Chapter 12
The Twin
Basil stood in the semi-twilight of Titan and contemplated his next move. It was cold, very cold, about twenty degrees below zero and about fifty degrees below that if you include the wind chill factor; it was cold enough to freeze the googlies off a brass monkey. He shivered inwardly, uncontrollably. A heavy drizzle of ice fell on him; he pulled his coat tightly around him and gazed at the slick ribbon of deserted road that vanished into the distance; it was bathed in the soft, silvery light of a dying moon.
The sky to his left glowed with a bright light; it must be the twin spires. He groaned wretchedly and shook off some of the clinging ice before it set solid.
Basil still held the deflated space and time modulator bubble in his hand; he plunged it into the deepest part of his coat pocket and quickly zipped it in place and wrapped the coat around himself once more. He looked around to make sure he wasn’t being followed and confident that he wasn’t he sloped towards the twin cities of sin.
Titan was a penal moon; it orbited the mighty planet Saturn; it was named after the god of harvest, a misnomer if there ever was one! It was where the vilest, meanest, and most vicious miscreants ever to have been born were dumped for crimes against humanity; they were harvested from all over the galaxy. The penal governor was encouraged to make their stay as short as possible - there was a long waiting-list of serious wrongdoers!
The penal administrators (all MBA recipients) were forever faced with the dilemma of appropriating the necessary funds to run the penal colony; they sat round a conference table looking glum; they were at their wits end how to raise more money. Some of the more imaginative honours recipients suggested gladiatorial fights to the death to attract cash-paying tourists; and it would save heaps of money at the same time! Others, those with only pass degrees, suggested working the criminals to death; they’d tried that one a couple of times before but decided the return on investment was only marginal so they put an end to it. But something positive had to be done to rail-in the burgeoning cost of maintaining the colony; and if they didn’t come up with a moneymaking scheme soon they’d all be out of a really cushy job. Then a staff techno-witch made a very bright suggestion:
“Why not use the better-behaved and suitably qualified criminals (those with MBAs) in a way that would benefit the colony as a whole? Let them engage in free enterprise!” she sang. “And it would make us incredibly rich at the same time!”
Well say no more, the MBA’s couldn’t find a pen fast enough to sign-off on the idea; it was brilliant with a capital B. They spent the next hour or so arguing about Intellectual Property Rights and whose idea it was in the first place; they ended-up having a free-for-all brawl, were arrested and dragged before the Penal Governor - he gave them a thoroughly good talking-to. It was unanimously agreed it was the Governor’s brilliant idea and a message was faxed to
The idea was a really good one: it allowed chosen prisoners to own and run their businesses, make heaps of money and give it all to the governor and his board of administrators - they owned the Penal Bank. The bank would then loan the money to other worthy enterprises and so on and so forth. They amassed so much money the treasury overflowed and they had to build a new treasury around the old treasury so they could shovel-in more money.
The Board of Administrators, all MBA’s, sat around the conference table; they looked glum, they were at their wit’s end how to spend the money!
***
Twin Spires was the name given to the mega-metropolis by the Minister for Interplanetary Affairs, on advice from the Secretary of the Department of Interplanetary Affairs, on advice from the Working Party on the Final Solution to the Prisoner Problem, on advice from the Steering Committee who used up their time trying to discover what the problem was in the first place, on advice from the governor of Titan and his mob of highly educated advisors who had nothing better to do. They all had at least one MBA from some obscure university trying desperately to raise funds for a pay raise.
In the fullness of time the Twin Spires blossomed into a glittering metropolis of neon lights, casinos, garish theme hotels, and dens of badness; it was a downright honey-pot for the thoroughly wicked class of humanity, ninety-nine percent of whom were politicians, lawyers and veterinary surgeons; the remaining one percent didn’t know the time of day! In fact, Titan was so hugely popular with tourists that a magnetic tractor beam was created to link Titan with the more populous planets in the Solar System. And why were the hedonists so keen to get there? Well I’ll tell you the truth: They were bored shitless making heaps of money and desperate for an adrenaline rush; they longed for the thrill of life in the fast lane they saw ad nauseum on television; and to add zest to their mind-numbing existence by mucking-in with cutthroats, muggers, pimps, rapists, assassins, drug pushers, and TV evangelists who blamed the Devil for their sins!
Basil trudged through the heavy slush and muck towards the distant light; he was deep in thought. He was searching for the airship, Tragic-the-Terrible, and the wartlocks in that order, but he wasn’t fussy.
