The Time Travellers' Guide to Total Chaos

By Len Cooke

For Detective Inspector Harry Wilding, his latest assignment, that of escorting an asylum-seeking alien from another planet, begins in chaos and subsequent events make it seem that life is set to continue that way.

Firstly, he has to endure the humiliation of finding himself the intellectual inferior of Sandy, the alien. A strange and beautiful woman possessing telepathic powers who hails from another world, set in a distant galaxy. Sandy, who, after travelling to Earth, in her quest for sanctuary in England, has given herself up to the Cumbrian Police. Her implausible story arouses the interest of MI5’s Extra Terrestrial Section and Harry’s job is to escort her to London to allow them to interview her. Thinking Sandy to be nothing other than a ‘nutter’, their journey begins. However, they have barely driven more than a few minutes when the paranoid alien senses that a broken-down lorry, blocking the road ahead of them, is actually a hologram, a trap set by her enemies.

This is a fairly routine story about aliens landing in Cumbria, extra terrestrial secret policemen, sexually obsessed portable computers, slavery in the 11th Millennium, the correlation of foot size to libido and much more. Read it at your peril, the author bears no responsibility for the sanity of the reader afterwards.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Len Cooke
• Release date: Dec 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466159525

Len Cooke

As with many writers, Len regards the art as being very much part of his DNA. After taking early retirement from his work on nuclear submarines, his passion for justice and decency led him to work as a volunteer in one of Her Majesty's Prisons and that collective experience, together with his travels to many parts of the world, has given him an unrivalled maturity, and at times, wicked sense of humour that can often be seen in his work.  

Book preview

THE TIME TRAVELLERS’ GUIDE TO TOTAL CHAOS

or

HARRY, SANDY AND THE ZANDRON

Len Cooke

Copyright Len Cooke 1996/2013

Published by Red Panda Press at Smashwords

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any events, persons, alive or dead, is purely coincidental. The characters are fictitious products of the author’s imagination.

All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher

For Christine

THE TIME TRAVELLERS’ GUIDE TO TOTAL CHAOS

or

HARRY, SANDY AND THE ZANDRON

Chapter 1

The drive to Cumbria had proved uneventful and, as a bonus, the weather, that had slowly worsened the farther north he drove, had kept the day-trippers at home. This factor, coupled with lighter than usual business traffic, saw the policeman nearing Junction 36, of the M6 Motorway, within five hours of leaving the capital city.

He had driven no more than two hundred yards along the A590 when he saw the hitchhiker illuminated in his car headlights; the man was just standing there, head down, at the start of a lay-by. He was soaked through and, thought Harry, looked about as happy as a man who had just been told his estranged wife was returning to live in the family home. As he approached the lay-by, Harry eyed him, studiously. He appeared to be thirty-something, tall, over six feet at least and dressed in denim shirt, jeans and trainers. His hair, whilst cut fashionably short, was like the rest of him, drenched. A sudden pang of sympathy for the hapless traveller made Harry break the rule of a lifetime and after checking his mirror, he pulled over. The man immediately tried to open the passenger door but Harry was having none of it, the wretched traveller having to make do with an interrogation through a one-inch opening in the passenger window.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Harry.

‘Broughton way,’ said the man, miserably, ‘to Greenthwaite.’

‘Where are you from?’ Harry continued, still uncertain as to whether he should offer the stranger a lift.

‘Slough.’

‘And you’ve hitch-hiked from there?’

‘Yes,’ the man nodded, a distinct whine appearing in his voice as the wind drove the rain even harder into his face. Harry was thoughtful for a few seconds then finally relented. He released the door lock and allowed the grateful man to climb in beside him. ‘Thanks,’ he said, as Harry drove back onto the carriageway, ‘it’s a bloody awful night.’

‘You’re in luck,’ said Harry, ‘I’m going to Greenthwaite myself.’

The man breathed a sigh of relief, seemingly glad that his journey was now almost as good as over. Shivering, he eased himself back into the comfort of the passenger seat and looked at his saviour through shrewd, brown eyes. ‘My name’s Ben,’ he offered, trying to stifle a yawn.

‘Harry,’ said Harry, concentrating on overtaking a slow moving tractor.

