A View of a Preview - For You!

Arrrrrgh the Zombies are coming!!!!

That's right, Gindylow has jumped on the (rather slow and rotting) zombie bandwagon and will soon be featuring them as part of another (flesh) ripping adventure of the Forever Pilot and his chum Maxim. Mr Loring has given the story the rather tasteful and not at all sensational title: The Zombies of Little Haiti.

And to whet your appetite for his story rather than for the human flesh that it normally craves; Mr Loring has appended this rather fine pencil sketch he did on the back of a paper napkin during his lunch-hour, of the 'title-page' of the story. Hopefully he will get round to finishing his picture and the story soon.

Love and moisturiser (the only thing for zombie skin), T.

Boo! New Ghost Writer Strip Materialises - Hooray!

Egg-scuse me but what a week it's been! A week full of traditional Easter things like hot-cross buns, chocolate, daffodils, more unseasonable snow and of course the mandatory celebratory roast meal and the celebratory drinking to excess; followed by the traditional slow, bed-ridden recovery and stomach bug-attacked mental atrophy and depression.....

But that aside what a week it's been for reaching out to the out-there people and acquiring of all things, some fans of Gindylow Bright Books, Words and Pictures. That's right, fans I say, FANS! Great wafting, beautiful peacock feather threaded fans to cool the fevered brow of self-doubt and self-loathing (well that's two brows, but you sort of get the elaborate metaphor I'm sure).

Yes, the good but rather immodest Mr Bove decided to create a fan group on that modern Internet megaphone, Facebook and ruthlessly exploited his tenuous friendships by begging his meagre 35 friends to come see these very pages. And come they did (in the arriving / stopping after a journey sense of the verb), in their droves of 11 or less. We are extremely grateful for their support whilst wondering what happened to the other 24 face book friends of poor Mr Bove? We also hope that having perused our wares and having laughed, pondered, scratched their heads in confusion and going on to read the naughty adult blogs instead, they will return again and write some encouraging comments on our articles.

But I digress. The other great wonder of this week is that Mr Bove, despite recovering from the afore-mentioned drinking and staying up 'till 4 in the morning, spending the rest of the week sick in bed and now generally feeling a sense of cosmic angst and despair overwhelming him, has had time to create yet another of his fine Ghost-writer comic strips. A fitting reward to all those who are now Fans of Gindylow. In lieu of badges and signed photographs of the staff, this one's for you.

Over Eggs-cited Trev.

The Ghost Writer # 2 The Eternal flames of Hell

Pilot Light - Enlightenment for our Readers

Pilot, light my fire!

And indeed he does (in a good way of course). And so as a fiery fan, I was delighted when Mr Loring handed me the following introduction to his creation, wrapped in a brown paper-parcel and marked 'very dirty adult stuff enclosed' (the looks I got!). It explains things a little, rants a lot more, but it is nice and has some nice pictures, so having introduced it, here is Mr Loring to introduce his introduction to The Forever Pilot.

Mr T. (but not the famous one), Prop.

Intro 2 Intro

I wrote this introduction some time ago now, for a proposed fanzine dedicated to The Pilot. The small, photocopied magazine itself took an age to produce (about a year per copy as I juggled day-jobs and life in general). And after sending out preview issues to every comic shop I could find the address of, nobody was interested in stocking the ‘zine, and so the whole thing fizzled out, remaining just a lot of files in a folder on my Computer’s hard-drive. Until now that is. As the Pilot has been resurrected for this blog, I thought it might be useful to disinter some of the other bits and pieces I have written about him

Reading the introduction now, I find it a bit too bombastic, a bit too breathless, like the introduction to the old Dick Barton Radio serial; in fact it probably shares similar constraints with it’s much more concise predecessor, in that I was trying to cram all the ideas I had about The Pilot into a very small space.

It does seem very sure of it’s self, wearing it’s antipathy to the modern hero and the modern world in general on it’s sleeve. But, I suppose I was in a dark place then, and The Pilot was really just a great escape for me, a way of jumping worlds if not times, and a reasonable way of keeping sane.

I am not so sure about The Pilot now, nor that the modern world is so entirely awful. Perhaps, in the future I will take on board today’s trends in fantasy and science-fiction and give the Pilot an interesting back-story. But whatever the future holds for the character (another couple of blog postings? A return to ‘zine form? Even a proper book of his adventures?) I am excited again about the infinite possibilities his world and adventures contain.

Enough now of this introduction to my introduction. Here is the original in all it’s shouty glory:

Robert Loring

Leeds, 2008

Pilot Light – an illuminating introduction to the Forever Pilot and his Universe

1. The Antique 21^st Century

The Forever Pilot is an anachronism and the world he inhabits is an atavistic playground of smoky chimneys, fog and rain; a world that continues where our Victorian era ended. In this antique 21^st Century, the buildings are more ornamental than mighty. The streets are cobbled

and secretive beneath the soft glow of gas-lamps. Horse-drawn cabs still ply their trade, whilst jet-cars and jet-vans roar overhead. Communication is by wireless, telegraph and ethervision, Cinema is important, but wastes no time with the undignified act of talking. Aeroplanes and automobiles don’t exist, but airships, steam-trains and steam-ships do.

In The Forever Pilot’s universe there has never been a true world war, only a great number of minor skirmishes. Imperial Russia has risen to be the most powerful nation on Earth, and what we know as the U.S.A. has never existed. Instead, the continent of America is divided up into a mass of tiny, independent countries, uneasily rubbing shoulders with territory owned by the great colonial powers.

Oil in this alternative universe is a useful commodity, but not a religion. There are no multinational corporations, only Emperors and Priests; and quaint, Tyrolean Principalities still exist, along with their cuckoo-clocks, pine forests and werewolves.

On the great North American prairies, Cowboys, Indians and Buffalo still roam, whilst above their heads, gentlemen explorers are orbiting the Earth on giant iron platforms. These same explorers have also set foot on the moon and Mars, and thanks to Professor Zim’s Prometheus Propulsion system, are setting out to conquer the outer worlds.