Basil adjusted his pistol; the feel of the warm weapon between his legs made him feel good and macho-confident; he pulled his cap over his ears and sloped onwards at a quickened pace. Suddenly, and without any warning, a big black limousine with its headlights turned off hurtled out of the darkness behind him; it was driven by an eight-tentacle, four-eye, yellow-skinned octopus sporting a red moustache, a blue fez, and white shirt. And he was looking for Basil! The fortune teller had already warned him of Basil’s imminent arrival; and the promise of riches beyond his most vivid imagination motivated him for his present mission: to capture and deliver Basil into the evil hands of Tragic-the-Terrible. Curiously, however, because it wasn’t in his job description, the moment the octopus saw Basil he jumped on the accelerator and drove straight at him; his aim was to kill Basil with extreme prejudice!
Basil had a lifetime of experience in the art of ‘duck-shoving’ while occupying a junior managerial position in the Department of Odds and Sods; he sidestepped with alacrity and the limousine tore past and vanished into the night. Basil looked around and cast his eyes from horizon to horizon; he was alone; he adjusted his attire and plodded onwards, cautiously.
The octopus struggled with the heavy car as it careered down the road at a hair-raising speed; it was out of control and so was he. A multitude of tourists, assorted creatures, and prisoners out on conjugal leave or just out to give the ferret a run, had assembled in front of Mega-McDuck’s fast food restaurant, the biggest on Titan; they were shuffling about in the freezing cold when the unthinkable happened - a big black limousine with its headlights turned off roared over the hill and smashed straight into them with the force of a speeding limousine; bodies were thrown through the air like rag dolls and lay on the pavement bleeding and broken; nobody seemed to care, however, and after a cursory look at the carnage they resumed their place in the queue, now much shortened, and continued their idle chatter. The octopus didn’t appear to be too upset; he jumped from the battered car and joined the queue. Many of the tourists took photos to show their family and friends when they got home.
Basil arrived on the scene a short time later; he was too cold and miserable to pay too much attention to the goings-on in front of the restaurant; they were mainly crooks and insane tourists anyway, he reasoned. He raised his arm and hailed a passing taxi; he slid in. There was no door; it’d been ripped off a long time ago judging from the thick coat of rust on the twisted hinges.
“Where to?” demanded the metallic voice; the android driver’s lips didn’t move but Basil heard him nonetheless, probably mental telepathy he thought.
“I’m looking for the Nicola Tesla Magical Mystery Tour. Have you heard of it?”
“The Nicola Tesla Magical Mystery Tour,” repeated the android; “The Nicola Tesla Magical Mystery Tour; yes! I’ve heard of the Nicola Tesla Magical Mystery Tour. Where to?” Basil was stunned; the prick was obviously taking the piss or something.
“To the fecking Nicola Tesla Magic Mystery Tour you deaf bastard!” shouted Basil beside himself with anger; he was definitely in a killing mood and the android would do just fine!
The android didn’t reply but the skin on his faded plastic forehead sagged to the level of his ears. It was clear to Basil this android wasn’t as stupid as he looked; he was the android equivalent of being scared fartless!
“Tighten your seat belt!” shouted the android as he flattened pedal to the metal; they roared off down the road and raced through the frigid night. Thump! Basil tightened his seat belt another notch; that was the third pedestrian they’d bowled over, but who’s counting! Basil decided to question the android further.
“Have you ever met the high-tech witches On and Off?”
“High-tech witches On and Off?” he repeated. “High-tech witches On and Off? No, no, definitely not, definitely; no, I’ve ever heard of the high-tech witches On and Off!”
The android definitely had a circuit problem or was he just playing dumb? Basil wasn’t sure. But he was sure of one thing: The android was lying! Every bit of Basil’s gut told him so and the pong of his dangerously overheated circuits confirmed it!
Androids were made with an imbedded truth chip; why was his tampered with? Basil stroked his chin; he smelt something fishy, probably the android’s burning ears!
Only two people in the entire galaxy had the technical knowledge to reconstruct an android’s brain without tripping its self destruct mechanism - it was designed to foil any attempt to alter emotion; they were the high-tech witches On and Off.
Then everything went blank.
Basil found himself on the wet pavement; his head hurt something awful. Was it something he’d said to the android? He raised himself onto all fours and a passing dog gave him a thorough going-over and trotted off haughtily. Basil crawled towards a bright light; a huge neon sign hung across the doorway. Basil squinted at the squiggles and as they jelled into a semblance of English script he made out the words: Welcome to the Pearly Gate.