‘Are you here on holiday?’ asked Ben

Harry shook his head. ‘No, just a spot of business, I’ll be back in the Smoke tomorrow.’

‘Sorry, Smoke?’

Harry glanced at him and grinned. ‘The Smoke – London.’

Ben sounded surprised. ‘Oh, you’re from the capital then?’

‘Yes,’ said Harry, still grinning. ‘I’m surprised you’ve never heard of the Smoke, what with you coming from Slough.’

‘Oh I’ve not lived there very long.’

Harry nodded. ‘Obviously.’

‘What exactly is the nature of your business?’ asked Ben, directly.

Harry gave his passenger a look that told him he had asked the wrong question. ‘Private,’ he said, flatly.

Ben, seemingly embarrassed, moved to safer ground. ‘How long will it take us to reach Greenthwaite?’

‘Good question, I’ve never been there before, but I’ll guess at between thirty to thirty-five minutes.’

‘Good,’ said his passenger. ‘Very good, I’m really hungry.’

‘You have friends in Greenthwaite? asked Harry. ‘They’ll have a meal waiting for you?’

Ben stared at him uncertainly, as though unsure how best to answer the question. ‘Err, oh I expect I’ll eat in a pub, they will be open, will they?’

Harry glanced at the dashboard clock; it was showing five minutes after ten. ‘Not for food they won’t.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Although I’ve never been to Greenthwaite before I do know this stretch of road,’ said Harry. ‘I know it from walking holidays spent in the Lakes. There’s an all-night filling station in about three miles, they’ll have sandwiches and crisps. I can stop there if you wish.’

Ben seemed puzzled. ‘They fill sandwiches there, all night?’ he asked.

Harry chuckled; at least his passenger had a sense of humour. ‘Very droll,’ he replied, ‘well, do you want me to stop or not?’

Ben nodded, yawned again and said. ‘Oh yes, yes, thank you very, very much.’

***

Harry dropped Ben off at the taxi rank in Greenthwaite, looked at the map he had had faxed to him before leaving London and five minutes later parked his car outside the local police station.

The station sergeant was middle-aged, tired looking and grumpy. He stared uninterestedly at Harry as he entered the reception area then just about managed. ‘Yes?’

Grinning, Harry produced a Warrant Card. ‘D.I. Wilding, from the Met. I’m here to interview Sandy Glover, you’re holding her for us.’

The sergeant looked at his watch before scowling. ‘You want to interview her tonight?’

The visitor shook his head. ‘No way, I was asked to let your DCI Trubshaw know I’d landed; he’s booked me into a suitable hostelry, I hope.’ He opened his hands. ‘So – as discussed – I’ve landed.’

The sergeant seemed less than impressed; the visitor was creating work, never something to be easily tolerated, especially on night shift. ‘I’ll give the inspector a ring at home, sir,’ he conceded, ‘tell him you’re here.’

***

Later, as Harry left the station and began walking back towards his car, he could have sworn he saw someone dodge back into the shadow of a shop doorway. Intrigued, and for a moment his copper’s nose twitching, he stared across the road in the direction of the movement. Nothing further stirred however and as it was still raining, he shrugged and quickly made his way to the sanctuary of his vehicle.

***

At precisely nine o’clock the following morning Harry presented himself, once again, at the reception desk of Greenthwaite Police Station. Sergeant Baxter had long since gone off shift and his replacement, a large, civilian male, who looked more like an over-weight shot-putter having a bad day, eyed him cautiously. Five minutes later, however, he was being shown into the ancient and sparsely furnished office of his Cumbrian contact, Detective Chief Inspector, James Trubshaw.

‘To be quite honest with you, Harry,’ said his host waving him to a seat, ‘we’ll be glad to see the back of the woman. She’s been a complete pain-in-the-arse since she arrived.’

Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘Why?’

Trubshaw studied his tall, grey-eyed, good-looking visitor and shrugged. ‘Well, she claims she’s come to us for police protection but she won’t tell us why she wants it.’

‘Well, what has she said?’

‘Only what you already know, that she’s being pursued by some pretty nasty people and to get safely out of their way she gave herself up – for the offence she deliberately committed. Anyway, tell me, why have they sent you to take her to the Smoke? I mean, you can’t escort a woman prisoner on your Jack Jones, it breaks all the rules in the book.’

