The Formula

Thompson hated school. He wished, right at that moment, that he was out of the place entirely. That in fact he had been secretly recruited to MI6 as it’s youngest ever agent, his talents recognised and rewarded with the responsibility of guarding the secret biological warfare formula told to him by dissident Russian scientists with express instructions to get it to the West and avoid the outbreak of World War Three.

Trouble was he didn’t really understand it. In Russian at least.

“We dissident scientists trust you agent Thompson, our lives are in your hands.” The Head Scientist told him. “The balance of power must be maintained, the next few hours are crucial, time is running out, as are my cliché’s. Good luck my brave young friend!”

But at Moscow airport, just as he was about to board a London-bound flight, Thompson was ambushed, kicked and pushed to the ground under the combined weight of two black-suited heavies. The first pinned his arms while the second sat on his legs. His face was pushed down hard onto the concrete.

“Tell us the secret formula or we’ll get really mad.” That had been Heavy One.

“Yeah, tell us or get another kick in the balls you little worm.” That must have been Heavy Two. Thompson somehow turned his head slightly to squint up at Heavy One. He wore a seamless light tan stocking over his face; about fifteen denier Thompson calculated (his sister knew a lot about stockings).

“Get off me you KGB scumbags, I don’t know anything about your stupid formula!”

"Ex-KGB!"

"Okay, okay, whatever..."

His voice had taken on a piggy-like squeal he wasn’t particularly proud of. He felt eyes watching him. Along the airport’s upper balcony windows the whole of his class observed his helpless efforts to free himself. One by one other’s joined until the entire school was staring down.

One of those pairs of eyes must have been Veronica Fletcher’s. He couldn’t let her see him like this.

“OK, I will, I’ll tell you!”

He began to mumble. As Heavy One leaned down to listen Thompson jerked his head backwards. There was a sharp crack and the big man fell off him clutching his nose. Rolling onto his back Thompson shot a rabbit punch into Heavy Two’s throat then sprang to his feet in a classic Mahanmi karate pose.

“And... cut!” The Director shouted getting out of his canvas chair. “OK, that’s a wrap!” He put a fatherly arm around Thompson. “Now the next scene’s a key one dear boy; you’re reporting back to M at MI6 HQ. He asks about the details of the formula that you’ve been given by the dissident Russian scientists and you tell him. Let’s do a quick run through; I’ll be M.”

“But I don’t know the formula...”

“That’s not your line. You say...” He consulted the script. “It’s quite simple M - simple but deadly! Then you write the formula on the four dimensional wall with the laser pen. I’ll start you off: So, what’s this ruddy formula all about then Double-O-Seven?”

“It’s quite simple M...” Thompson took the laser pen and drew a line of dashes on the four dimensional wall then wrote a number of random letters at the same time constructing a geometrical diagram of intersecting lines and a circle. He filled in the dashes from the random letters until the picture of the hanged man with a smiley face was complete.

Below its feet were the words:

I  D O N ‘T  K N O W  T H E  F O R M U L A  O K ?

“He really doesn’t know, at least not in the conscious section of his mind.” The metallic sounding words boomed out of the speaker in the darkened studio as the actors, extra’s and film crew turned as one to face Thompson. “We’ll have to probe him for it.”

“This is probably going to hurt quite a bit.” The Director snarled as he peeled off his plasma facemask to reveal the lizard head beneath. “But then your primitive human pain receptors are much closer to the surface than ours - apparently.” The green scales on his back flexed as they tore through his shirt. “Get him!”

Thompson side-stepped the creature’s sudden lunge, knocking over the canvas chair. He noticed it had ‘ALIEN BEING’ stencilled on the back and swore to himself; Bugger!

Next moment there was the sound of electron-bomb blasts then laser beams crackled as they bounced off the studio’s walls. Thompson looked up to see the crew of the Space Dolphin climbing down towards him on theoretical super-strings from holes torn in the ceiling. One of them scooped him up and they rose together towards the planet’s surface above the panicking lizard hoards.

“Thanks for that.” He told the space-suited figure. It raised a gloved hand to push up its visor and Thompson saw Veronica Fletcher’s pretty face smiling back at him.

“That’s alright.” The helmet banged against his head as she kissed him. “Now tell me the formula. I wouldn’t want to have to drop you on our first date.”

“But I don’t know the sodding formula!”

“Have a guess then!” He opened his eyes to find the Head of Chemistry staring angrily at him. “For God’s sake Thompson, use your imagination. Think lad, think!”

“Yes sir.” Thompson replied. “It's, er…er…wasn’t that the fire bell...?”