“Shit!” Basil shouted; there was a lot of passion in his voice. “Dead and I don’t know it!”
Basil pushed his way through the door; a slimy-slug chugged past arrogantly - that was the nickname given to a gastropodean a species of snail from Jupiter’s moon Europa; it slowed opposite Basil and gave him a scathing appraisal with its big black telescopic eyes; it then lodged a formal complaint with management about the appalling lack of standards or something to that effect. Basil dragged himself onto the nearest available barstool and supported his head on his elbows; he groaned but nobody took any notice.
“What do you want?” grunted the octopus; he wore a blue fez and a white shirt and a red moustache wriggled energetically between his nose and upper lip.
Basil grabbed the octopus by the throat; it turned out to be his scrotum and dragged him over the counter.
“You’re the mongrel that tried to run me down!” he growled; the octopus couldn’t speak; tears rained from his eyes. Basil released his grip and the barman slumped back with a loud echoing howl. His mate sidled over on six tentacles and used the other two to wield a baseball bat in front of him.
“What’ll it be?” he screeched through his beak. Basil fingered his .45 to make sure it was hunky-dory.
“Give me double vodka and leave the bottle!” He didn’t bother about saying “please”; nobody said “please” or “thank you” in a penal colony.
“Three credits!” shrieked the octopus like a sulpha-crested cockatoo straining to have an overdue shit and slammed the glass onto the bar, spilling most of its contents. He stood before Basil grinning. Basil wasn’t going to be intimidated by a fecking retarded squid! Other octopus sidled over to watch the fun; they started taking bets on who’d break first, the smart money was on Basil.
Basil grabbed a handful of octopus scrotum; it turned out to be his throat and dragged him over the bar; they glared at each other eye-to-eye. Then Basil did something that only Basil would ever do: he shoved one credit down the octopus gullet - he coughed, spluttered and swallowed it with a sickly gulp; Basil watched its progress into the abyss.
“Three credits!” he screeched again; he was livid, how dare this human upstart upstage him in front of his mates!
“If you want three credits” said Basil suavely and sipped his vodka like another famous Englishman, James Bond; “you’ll just have to pay it yourself!”
The octopus couldn’t believe his ears; he was flabbergasted; he stood there open-beaked like a stunned octopus.
Basil took another sip of vodka and raised a taunting eyebrow at the barman; and a sneer crept across Basil’s face! “Why don’t you try and take it from me?” He said smugly and grinned. The bets were flying thick and fast. This was too much for the octopus; he slipped a tentacle beneath the bar. Basil heard a loud click. The Barman fixed Basil with a fishy grin; he was trying to catch Basil’s attention.
Basil laughed beneath his breath but he changed his mind almost immediately. The octopus, mimicking a screeching parrot, produced his trump card: a heavy-duty thermo-blaster, the most powerful hand weapon in the known galaxy!
“Good night Basil!” he sang and pulled the trigger! He missed! He should’ve used his arms instead of his legs; but he hit three of his mates who went up in a puff of smoke. The octopus quickly reloaded but Basil was too slick; and as quick as Doc Holliday at the OK Corral planted a 200-grain hollow point full metal jacket bullet between the octopus’s ugly big eyes; he didn’t scream because he didn’t have a head to scream with, but he was kind enough to leave his brains on the wall behind him.
“Does anybody want calamari?” Basil crowed drolly as the octopus’s mates scuttled from the room as fast as their eight legs would carry them.
A bevy of grunting hermaphrodites suddenly appeared on the scene; they love a hero and Basil was just such a man. But Basil was having none of it – he was an Englishman!
Snapping the safety catch to off Basil flung his .45, the most powerful kinetic energy weapon in the galaxy, into action; he didn’t bother taking aim; the hermaphrodites were too close to miss!
Bang! Missed! Bang! Again; missed again! but Basil had the satisfaction of plugging a hairy Neverian, a cross between an English aristocrat and a nanny-goat from the mining planet Never-Ever, because he laughed so much he put Basil off his aim; he spun around on the floor like a stunned blowfly for a bit then jumped onto his good foot and hopped away as fast as he could; he cradled his injured foot in his arms as he hopped around the corner and fell down a flight of steps – he howled an awful lot after that! The hermaphrodites dashed from the room; Basil was too macho with his gun for their liking.
