UNDER PRESSURE 

Professor Howe’s life had been rather hectic of late, takingon the most-dastardly villains, clingy companions and continuity errors, all intent on besmirching her good name. In time honoured fashion, she had triumphed against insurmountable odds, snatched mediocrity from the jaws of defeat and fluked seven out of ten on her latest Open University assignment. After all that heroism, many cups of tea and playing Snake on her phone for thehundred-and-third time, there was only one thing for it, Professor Howe was going to take a holiday. 

The Professor going on holiday was one of the biggest redflags that ever got waved in the universe. Inevitably even the shortest of breaks would result in carnage, more carnage and then extremely unpleasant death. Unfortunately for the universe it wasn’t the Professor’s death in question, but some unfortunate innocent who just happened to get in the way of the latest massacre. The last time the Professor had been on vacation, she had inadvertently managed to start a galactic war after running down three people with a vegetable laden wheelbarrow! 

Needless to say, many planets were not keen to have her as a tourist. Seventy-three planets in the Orion Cluster alone had banned the Professor from any kind of recreational visit and the Scarlet Galaxy had refused to give her a visa in perpetuity. Professor Howe’s reputation for holiday hell had travelled so far and wide that Parks Central of Ceti-Alpha VI used the slogan, ‘Professor Howe doesn’t holiday here, so you can’ to phenomenal effect in the 31st century. Unfortunately, the planet became so popular that the actual holiday experience was more like playing sardines on a beach with a couple of million other people. Naturally this wasn’t altogether pleasant and resulted in an economic crash that was worse than a visit from the hapless Professor. 

Despite the many bans which hung over her head and her eagerness for travel, two weeks in Torremolinos would not do, especially in her current casting. This Professor Howe had an altogether more sophisticated palette, along with an ever-expanding wardrobe of catsuits, thigh-high boots and long coats, which all demanded suitably chic surroundings. She enjoyed the finer things in life, and CBB budgetary pressures notwithstanding, she usually got them.  

She sat there in the Flying Saucer console room – which was actually the only room – thumbing through various glossy brochures, looking for inspiration. The room itself had recently been refurbished. The dodgy switches and black and white television set over the door had been banished and now it wasa rather handsome beast. The control room might have been small and bijou, but it was designed within an inch of its life and that made it look even more ravishing in glorious high definition. 

The Professor picked up another brochure and, as she did so, she began to sense that something was out of place. Call it a hunch. Call it female intuition or the gradual realisation that the incidental music in the background was building up to a crescendo. Something told her to stand up and look into the distance the way that people only ever do on TV.   

Suddenly, the computer screens started to flicker in a most peculiar manner and the walls started to shake, something she had not seen for thirty years.  

“How very curious,” she said to herself.  

Out of the corner of her eye, the Professor spotted something evenmore bizarre. There, lying on the floor, was a handful of green vegetable leaves. Instinctively, she leaned down and picked one up. Being the kind of woman who laughs in the face of the five second rule, she immediately took abite.  

“Spinach?” she muttered. 

“Rich invitamin K, fibre, phosphorus, and thiamine,” said a mysterious voice behind her. “Did you know most of the calories in spinach come from proteinand carbohydrates?” 

She looked up from the floor and saw an elegant-looking man in a double-breasted suit and bowler hat. At first glance he appeared to resemble a Home Counties bank manager before they were all replaced by call centres and smart phone apps. He seemed strangely familiar, but the Professor could notquite put a name to his face, especially as she’d already had two sherries. 

“I’m sorry,” said the Professor, tossing her auburn hair to one side and looking absolutely fabulous. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” 

“We haven’t,” replied the gentlemen with an old-fashioned air of double entendre. “But we have met before, when the fabric in space and time ripped open in Cardiff a couple of years ago. Of course, I’ve lost a littleweight since then, so I might look a bit different, but I can assure you that my name is M4. Agent M4, of the MFI.” 

The Professor took a moment to survey the man in front of her. She did recall the strange incident of the alien space mist at the Roath LockCathedral [1]quite well, and there had been a fleeting appearance of someone with the moniker M4. As for the MFI, they filled her with terror.  

“I’m sorry to reach out to you in such a strange and dramatic manner, but I’m afraid we need your help,” he explained.  

The Professor let out a tumultuous sigh. 

“Now look here, matey,” she said, giving him her best schoolmistress stare. “I’m Professor Howe. I’ve been saving worlds since you were a little boy. I’m tired. I’m cranky. I need a holiday and I was expecting something large and metal to crash through the walls into the control room.There’s nothing you can say that would make me want to save the universe again.Absolutely nothing.” 

“We want you to take a journey on a cruise ship,” replied Agent M4.  

The Professor glanced down at one of the luxurious brochures on the table. There, spread over two pages, was the undeniable decadence of a five-star liner. Suddenly her head was filled with images of fine dining, cocktail parties and ballroom dancing.  

“Tally ho!” she thought to herself.  

Maybe, just maybe, she could combine this particular escapadewith a much-needed vacation. Two birds, one stone and, if she was lucky, several glasses of Prosecco with her name on them.  

The Professor was nothing if not a formidable poker player;she’d bluffed everyone from Frank Muir to Arthur Marshall and had the scars toprove it. “Tell me more,” she said, only showing a glimmer of interest.  

“A terrible fate is due to befall the passengers and crew on board a ship called the Poseidon, which is due to set sail from England on Christmas Eve in the year 2007,” he explained. “It is a tragedy we would like very much for you to avert.” 

“What kind of tragedy?” she asked. 

“That would be telling.” 

The Professor sighed again. “You MFI agents are always soenigmatic. Would it hurt for once in your miserable lives just to give me a straight answer?” 

But Agent M4 was not for turning.  

“I’m afraid what happens on this ship’s voyage is so horrible that good manners and MFI protocols prevent me from sharing it with you. Restassured though, that the MFI have chosen you for this mission because…” He had read the Professor’s file repeatedly and knew everything about her. Every strength and every one of the many weaknesses. “You see Professor Howe, we believe that you, and only you, have the necessary skills to prevent a disaster which could tear the very fabric of space apart.”  

Crikey, thought the Professor, this is all sounding a bit serious, especially for a feature-length festive special, available in selected cinemas in 5.1 surround sound. “Well, if you put it like that,” she muttered.“Then I’m in! How do I get on board this fine vessel?” 

“You’re already there,” replied the special agent. “We took the liberty of hijacking your Flying Saucer and placing it in the hull of the ship. When you walk outside, you will be on the Poseidon. According to our calculations, you have precisely ninety minutes to prevent a catastrophe, so no dilly-dallying on the way.” 

“But what if…” 

Before she could finish, the Agent vanished into thin air.  

“Why do they always do that?” she said to herself. “I suppose I had better get a move on…” 

The Professor took stock; the purple all-in-one jump suit she was currently wearing did not scream luxury vacation. It was more Carnaby Street circa 1967. Rather than looking forty years off-trend, she pressed a large red button on the console in front of her which was one of the room’s new additions. Out popped a long rail with an assortment of designer clothes.Within seconds, the  Professor had picked the right outfit for the mission – atightly fitting dinner jacket with matching three-quarter length trousers. She finished the ensemble  with some black heels and a cape.  

“Cinders, you shall go to the ball!” she muttered to herself as she snapped her fingers. As if by magic, the doors of the Flying Saucerswung open like the curtains do at the start of a pantomime. The Professor’s latest adventure was about to begin.  

[1] SeeProfessor Howe and the Dad Dilemma