No, this entry is NOT about the classic cod-rock opera by Bill Bailey. Instead I'm going to treat you to a discussion of The Beetle Horde, yet another of the classic serials published by Astounding Stories during the early Thirties.
This unforgettable masterwork was penned by a cult author called Victor Rousseau. Though he seems to be no relation of either the philosopher or the painter (as far as I can make out, anyway), he nevertheless managed to produce a work of sci fi so demented, it almost approaches genius.
Unlike normal people, I don’t tend to start reading a book at the beginning, go through to the middle and keep going until I reach the end. Instead I’ll flip it open almost at random, see if it looks interesting – and if it does, carry on from there until the narrative starts to drag a bit or I nod off. When I return to the story, I employ the same technique all over again. Eventually I will manage to finish the book by piecing together the narrative a bit like a jigsaw.
Suppose this may explain why I still find it so difficult to construct a basic three act storyline. And also why I seem to get on so well with surrealism. Apparently women as a species are meant to naturally gravitate towards realism in fiction. Well, I’ve never been a fan of soaps or kitchen sink drama, while French windows comedies and vicar’s trousers falling down in front of the mayor continue to leave me cold.
All of which means you'll have to forgive me. I'm doing the best I can, even though times is hard.
So far I’ve only managed to read the final part (of four). Based on that, here is what I deduce the basic plot to consist of. If it later turns out to be utter bollocks, suppose I'd better delete all this pdq.
Anyway, a pair of explorers get kidnapped while on an expedition to the Antarctic. They are then hauled down to the secret underground world helpfully known as Submondia for the hard of understanding.
Now the inhabitants of Submondia are by no means your average mob of sinister lurking gnomes. They just happen to be a race of gigantic, super-intelligent beetles that developed their very own civilization.
Quite why a species with so many natural advantages would choose to be ruled by a mad human archaeologist who went nuts and disappeared off the face of the earth (quite literally, in this case), instead of the insect version of Nelson Mandela or Josef Stalin (please delete according to preferred political and social affiliation) is yet another of those strange mysteries that never even get addressed, let alone explained, in a story like this.
It still seems positively racist, though, not to mention the type of wilful illogic that would drive the most sensible and mature of Vulcans to drink – particularly when it naturally and inevitably transpires that the beetles are in the habit of abducting humans from the surface world to act as their slaves and food source. I mean - what rational being is going to accept orders from a bacon buttie?
Turns out the nutcase currently occupying the beetle throne is named Bram (in honour of Bram Stoker?). Like the infamous Fraser from The Floating Island Of Madness, he can best be summed up as a pretty typical ‘mad scientist’ type of boffin.
It seems that the scientific community of 1930 can’t stop laughing at his continued insistence in the face of all the evidence discovered to date in the fossil record that extinct creatures like the marsupial lion lived long before the theory of evolution suggests they must first have appeared. Stung by all the constant derision, he has of course developed the standard issue massive grudge against all of humanity.
If the two explorers refuse to admit to his face that his idiotic ‘theory’ is right, he tells them during one of his endless loopy rants, he will condemn the entire surface world and everyone on it to death. The sentence will be carried out by a swarm of several trillion armour-plated beetles that he will order to ravish the face of the earth at his leisure.
Odd that beetles should act more like a plague of locusts – but then, the story does state that the poor things were starving (yet another reason Submondia urgently needs a beetle revolution, you would have thought. Beetles of the under-world unite!).
Bram intends to direct the horde from the comfort of his battle chariot. This consists of the upturned shell from a monstrous beetle that’s moulted, in which he lolls in state on plump cushions like a corrupt and decadent Roman emperor. The chariot is dragged into the air by a specially trained team of eight sleek war steeds (aka really fast, fancy looking beetles with go-faster stripes down the sides).
Yes, that’s right – they fly!
Sorry, but the first picture to come to mind is the buzzing piebald buggalo in that brilliant Futurama episode Where The Buggalo Roam.
Just as no-one in authority takes much notice of Kif Croker, everyone seems to ignore Haida, the human slave the explorers rescued from the depths of Submondia and brought to the surface with them. However, it turns out that like the timid green lieutenant, she possesses the knowledge and expertise that will eventually save humanity.
To give her her due, Haida does keep trying to explain the simple and unspectacular facts, but just like Zapp Brannigan, the rest of the human race refuses to listen to a word she and the explorers have to say about the danger posed by the immense beetle horde.
For example, during their enforced stay in Submondia, the explorers soon discovered that the shells of the beetles were completely impervious to bullets. If you want to escape being eaten alive by a marauding beetle, the best thing to do is dress up in the discarded shell left by one that’s moulted. Then you will both smell and look like a beetle to the other beetles, so they will leave you alone.
Failing that, your best bet is to hole yourself up somewhere they can’t get in – like a nuclear bunker. Or you can outfly them by zooming to the top of the stratosphere in an aeroplane.
Problem is, fear makes the human race both stupid and stubborn.
When the Australian air force takes to the skies to repel the invaders, it soon becomes apparent that bullets are less than useless against the vile creatures. Yet the Aussie pilots keep on pumping them out.
Another pilot later finds out that human planes can reach much greater heights than the beetles – yet no-one seems prepared to act on that discovery, either.
Presumably people back in 1930 knew of many methods of exterminating normal-sized beetles, so why didn’t any scientists try to apply or adapt them to killing enormous mutant ones too? In the dire circumstances described here, you’ve got to admit calling in Rentokil is worth a shot.
And even if the Australians were somewhat distracted battling off the hordes, why couldn’t people living elsewhere on the globe look for a solution that might help them?
The main reason must be that if any of the above scenarios actually happened, the action would be likely to get resolved a fair bit sooner. This would deprive us of much-needed narrative tension and urgency – and the explorers of their opportunity to finally save the day in the typical heroic fashion.
Nor would the readers have half so many lurid setpieces of sickening horror and revulsion to look forward to. The beetle attacks Down Under must rank with the most gore-ridden zombie and chainsaw killer B-movies out there.
The carnage kicks off with the beetles chasing and devouring alive the poor group of Australian aborigines who try to help the explorers and Haida when they eventually emerge from the depths in the middle of an extinct volcano in the outback, instead of Antarctica, like they were expecting. By the time they've finished their little feast, there isn't much left for the funeral.
Later the beetles place both Melbourne and Adelaide under siege. As a result, Bram is despised by 99.9% of people round the globe as the very Anti-Christ, even those who belong to other religions.
No wonder retro-nerds across the States escaped the worst of the Depression by devouring such trash on a monthly basis. If you live in the Dustbowl and can’t even get a job as a door-to-door vacuum cleaner salesman, you either hitch a lift on the back of a rickety truck to go and pick oranges in California – or you sit it out, pretending in your head that you are Bram, unleashing the full might and fury of your ravaging beetle horde on the world that has deprived you of your birthright to the pursuit of happiness.