Basil saw the vivid flash of a thermo-blaster from the corner of his eye; he ducked instinctively and as if he could slow time he watched the searing plug of superheated plasma tumble by and vaporise a crowd of tourists out for the thrill of their life! Basil had just arrived on Titan and he was already in trouble; the night had started with him traumatising one octopus and killing another in dramatic circumstances; he then amused himself by severely wounding a half aristocrat half nanny-goat; and frightened a bevy of hermaphrodites half to death. And, as if that weren’t enough, he was on an android wanted poster for one reason or another; and the night was still young!
Basil tried to blend with the crowd but he always lacked something: like an extra arm, tentacles, testicle, leg, head, or something that one would likely notice at an aristocrat’s dinner party. Let’s face it, Basil stood out like the Archbishop of Canterbury among a flock of pretty young ewes!
“Hello, Basil!” sang a sultry voice from out of nowhere; he felt a soft hand glide through his hair.
Basil turned towards the voice; she was gorgeous. “Well, hello there,” Basil gasped suavely; he adjusted his Eaton necktie and flattened his hair. “Have we met before?” He asked and grinned sheepishly. She laughed seductively, like Delilah at her first meeting with Samson.
“No, Basil; but you know me. You’ve asked after me; and you’re looking for me.”
“My name is On; I work for Dr. Nicola Tesla.”
Basil’s brain shot into gear. “So you must be a high-tech witch then?” He said the obvious; On laughed enchantingly and swept closer. Her perfume was intense, entrancing, overpowering; she looked deep into his bright blue eyes; his eyelids flapped with excitement. Basil felt his heart race and his knees knock like a mini-earthquake; he began to hyperventilate; then everything went blank. Perhaps it was the perfume?
Basil came-to in a large, sterile room; it smelt strongly of medicines; a bright light shone from the ceiling. He felt a soft hand on his forehead; it moved down his face gently, tenderly. A woman’s voice spoke to him. “Are you all right, Basil?” the voice hummed like a songbird and an arm piled a few extra pillows behind his back.
Basil sat up and fixed his eyes on the most beautiful woman that he’d ever seen this side of the solar system; she was a clear second to Caroline, however.
A glossy smile hitched itself to her generous lips; she could see Basil was trying to say something because his jaw moved; with bated breath she waited for his words of wisdom:
“Well, actually I’m half left!” he said laughing; that was his best and only joke. She giggled in a weary sort of way and examined her watch.
“My name is Off,” she purred. “You met my sister before. We’re the On and Off high-tech witches.”
On appeared as if on cue; she radiated the most enchanting smile he’d ever seen this side of
“My name is Dr. Nicola Tesla,” he said and extended his long, thin hand. Basil accepted it. “Why were you looking for us Dr. Basil?” he asked, getting straight to the point.
Basil decided not to mention the android with the personality change. “I’ve come to Titan to see the famous Nicola Tesla Magical Mystery Tour he said and beamed bright and wide.
“What’s your real reason for coming to Titan?” asked Tesla; his voice was terse and crisp.
Basil decided to tell the truth; there was nothing else for it; it was a simple matter of sink or swim and he preferred the latter. And Tesla already knew what he was doing on Titan by all accounts.
“I’m here to find the Doctor’s airship,” he said bluntly.
“And what makes you think it’s on Titan?” asked Tesla without taking the time to ask what the Doctor’s airship was or what it looked like.
“Because the Airship had a tracking device fitted to it; and it was tracked to here!” said Basil in a matter-of-fact tone.
Tesla thought for a brief moment. “Who brought it here? He asked. The fact is Tesla already knew the answer but wanted to know how much Basil knew.
Basil answered immediately. “It was Tragic-the-Terrible and his horde of hairy mates!”
“Who were his hairy accomplices?”
“They were Wartlock!” Basil growled; he was becoming a little peeved with the interrogation.
“Tragic-the-Terrible and Wartlock on Titan; what’s their relationship?” asked Tesla. And so the interrogation continued with Basil answering all the questions truthfully or fibbing as best he could.
“Have you ever heard of Tragic-the-Terrible?” said Basil suspiciously.
Tesla smiled and the high-tech witches giggled. “Yes Basil, I know the Lord of Hell very well!”
