Crouching behind a low stone parapet running off the terrace was a group of waiters in dishevelled evening dress, lab technicians in scorched white overalls and musicians clutching their instrument cases. A bolt of flame from one of the tanks flickered over their heads and crashed into the grove of flamingo trees, sending up a shower of sparks and broken notes.
Clifford pulled Tony to his feet. ‘Come on, we’ve got to get out of here. We’ll try the library windows into the garden. You’d better take Margot.’
Her yellow beach robe had apparently died of shock, and was beginning to blacken like a dried-out banana skin. Discreetly averting his eyes, Tony picked her up and followed Clifford out into the hall.
Three croupiers in gold uniforms were arguing hotly with two men in white surgeons’ coats. Behind them a couple of mechanics were struggling a huge vibrobath up the stairs.
The foreman came over to Clifford. ‘Gorrell?’ he asked, consulting an invoice. ‘Trans-Ocean.’ He jerked a thumb at the bath. ‘Where do you want it?’
A surgeon elbowed him aside. ‘Mr Gorrell?’ he asked suavely. ‘We are from Cerebro-Tonic Travel. Please allow me to give you a sedative. All this noise—’
Clifford pushed past him and started to walk down the corridor to the library, but the floor began to slide and weave.
He stopped and looked around unsteadily.
Tony was down on his knees, Margot flopped out of his arms across the floor.
Someone swayed up to Clifford and held out a tray.
On it were three tickets.
Around him the walls whirled.
He woke in his bedroom, lying comfortably on his back, gently breathing a cool amber air. The noise had died away, but he could still hear a vortex of sound spinning violently in the back of his mind. It spiralled away, vanished, and he moved his head and looked around.
Margot was lying asleep beside him, and for a moment he thought that the attack on the house had been a dream. Then he noticed the skull-plate clamped over his head, and the cables leading off from a boom to a large console at the foot of the bed. Massive spools loaded with magnetic tape waited in the projector ready to be played.
The real nightmare was still to come! He struggled to get up, found himself clamped in a twilight sleep, unable to move more than a few centimetres.
He lay there powerlessly for ten minutes, tongue clogging his mouth like a wad of cotton-wool when he tried to shout. Eventually a small neatly featured alien in a pink silk suit opened the door and padded quietly over to them. He peered down at their faces and then turned a couple of knobs on the console.
Clifford’s consciousness began to clear. Beside him Margot stirred and woke.
The alien beamed down pleasantly. ‘Good evening,’ he greeted them in a smooth creamy voice. ‘Please allow me to apologize for any discomfort you have suffered. However, the first day of a vacation is often a little confused.’
Margot sat up. ‘I remember you. You’re from the little bureau in the Bazaar.’ She jumped round happily. ‘Clifford!’
The alien bowed. ‘Of course, Mrs Gorrell. I am Dr Terence Sotal-2 Burlington, Professor — Emeritus,’ he added to himself as an afterthought, ‘—of Applied Drama at the University of Alpha Leporis, and the director of the play you and your husband are to perform during your vacation.’
Clifford cut in: ‘Would you release me from this machine immediately? And then get out of my house! I’ve had—’
‘Clifford!’ Margot snapped. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
Clifford dragged at the skull plate and Dr Burlington quietly moved a control on the console. Part of Clifford’s brain clouded and he sank back helplessly.
‘Everything is all right, Mr Gorrell,’ Dr Burlington said.
‘Clifford,’ Margot warned him. ‘Remember your promise.’ She smiled at Dr Burlington. ‘Don’t pay any attention to him, Doctor. Please go on.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Gorrell.’ Dr Burlington bowed again, as Clifford lay half-asleep, groaning impotently.
‘The play we have designed for you,’ Dr Burlington explained, ‘is an adaptation of a classic masterpiece in the Diphenyl 2-4-6 Cyclopropane canon, and though based on the oldest of human situations, is nonetheless fascinating. It was recently declared the outright winner at the Mira Nuptial Contest, and will always have a proud place in the private repertoires. To you, I believe, it is known as "The Taming of the Shrew".’
Margot giggled and then looked surprised. Dr Burlington smiled urbanely. ‘However, allow me to show you the script.’ He excused himself and slipped out.
Margot fretted anxiously, while Clifford pulled weakly at the skullplate.
‘Clifford, I’m not sure that I like this altogether. And Dr Burlington does seem rather strange. But I suppose it’s only for three weeks.’
Just then the door opened and a stout bearded figure, erect in a stiff blue uniform, white yachting cap jauntily on his head, stepped in.
‘Good evening, Mrs Gorrell.’ He saluted Margot smartly, ‘Captain Linstrom.’ He looked down at Clifford. ‘Good to have you aboard, sir.’
