55. NIGHTINGALE TUCKS UP HER SKIRTS

HOLOGRAM DEFENSE PROGRAM

5th Donald Campbell Report from 1844

In the morning sun it was like glass out there. Perfect conditions to set the world’s water speed record. Before I let rip, Flo said that it was transparent my superstitious nature was holding me back and returning to the village again to borrow the whippet was sure to stoke the flames of curiosity, especially as the mutt had come back in a state of shock after breaking the canine land speed record with a hologram of Bluebird Proteus CN7 on its tail.

Her use of the word ‘transparent’ struck home. As a hologram I was transparent and unlikely to come to harm. Had the course been transparent also, then danger lurks. Like clashing with like. But the course was real. It had a physical presence, unlike Bluebird and myself.

In trials Bluebird finally tucked up her skirts and was reaching speeds way beyond 150 mph. The huge engine vibrating away to the point you felt like the water was going to split asunder like the second coming of Moses. Suddenly, there was this frightful bang. I feared the worst and was astounded to discover that Bluebird K7 and myself were intact. I changed down the gears and cruised towards Flo at her station. Her expression more turbulent than the water. She pointed to the far bank 400 yards downstream where some villagers had gathered with the whippet, discharging firearms and fireworks.

‘The buggers have got wind of my record attempts and are celebrating prematurely,’ I muttered under my breath.

Florence picked up her own skirts and made her way to the unwanted spectators. She was engaged in one hell of an actual row over there and conscious that she might need reinforcements I cruised over in Bluebird K7. They were struck dumb. Some dropped to their knees and prayed. Others downed tools and ran away. It was like they’d never seen anything like Bluebird K7 before, which, quite frankly, they hadn’t. One of the few remaining hamlet dwellers fired a shot at me drawing audible gasps as the projectile passed right through me without causing any damage.

Flo soon brought me up to speed. The villagers had been following our exploits for a couple of days from concealed positions and had already sent a telegram to the offices of The News of the World. They were convinced that I was a Saint George type, taming rear end fire breathing dragons. Of course, that was the end of a chapter. You think you’re doing a wonderful job, in fact you’re five cycles behind the game.

‘You’re the Devil hisself,’ shouted one of the flock holding a large homemade cross aloft. ‘Take your dragons and be gone!’

‘Give me a chance to explain, you old bugger,’ I replied. But he turned tail and his flock followed suit, muttering that the newspaper would expose my evil and the nation would rally against me. These poor yokels, evidently, weren’t playing with a full deck of cards. ‘It’s alright for you chaps stuck on dry land,’ I let rip. ‘Do you think I want to end up in this blasted place with this monster. I hope and pray we shall be back on the Salt Flats next year.’

As far as record breaking in 1844, that was it, full stop.

Florence Nightingale was demonstrably embarrassed by her association with my activities and looked, for all the world, like she was intent on heading home and designing another wheel clamp for her armoury.

Mission failed, I’m afraid. Total blasted cock-up. Over.