.

    Roger grinned smugly. “Of course I do,” he said. “It’s under the Variating Starboard Phlange Converter Adjuster.”

    Angus gritted his circuits. “So where are we going to then?” he asked.

    “That’s a good question,” admitted Roger, sitting up. “I want to go to New Earth but what about the rest of you?”

    “First thing is to get off Klyzemadex as soon as possible,” advised Stan.

    “Aye, best get strapped in for lift-off then,” said Thropely.

    Doris, Thropely and Stan strolled over and strapped themselves into seats along one of the Bridge walls.

    “How about coming along with me? See what New Earth is like?” Roger suggested to them.

    “Don’t think we’ll bother, lad,” said Thropely. “Grammar will probably be as bad as it was on Earth.”

    “Well where do you want to go then?” an irritated Roger asked.

    “Outer Sensors indicate a German patrol approaching! Heavily armed!” warned Angus.

    “Christ we’d best be off!” said Thropely.

    “Agreed,” agreed Angus.

    The Ship rocked a little as the main Drive engine kicked in.

    “But we haven’t decided where we’re going yet!” complained Roger.

    “Oh yes we have,” said Angus.

    “Where?”

    “Up!” Angus answered crisply. “Ship lifting! Strap in! Too late!”

    “Aarrgghh!” yelled Roger, as not for the first time but definitely for the last time on these voyages, he was thrown backwards on the Bridge couch as the Ship arrowed gracefully into the air.

WHAT THE PRESS HAVE SAID ABOUT ROGER’S FABULOUS VOYAGES

 

 

“It’s a load of shite!”

THE MANURE SPREADERS MONTHLY

 

“A brilliant first novel. Much better than his last one.”

THE IRISHMAN

 

“Gave us hard-ons!”

THE ILLUSTRATED LADYBOYS MAGAZINE

 

“A stunning tour de force which ruthlessly exposes the seedy underbelly of middle class America.”

THE BOMBAY BUGLE

 

“It’s political correctness gone mad!”

THE POLITICAL CORRECTNESS GONE MAD JOURNAL

 

“Left me breathless.”

ASTHMATIC TIMES

 

“A thoroughly vindictive attack on the world’s best-loved, environmentally friendly, two-wheeled propulsion unit.”

THE 2-STROKE MOPED MAGAZINE

 

“Too much crap about Eskimos.”

THE ALASKAN POST.

 

“Excuse me, we’re not called Eskimos anymore, we’re called Innuit.”

THE INNUIT CHRONICLE

 

“Eskimos. Innuit. It doesn’t matter what you’re called, you still smell like wet f*****g fish.”

THE ALASKAN INSULT