“You will die in three days’ time,” said Fourth Man Tripper, reedily. “And you will not be recloned again or reborn. I have rechecked all the calculations and I can assure you there are no bum stains on my knickers.”
“What are you on about, Tripper?”
“Inevitable consequences, sir. The inevitable consequences of THE END. It was all in the report that I left on your desk. Perhaps you did not get around to reading it.”
“Perhaps I did not.”
“Pity, sir. But it’s definitely three days. The projections suggest that you die on the golf course. The mob beats you to death. Someone rams a number nine iron right up your—”
“Hold it right there, Tripper. Is this some kind of joke? Because if it is, then I can tell you it’s not a new one. All jokes have been done. And most by the end of the twentieth century.”
“It’s no joke, sir. Clovis here dies. Blashford dies. The mob will slay us all. The figures do not lie. They’re Porkie’s figures, after all.”
“Good old Tripper,” said Blashford.
“Eh?” said Clovis.
“I said, good old Tripper. He’s come up with something new. It’s not THE END at all. No, hang about. Me too? I die too? Why should I die? What have I done?”
Fourth Man Tripper thumbed some more at his goldy locks. “It’s not so much what you have done. It’s more a matter of what you can no longer do. Would you like me to explain? Would you like me to tell you what is going to happen and why it’s going to happen?”
“If you must,” said Dr Trillby, casting wistful eyes towards the window. “But if this is a joke—”
“What will you do? Sack me?”
“Just say your piece.”
“Thank you, sir.” Tripper flicked imaginary dust from a furry cuff. “Everyone on the planet has known for months that THE END was coming. There aren’t any secrets any more, much as we would like there to be. Every home has a terminal, every terminal is linked to Porkie. Information is currency and all are mighty rich.”
“Good line,” said Blashford. “New line?”
“No, it’s not,” said Dr Trillby. “Get on with it, Tripper.”
“Everyone knows,” said Tripper, “we are on Porkie’s camera even as we speak. The details of this meeting are already being processed to be broadcast worldwide on the mid-morning news. That the end has come will be broadcast. All the world will know. What do you suppose will happen next?”
“A mad rush to the golf course,” said Dr Trillby. “But happily I will have finished my round by then and be enjoying the hospitality of the nineteenth hole.”
“No,” said Tripper. “You really should have read my report. What will happen next is this. Everyone will sit about in bewildered silence, taking in the enormity of it and then they will say to themselves and to others, ‘No, this cannot be,’ and ‘It can’t be THE END,’ and, ‘You can’t tell me we now know everything there is to know and have done everything there is to be done.’ And then they will all rack their brains and try to come up with something new. But they won’t be able to, because there’s nothing new to come up with. And then do you know what they’ll do?”
“Play golf?”
“No, they won’t play golf. They’ll look for someone to blame. That’s what they always do. You see, the man in the street might hate change, but he always wants something new to enjoy. Nature of the beast, I suppose. And when the man in the street can’t get what he wants he looks for someone to blame.”
“Now just hold on,” Dr Trillby raised his hands. “You’re not suggesting that the man in the street will blame us?”
“Who else would he blame? Scientists have been running this planet for thousands of years, supplying the needs of the people. Improving life. That’s what scientists do, after all.”
“Some say,” said Clovis.
“Shut up, Clovis,” said Dr Trillby. “But blame us, Tripper? Blame us? After all we’ve done for the man in the street?”
“Done, is the word,” said Tripper. “We can’t do any more. The mob will rise up and slay us all.”
“Are you sure about this? Are you sure about the calculations?”
“They’re Porkie’s calculations.”
There was a moment of silence. Each man alone with his own thoughts.
And then they all spoke.
Together. Well, three of them, at least.
“It’s all Porkie’s fault,” they said.
Tripper shook his head. “And who built Porkie? Scientists, that’s who. I’m afraid, gentlemen, that we are in the shit here. If we can’t come up with something to please the man in the street very very fast, we are in the shit.
“And that’s OFFICIAL!”
“Anyone for golf?” asked Dr Trillby.
“Golf?” said Tripper. “Golf?”
“And why not?”
“I would have thought that was patently obvious.”
Dr Trillby made a breezy face and spoke in an airy manner. “We cannot stop what cannot be stopped. We are scientists and as scientists we must adopt a detached attitude. Even to our own extinction.”
“Bollocks to that,” said Clovis.
“I tend to agree with Clovis on this occasion,” said Blashford.
“And so do I,” said Dr Trillby. “But then I have known Tripper for more years than our cat’s had an interesting disease that I programmed into its genes to entertain my daughter. Look at that big smug smile on his face. You know a way out of this mess, don’t you, Tripper?”
“I may do.”
“Then we’re all saved!” Blashford cheered. “Tripper’s got a new idea. Three cheers for Tripper.”
Tripper fondled his cuffs. “It’s not a new idea,” he said. “In fact it’s a very old idea. But I think it’s going to do the trick.”
Dr Trillby glanced towards the window. “The sun rises higher,” he said. “I shall be late for my round.”
Blashford grinned at Tripper. “Tell us all about it, old buddy,” said he.
“You creep,” said Clovis. “You fatty fatty creepy creepy creep.”
“And it’s not my plan,” said Tripper. “It’s Porkie’s plan. But if all goes successfully, as I’m sure it will, I will have no hesitation in taking all the credit.”
“And if all goes poo-shaped?” asked Dr Trillby.
“As I said, it’s Porkie’s plan.”
“I thought we’d agreed that we couldn’t blame it on Porkie,” said Blashford.
“Do shut up, lad,” said Dr Trillby. “Let’s hear what Tripper has for us. It’s going to be very good, isn’t it, Tripper?”
“Very good indeed, sir, yes.”
“Then go on, lad. Let’s have it.”
“Thank you, sir.” Tripper preened at his lapels. “The answer to all our problems can be found in two words,” he said.
There was a moment of hushed expectation.
“Time travel,” said Tripper.
There was a moment of terrible groaning.
“We’re all doomed,” said Dr Trillby. “I really should have guessed.”
“Please hear me out.” Tripper knotted tiny fists. “I know what you’re going to say.”
“That time travel is impossible? Well there, I’ve said it. I’ve said it before, if I recall.”
“But it’s not, sir.”
“But it is, Tripper. Time travel is impossible. If it hadn’t been impossible we would have come up with it before THE END.”
“But we did, sir. I did, sir. Well, Porkie did, sir.”
“Porkie did what?”
“If you’d read my report, sir. It was all in there. Porkie’s final innovation. His final gift to mankind, before THE END. He must have been working privately on it for centuries. Having projected precisely when THE END would come and what the consequences would be, our murders and his own destruction—”