Although the outward trappings of this alternative Earth are ostensibly Victorian, great strides in morality and equality have been made. The men and women may still wear the kind of clothes our great, great-grandparents wore; bowler hats, crinolines, galoshes, high-button shoes, lace and taffeta, corsets, monocles, waxed moustaches and so on; but amongst men and women a new kind of equality exists. Women have the vote in most civilised countries, and have achieved equal status in most areas of work and private life.

These same men and women may well be more naïve than us, trusting the old order and the leaders who enforce it. They may well be more in the dark about the dangers of living than we are, but for all that are surely less fettered by the neuroses and anxieties that keep us in our world down. Also, though they may be full of all sorts of absurd prejudices and superstitions, they are freer to believe in themselves and their own actions. And in a world where television isn’t the ultimate arbiter of taste and morality, they are less impressed by physical perfection and more stirred by deed.

However, just as in our world, tyranny, folly, fashion and fad still sway the majority. Corruption in politics is commonplace, and there are revolutionaries and anarchists dedicated to bringing down what they believe to be an ancient and decaying order. As a result, bombs are being thrown just as they are being thrown here; only because on that world, man’s ingenuity has been devoted to exploration and adventure instead of war; the capabilities of such weapons are limited. Unlike in our world, there are no ‘smart’ bombs delivering random slaughter from the skies; no generals armoured by the sophistry of war, believing that wanton murder is merely political and no more harmful than some sort of statistical chess game. There, unlike here, war is a thought a hateful game best left to the professionals.

Looking at it as a whole, the world of The Forever Pilot is not necessarily better than our own. Human nature is human nature after all, even in a parallel universe. But at least to its credit, that other world isn’t quite so shallow, violent or restrictive as our own.

2. The Atavistic Pilot

Traditionally a hero will have a secret identity. Even the mysterious and sinister Shadow was either Lamont Cranston or Kent Allard as it suited him. The Forever Pilot however, has no discernible other identity, and is a true man of mystery. He doesn’t have a girl/boy friend and no obvious secret crushes on anyone. He doesn’t have a Forever pet or a reassuring home life. The

Forever Pilot undoubtedly has problems (as anybody would without the above advantages) but whatever these problems are, he seems more content burying them in his adventures. Perhaps it isn’t healthy for him, but sadly in his old-fashioned world there are no real psychiatrists to inform him of the fact.

The Forever Pilot’s costume is bulky and uncomfortable-looking, something of a militaristic mish-mash which makes him look like a cross between a fencer, a cavalryman and a straightjacketed lunatic. For transport he relies on the most up-to-date vehicle, a Norton Skyranger jet-bike. For weapons however, The Pilot has to rely on good old-fashioned fists, a revolver and sabre, and of course his quite considerable intelligence.

In behaviour, he is a gentleman with impeccable manners and a dashing, witty demeanor. And when it comes to a fight, he always prefers to ask questions first and punch noses second.

Despite his often warm and congenial manner, The Forever Pilot is still an outsider in every respect. During his early adventures in Europe, it is often noted that he speaks the language of each country with impeccable fluency. Yet to the discerning ear, a slight English accent is apparent. From this it would seem that The Forever Pilot originates from England. But which England?

The Pilot is clearly from a more technologically-advanced civilisation: his frequent references to concepts alien to those around him, such as psychiatrists and electron microscopes, testify to this. So is his England an England of the far future or one belonging to a parallel universe? Or could the answer be something more sinister? Could The Forever Pilot be from an alien world where his alien language is spoken with what to an untrained ear sounds like an English accent?

Another, even more sinister explanation of The Pilot’s obvious ‘foreignness’ is that he is not human at all, but in fact a robot programmed to simulate the movements and habits of human beings , ultimately lacking any real human responses or emotions.

As well as being materially separate from the other inhabitants of his adopted world, The Forever Pilot is also separated from them by a certain moral or spiritual barrier. And like the many that have trodden the mean streets before him, The Forever Pilot may be ‘in’ the world but is clearly not ‘of’ it.

The weary thoughts and aspirations of the ordinary man are not for The Pilot. Popular opinion, the average idea, the safe passage of fashion and acceptance by the group: all are a kind of poison both to creativity and to the clear, moral stance needed to fight crime and human iniquity. To be human and frail is to give in, to ‘let off the hook’, to forgive or ‘turn a blind eye’ to certain aspects of crime. But because The Pilot is able to step out from the half animal fog that blinds the ordinary man, he is able to always act with absolute conviction and near absolute impartiality.

One way to describe The Pilot is that he is an ‘embodiment of granted prayer’, a phrase used by George Trendle to describe his own fictional creation, The Lone Ranger.

But just as with the rest of humanity, The Forever Pilot also has his inconsistencies, not altogether concomitant with the idea of him as a cold, evaluating spirit.

Whilst on the one hand he is more of a man-shaped hole in space than a living, breathing human being, The Pilot also has a buccaneering, devil-may-care attitude towards his adventures.

And here lies a conundrum: does The Pilot do good because he is a good man? Does he do good because he is seeking revenge against evil, because once a great evil was done to him? Or does he do good because deep down he knows that he is a bad man and wishes to somehow erase his guilt through doing good?

Some of the people who have encountered The Forever Pilot are more of the opinion that he is simply out to stave off a sense of ennui; the inevitable boredom that comes to one who has seen the meaninglessness of eternity.

The answers to all these riddles may be revealed as the stories progress. Then again, perhaps they are ultimately unimportant. Sometimes in life, too much knowledge of what we love can destroy it. So perhaps it is better to leave The Forever Pilot undefined, like a shadow cast on a sunlit wall, flickering, fascinating, but forever remaining dark and incorporeal.

It's wallpaper (not curtains) for you!

Kerblammmm! Gindylow brings you another fine example of the decorative Arts, wallpaper in fact, for your very own computer screen. Alright, so it may not be William Morris or even Maurice Binder (what a great graphic designer he was) - but it is FREE to you. Just follow the URL to the smashing SCRIBD website, click and save to your files, and you too will have the very handsome Mr Moore shooting up your icons, in fabulous retro stylee.

This vintage item was nicked - ahem, I mean 'borrowed' - from the very fabulous Look-in picture-strip archive (Look-in was the Junior TV times you know, oh younger fans of Gindylow who did not have a chance to savour such sweet papery delights every week from the local newsagents) which you can find at the URL below the Scribd URL below. Oh yes and it was produced by the very talented / opportunistic and up-and-coming (if he doesn't get sued for copyright) designer - Mr Maurice Dancing. Ta very much like, Maurice.

