“A good landing requires more than timing.”—Arthur of the North

Two days later, the spaceship landed with a bump on the dry hills of Planet Hy Man, waking all that were asleep.
 Arthur of the North rolled up the blinds and was the first to see. He stared out onto a field below full of four-legged creatures and smiled to himself.


“And now it begins.”



He told the others they were starting from scratch; they all laughed, apart from the voice from the back.


“Scratch?” he said. “Hardly call it scratch—you’ve got the tools, the maps, the templates, and that sphere thingy, which you seemed to have hogged ever since this crazy mission started.”


They laughed again, almost hysterical . . . who cared? Segregation was over. There was space, glorious space.


Let the shagging begin!


They knocked up a few huts, rounded up a few hens, and then went mental producing offspring in a frenzy of maniac ecstasy.


Wind rustling through your nether regions can do that to a cooped-up person; fresh air will send you crazy. The crew ran in the wind, built bonfires, shagged by the bonfires, the beach, the waterfalls, even up a tree—until pinecones were discovered. They were as high as Woodstock hippies, at it like rabbits, barely stopping for breath, until Arthur of the North, shagged out and panting by a hut veranda, discovered the camp was on its last egg.


The hens had escaped for what seemed the hundredth time, and there was little left from the spaceship apart from “just like steak” packets, which required opening while holding one’s breath, slinging into the pan “pronto,” and burning to a crisp.
The planet’s atmosphere had a way of making food from the spaceship smell like a rotten egg, until all the juices were cooked out.


Arthur of the North stared out into the hills at the hens casually pecking at the grass and realized several things.
 They had to build fences, perhaps kill an animal or two—which no one had ever done before—and find edible plants.
 As they trolled the flat lands watching what the four-legged creatures ate, it was clear that the peculiar-looking grass with the peculiar smell was as natural to swallow as a mouthful of sperm.


Hemp grew everywhere and was probably the reason for the happy-looking four-legged creatures—creatures that didn’t kill but spent all day chomping—and chomping, along with stomping, fertilized the hemp. As for droppings, it spread hemp like a rash in a very personal place, which was just as well, because it took quite a few whiffy weekends before a sewage plant was installed.


One still night, Arthur of the North rose from a night of shagging, walked out into the midnight air, stared up at the Milky Way, and almost gagged.


The smell of ammonia was particularly bad that night, and as his eyes began to water, he coughed.
“We need a sewage system,” he shouted.


Not even the four-legged creatures stirred; they had moved away from the smell.
Arthur of the North, clutching his box of readings, headed to the nearest mountain and sat in a cave (which was later to be christened Arthur’s Seat until a statue was built). There was so much to plough through, and focusing on it around women was as easy as getting a word in with his mother mid-rant.


He was not seen for days, reading until his eyes hurt and his skin returned to the pale-as-a-potato spaceship skin.
 The crew hardly missed him; they were too busy hanging out, smoking hemp, cooking hemp, and eating the odd egg. Him being away meant more for them and less of that mother coming around moaning about tidying up.


“Who cares if he’s up a mountain?” said the voice from the back. “We can do what we like.”


“Yeah,” said another with a toss of an empty can.


Arthur of the North rummaged and read. It was not like he was looking to rule or anything, but if it wasn’t for him, that spaceship would have been overrun with babies . . . someone had to apply a bit of order, sort things, and from what he could see, no one else was offering.


He came across many things during his readings, including Gran’s rants about other spaceships. Some made him laugh, until he came across ”Tracking,” a chapter that had him choking on his tea.


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“Shit and pickled egg,” he shouted.


He’d forgotten about the others and their ships, and according to the readings, it wouldn’t be long before his crew were tracked and followed.
 He stared at his calculations; they didn’t have much time.
 He had to rally the crew, and inspire them into caring, or else they would be overrun, ruled, bossed about, and he got enough of that from his mother.


He stamped out his fire, rolled up his template for a new state-of-the-art recycle sewage system, cleaned up his cave, and headed back to camp.
 The place was like a used football field, a bomb site. He had been away three days—it looked like three months. Where did all the garbage come from?
The ground was littered with eggshells, hen droppings, and empty food cans and packets from the ship.
He picked up an empty “just like steak” packet curled from the sun.
Would it have killed them to pick it up?


He peered into the glazed eyes of his fellow citizens; they didn’t stir. It had been one hell of a night.


“I am away five minutes and I come back to a skip,” he said in his “I’m in charge” voice.


Silence.


“This place is a shambles.”


