Read Online Retromancer by Robert Rankin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Rankin
Tags: Fiction, General, thriller, Humorous, Science-Fiction, Fantasy, Military, Occult & Supernatural, Alternative History
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my bladder nearly went ‘wee’. And down and down and down we went.
And down and down some more.
Although greatly afeared and clinging desperately to a curlicue stanchion double-racked handrail, I watched Mr Rune as we descended at break-your-neck speed surely down into the very bowels of the Earth. The guru’s guru stood at the centre of the plummeting lift, his brogued feet four-square upon the floor, his stout stick going tap-tap-tap. And a great big smile on his face.
And then the lift just suddenly stopped.
And I all but sank in anguish to my knees.
And Hugo Rune said, ‘Didn’t you just love that bit?’
And I said, ‘No, I did not.’
Hugo Rune flung the lift doors open and we found ourselves in what looked for all the wide world to me to be the entrance hall of a stately home.
It was richly floored in the Churrigueresque fashion, but with sufficient renderings of Chuvash chyle-coloured chryoprase as to engender surprise. The ceiling was arched in that style known as Orphean-retro, so appropriate to the atmosphere of this chthonian scene. Framed portraits, framed I should add after the manner of Dalbatto, hung the length of this hall, each illuminated by an electric torchère.
I paused to admire an Annibale Carracci.
But Mr Rune urged me on. ‘Not one of his finest canvasses,’ he said, sniffily. ‘I feel that his best work is to be found in the stateroom of the Palazzo Farnese in Rome.’
‘I’m sure you are right,’ I said. ‘But then I would not know a José de Churriguera from a Constantin Meunier.’
Mr Rune raised his stout stick to me. But he heartily grinned as he did so. ‘Ah,’ said he. ‘We are here at last.’ And he rapped on a big brass door.
For big and brassy was this door, from its top to its very bottom, and well buffed and polished and burnished as gold with many a brazen rivet.
‘Why is this door all made out of brass?’ I asked, as the door swung open. But then suddenly I no longer craved an answer to this question, but felt another, far more urgent, forming in my mind and eager to take shape at my lips.
Because before us, on the threshold of the room that lay beyond, there stood a man. A well-turned-out and dapperly done-up fellow this, in an impeccable pinstriped suit. A veritable poem in praise of understated dandification.
His shoes were black and shone like silk,
As did his Brylcreemed napper.
And pince-nez specs clung to his nose
With a ’tache below, well dapper.
His eyes were blue,
His tie was too,
His schmutter
Was utterly
Dash-cutter-do!
But it was not the sartorial elegance of this fellow that caused an urgent question to come springing to my mouth.
It was his height and overall dimensions.
For he was a tiny man. No dwarf or midget was this man, being much smaller indeed than either. He could surely not have been more than eighteen inches in height, yet he was perfectly formed and carried himself in a manner that was aloof and pompous and very very angry.
‘What time do you call this?’ he bawled up at Mr Rune, who towered above him in every sense of the word.
‘Time for a gin and tonic, methinks.’ And Mr Rune stepped over this man and entered the room beyond.
The tiny man coughed and spluttered with rage. ‘And who do you think you are?’ he asked me.
‘I am with Mr Rune,’ I said, as I too entered the room. And if I had been impressed by the entrance hall, and I had, then I was more than impressed by this room. It was all a-glitter and a-twinkle with nautical fol-de-rollery, its fixtures and furnishings redolent of quinqueremes (of Nineveh, obviously), brigantines, schooners, feluccas and gallivants.
Corsairs and showboats,
Galleons, rowboats,
Three-masted barques
With mainsails and spankers,
Clippers and crumsters
With outboards and anchors
And so forth…
Mr Rune stood before a cocktail cabinet that resembled the prow of a Pomeranian galliot, pouring gin into a cut-crystal tumbler. ‘Same for you, Rizla?’ he
And down and down some more.
Although greatly afeared and clinging desperately to a curlicue stanchion double-racked handrail, I watched Mr Rune as we descended at break-your-neck speed surely down into the very bowels of the Earth. The guru’s guru stood at the centre of the plummeting lift, his brogued feet four-square upon the floor, his stout stick going tap-tap-tap. And a great big smile on his face.
And then the lift just suddenly stopped.
And I all but sank in anguish to my knees.
And Hugo Rune said, ‘Didn’t you just love that bit?’
And I said, ‘No, I did not.’
Hugo Rune flung the lift doors open and we found ourselves in what looked for all the wide world to me to be the entrance hall of a stately home.
It was richly floored in the Churrigueresque fashion, but with sufficient renderings of Chuvash chyle-coloured chryoprase as to engender surprise. The ceiling was arched in that style known as Orphean-retro, so appropriate to the atmosphere of this chthonian scene. Framed portraits, framed I should add after the manner of Dalbatto, hung the length of this hall, each illuminated by an electric torchère.
I paused to admire an Annibale Carracci.
But Mr Rune urged me on. ‘Not one of his finest canvasses,’ he said, sniffily. ‘I feel that his best work is to be found in the stateroom of the Palazzo Farnese in Rome.’
‘I’m sure you are right,’ I said. ‘But then I would not know a José de Churriguera from a Constantin Meunier.’
Mr Rune raised his stout stick to me. But he heartily grinned as he did so. ‘Ah,’ said he. ‘We are here at last.’ And he rapped on a big brass door.
For big and brassy was this door, from its top to its very bottom, and well buffed and polished and burnished as gold with many a brazen rivet.
‘Why is this door all made out of brass?’ I asked, as the door swung open. But then suddenly I no longer craved an answer to this question, but felt another, far more urgent, forming in my mind and eager to take shape at my lips.
Because before us, on the threshold of the room that lay beyond, there stood a man. A well-turned-out and dapperly done-up fellow this, in an impeccable pinstriped suit. A veritable poem in praise of understated dandification.
His shoes were black and shone like silk,
As did his Brylcreemed napper.
And pince-nez specs clung to his nose
With a ’tache below, well dapper.
His eyes were blue,
His tie was too,
His schmutter
Was utterly
Dash-cutter-do!
But it was not the sartorial elegance of this fellow that caused an urgent question to come springing to my mouth.
It was his height and overall dimensions.
For he was a tiny man. No dwarf or midget was this man, being much smaller indeed than either. He could surely not have been more than eighteen inches in height, yet he was perfectly formed and carried himself in a manner that was aloof and pompous and very very angry.
‘What time do you call this?’ he bawled up at Mr Rune, who towered above him in every sense of the word.
‘Time for a gin and tonic, methinks.’ And Mr Rune stepped over this man and entered the room beyond.
The tiny man coughed and spluttered with rage. ‘And who do you think you are?’ he asked me.
‘I am with Mr Rune,’ I said, as I too entered the room. And if I had been impressed by the entrance hall, and I had, then I was more than impressed by this room. It was all a-glitter and a-twinkle with nautical fol-de-rollery, its fixtures and furnishings redolent of quinqueremes (of Nineveh, obviously), brigantines, schooners, feluccas and gallivants.
Corsairs and showboats,
Galleons, rowboats,
Three-masted barques
With mainsails and spankers,
Clippers and crumsters
With outboards and anchors
And so forth…
Mr Rune stood before a cocktail cabinet that resembled the prow of a Pomeranian galliot, pouring gin into a cut-crystal tumbler. ‘Same for you, Rizla?’ he
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