And that is all for this hour.

Love and wallpaper-paste,

Tasteful Trevor

http://www.scribd.com/doc/2311989/lookinbonwallpaper

http://www.lookinarchive.com/

Gindylow does a comic-strip - fnarr, fnarr

Crikey! Have I got a post for you today, tonight (if you’re in foreign to Leeds climbs) – too right! (the rhyme makes better sense if you ignore the previous explanatory bracket). Yes indeed, Mr A. Bove, he of the Gindylow Bright Boy’s Book of Wonder non-fame has added another string to his bow (which should make his violin sound better – boom, boom) and produced the rather fine cartoon that you see below.

Mr Bove refuses to give much away about the origins of the strip, but we have a sneaking suspicion he may once have come across a certain Marvel Comics character of a similar name and used it to express his own rather bitter feelings about the literary world; although this is just a wild stab in the dark.

If you click the image you will see it in all it’s larger than large, flaw-showing glory. Copy it, paste it into Word, email or fax it to your friends, print it out (we recommend a black-and-white printer as for some reason or other the colour version comes out a sort of pinky grey!), stick it up ….. on the wall; whatever you choose to do with it we ask you to enjoy it – please – we really must insist you do.

Mr Bove promises that if his busy day-job, working at the very cutting-edge of Information Literacy allows, he will produce some more strips. We at Gindylow, sincerely hope that the staring-put-the-window, the coughing, the making paper hats out of old feedback forms and the endless eBay buying of plastic tat – eases enough to allow his creative juices full flow. Yes we do!

So I will leave you with the strip, but just before I go, did you hear the one about the minnow, the toilet-attendant and the apple-core? No, neither did I, and I sincerely hope it remains that way.

Tatty ‘bye

Toothsome, Toiling Trevor T. (available for weddings, bar-mitzvahs and summer bookings)

the Ghost Writer #1 - More cinder than sinned against?

The Pilot in the City of Shadows - Episode Three

'Kerpow! Blammmm! Biff! Zing! Arrrgggh! I got you! No you didn't! I did too! .... '

Ahhh, doesn't it take you back to those carefree killing days of childhood, when you could be any one of your heroes, when to you, all men and women walked in perfect anonymity, strong, god-like and at least three feet taller.

Reading the Forever Pilot, has caused me to revisit the same carefree feelings of childhood, having seen the same kind of strong, childhood hero in the strange, monumental character that Mr Loring has created.

The Forever Pilot: a man without a past or present, a man who has travelled the infinite, a man without family or any of the inner-demons that make modern-day heroes more dirty-grey than white. That is not to say there is no place in my heart for the other kind of hero, it's just refreshing to watch the familiar trustworthy figure of youth, flex his muscles against the forces of chaos and despair.

But then I never really wanted to grow up anyway..... 'sniff'.

So, it is the final part of the first Forever Pilot adventure and I think you'll agree, it has been a resounding success; at least Mr Loring's Parents and girlfriend think so! So much so that we will definitely be bringing you more stories soon (well it's cheaper than publishing them properly!). And to whet your appetite for more, we will soon be bringing you Mr Loring's tantalising essay on the nature of The Pilot and his alternative universe.

However, enough of me, what about the story? But before we get to the nitty-gritty, the pulp payoff as it were, for those with fingers too atrophied to hit the scroll button, here is the story so far:

The hunt for Dr Fleischer is on! Chief-Superintendent Celestine Janvier of the Ombreville Judicial Police finds herself in the unenviable position of having to request the help of the equally mysterious Forever Pilot and his companion, Maxim, who have recently become famous for solving mysteries and fighting crime all over Europe.

Together with the Pilot and Maxim, Ombreville's chief magistrate, Madame Delouche, as well as her two ever-faithful deputies, Baldon and Vigo, Janvier discusses the recent crimes of the gruesome doctor, namely the apparent death of two unknown victims, whose remains were deposited in the most unlikeliest of places: a newspaper-wrapped parcel deposited at the front desk of Police headquarters, and a soup tureen at Inspector Vernet's retirement party.

The Forever Pilot surmises that the severed limbs are the work of two different murderers, but Madame Delouche is firm that they can only be the result of Dr Fliescher.

Later, when his alone with Janvier in his office, the Pilot produces a highly-detailed psychological profile of Dr Fleischer, who he believes to be an intellectual, middle-aged man, probably an ex-medical student, who can speak German, and although married to a domineering woman, is childless and isolated amongst his peers.

As to the other murder, the one that produced the foot in the tureen of soup, The Pilot is still convinced that it is the handiwork of a separate criminal. He discusses the possibilities of the second criminal being none other than Madame Delouche, although other suspects might be Baldon or even old Vernet. But when pressed by Janvier to reveal who he thinks it could be, The Pilot will only say: ' someone you know very well undoubtedly committed the second murder".

Now read on! ....

THE PILOT IN THE CITY OF SHADOWS
By Robert Loring

III

Later that day, after a few hours sleep, Janvier found herself wearily plodding through the vast Hall of Central Records, on her way to the Pathology labs.

All around her in the gloomy hall, an aquarium light flickered across hundreds of tabulator screens. Row upon row of Sikorski Intelidesks filled the room, their delicate insect appendages clicking and flicking across rolls of paper as countless pieces of information were analysed.

How was it, she asked herself as she passed the rows of silent, monk-like clerks at their terminals – how was it with such dedication and technology it was still left to the humble flat-foot like herself to do something about Man’s inequities? It was a deeply philosophical question for which she could find no answer.

As she hurried into the bare white laboratory, Janvier was immediately face to face with a furious chief pathologist.

“Superintendent,” he spluttered, “I simply cannot continue my work with this … this person watching me! I want him removed at once!” As he shouted, Dr Javet practically danced with outrage.

For a moment Janvier found herself blinking. After the gloom of the Hall of Records it was difficult to adjust to the bright, antiseptic light of the laboratory. As her eyes cleared, the first thing she saw was The Pilot leaning insouciantly against the wall, a faintly apologetic smile playing across his lips. Javet shook a finger at him and continued to rant.