“Yeah, whatever,” muttered one.


“Whatever?” said Arthur of the North.

“There’s a bin three steps away and you’re tossing trash about like ping pong balls. There’ll be rats next.”


A rat scurried by.

“That one’s called Fredrick,” muttered a comatose voice from the back.


A few chuckled.


Arthur of the North was lost for words. All he wanted was a toilet, some fresh air, perhaps a tidy place to sit. He stared at the garbage strewn across the front of the makeshift huts; it would take him days to clear the rubbish, let alone start on the john.


He began to pick things up as anger grew inside him.
 Why ruin such a haven?


“We need to get ready.” He tossed a few eggshells into the bin. “Other ships will come—it’s only a matter of time.”


No one looked up, let alone answered.


“If we don’t put things in order, they’ll overtake us,” said Arthur of the North. He tossed a can at the bin, sending a seagull scurrying.


“So?” muttered the voice from the back.


“So? What do you mean, so? This camp will not be ours unless we organize, rally together.”


A few blinked; some chuckled.
Arthur of the North began to fume. Could they not see?


“We need to sort things.” He looked about, exasperated.“Look like we mean business.”


A few laughed, bursting into hysterics as he, frustrated, kicked a can—unaware that it was full of pee.


“We’re not on the ship now,” said the voice from the back. “We’re free to do what we want.”


A rat raced past Arthur of the North.


He jolted, skidded, steadied himself on the bin, and toppled. 
“Great pickling sperm,” he roared, then stopped as he caught sight of his mother zigzagging about the urine oozing across the ground.


A few sat up, some watching, others jeering.


“Heeeere’s mummy,” laughed the voice from the back.


Arthur of the North righted himself.


Wife-ie pulled her son aside.
“Why are you shouting like a caveman?” she said.


“Those pickling plonkers,” he huffed. “If it wasn’t for me, that spaceship would have been a dustbin, completely uninhabitable, and now they’re doing the same here, and I can’t stop ’em.”
 He looked at her. “There’s ships coming, you know.”


“Oh, that.” She chuckled.


“They’ll take over,” he said.
“

There’s no need to panic,” she said.


“Panic? One look at this holiday camp . . .” He stopped. The crew were rolling joints again. How high could they get?
 He looked at his mother. “We’re sitting ducks.”


She tutted.

“You have to manage, not shout.”
 She patted him on the head.

He brushed her hand away.
“How will they hear if I don’t shout?”


She threw him a patronizing smile.


“I mean look at them,” said Arthur of the North. “I may as well be one of those four-legged pickling creatures out in the pickling field for all the influence I have.”


Wife-ie told him not to swear.


“Those rats have more say than I do.”


Wife-ie told him not to exaggerate. 


“You have to make them believe in you,” she said.


He looked at her.


“The only thing they believe in is the size of a joint and who they’re going to shag next.”


“Give ’em what they want,” she said.


He looked at her.

“A blow job?”


She smacked him across the ear. “

A promise of something better, idiot.”


Arthur of the North rubbed his ear with anger.
 “Better than what?” he snapped. “Shagging?”


“If you offer them something better,” said his mother, “they will do what you say to get it.”


Arthur of the North stared at a seagull flying by and for a moment wished it was him.


”You have to grab control before it’s taken,” said Wife-ie.


“Everyone knows that, Mother.”


“Establish fear and then promise protection,” she said.


Arthur looked at his mother’s tanned features, her square jaw and lean greyhound body. She was as cryptic as a crossword, and he for one was fed up with it.


He met her steely glare with his.


“Oh, for pickle’s sake,” snapped Wife-ie. “Tell them the ships will come and take all their hemp. Then promise you’ll protect the hemp . . .”


He stopped with an “I see, sort of” look.


Wife-ie grabbed her son’s face in her hands, a gesture he always hated.


“Not only protect,” she said, “but promise to control the Incomers . . .”


Arthur of the North nodded, wishing she’d let go of his face.


“Tell those bozos over there, an ordered town will intimidate the new arrivals, make ‘em ripe for ordering—doing the dirty work.” She laughed. “No more picking up rubbish for us lot.”


Arthur of the North’s face lit up with recognition.
 He nodded with an “I get you.”


Wife-ie smiled.
 Once her son “got something,” he, like his father, was unstoppable, and annoyingly single-minded.


Arthur of the North walked back to the crew, mustering all his persuasive powers and burying his anger deep into his stomach he performed a speech that had the men inspired and the women a little edgy.