“It’s no big deal.” Mr Boothy shrugged. “Or, rather, I suppose it is. You see, there’s dead and there’s dead and there’s really dead. Would you like to come to my office and I’ll tell you all about it?”
I looked at my watch. It was twelve-fifteen.
“OK,” I said and I followed him.
An intraterrestrial or two appeared before me on the way and I shot them when I saw them.
“Must you do that?” asked Mr Boothy.
“Sorry,” I said, “but I must.”
“Never mind. Come on, then.”
He led me to his office. It wasn’t much of an office. Nothing fancy. Just basic. A hat stand and a filing cabinet, a water cooler and a desk and a couple of chairs. It put me in mind of Lazlo Woodbine’s office. But this didn’t cheer me very much.
“Sit there,” said Mr Boothy.
I sat where he told me to.
“Drink?” he asked.
“I can’t taste anything,” I said. “But something strong would be nice.”
Mr Boothy poured me something strong. I think it was petrol.
“Bottoms up,” he said. And I drank what he had given me and he drank what he’d poured for himself. Then he sat himself down in the chair behind the desk, which wasn’t much to speak of, so I shall not speak of it here.
“You’re perplexed,” said Mr Boothy, patting a dog which had climbed up onto his knee.
“I am,” I said, patting his other dog, which was humping my leg.
“It’s all been a terrible bols-up,” said Mr Boothy. “Operation Orpheus. Everything really went wrong right from the start. We did get the information we needed that helped us to win the war. But then later, in nineteen fifty-nine, all this alien business kicked in and we didn’t understand what we were dealing with or what was happening to us. By the time we did realize, it was all but too late. We did what we could, we tried to make reparations, but things got out of hand.”
“I am still perplexed,” I said. “What do you mean by reparations?”
“Restoring people to life,” said Mr Boothy. “Those who the aliens had killed in their games. Back in the nineteen fifties, the department, the Ministry of Serendipity, we investigated the possibilities of restoring the dead to life. Books existed, you see, in the restricted sections of the libraries. But I assume you know all about that, or you wouldn’t be here now. You see, whenever someone important to us – a government official, or someone big in office – was killed, we used magic to restore them to life. But you know how chaotic that becomes. They fall to pieces. It’s a real mess.
“But reanimation, for those killed in the course of their duties, was written into the standard work contract for the Ministry of Serendipity. My secretary reanimated me only hours after I’d been run down. And quite right too, because I’m important. But of course everyone involved had loved ones, and when one of them died they wanted them brought back to life. It all grew and it got out of control. Did you know that there are towns in this country where the dead outnumber the living?”
I shook my head.
“Ever heard of Hove?” asked Mr Boothy.
I shook my head again.
“Well, believe me, it’s a real problem. And I’m here heading up this Ministry. And now I’m dead.”
“You’re lying,” I said. “You gave evidence at my trial. You’re being controlled by an alien.”
“You’re so right,” said Mr Boothy. “I was being controlled then. But I was alive then. I’m not now. You see, a knackered transit van ran over me outside the prison last week. It was making a speedy getaway. I understand that the woman who was driving the van had stolen your body from the prison graveyard.”
“Tough luck,” I said, though I couldn’t disguise a smile. “But about the dead aliens—”
“Listen to me, Gary,” said Mr Boothy. “Forget about those dead aliens. Dismiss those dead aliens from your mind. They’re not what you think.”
“Yeah, right,” I said. “Dead aliens is what this is all about.”
“P.P. Penrose is what this is all about,” said Mr Boothy.
I scratched at my head. And bits of my head fell off.
“Careful on my carpet,” said Mr Boothy. “I’ve just had it cleaned.”
“I’m going to shoot you again,” I said. “Try to die this time, will you?”
“You’ve heard of P.P. Penrose, haven’t you?” said Mr Boothy.
“My favourite author,” I said. “I’m his biggest fan.”
“And you like all those Lazlo Woodbine thrillers?”
“Brilliant. I love them.”
“And what about the Adam Earth series?”
“His science-fiction books? They’re rubbish. Everyone agrees on that.”
“Pity,” said Mr Boothy. “Because you’ve been drawn into them. You’re part of them. You and most of mankind.”
“Rubbish,” I said. “Do you mind if I shoot you again? I feel compelled.”
“Help yourself. But mind the face. Don’t touch the face.”
I emptied the gun into Mr Boothy’s chest.
“Feel better?” he said. “Did it help?”
“Not much, apparently.”
“Then let me continue. Mr Penrose died in nineteen fifty-nine, in a bizarre vacuum-cleaning incident.”
“I know,” I said. “I went to his funeral.”
“I know you did,” said Mr Boothy, nodding his head and patting his dog. “And did you read his biography that was published this year – P.P. Penrose: The Man Who Was Lazlo Woodbine, by Macgillicudy Val Der Mar?”
“Er, no,” I said. “Although I did attend the launch party.”
“Yes, I know that too,” said Mr Boothy. “You do turn up in the darnedest places. Well, had you read his biography you would have learned that Mr Penrose got really fed up with writing Lazlo Woodbine thrillers. He even tried to kill Laz off at one point.”
“In The Final Solution,” I said. “He had Laz plunge to his death over the Reichenbach Falls with his archenemy Montmorency.”
“That’s right. But the public wouldn’t have it. The public demanded more Woodbine. So he wrote the ‘Return’ series.”
“It wasn’t as good,” I said. “But it was still brilliant. And certainly better than that Adam Earth rubbish.”
“Well, had you read the biography, you’d have learned that P.P. Penrose did not want to be remembered for the Lazlo Woodbine books. He really wanted to be remembered for the Adam Earth series, his science-fiction books.”
“But they were rubbish,” I said. “The characters had all these stupid names like Zador Startrouser of the quilted codpiece, or whatever.”
“Yes, didn’t they,” said Mr Boothy, with a grin. “In fact, you’ll find many of the so-called True Names – the names of the dead aliens who control humans – in those books. That’s where the names come from.”
“You’re telling me that real aliens adopted fictitious names?”
“No, that’s not what I’m telling you at all. Something happened to P.P. Penrose, happened to him after he died. It turned him from being a sporting man and a good-natured novelist, who was merely a bit miffed that his science-fiction books weren’t recognized as his greatest works, into a deeply embittered dead man. A dead man, it seems, who violently hates the living.”
“I wonder what might have done that to him,” I said.
“Probably being awakened in his grave,” said Mr Boothy.
“Oh,” I said.
“Yes, oh. He thought it all up, all of it. Invented the dead aliens who control the living. Gave them life from beyond the grave. He’s responsible for it all. One man, but many now he’s dead. He’s all of those dead aliens, such as Valdec Firesword, Archduke of Alpha Centuri, that’s you, and Lady Fairflower of the Rainbow Mountains, your wife Sandra: all thought up by P.P. Penrose. All characters from his books. That dead man has a remarkable imagination. And it’s even bigger now, beyond the grave.”