“He keeps insisting we use something called an electron microscope and DNA something or other – as if such things exist! Pure scientific fiction!”

The Pilot stopped lounging and went over to a nearby table loaded with equipment. Maxim hovered at his side clutching a small metal box.

“Never mind,” The Pilot said. “We will have to make do with the resources at hand. Maxim, the slide.” Maxim dutifully responded, pulling a small wedge of plastic from the metal box. “Come Inspector, what do you make of this?”

Janvier lumbered over to the table and squinted through the eyepiece of a microscope. Maxim’s slide lay on the stage beneath. The colourful geometric shapes she saw meant nothing to her.

“It’s cement powder.” The Pilot explained patiently. “Minute traces were found in Petersson’s hair.”

The chief pathologist gave a sigh that was as violent as a slap in the face. Janvier turned and saw that Javet was looking at the ceiling in exasperation.

“All of which was in my report!” He exclaimed. “It leads me to believe the corpse was stored somewhere close to a bag or bags of cement. Indeed from the traces found on his clothing it is very probable that at some point his corpse was actually stored in an empty cement sack.

“Really Inspector, why do we have to waste our time listening to this fantasist when we…”

Janvier turned her back on the man.

“Is this going somewhere?” she growled impatiently.

The Forever Pilot gave her a remarkably boyish smile and nodded to Maxim. Another slide was conjured from his box.

“This slide was prepared from a sample of dust from the newspaper wrapping of Gaspard’s parcel.”

Janvier repeated the exercise with the microscope. Once again all she saw were a number of pretty crystals. She shrugged.

“What you have just seen is a collection of raw materials. Calcium carbonate, silica, aluminia and iron oxide; or putting it another way, particles of unrefined clay and limestone. Mixed together in the right quantity together with a dash of gypsum and you have the powder known as Portland cement. A very significant clue I trust you’ll agree.”

Janvier’s face remained doubtful. “Well, I suppose so. Though all my men have got instructions to be on the look-out for someone with bags of cement. Possibly someone who might have had some work done, or even someone who deals in the stuff. But other than that, I can’t really see…” Her voice tailed off.

“You people,” laughed The Pilot, “I keep forgetting your limits. On the one hand you have technology that Jules Verne only dreamed of and on the other you use objects and procedure that might have come out of the Arc.” The Pilot got up and headed for the door, closely followed as always by Maxim. They paused in the doorway.

“We shall leave you to work out the significance of the particles. In the meantime Superintendent, if Maxim and I may be allowed open access to the Hall Of Records once again, we might be able to elucidate the matter even further.”

With that The Pilot and Maxim swept out of the door leaving Janvier puzzling in their wake. What on earth had The Pilot meant?

It was the ever-dependable Baldon who put his finger on it later. “I’ll bet you a hatpin to half-a-million francs that there’s something not right about those two.” He drawled thoughtfully.

They were in Janvier’s office. Janvier was seated in her usual place. Baldon perched on the corner of her desk. Janvier’s hands were clasped behind her head. With a characteristic narrowing of her eyes she regarded her assistant disdainfully.

“That’s not very helpful. What exactly are you on about?”

Undeterred by his Superintendent’s annoyance, Baldon continued to voice his suspicions.

“Well I reckon there’s just something that don’t add up. I mean, all that guff about our technology coming out of the Arc. Why everyone knows that the French police force is the most scientific force outside of Russia. But the way they was talking anyone would think we were all still in the Stone Age. Why it’s almost as if …” His voiced petered off, as if he was suddenly embarrassed by his vague suspicions and his even more fantastical theories.

“Well, as if what?”

Baldon shrugged and gave his Chief an embarrassed smile. “Well, it’s almost as if they’re from the future or something.” Baldon tentatively raised his gaze from the scarred patch of desk he had been staring at. His Chief’s face was cold and expressionless. Baldon shrugged again. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb he thought.

“Either that,” he continued, “or from another planet, you know, one with better machines. Or maybe they’re from another dimension, a more advanced Earth.”

There was a moment’s embarrassed silence, and then Janvier lent back in her chair and began to massage her tired eyes.

“I reckon you’ve been spending to long at the Kino old friend.” Her voice was full of weariness. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that it’s just as likely that The Pilot is a clever criminal in cahoots with our old mate Fleischer? Either that or a clever con-man.”

Baldon looked aghast.

“No, I think we’ll just forget those wild theories of yours and just concentrate on catching a killer. And anyway, I don’t care if those two clowns are from Jupiter or your left nostril, just as long as they help us catch Fleischer!”

Whatever his mysterious origins, The Pilot was certainly no liar. And as he had promised, his strange theories and techniques brought the investigation forward by a giant leap.

“You see Inspector,” explained The Pilot cheerfully the following day, “the traces from Gaspard’s parcel gave us a real clue to the whereabouts of our dear, murdering friend.”

The Pilot was seated. He lounged easily on his chair and it was easy to see that he felt pleased with himself.

He continued his explanation: “The refined cement powder, when put together with the base constituents found in your parcel, gave me the idea that our friend could very well be involved in the process of cement production, which would match my theories about his academic or scientific background. After that, Maxim and I did some cartographic tours of the area and came up with – Maxim?”

“The Hercules Cement Plant on the outskirts of Telmond, about three or four miles away from the city.” Maxim announced.

“So?” exclaimed Janvier scornfully.

“So,” The Pilot picked up where Maxim had left off, “I believe you’ll find that our murderer is an employee of the Hercules Cement Plant.”

“Isn’t it more usual to find the bodies in cement rather than the murderers?” quipped Janvier. Nevertheless, despite her air of levity, Janvier was on the phone to the examining magistrate in seconds, and an hour later a formation of Police vehicles was on its way to the factory.

Janvier, Baldon and Vigo travelled to the Hercules Cement Plant in an unmarked jet-car, whilst The Pilot and Maxim followed on their matching Norton Skyrangers. Finally, bringing up the rear, two cumbersome jet-wagons filled with gendarmes, completed the hastily assembled task-force.

The formation landed on the dusty fringe of a lime quarry. On the other side of the man-made gorge, the aluminium turrets of the Hercules Cement Plant gleamed proudly against the cloudless sky.