A cynical grin crossed Harry’s face. ‘She won’t be a prisoner, she’s not going to be charged; some hot-shot from London talked the plaintive out of taking it any further. She only stole a pie for God’s sake, nobody even knew about the offence until she walked into your nick and coughed it, not even the baker.’

‘So why are you here then?’

‘Some people want her in London; her claim that she’s being sought by some weirdo extra-terrestrial organisation has been bought by the upper echelons. It is they who wish to interview her; I’m just the taxi driver and, if necessary, protection for the journey.’

Trubshaw suddenly seemed more interested. ‘You mean to say they accept the nonsense she’s been coming out with, about being hunted by Martians?’

Harry grinned. ‘Not the Met I can assure you. It’s some top-secret government organisation, a bit like the one on TV. You know, about the FBI and alien beings from another world?’

Trubshaw scoffed, disdainfully. ‘Why didn’t they come and get her then, your top-secret people?’

‘Apparently they’re very sensitive about their anonymity. Therefore the Foreign and Home Offices thought it better for simple Jack Plod to collect and deliver her for them.’

Trubshaw shook his head in obvious disbelief. ‘You know, at times I don’t know what’s happening with our society, the country’s gone bloody daft. Everyone’s watching too much TV I think. The woman’s seriously off her chump; she needs psychiatric help, not a chauffeur driven trip to London.’

Harry looked at his watch then climbed to his feet. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to get on with it. I’ve the best part of a six hour drive, with, by the sounds of things, a raving bloody nutter for company.’

Trubshaw nodded, sympathetically. ‘Sure, I’ll get her for you now.’

***

Sandy Glover claimed to be thirty-four years old. Although barely five feet tall, she enjoyed a Hollywood quality figure, was fair-haired and, concluded Harry extremely quickly, drop-dead gorgeous. As she entered the interview room, in front of Trubshaw, Harry looked up from his paperwork and almost gasped. Had he ever seen anyone so beautiful before? Why hadn’t Trubshaw told him about her great looks?

‘Miss Glover,’ he stuttered, waving her towards a chair. She nodded. ‘My name’s Wilding, Inspector Harry Wilding. I’ve been sent from the Met, to take you to London.’

Sandy stared at him nervously, then glanced behind her at the still standing Trubshaw. She looked back to Harry. ‘Could we talk alone?’ she asked.

Trubshaw looked at Harry then shrugged. ‘Under the new circumstances I don’t see a problem with that,’ he conceded, ‘she’s all yours now, anyway – good luck.’

Sandy waited until the door had closed behind the chief inspector then smiled, worriedly, at Harry. ‘Have they told you about me?’ she asked.

Harry nodded, always a man for quiet life, he had already decided that he was going to humour her. ‘Sort of, you’re supposed to be from Mars and aliens are trying to capture you and take you back there. Therefore, naturally, you want political asylum, on earth.’

As he watched her shake her head, sadly, Harry realised that the woman was in deadly earnest. Off her chump or otherwise, he reasoned that whatever she was about to tell him, however stupid or far-fetched it may sound, she really believed it to be the truth.

‘I’m not from Mars,’ she began, passionately; the commitment in her voice such that Harry also began to breathe a huge, but very silent, sigh of relief. ‘No one can live on Mars; you should know that, living so near it!’

‘Sorry,’ said Harry, now feeling much more comfortable. ‘It’s just that my people in London said that you had some crackpot idea you were a Martian.’ He laughed. ‘Not that I ever believed what they were saying of course,’ he scoffed. ‘The very thought of you coming from a hostile place like Mars –well – it’s daft I know.’

Sandy settled back in her chair. ‘Good, I’m glad we’ve got that out of the way, because I’m from a planet well outside your own Solar System; it’s a beautiful world called – Dronos.’

Harry’s chin suddenly landed on the desk. ‘Err, sorry?’ he said, weakly.

‘Dronos,’ repeated Sandy. ‘It revolves around a star we call Becarrus, much as your Earth revolves around your own Sun.’

‘Oh,’ croaked Harry, once again thinking about his six-hour journey back to London. ‘Err; just how far away from Earth is this Dronos place then?’