Basil was bowled over; he suspected Tragic-the-Terrible and the Lord of Hell were one and the same for a long time, especially after catching him spying on the wizards and being so afraid of the centaurs; and the Doctor for that matter. And it was he, Tragic-the-Terrible, who used the wartlocks to engineer the theft of the airship from
The fact is, Nicola Tesla and the two high-tech witches, On and Off, knew an awful lot about the goings-on in Kingdom, Deep Wood and
“Do you know where Tragic is?” asked Basil fixing his eyes on Tesla. The high-tech witches giggled; they were hiding something. “Would you like to meet him?” asked Tesla grinning. Basil nodded and pulled himself from his bed; at this rate he’ll be home for breakfast!
They shuffled down a long transparent corridor towards a bank of lifts. Tesla guided him into a lift set aside for his own private use. He closed the door and pressed a button with the word “Laboratory” above it. Basil braced himself for the upward flight; he was flung sideways by a powerful invisible hand. They hurtled through a window at the top of the spire and shot off towards the horizon; it wasn’t long before Basil got his first glimpse of the laboratory.
“So that’s why the lift has windows?” said Basil, smirking. In the near distance, silhouetted in the half-light of the fading moon, was a large complex of skyscrapers. Suddenly a blinding beam of light attached itself to the lift; it was instantly followed by dozens of others.
The lift glowing like a brilliant star rapidly descended on the beams of light towards a tower standing head and shoulders above its companions in the centre of the complex. A soft blue light pulsed through a gap, like sensuous feminine lips, at the top of the tower. Tesla flipped a switch and guided the lift through the gap; they entered a world the like of which Basil had never seen before. The high-tech witches noted Basil’s amazement and giggled; Tesla grinned proudly; he was its creator!
Theirs was the only lift in the parking lot; the remainder of the spaces were occupied by hundreds of heavily-armed military crowd-control vehicles, multi-wheeled troop carriers, half-track trucks and tanks with barrels so big Basil could easily slide down the inside. Basil thought that rather strange for a Laboratory; what could it mean?
They marched on, Tesla in the lead and the high-tech witches following up the rear. Army personnel were everywhere; they were all armed to the proverbial teeth. They entered another lift; Basil braced himself for another sideway trip, but it fell like a stone and stopped just as abruptly as a stone converting its potential energy into kinetic energy; he felt sick and slumped out of the lift as the door slid open.
The high-tech witches helped Basil to his feet and threw him onto what can only be described as a roller coaster; they shot backwards, twisting and turning and even going upside down. If this was intended to be torture he’d tell them everything even if he had to make it up! They arrived with a loud roar as the reverse thrusters burst into action; Basil was the only one who didn’t bother putting on his safety belt; he was thrown out by the momentum and lay moaning and groaning beside the track. The high-tech witches glided to his side and casually pulled him to his feet. An army security officer then drove them the final kilometre or so to their destination. Basil was guided into an elegant room; a brass plate with the words “WAR ROOM” hung above the portal.
The room was empty except for a long, well-polished table, around which stood a dozen pairs of chairs. Even though he was profoundly tired, bruised and sore, Basil was ordered to stand. The reason became apparent moments later.
Basil couldn’t believe his eyes; the seemingly solid wall parted and in marched the Fuhrer; he was followed by Tragic-the-Terrible aka the Lord of Hell; General Regan; the fortune teller; and an assortment of wartlock guards who shuffled along at the back of the procession.
Tesla grinned and cast Basil a wink; he knew what Basil was thinking: Why did the Fuhrer came into the room first? And why was Tragic-the-Terrible so closely guarded? After all it was impossible that anyone could pose a danger to Tragic-the-Terrible, and here of all places? But Basil was very wrong yet again – they were there to protect the Fuhrer!
The Fuhrer sat at the head of the table; Tragic sat on his left; and General Regan and the fortune teller sat on his right. With a curt wave of his hand the Fuhrer bade Tesla and the high-tech witches to sit on his right and Basil on his left. Senior military officers filled the other spaces.
“So we meet again Basil!” said Tragic as Basil settled himself next to him. “The last time I saw you, you were in Deep Wood!” Basil sniggered. “Yes; and the last time I saw you, you were legging-it from Deep Wood - the moment the centaurs arrived!”
The wartlocks laughed; they were evidently not very impressed by Tragic’s bravery. Tesla cut-in before things spiralled out of hand.
“Tragic is our chief scientist; it is he who with my guidance, assistance, help, and encouragement has perfected the ultimate doomsday weapon! The room filled with whispers and mumbles and military officers shook hands. “I’ve named the ultimate doomsday weapon Creation!” said Tesla with pride.
