by Michael Bollen
ISBN: 978 0556105 3 0
356pp paperback
£9.99
"A funny, charming,
inventive comic novel. Michael
Bollen’s warmth, sharp
wit and eye for satirical
detail reminded me of Douglas
Adams. Quite possibly the
best work of fiction since
The Bible."
Stephen Merchant, The
Office, Extras |
Extract 3: Introducing
Professor Ruck
In the centre of London, shiny
new buildings reached up into
the sky, leading the way to the
future. The pre-Takeover structures
had been completely swept away,
creating an arrogant bubble of
modernity. The new buildings came
from a variety of architectural
schools, some of which presumably
accepted entrance papers written
in crayon. There were dizzying
spiral towers, triangular blocks,
asymmetrical egg shapes, fins,
turrets and revolving crow’s
nests. The only common aim had
been to look futuristic; practicality
had been thrown out of the window,
or in some cases out of the flip-top
skylight-cum-helipad.
The richest of the rich lived
and worked here; there were no
ivory towers, but only because
ivory was so last decade. Yet
one building was more nondescript
than its younger, thrusting neighbours.
It was shorter, less colourful,
easily overlooked. This was intentional.
The building hid a massive Softcom
laboratory, the vast majority
of which was underground.
Down below the streets, Professor
Alec Ruck was having a bad day.
A short man in his late fifties,
Professor Ruck was a curious figure
with an enquiring mind and a questionable
appearance. He had a lengthy nose,
an ugly protuberance that might
have been described as cruel,
although the Professor was its
only victim. It leapt crazily
forward, seemingly desperate to
escape from Ruck’s face,
an attitude it shared with the
man’s bulging eyes and the
tufts of hair that sprang from
his ears. His large discoloured
teeth revealed rather too much
about last night’s dinner,
while his scalp told sorry tales
of self-inflicted haircuts.
Fortunately Ruck’s clothes
distracted attention from his
currently livid visage. While
his face was as black as thunder,
his trousers were as green as
grass, his shirt was as yellow
as buttercups, and his tie was
as red as a strawberry. A passing
poet would doubtless have tried
to compare Ruck to a summer’s
day. This would have been difficult
however, as Ruck would have been
trying to kick the poet up the
arse. The Professor thought poetry
was a stupid waste of words, words
that belonged in technical manuals
or telephone directories. Ruck
considered many things to be stupid:
fashion, poetry, television, his
secretary, fancy food, sport of
all kinds, greetings cards, playing
cards, supermarket loyalty cards,
loyalty, the Eiffel Tower, doing
the hokey cokey, everyone he’d
ever met, going on holiday, making
your bed, making endless lists…the
list was endless.
The unfortunate creature currently
at the top of Ruck’s twit
parade was staring from the screen
of the Professor’s lifePod.
Visible behind her was a bright
white laboratory. People assume
that laboratories need to be bright
and white for reasons of hygiene,
and that is often the case. But
many laboratories are bright and
white simply because scientists
aren’t very imaginative
when it comes to interior design.
In this instance, the lab could
easily have accommodated some
nice scatter cushions, a stencilled
border or a tribal throw. A bit
of extra colour would have been
useful, as the scientist was an
albino, with white hair and pale
skin. Wearing a white coat in
a white room, she was practically
invisible. Her nose twitched nervously.
‘Sorry to disturb you Professor,’
she said, her voice squeaking
from the speakers in Ruck’s
ears. ‘But, er, it’s
done it again.’
Ruck tried to control his temper.
‘Who has done it again?’
he boomed.
The scientist looked down meekly.
‘S-s-s-orry,’ she
stammered. ‘He. He’s
done it again.’
‘And did you stop him again?’
‘…No. It…he
sent out a virus before we could
cut him off.’
Ruck glared at his wrist. ‘He’s
supposed to be in a secure environment,’
he said threateningly.
‘He is,’ quavered
the scientist. ‘But he’s
got round it somehow. He’s
too clever for us. He knows how
powerful he’s supposed to
be.’
‘Isolate him,’ snapped
Ruck, and he disconnected. ‘Idiots!’
he shouted to no one in particular.
‘Why am I surrounded by
idiots?’ He pulled at his
hair in frustration, ripping out
a surprisingly large clump. ‘Ow,’
he mumbled plaintively, rubbing
at his new bald patch.
More about Earth Inc.
|
|