It was baking hot beneath the afternoon sun. The policemen stood in dark-suited groups, waiting tensely for the search-warrant to be telemessaged through. Waiting nearby, Janvier eyed her new colleague once again. It must have been nearly ninety degrees in the shade and yet there stood The Pilot, motionless and impassive beneath the blazing midday sun. In his heavy leather armour he must have been as hot as a furnace, yet he hardly moved, seemingly undisturbed by the intolerable heat that was beginning to make Janvier’s skin crawl.

Not for the first time since her discussion with Baldon, Janvier found herself wondering if The Pilot really was human after all.

“I doubt you’ll need all that manpower Inspector,” The Pilot motioned to the group of gendarmes.

“It’s a big plant, it could take all day.” Snapped Janvier testily.

“Oh I doubt that you’ll have to look any further than the research laboratories.” The Pilot concluded.

Janvier wiped a trickle of sweat from the back of her neck and squinted at the distantly shimmering cement works. She began to wonder how difficult it would be to transfer to the traffic division.

“Inspector, the warrant’s come through.” Baldon jumped out of the jet-wagon and handed his boss a flimsy sheet of paper.

“Right then, let’s go.” Janvier took a decisive step forward. Baldon followed close at her heels.

“Where shall we try first Chief?” He asked.

Janvier looked straight into the expressionless tin eyes of The Pilot. “Oh I dunno, why not the research labs.”

The policemen clambered back into their vehicles. In a cloud of dust the engines screamed and whined, pushing the formation above the quarry and over to the main entrance of the Hercules Cement Factory.

As soon as it landed, Janvier leaped out of her van, glad to be in action at last. She posted guards around the plant, then swept through the revolving door of the main office building, finally arriving in a marble and gold lobby.

A squat, middle-aged receptionist stood waiting. She was flanked on either side by a group of tough-looking security guards. Janvier waived the search-warrant in the receptionist’s face, but the woman remained unmoved and continued to forbid their entry, and so a noisy row ensued.

As the argument progressed, The Pilot detached himself from the main group and began to scan his surroundings with his cold, tin gaze. Not an inch of marble and gold, not a face or figure that scurried in and out of the lobby could avoid that impersonal, inhuman scrutiny. But still no murderer was to be seen.

Finally, the plant’s general-manager was summoned, a soft unctuous man who, after trembling beneath the wroth of Janvier for a few moments, waived the policemen through into the rest of the building.

Whilst Janvier and her men began to gather up the staff, the Forever Pilot and Maxim stayed behind in the manager’s office. They had requested a copy of the personnel list had soon became engrossed in it. It didn’t take them long to find what they were looking for.

Fifteen minutes later, Maxim burst into the cramped office Janvier was using to conduct her interviews.

The young secretary who Janvier had been interviewing blanched visibly at the sight of such an oddly dressed man and jumped as Maxim shouted excitedly: “Inspector, here’s your man!”

Without a word, Janvier snatched a page of printout from Maxim’s outstretched hand. She stared at the name that had been underlined, almost as if she might discern the murder’s face from the plain black type.

“Professor Emile Thierrot, M.S.C., P.H.D., F.R.S. Second Assistant Director of Experimental Research. This is your man?” Asked Janvier in disbelief. “A respectable fifty year old research chemist?”

“Who trained to be a Doctor of medicine before he switched to Chemistry,” Maxim countered, “who’s married with no children, who’s fluent in Russian, English and German, who’s also a member of the League Against Pollution!

“Don’t you remember, they were in attendance at the hotel on the night of the murders?”

But Maxim’s words fell only on the ears of the pale secretary. Janvier was already on her way.

As she ran toward the research section, pelting down endless blank corridors, she rounded a corner and collided with Vigo.

“Chief, our man got away.” Vigo informed her between gasps and wheezes. “He jumped out a back window while The Pilot was trying to get past his assistant. Baldon took off after him.”

Just as Vigo was speaking there came a mighty timpani rumble of jet engines from outside. The two police inspectors ran to the window and saw a delivery truck roaring off into the sky. A few seconds later it was closely followed by the gnat-like figure of The Pilot on his Norton.

When the two detectives got outside they found Baldon lying in the bleached dust of the courtyard. A gendarme was helping him to his feet.

Baldon’s usually slick hair stood on end; his clothes were torn and covered with dust. Janvier also noticed that his left arm was hanging limply at his side and that his face was almost as white as the dust covering his clothes; in spite of all this however, Baldon still managed a rueful grin.

“Took off after the bastard,” he managed to gasp. “Got onto the running board but he did some sort of waggle, flipped me off. Think it broke my arm. Sorry boss.”

Janvier dismissed his apologies. Then looked to the empty blue sky. The Pilot and Thierrot were nowhere to be seen, should she round up her men and follow?

A few moments later, Maxim arrived, and as if he could read the Superintendent’s thoughts, he gave her, her answer.

“Don’t worry Inspector, the Chief’ll take care of Fleischer. He’s spent too long on his trail to let him get away now.”

As The Pilot manoeuvred himself into position, ready to leap aboard the truck, he just had time to glimpse the muzzle of a revolver poking out of the driver’s side window. Then a hail of bullets rattled out towards him.

With lightning reflexes The Pilot pushed down hard on the bike’s accelerator pedal. Instantly he was propelled a couple of feet past the truck, missing the bullets by a whisker. Now it was his turn to lead the strange aerial ballet.

With split-second timing The Pilot clicked the bike onto auto-pilot and leaped backwards off the bike, twisting his body in mid-air so that when he landed with a thump on its bonnet, he was facing the truck’s cabin. Now, as the slipstream whipped and slashed at his face, he could see the astonished expression of Thierrot through the truck’s dusty, flyspecked windscreen.

Seen close-up, the terrible Doctor Fleischer’s was a very unprepossessing figure; nothing more than a pale middle-aged man with a neat, grey, goatee-beard. Instead of Fleischer’s distorted lenses, he wore a pair of pince-nez balanced precariously on the bridge of his nose, giving him a fussy, old-womanish appearance. Over his normal suit he wore a white lab-coat, something which at least bore a passing resemblance to the one sported by Dr Fleischer.

But The Pilot had no more time to study his adversary.

