The Pirates! In an Adventure with Scientists!

device' - something like that. But more often than not it's a swift peck on the cheek, thanks for a lovely evening, and I'm home alone in my macabre lair. I just don't have time for it! I'm not getting any younger, you know. Well, I suppose in a manner of speaking I am, but you see my point.'

'I doubt that funny little moustache is doing you any favours,' said Jennifer with an arched eyebrow.

'It's an evil moustache, not a gay moustache,' replied the Bishop with a pout.

'That's why you're so bothered by Darwin's Man-panzee!' exclaimed the pirate. 'You're worried that if Mister Bobo is a roaring success then all the crowds will forget about the Elephant Man, and they'll flock to see him instead! With­out a constant supply of young ladies visiting the circus for you to kidnap, you wouldn't be able to fashion your evil elixir!'

'It's not really an elixir. It's more a sort of facial scrub,'²¹ said the Bishop. 'But listen, I'm not about to let you gab your way out of this. On with the show!'

21 The Bishop of Oxford was widely known as 'Soapy' Sam Wilberforce. However, if you look this up on Google, chances are it will ascribe the nickname to his 'slippery ecclesiastical debating skills' rather than because he turned ladies into bars of soap.

The Bishop threw an enormous lever, and his horrific machine roared into life. Sparks bounced off the walls, pistons smashed up and down, lights flashed and bells rang. But just as

the contraption seemed to be building to a crescendo there was a sickening metallic gurgle, a belch of acrid black smoke, and everything fell silent.

'Oh, for pity's sake!' moaned the Bishop, giving an apologetic look to his captives. 'Honestly, this has never happened before.' He spent the next few minutes trying fruitlessly to find a fault with the various gears and pulleys and bits of wire that made up his machine. The pirate with a scarf took this opportunity to attempt a bit of romantic small talk with Jennifer, but she seemed a little preoccupied and he could sense that the moment might have passed.

'There's no reason why this shouldn't be working. It's brand new,' said the Bishop tetchily. 'Unless ... one of you isn't really a lady!'

The pirate with a scarf gulped, and tried to do his most winning lady smile, but then he real­ised that this just showed off more of his gold teeth.

'There's only one way to find out,' said the Bishop, a nasty reptilian grin playing across his

Forty minutes later, the two of them reluctantly handed the Bishop their completed psychomet­ric test papers. He pored over the results, and then pointed an accusing finger at the pirate. The scarf-wearing pirate hung his head in dismay - his skill at spatial awareness and numerical pattern identification compared with his comparative weakness at colour differentia­tion and verbal reasoning had given away his secret.

'You're no lady!' said the Bishop with a scowl. 'In fact, these test results suggest you're a pirate! Goodness knows what you've done to my machine. It's only designed to work with ladies aged nineteen to twenty-six. You've probably invalidated my warranty, you lousy bum.'

The Bishop unhooked the pirate from his infer­nal apparatus, and rolled him in his tube over

to what looked for all the world like a massive metal cog. Then he opened up the top of the tube, slid the bound pirate out and fastened him to one of the notches between the cog's gigantic teeth. The Bishop looked at his watch irritably. 'I've got an appointment with a man and his monkey,' he said, turning his attention to Jennifer. 'But I expect you to be a lifeless husk by the time I get back, young lady. No funny business.'

With that, he pulled the big lever again, and went off whistling a show tune. The pirate with a scarf looked on in horror as the life started to drain from what was the first girl in ages who looked as though she might actually have put out for him.

Ten

A DEAD MAN'S CHEST!

H

alfway across town the Pirate Captain strode along with big piratical strides. He didn't stare down at his feet and scuttle through the sudden downpour like the sorry rubber­necks who shared the narrow streets with him; he held his head high and seemed almost to be snarling at the sky, willing it to do its worst - he was the Pirate Captain, and he wasn't bothered by a bit of rain.

lust a few minutes later - he walked at quite a pace, and had been known to swing his cutlass at ditherers who blocked his way - the Pirate Captain arrived at the Hotel Metropolitan where, according to his letter, the Pirate Convention was being held. The concierge, a slight and sweaty man, greeted him in the swanky lobby.

'You must be here for the Pork Convention,' he said with an exaggerated wink.

'Pork Convention? Are you mad? I'm here for

the Pirate Convention!' said the Pirate Captain, dumbfounded.

'Ha-ha! A Pirate Convention!' laughed the concierge, nervously brushing some of his few remaining hairs across a shiny scalp. 'Imagine! If you were an otherwise respectable hotel, and you were to hold a pirate convention, why the concierge gave a meaningful pause'... you'd probably pretend it was a Pork Convention, or something like that.'

'What's this blathering about pork?'

'I think that's what you're looking for.'

'I'm looking for no such thing! And stop winking at me! I've run men through for less!'

'I was simply saying the word 'pork' instead of 'pirate' so as not to draw any unwanted atten­tion to the proceedings. It's a kind of clever code. It doesn't really matter any more,' whis­pered the concierge, a touch irritably.

Ah! Yes. I'm here for the Pork Convention,' said the Pirate Captain in a loud voice, adding quietly with a wink of his own. 'I see what you're doing now.'

'If you'll just follow me.'

'Certainly. Is there anywhere I can leave my gammon?' 'I'm sorry?'

'My gammon. It's clever code for 'cutlass'. I just made it up.'

The concierge led the Pirate Captain through the lobby, which had been smartly decked out with big misleading papier-mache models of different kinds of pork products - including chops and sausages - across an expensive-look­ ing carpet, and into the hotel's main conference hall. It was full to the brim with pirates from all over the globe. Several of them were roaring, so it was quite noisy, and there was a distinct smell of seaweed about the place. Scanning the room, which read like a Who's Who of the nautical underworld, the Pirate Captain recognised a familiar figure. He threaded his way through the crowd.

'Raagh! You lubber!' roared the Pirate Captain.

'What's that? Lubber! Who's calling me a lubber! You cur!' said the pirate, spinning round angrily. He must have been a good seven feet tall, with hands the size of the hams the Pirate

Captain usually ate for dinner. Several of the other pirates in the immediate vicinity fell silent, their hands on their cutlasses, expecting trou­ble. But the giant pirate held up his arms and proceeded to squeeze the Pirate Captain in an embrace that would have crushed the breath out of lesser men with a more limited lung capacity.