The Fuhrer leaned over the table and addressed Tesla. “Tell me, Dr Tesla, isn’t Creation an unusual name for doomsday device?”
Tesla grinned smugly; he always tried to present the Fuhrer as an upgraded baboon; perhaps that was an insult to
“That event created life, the universe, and everything!” he ranted, like Adolph Hitler.
The room filled with whispers and muttering and military officers shook hands again and beamed an awful lot. But Tesla hadn’t finished his dissertation just yet.
“And I have the honour to tell you that the formula for Creation has been struck! I have in my possession the key to the universe! And with it I can unlock the secrets of the cosmos! And with the formula I can drive Creation in whatever direction I want - even as far as the future or the past!”
“I have captured the genie!” he yelled beside himself with emotion.
“In my possession is the mother of all weapons!”
“I have captured God!” he went on passionately.
“I am become Death, Destroyer of Worlds!” he screamed in an effort to highlight his place in the scheme of things.
A tremor of awe and trepidation passed though Basil’s body like an electric shock. This was just the moment Tragic was waiting for; he leapt from his chair onto the table and grabbed Creation from Tesla before the wartlocks could plug him full of lead; he thrust his arms high above his head and carefully unfurled his fingers: An object, bathed in a fuzzy blue light, lay cradled in the palm of his hand; it was so intense in its radiation that Basil could clearly see the bones of the hand supporting it. He looked round contemptuously and fixed his eyes on the Fuhrer.
“So, Fuhrer, you thought I’d given you the ultimate weapon, did you?” Tragic shouted and laughed hysterically. “Well, you’re all wrong! It’s mine, mine I tell you and you can’t have it!” He shouted like Frankenstein and waved the vial of Creation at the shocked audience.
Tesla and the high-tech witches legged-it from the room as fast as they could in case Tragic should accidentally drop Creation in his enthusiasm; they activated the anti-nuclear blast doors behind them - they banged shut with the sound of two locomotives meeting head on at full speed.
“Give me the Space and Time Modulator Bubble!” shrieked Tragic and threatened Basil with Creation if he wasn’t quick about it; he was really mad now. Basil handed it over like a hot potato. Tragic promptly inflated it and disappeared at the speed of imagination!
The Fuhrer was beside himself with fury and activated the most advanced doomsday defence system ever conceived by the mind of humankind anywhere in the universe. The sky around Titan immediately lit-up like a television plasma screen as Laser Cannon filled it with trillions of beams of high-energy plasma; not even light could get through the barrier. But the space and time modulator bubble was better than that; it travelled at the speed of imagination which was immeasurably faster than light! Tragic-the-Terrible had escaped and with him took the secrets and the power of Creation and the fate of the universe!
There was no time to warn the incoming and outgoing intergalactic spaceships loaded with tourists; they were consumed like moths striking an electric insect trap; they plunged to the surface of Titan wrapped in a shroud of flames, smoke, and lightning.
There was hushed silence in the war room as the realisation dawned on everybody that Tragic-the-Terrible had escaped with everything they’d worked for. And now they ran the risk of being destroyed by the one person they trusted most of all and in whom they’d placed so much faith. They had obviously forgotten the old maxim: Trust nobody, especially those closest to you!
“You can’t trust anybody these days!” shouted the Fuhrer after the event and in a pique of rage. “What are we going to do now?”
They sat around the table and discussed what to do next. General Regan suggested sending a squadron of hyper-drive pursuit destroyers to search the solar system to start with because, he rationalised, Tragic would have to visualise his intended destination in his mind’s eye if he was going to get there. Otherwise he’d flash out of the cosmos and be lost forever. The assembly nodded and so it was done.
Basil got to his feet. “What has happened is so serious it affects us all; and from this moment onwards we are destined to live in the darkness of fear! We could be annihilated without warning at any moment!” he shouted. He walked a few faltering steps and spoke again. “I suggest you let me go back to Deep Wood and consult the Doctor immediately. We must pool our resources to capture Tragic-the-Terrible; we all face death and we know not when!” The assembly nodded and so it was done. Basil was given the airship and he ripped through space towards Deep Wood.
Basil rushed into the Castle; he was met by his little mate, Goby – he gave Basil a big hug. Violet and Caroline rushed over and smothered him with kisses; Zoë came next, followed by Mathew and the Doctor.
Over cups of sweet Earl Grey tea, Basil described what had happened to him since he left for Titan. Everybody in the room was stunned into silence. This was the greatest threat to
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