Thierrot was out of bullets. Furious at his own lack of foresight he hurled the pistol at the windscreen in disgust. The heavy gun shattered the windscreen like a brick. Undismayed, The Pilot leaped over the missile as agilely as a champion hurdler and before the doctor had time to throw anything else, The Pilot’s boot crashed in through the gaping hole in the windscreen, clipping the doctor neatly on the jaw.

A few minutes later, when Janvier’s jet-car eventually caught up with the hovering truck, she saw The Pilot sitting calmly at the wheel, whilst beside him, slumped on the passenger seat was an unconscious Thierrot. Curiously enough, The Pilot looked thoroughly bored. Clearly Dr Fleischer’s arrest had been mere child’s play to a man of his considerable abilities.

he landed with a thump on its bonnet, he was facing the truck’s cabin

The Fleischer case was over.

After his arrest, Thierrot had made a tearful confession that was half way between remorse and pride. His reasons for murdering so many innocent people were obvious he claimed. As a committed anti-pollutionist what else could he do but carry his campaign right to the root cause of the evil, weeding out the useless and apathetic citizens who were casually draining Earth’s precious resources?

The man was clearly insane, and as Thierrot was being handcuffed, Janvier intimated as much to The Pilot.

“Isn’t it strange Superintendent,” he replied, “how one man with such opinions is clearly insane, but if ten men, a thousand, or even a million hold the same terrible opinion then they are called a government or a democracy?”

Once again, Janvier was at a loss for a reply. Instead she merely nodded, hoping The Pilot and Maxim wouldn’t take too long about leaving. For once she got her wish.

A few minutes later she was alone with Theirrot and the gendarme he was handcuffed to. She gave the order and Thierrot was led away to the cells.

As he shuffled dejectedly down the long, anonymous corridor belonging to the Flying Squad, Thierrot had to pass the waiting room at the end of the hall.

The waiting room or ‘the fish-tank’ as it was more commonly known was a squat box-like structure with three walls made completely of glass. Waiting in the fish-tank were two prim ladies dressed entirely in black. They looked as if they had just arrived from a funeral. Apart from their clothes, the two women were physically alike, and could easily have been mistaken for twin sisters, but were in fact mother and duaghter. Both women were small and dark, with narrow oval spectacles. Both wore an expression of distaste as if the worst effluence of Ombreville had slopped into the fish-tank. Both stood stiffly to attention, clutching black beaded reticules.

They saw Thierrot before he saw them, and the effect of his presence as he plodded down the corridor, was electric. All at once the two women were on the move, rushing frantically out of the waiting room and into the corridor, abruptly interrupting the miserable procession.

Janvier, who was locking her office, saw the whole thing from a distance. But Baldon, who had been warned about the two women by the office messenger, got to them first.

They had pounced on the murder and regardless of the constable he was handcuffed to, were delivering such a reign of blows and scratches that the guillotine looked merciful by comparison. The constable simply gaped in astonishment, cringing every time a blow landed, as if he were the one under attack and not his prisoner; and so the undignified job of dragging the two women away was left to Baldon. And after receiving a number of painful kicks to the shin and a scratch or two to his cheek, he finally managed it.

Once separated from their victim, mother and daughter stood panting and gulping for breath, their hair was dishevelled and their eyes glittered with an evil light. Some venom-filled words were exchanged with Baldon and then they appeared to be leaving peaceably.
But that wasn’t quite the end of it.

As Janvier caught up with the group, she was astonished to see the younger woman spin round and with a mighty leap, launch herself on Thierrot again. This time she delivered one solitary blow with all the strength of her insane hatred. The slap caught Thierrot on the side of his head; rocking it sideways and sending his pince-nez flying down the corridor. Janvier later swore that she had never seen a more vicious or hate-filled blow in all her life.

With that the women seemed satisfied and swept away in silent triumph, their black skirts rustling like sails beneath them.

Thierrot on the other hand was on the floor, scrabbling for his pince-nez. Large, hot tears of shame rolled down his cheeks, whilst a high-pitched, inhuman mewling escaped his lips.

Janvier felt disgusted and turned her back on the scene. “Who the hell was that?” she asked Baldon.

“I’d’ve thought it was obvious.” He panted. “That was Madame Thierrot and her mother.”

The next day, the papers were full of Thierrot’s spectacular capture. Headlines of various sizes carried Theirrot's and The Pilot’s names to every doorstep in the world. Moustachioed announcers interrupted countless ethervision shows in order to narrate the epic story of Doctor Fleischer’s defeat. Whilst on street corners no one spoke of anything else. Baldon received a cast and sling on his arm as well as a medal for bravery, whilst Janvier had a few brief words of recognition devoted to her in the official report. Not that she cared all that much. For her the most satisfying part was seeing Fleischer behind bars; that and finally getting rid of all his files.

So, after the very neat conclusion to the Fleischer case, Janvier was more than a little disturbed when only a few days later, The Forever Pilot and Maxim walked into her office. The Pilot had a blue Bakelite sandwich box tucked under one arm, which seemed almost ludicrous when placed alongside his severe costume.

“What’s up? Come to share a sandwich or two?” Janvier chuckled in-spite of the agitation she felt at their return. The Pilot said nothing in reply, but there was a very definite twitch of amusement around his lips.

“I’m afraid not Inspector. Though if you’re fond of trotters I’m sure the rightful owner of my – er – picnic - wouldn’t object to you having a nibble.”

Janvier sat bolt upright in her chair. “What! More hands and feet?”

“Not more Superintedent , the same - or rather from the same source.”

Just as Janvier was leaping to her feet, The Pilot and Maxim each drew a seat toward Janvier’s desk and sat down. An apologetic expression appeared on the exposed parts of their faces.

“Now Superintendent,” said The Pilot, “before we continue, may I ask how your investigations are progressing?”

Completely unnerved by this unwanted visit, Janvier blinked stupidly at him. All she was able to do was repeat the question parrot fashion.

The Pilot smiled and patiently explained himself. “The investigations regarding the second murder. As Thierrot made no confession as to his involvement I merely wondered if you had made any progress in catching the real killer?”

Now Janvier felt embarrassment and anger rising inside her, blowing away the fog of her earlier surprise.

