Free Hairy London by Stephen Palmer Page B

heard a voice he recognised. “Thitherto Frenulum here. Is that you, Sheremy? One of our cleaners said she saw a yellow glow. Sheremy, are you there?”
    “Here, dear fellow. I’m free of the clutches of Murchison Volume. I’m with Valantina Moondusst, very close to the Thames, in her house. Is there aught we can do to assist the Institute?”
    “Indeed there is. I have news for you. We urgently need to trace and speak with a man known as the Trichologist, thought to be living somewhere south of the river – in some kind of palace. This is exactly the sort of mission a chap like you is good for! Take your selenograph and deliver it to him. Then everybody at the Institute who wants to speak with him will be able to.”
    “Who is he?”
    “Don’t know exactly, but all our men in the field have been hearing rumours about him. We think he may be connected with the hairiness.”
    “Right-o! Keep your eyes on the Rajah’s selenograph. Over and out.”
    Valantina nodded. “So... we have our mission.”
    “Yes,” he agreed. “And you were the one who facilitated it. Well done!”
    She batted her eyelashes at him and said, “You flatter me, Sheremy.”
    He grinned. Gosh, he liked this woman.
    “But I have another secret,” she said. “Now I am here I have access to certain items my family brought from our lunar home when they repaired to London, the most important of which is the selenowiz.”
    “The what?”
    “It will be easier to show you.”
    Valantina led him downstairs to the rear of the house, where a conservatory stood. Standing at one side was a vehicle composed of a great glass sphere six feet in diameter, covered with a tracery of iron, that supported it. A hinged gullwing door had been cut into one side. This sphere lay upon a black metal framework, that itself stood on four rubber tyres.
    Sheremy said, “This vehicle will never forge a path through the hair.”
    She laughed. “Ah, but you don’t know how it operates!” There came a twinkle to her eyes. “You see, the tyres are to support it at rest. A selenowiz flies. ”
    Sheremy nodded. “Of course...”
    Midnight had come and gone. With Valantina in her bedroom, Sheremy wrapped himself in a mohair blouson and slept on a couch downstairs. They spent the next day preparing provisions and equipment for their expedition, until, as evening fell, they partook of cheese nudges and a poltroon soufflé in the conservatory; a final supper before they departed.
    Sheremy put a hamper in the selenowiz boot, ensuring there was plenty of wine in it. Then Valantina opened the conservatory door and pushed the selenowiz outside. She closed and locked the door, placed the key on a chain between her breasts, then sat beside Sheremy inside the glass globe, pulling down the gullwing door so that its shutting mechanism clicked.
    “Now what?” Sheremy asked.
    “We wait for the moon to rise. Because it is full, the power of the selenowiz will be maximised. We can fly perhaps fifteen or twenty miles before the moths in the engine tire.”
    “How long to wait?”
    “A few minutes.”
    Sheremy felt a hint of discomfort at being in such intimate proximity to Valantina. She had perfumed herself with lavender, he noted, and brushed her hair so that it shone. She wore a blue trouser suit and a formal pettiquette. He glanced down at his own stained clothes and felt only embarrassment.
    The sky was clear, and soon enough they saw the moon rising over the eastern horizon, round and orange through a hair-induced mist. Valantina took a metal nose from the pouch at her side and pressed buttons, whereupon the selenowiz rose into the air. By pointing the nose – linked by moonflower stem-strings to the control juncture – she was able to steer the vehicle, and in moments they were flying over the Thames, the front of the selenowiz slightly lower than the rear, so that they had to sit back in their leather seats else fall out.
    “Where shall we go first?” Sheremy