Free Retromancer by Robert Rankin Page B

the Wife’s Legs Café in Brentford.
    The head waiter seemed genuinely pleased to see Mr Rune and wrung him warmly by the hand, this causing me to conclude that either (a) Mr Rune had not dined here before, or (b) that he had and his restaurant bills were presently being covered by the Ministry of Serendipity. It proved, indeed, to be the latter.
    ‘Your favourite table, monsieur,’ said the head waiter, guiding Mr Rune towards it. ‘Neither too near to the band nor the Gents, but less than a stone’s throw from the kitchen.’
    ‘Splendid, splendid, splendid,’ said Himself, settling into his favourite chair and gesturing for me to seat myself.
    I surveyed the line of various knives and forks before me with some trepidation. I do know how to handle myself in the company of High Society. But there were an awful lot of knives and forks.
    Mr Rune ordered a bottle of something exquisite and expensive, without the need of consulting the wine list, and we sat and awaited its arrival.
    ‘What does this fork do?’ I asked, out of idle conversation.
    ‘That’s a seven-pronged soufflé dipper. I trust that you will shortly be bringing it into play. Shall we dip ourselves into the menus?’
    I replaced my seven-pronged soufflé dipper and rubbed my palms together.
    ‘Why do you hate Mr McMurdo so?’ I asked as I rubbed.
    ‘I do not hate him, particularly,’ Mr Rune replied. ‘It is what he represents that I hold in contempt. He is a bureaucrat and a bully. He’d see me at a rope’s end if he had half a chance.’
    I nodded as the light of understanding dawned. ‘Which is why you saw to it that he accidentally became reduced in size.’
    ‘I am a Magus,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘I will not prostitute the High Arts to serve some self-seeking, jumped-up little-’
    ‘Would monsieur care to sample the wine?’ A wine waiter, clad in the distinctive livery of the establishment – powdered purple periwig, pink pinafore and pantaloons, peg-heeled pumps and pristine puttees – prettily proffered us plonk.
    ‘Splash it in,’ said Hugo Rune, ‘and I’ll run it round my gums.’
    The wine was clearly to his liking, as the Magus gestured for his glass to be filled at the hurry-up. The wine waiter left the bottle on the table and I had to pour my own.
    ‘So what is it all about?’ I asked of Hugo Rune.
    ‘Love, and the pursuit of happiness,’ he replied. ‘Drink up, Rizla – this 1787 Château d’Yquem Sauternes is exceptionally fine.’
    I supped at the wine and found it pleasing. But then I would have found most things pleasing, and indeed did so. Which was mostly down to the quantity of gin I had consumed in Mr McMurdo’s office.
    ‘I was thinking more about the particle physics business,’ I said. ‘I do not really see how it can help the war effort.’
    ‘Have you ever heard of the atomic bomb?’ asked Hugo Rune.
    ‘Well, of course I have. It is why we are here, is it not? The Germans getting the bomb before the Allies. And destroying America and winning the war.’
    ‘It is all to do with splitting the atom.’
    ‘And this is what Professor Campbell has done, is it?’
    ‘No,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘I think not. I think his researches took him into a different sphere altogether. But that cannot be confirmed until after luncheon, when we visit his house.’
    ‘So we will be taking a light luncheon then, will we?’ I made an encouraging face.
    Hugo Rune just shook his head. ‘An army marches on its stomach,’ he replied. ‘Hugo Rune strolls sedately upon a full tum.’
    We ordered and then consumed some of the most marvellous food I have ever tasted. I recall each course we had and each delicious mouthful.

     
    FIRST COURSES
     
    Gamut of Wrap-Rascal, in scallywag double-de-clutch
    Veritable bi-polar launderette (Liberty horse)
    Soup of the day. Flying Dutchman pyjamas
    Grilled Velocity
     
    ENTRÉES
     
    Paget’s Disease in trumped-up-charges. Cockle
    One-up-jump-up-long-shot-kick-de-bucket (choice