“Now look here Pilot, this is an official Police investigation. Obviously I’m grateful for your help with Fleischer, but if you think you can waltz in here and ask me to divulge confidential information, then you’ve got another thing coming!”

The Pilot studied the ceiling nonchalantly. “So it’s as I thought. You’ve given up. Case dismissed; or rather, case locked away in a dusty filing cabinet!”

Janvier angrily jabbed her thumb at a fresh pile of reports that teetered on the corner of her desk. “Have you seen the number of cases I’ve got on…?”

The Pilot smiled again. This time the effect was like ice down the back of her neck.

“Well Superintendent, Maxim and I have not given up. Whilst you have been busy burying files, we have been pursuing the trail of the two missing Metropole staff. You’ll be glad to know therefore that we successfully traced Robichaux to a tawdry hotel-room in Monmartre. He’d absconded with some money of his father’s, and has been using it to entertain himself with an assortment of narcotics and the favours of women of easy virtue.

“Which of course leaves Benjamin. There’s no trace of him, except, well - perhaps you’d like to take a look at this.”

Taking his cue from the Pilot, Maxim popped open the Bakelite box and removed something from it. Between the forefinger and thumb of his right hand he held what looked like an overlong tube of macaroni.

“It’s a toe-bone Inspector.” Maxim explained. “Now that the fuss has died down the Chief and I went over to the Metropole and had a good look around. On a hunch I checked the hotel’s incinerator and ‘hey presto’: the charred remains of a body.”

“But that’s impossible!” snorted Janvier, “My men went over every inch of the hotel with a fine toothcomb. I’d bet my life they wouldn’t have missed anywhere as obvious as an incinerator.”

“And yet the fact remains Inspector, we found pieces of a skeleton. Not the whole thing of course; all the major fragments have been removed. For instance, the skull whose teeth could have helped identify the corpse was missing.”

Now that she had returned to her own side of the desk, Janvier collapsed heavily into her chair. It was sheer incompetence. Either that or…

With a sudden motion The Pilot leapt to his feet. His assistant followed suit. “Maxim, do you know I’m suddenly very thirsty. See if you can rustle up a cup of tea would you old chap?” Maxim dutifully left the office, leaving The Pilot to pace up and down in front of Janvier’s desk.

“It’s very possible this oversight on your men’s part may have a more serious implication. One or more of them may be covering up for Benjamin's murder. Our next course of action must be to question each of the investigating detectives.”

Feeling too weak to voice an objection, Janvier got up and walked to the internal door. As she opened it she bellowed into the next room. “Baldon! Has anyone seen – ah Rene, there you are. Can you come in please?”

Baldon was leaning suggestively over a pretty blond typist who had been brought in to prepare his reports. His arm was out of its sling, but still swathed in an elastic bandage. At his chief’s urgent summons he gave the typist a lecherous wink and hurried into Janvier’s office. When he saw her distinguished visitor he recoiled slightly, but with some effort managed to glue a smile on his face.

“As the man on the spot,” explained Janvier, “Baldon was in charge of the Metropole work. He should be able to tell you more about it.”

Baldon came and sat down on one of the recently vacated chairs.

“What can I do for you boss?”

Janvier explained tersely. When she had finished, Baldon’s eyes were wide with amazement.

“I … I can’t understand it…” he stammered, “I’d trust everyone of the boys with my life. If they said they didn’t find anything, well, they didn’t find anything.”

Janvier persisted, “What about the people in the hotel, could any of them have got down to the incinerators. Or was there anyone new hanging about?”

Baldon shrugged for a moment. His face was pained and he looked like a man out of his depth. Then a new light suffused his face, smoothing out his look of confusion. A memory had come to his rescue.

“You remember there was that visit from the examining magistrate, just to see how things were going she said. And she was the prosecuting magistrate on the Benjamin case too. Perhaps some past connection with the man…?”

For a moment there was a strained silence in the room while the two detectives tried to fit the clumsy, ill-cut pieces of the puzzle together. This was a fresh pattern Janvier did not like. She stared at The Pilot to see if he could provide some sort of an answer, Baldon on the other hand looked questioningly at his boss.

The Pilot began to pace back and forth across the room. “You know Baldon,” he said “you may well have put your finger on it. If you remember Superintendent I voiced similar suspicions to you myself. The Metropole visit taken with Madame Delouche’s eagerness to link the second murder to Dr Fleischer certainly cast her in a suspicious light.

“The only problem is clarifying the motive and opportunity. The most likely explanation is blackmail. But why should Madame Delouche wait until now to kill Benjamin, unless he had only recently begun. But then the same question more or less applies. Why would he begin blackmailing her now? Then there is the matter of opportunity. Whilst she certainly had the opportunity to remove Benjamin’s skeleton, did she have such an opportunity on the night of Benjamin’s murder? Was she at the hotel that night?”

Another long silence. More puzzled frowns and painful thinking.

“Remember how she admitted she was a member of the philanthropists?” Baldon interjected eagerly. “Well she said she had an alibi, but how do we know she wasn’t lying. She could’ve gone. And even if she didn’t have an invitation she could’ve said she’d changed her mind at the last minute.”

The Pilot grinned appreciatively. “You know Baldon, you’re positively inspired today.”

Baldon returned his smile and turned to Janvier. “Well boss, what do you say? Shall I get on to it?”

As he was talking, The Pilot continued to pace until at last he drew close to Baldon.

“Oh I’d save yourself the effort if I were you. I think even you would find it difficult to magic up some false witnesses from amongst the respectable members of the philanthropists.”

The two police officers stared at The Pilot in astonishment.

“What are you on about?” spluttered Baldon.

“About your part in the murder of Benjamin my dear Inspector Baldon.”

For a moment it seemed as if a silent bomb had exploded. There was a sudden inaudible rushing and roaring of tension, as first Baldon and then Janvier gaped in amazement at The Pilot. Baldon tried to break the silence with a chuckle of contempt, but in the hush of the office his throaty rasp sounded more like a slow, steady strangulation.

The Pilot shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid I’ve already found out the answers Baldon. I’m merely playing the part of quizmaster. Just as on the ethervision, all the answers are written down for me. They’re written in the files of Central Records, spelt out in expense forms and timesheets, in arrest records and interview transcriptions.

