rr.armageddonthemusical-第14部分

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　　　The　grim　monotone　of　the　old　town　sector　passed　him　by　on　either　side。　The　buildings　were　ancient；　their　faces　blurred　by　the　acid　rains。　Rex　knew　nothing　of　this　area　other　than　it；　like　everywhere　else；　was　scheduled　for　redevelopment。　It　was　evident；　even　from　the　sorry　ruins　which　remained；　that　this　had　once　been　a　thriving　neighbourhood。　But　what　it　had　once　been　called　and　where　it　in　fact　was；　in　relation　to　anywhere　else；　was　anyone's　guess。　Geography　was　a　dead　science。
　　　Rex　recalled　the　time　that　his　Uncle　Tony　had　shown　him　something　he　referred　to　as　'A　Map　of　the　World'。　He　had　pored　over　the　coloured　splodges；　saying　that　these　were　countries　and　that　millions　of　people　had　once　lived　in　them。　'Different　races；'　he　said。　The　whole　concept　had　had　Rex　enchanted。　That　a　sheet　of　paper　could　represent　anywhere　that　it　was　possible　to　go；　and　somehow　show　you　how　to　get　there。　Rex　had　asked　the　old　man　how　large　he　thought　the　world　might　be。　But　Uncle　Tony　merely　shrugged　helplessly　and　replied　that　he　had　really　no　idea。　And　when　Rex　asked　to　be　shown　exactly　where　they　were　on　the　map；　he　had　shaken　his　head；　saying　that　he　didn't　know。　Then　he　had　wept。
　　　Rex　couldn't　remember　the　map　in　any　detail；　and　possession　of　such　artefacts　was　illegal　anyway。　So　it　was　still　a　mystery。　All　he　knew　of　the　world　was　that　it　was　flat；　rectangular　and　being　redeveloped。
　　　Rex　hunched　over　the　controls　and　squinted　into　the　gloom。　Perhaps　there　never　had　been　countries。　He　felt　sure　that　if　he　just　drove　and　drove　all　he　would　ever　find　was　simply　more　and　more　of　just　the　same。
　　　He　switched　on　the　spotlight　atop　the　vehicle。　Night　was　beginning　to　fall。　And　so　now　were　his　spirits。　Rex　swerved　suddenly　to　avoid　something　scaly　and　unwholesome　which　limped　across　the　trackway　before　him。　He　was　growing　very　tired　and　ing　to　the　dire　conclusion　that　he　was　also　growing　very　lost。　The　night　rain　began　to　sizzle　upon　the　vehicle's　roof。　It　spattered　on　to　the　windscreen；　drawing　blackened　tear　streaks　down　the　plexiglass。　Further　travel　would　soon　be　out　of　the　question。　Habitation；　sanctuary　or　whatever；　was　now　very　much　the　order　of　the　evening。　Rex　squinted。　It　was　growing　as　black　as　closedown。　No　lights；　not　a　nothing。　Press　on　a　little；　what　else　could　he　do？　The　runabout　trundled　into　a　pothole　and　Rex　felt　some　little　nagging　doubts　regarding　his　future。　The　filters　on　his　weatherdome　had　given　up　the　ghost　and　he　had　no　replacements。　The　night　didn't　smell　good。
　　　The　rain　now　fell　in　poisonous　torrents。　Lightning　zipped　and　flashed；　offering　chances　Rex　felt　disinclined　to　take。　He　pushed　the　runabout　out　of　gear　and　switched　off　the　fission　drive。　He　was　buggered。
　　　'God；'　said　Rex；　'about　this　afternoon。。。'　
　　　But　he　didn't　get　any　further。　In　between　the　lightning　breaks　something　else　was　flashing。　Colourfully。　Rex　didn't　take　it　in　at　first；　but　when　he　did；　a　grim　smile　found　its　way　amidst　his　damp　stubble。　The　light　went　on　。。。　off。。。　on　。。。　off　。。。　on　。。。　off。。。　the　way　some　of　them　do。　And　this　one　spelt　out　MORROWMA　TAV。
　　　The　sweeping　drive　up　to　Gracelands　was　chock…a…block。　Glorious　1950s　black　and　white　police　cars　were　parked　where　they　had　slewed。　Front　wheels　deeply　dug　into　the　plastic　turf。　Lots　of　flashing　lights　flashed；　pressmen　in　trenchcoats　with　big　cameras　and　fedoras　milled　about　the　mock　Grecian　pillars　and　asked　to　be　'given　a　break'。　Ambulances　stood；　their　rear　doors　yawning。　Fat　policemen；　or　cops；　as　they　were　then　known；　displayed　their　armpit　sweat　and　called　everyone　'mac'。　It　was　all　jolly　good　fun；　although　the　attention　to　period　detail　left　much　to　be　desired。　One　pressman　lit　his　cigar　with　a　disposable　gas　lighter；　which　was　wrong　for　a　start。　And　the　aerials　on　the　police　cars　were　too　modern。　The　cops'　hair　was　too　long；　but　you　have　to　expect　that。
　　　Elvis　Presley　didn't　have　much　to　say　for　himself。　But　under　the　circumstances；　he　could　hardly　be　blamed。　He　had　been　bound　tightly；　hand　and　foot；　gagged　with　a　lurex　sock　and　hooded　with　a　US　mailbag。　He　lay　face　down　in　a　flower…bed；　where　for　those　who　are　interested；　certain　flowers　bloomed　pletely　out　of　season。