Sandy was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Like yourselves we measure distance in space by the use of light years, you know, the distance light can travel in one year?’ Harry was nodding his head but it was only a reflex gesture, in truth he did not have a clue what she was talking about. ‘Well,’ continued Sandy, studiously, ‘at the moment, Dronos is about six light years away from Earth. So, if you were using a primitive propulsion system that travelled at the speed of light, it would take you six years to get there.’

Harry decided to continue humouring her. ‘So a spaceship that can travel at the speed of light is primitive is it?’

‘Very,’ agreed Sandy, matter-of-factly.

Harry frowned; he had met some serious fruitcakes in his time but this woman... ‘So, how long did it take you to get here then?’ he asked. ‘You know, approximately, from Drynose, or whatever it is.’

Sandy sighed. ‘Dronos and it takes about forty-eight of your hours. The trip’s a bit of a bummer really, when you land you’re desperately tired and really, really hungry.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Harry. ‘But why don’t you eat en route as it were? I mean, while you’re on board the spaceship.’

Sandy glared at him as though he had fallen out of a very large tree. ‘What spaceship?’

Harry rolled his eyes; he was only having the conversation to be polite, to acquaint himself with the psychology of the company his masters had chosen for his trip back to London. ‘The spaceship you came to Earth on,’ he suggested.

Sandy shook her head, angrily. ‘But I didn’t come to Earth on a spaceship.’

Harry was looking confused again but he was a policeman and therefore – patient. ‘Okay, how did you travel six light years, or whatever you call them, in forty-eight hours?’

‘I was converted into sub-atomic particles, in a special machine called a converter and transmitted here as a light beam, via a laser.’ She paused. ‘I take it even you’ve heard of a laser. It’s well within even your primitive technology.’

Harry nodded. ‘Yes, yes, that I have heard of, but – well while I’m no physicist, if you came as light, then it would have taken you six years to get here, wouldn’t it?’

Sandy grinned. ‘Ah, good point, that’s all part of the trick you see, the thing is, the Dronosian scientists have perfected a light accelerator it means that most places in the galaxy are now within easy reach of our own planet. Nowadays a journey to Earth is possible within, at most, just under a hundred hours.’

Harry suddenly sat up in his chair, his eyes shrewd. ‘Sorry Sandy, a few moments ago you told me, specifically, that you made the trip in forty-eight hours, not a hundred.’ He knew he had her and he smiled, triumphantly.

‘In simplistic terms you’re right, but we Dronosians have also mastered the concept of time-travel. So, where we can, we move around the galaxy in two stages.’ She paused thoughtfully. ‘Take our solar system’s relationship to Earth, for example. In nine thousand years, we’ll be about three light years away from Earth. So the trick is to, firstly, beam into the future, in this case nine thousand years into the future, with a portable accelerator, that only takes a few seconds. Then, when you’re in the future, you transmit yourself from there. Once at your destination you programme in the time control for the period you wish to visit, in my case it was two thousand and five. On the way back you reverse the process.’ She smiled with satisfaction. ‘Simple, isn’t it?’

Harry stared at her, his expression resembling that of a football hooligan in a museum of fine art. Then he tried another tack. ‘Why don’t you have an accent, Miss Glover, it is Miss I take it?’

‘Yes, when you beam out from Dronos you travel with a memory package, compatible with your final destination. Therefore, when all your bits, including the package, are reassembled at your chosen visit site, you have the memory included into your brain. I chose to bring an English cultural module.’ She smiled contentedly. ‘That’s why I can understand you perfectly, even though, in the case of your country, the word culture would probably infringe the Intergalactic Trade Descriptions Acts.’

‘Does it include all our customs?’ asked Harry, ignoring the put-down.

‘Not all, most though; it depends on the programme and what you can afford. Mine is not an expensive one you see, it’s a bit out of date I’m afraid. I think it was compiled in the late fifties, early sixties, Earth time that is.’

Harry’s eyes rolled slightly, this time however, Sandy noticed. ‘You seem to have a problem with your eyesight. Your eyeballs keep rolling, are they loose?’

He chuckled before becoming serious again. ‘As you know, Miss Glover, you’ve asked for political asylum and as I think you also know, I’ve been ordered to take