“I know everything about you Baldon. I know for instance that as the organiser of Vernet’s party you personally recommended the catering company; a company moreover that we all know to be no more than a respectable front for a gang of unsavoury English villains. And further more I know that you are on their payroll!”

With one furious motion, Baldon leapt up and kicked an empty chair at The Pilot. He threw the other at Janvier and dived for the open door. But just as he flung the door open, he was stopped dead in his tracks. There stood Maxim, a pistol in each hand and a polite, almost apologetic smile fixed on his face.

There stood Maxim, a pistol in each hand

An hour later, Baldon was ready to make his confession. He lounged easily in his chair, presenting a remarkable contrast to Thierrot.

Unlike the little man who had trembled at his interrogator’s slightest movement, Baldon accepted cigarettes from the other detectives whilst cracking a string of unseemly jokes. It was pure bravado of course, part of his usual ‘hail-fellow-well-met’ routine. He couldn’t let that slip, especially now as he began the most difficult ordeal of his life.

And as she watched him, knowing full well that Baldon was just putting on an act, Janvier suddenly despised the man who had been her deputy for over ten years.

“You know me chief,” Baldon said with an almost defiant tone. “You know I’ve never put a foot wrong before. My only problem is a gambling habit. I guess I’ve got it pretty bad. That’s how they got to me. It was Ronnie Scott’s gang Chief; you know the one’s we couldn’t pin to the Mutual job. Well they sucked me in through all my gambling debts. Nothing big though, I’d never have gone for that. It was strictly small-fry stuff, you know, turning a blind eye here, losing a file there, that sort of thing. The catering contract was just another piece of business. I just had to give them the ok and say no to the rest.”

He paused to light a cigarette.

“My bad luck was that this ponce Benjamin knew the gang who’d arranged it. He was an ex-con remember, and he knew some of ‘em from the old days. So when he saw me with ‘em he just put two and two together. He came to me and demanded money or he’d squeal, simple as that. What could I do? I ask you Chief, what would you have done in my position? I love the Force, it’s all I know, and I wasn’t going to throw it all away for a ponce like that. I was nearly clear of my debts. A few more months then I could’ve cleared it all and quit the Firm for good. Then along comes Benjamin sucking at me like a leech.

“Next time I saw him we were alone in the kitchen of the Metropole. It was a couple of hours before the party. We’d arranged to meet and I was supposed to give him the money. Only I decided that the best way to deal with a snivelling dog like that is to say no outright; backed up with a punch in the guts of course.

“Seems I was wrong.

“When I refused to give him his money, he started laughing about how he was going to shop me and I just saw red Chief. I started laying into him, kicking and punching ‘til he went down.

“Well, next thing I know he’s dead. I managed to hide his body for a while in the basement, but things were getting too hot. Everyone was turning up for the party and the kitchens were heaving with staff. I had to get him out. Then I had a brainwave. Fleischer was in town; why not make it look like him?

“So I went to work. I stole some kitchen overalls so I wouldn’t get dirty and cut him up nice and proper. Then I hid the overalls where I could find them later, dropped the foot in the tureen and went back to the party as if nothing had happened. I would’ve hidden his body somewhere better later, but then when I heard about your delivery I panicked. I don’t know why I did. It might be ‘cause it was too much of a coincidence. Maybe my conscience got to me.

“Anyway, whatever the reason, I was scared witless. So I slipped away in the confusion, stuck Benjamin and the overalls in the incinerator and started the investigation. Then later on, I smuggled the skull and some of the bigger bones out and dropped them into the river.

“I guess I always knew the truth would come out in the end though. But when you’re on the slide...!” He gave a shrug and lit another cigarette. The confession was over.

When the last few formalities had been completed, Baldon strutted out of the room handcuffed to a uniformed constable. As he left he gave a last, playful wink to Janvier. Even to the end it seemed Baldon must play the loveable jack-the-lad. Maxim followed the two men, covering them with his revolver.

Once again The Superintendent and The Pilot were alone.

Janvier said nothing. Instead she slumped wearily in her chair.

The Forever Pilot stood rigidly at the window, hands clenched behind his back. He was framed against the sunset and seemed nothing more than a flat piece of black paper, a living silhouette.

The heat of the office was suddenly too much for Janvier. She felt as if she were being choked to death and slowly roasted alive at the same time. She needed a drink like never before. A few hours ago she could have simply put her head round the door and called for Baldon to join her, but now…

“Why the hell are you here?” Janvier barked angrily. “Why don’t you go and pick on someone your own size instead of bothering with small-fry?”

The Pilot turned to face the Superintendent. “I take it you would rather Maxim and I had let Inspector Baldon go free?”

“If you only knew some of the villains he put away…” Janvier’s words trailed off into nothing. She was suddenly aware of how weak her argument sounded.

The Pilot continued: “You should know better than anyone that people in our position must frequently undertake unpleasant tasks. We have a code to uphold. And to us the code is everything, even if it means we must turn against our natural inclinations.”

For a second a weird light glinted off The Pilot’s mask, and there was something so cold and unnatural about it that it made Janvier feel uncomfortable.

“I have gazed into eternity, Superintendent. I know that it is a meaningless void with no values except those we impose upon it. The code is an important part of the order of the universe. As important as the very atoms that hold you, your city, the very world you inhabit, together.

“If we abandon the code even for the sake of personal loyalty, then we abandon meaning and order and open the way for perhaps the greatest of evils; chaos and oblivion.

“It is not a pleasant thing to face, but then the truth seldom is.”

Once again Janvier was at a loss for something to say. Instead she hunched her shoulders and rubbed her face wearily. She closed her eyes gratefully against the pressure of her fingertips. When she opened them again, The Pilot was gone.

All at once a fresh breeze poured in through the open window, flowing through the muddy heat like a clear, cold stream. On the breeze came the sound of two Norton Skyrangers, roaring into the distance. Then the noise of the engines was gone, letting the normal roar of the city flood into the room.

Beyond the window dusk had rushed in like a tide, drenching the crowded streets with shadows. One by one the lights were going on. A blazing dam of light was being constructed between the darkness and the people.

Janvier reached for her desk-lamp and then paused. Instead of turning it on she sat back in her chair and let the shadows slowly creep in.