　　　Jovil　Jspht　pressed　aside　the　leaves　of　a　privet　imaginatively　pruned　into　the　shape　of　a　guitar。　Behind　this；　he　and　the　captured　king　were　hiding。　'There　seems　to　be　no　end　of　fuss　going　on；'　Jovil　observed。
　　　'Can't　see　from　down　here；　chief。　Give　us　a　hand　up；　eh？'　Jovil　picked　up　the　sprout　and　pointed　him　towards　the　confusion。　'Pardon　me　for　saying　this；　chief。　And　shoot　me　down　in　flames　if　you　think　I'm　on　a　wrong'n；　but　surely　that　is　a　1965　Harley　Davidson。'　
　　　Jovil　nodded　thoughtfully。　'There's　something　wrong　all　the　way　round。　None　of　this　rings　true。　What　do　you　reckon？'　The　sprout　hesitated　so　Jovil　gave　it　an　urgent　squeeze。　'Well？'　
　　　'Well；　give　me　your　impression。　What　does　it　look　like　to　you？'　
　　　Jovil　bit　his　lip。　'It　looks　like　a　film　set；'　he　said　slowly。
　　　'Don't　it　just？　And　check　out　the　hedge。'　Jovil　did　so。　'Artificial。'　
　　　He　made　a　perplexed　face。　'I　don't　get　it。　We　are　in　1958；　aren't　we？'　
　　　'We're　in　1958。　But　I　don't　know　if　it's　the　real　one　or　not。　It's　more　like　a　memory　than　the　real　thing。　Perhaps　when　you　actually　go　back　in　time　things　aren't　the　way　they　are　supposed　to　be。　Possibly　when　the　present　bees　the　past　it　sort　of　decays。　Gets　all　jumbled　together。　Fragments。　The　further　back　you　go　the　more　confused　you　find　it　has　bee。'　
　　　'Sounds　feasible；'　Jovil　agreed。　'So　what　about　him？'　He　gestured　with　his　free　hand　towards　the　hooded　Presley；　who　was　starting　to　put　up　a　struggle。
　　　'He　certainly　looks　like　the　real　Mr　McCoy。　But　listen；　I　really　do　think　that　now　might　well　be　the　time　for　getaway　rather　than　conjecture。'　
　　　'Yes；　I　think　you're　right。'　Jovil　thrust　the　sprout　into　his　top　pocket；　dragged　the　prone　Presley　to　his　feet　and　bundled　him　across　his　shoulder。　He　stooped　to　pick　up　the　black　box　and　the　portable　monitor。　Struggling　manfully　beneath　the　bined　weight；　he　limped　down　a　gentle　incline　towards　further　outcroppings　of　ersatz　hedgery。
　　　'Now　why　do　I　just　know　that　there　is　an　empty　car　with　the　keys　left　in　the　ignition；　just　beyond　that　hedge？'　Jovil　asked。
　　　'Probably　for　the　same　reason　I　do；　chief；'　came　the　muffled　reply。
　　　'Best　go　with　the　flow；　eh？'　
　　　The　executive　bar　at　Earthers　Inc。　was　yet　another　triumph　from　the　trowel　of　Capability　Crabshaw。　A　splendid　neo…gothic　gazebo　of　a　place；　which　swelled　in　carbunclesque　fashion　from　an　upper　region　of　the　great　spiral　tower　and　chased　the　sunlight。　It　was　divided　into　elegant　bowers；　each　made　gay　by　delicate　fountains。　These　cast　scented　water　across　a　myriad　tiny　glass　domes。　Each　of　these　emitted　a　soft　melodic　tone。　But　the　beauty　of　all　this　was　currently　lost　upon　Fergus　Shaman。　Like　the　legendary　'lawn'　joke　of　old；　Fergus　was　half…cut。　He　peered　into　the　bell　of　his　cocktail　lily　and　sighed　plaintively。　Fifty　floors　below　him　a　custodian　lay　dead　before　a　violently　flashing　console。
　　　Someone　had　mitted　murder　within　the　headquarters　of　the　biggest　TV　station　in　the　galaxy；　and　introduced。。。　what？　Fergus　pondered　on　it。　Introduced　some　kind　of　virus；　perhaps；　into　the　cell　system。　And　that　someone　had　to　be　Jovil　Jspht。　There　could　be　no　other　plausible　explanation。　And　the　only　individual　upon　the　entire　planet　who　knew　this　terrible　truth　was　he；　Fergus　'Oh；　God's　nose；　what　have　I　done？'　Shaman。　And　what　had　he　done？　Jovil　was　obviously　a　basket…case；　barking　mad。
　　　A　waitress　clad　in　a　single　figure…hugging　sheath　of　vat…grown　moss　approached。　'Would　you　care　for　another；　Mr　Shaman？'　Under　normal　circumstances　Fergus　would　have　made　instantly　with　the　improper　suggestions；　being　something　of　a　ladies'　man。　But　tonight　he　was　just　not　up　to　it。
　　　'Same　again；'　he　mumbled；　without　looking　up。　'And　make　it　a　large　one；　please。'　
　　　The　siren　turned　huffily　upon　a　five…inch　root　heel　and　wiggled　away　in　a　purposeful　manner。　The　lost　soul　sank　into　further　miseries。　Big　trouble　was　ing。　Had　already　e；　for　all　he　knew。　With　no　way　to　access　the　storage　cells　there　was　no　way　of　knowing　what　Jovil　might　be　up　to。　Had　been　up