‘Are all your race such shameless liars?’
‘Enough talk!’ The Cerean pushed past the Professor’s desk and crossed the room, to stand glaring, eye to eye with the old man. ‘I know not who or what you are,’ he said. ‘Certainly you are unlike any human I have encountered hereabouts, although long ago I feel that I have met such men as you. But for the present know only this: as a race, you humans fear death, and you are staring yours in the face.’
Professor Slocombe met the Cerean’s blazing glare with a cold, unblinking stare. ‘I like you not,’ he said mildly. ‘It was my firm conviction that some compromise might have been reached between our peoples. I strongly disapprove of needless bloodshed, be the blood flowing from human veins or otherwise. There is yet time, if only you could persuade your race to reconsider. Be assured that if you go ahead with your plans you will meet with certain defeat. It is folly to attack Earth. We have been awaiting you for years and we are well prepared.’
‘With the corner up, you have,’ sneered the Cerean. ‘You cannot stand against our battle fleet. We will crush you into submission. Slaves you were and slaves you shall yet become.’
‘Is there no compassion then, no spark of what we call humanity?’
The Cerean curled his lip. ‘None,’ he said.
‘Then at least it makes my task a little easier.’
‘Prepare for death,’ said the man from Ceres.
‘Strike the blighter down,’ said Professor Slocombe.
Gammon swung the antique warming-pan with a will and struck the Cerean a mighty blow to the back of the head. A sharp metallic clang announced the departure of a Cerean soul, bound for wherever those lads go to once parted from their unearthly bodies.
‘He was surely lying about the darts, wasn’t he, sir?’ Gammon asked.
‘I sincerely hope so,’ the Professor replied. ‘They might have got a team up.’
20
The editor of the Brentford Mercury screwed the cap back on to his fountain pen and wedged the thing behind his right ear. He leaned back in his pockmarked swivel chair and gazed up at the fly-specked yellow ceiling of his grimy office. Before him, upon the overloaded desk, was a mountain of reports which, although being the very bread of life to the Fortean Society, could hardly be considered even food for thought to the simple folk of Brentford.
Certainly mystery and intrigue had been known to sell a few papers, but this stuff was silly season sensationalism and it wasn’t the silly season for another month or more. The editor reached into his drawer for his bottle of Fleet Street Comfort. Tipping the pencils from a paper cup, he filled it to the brim.
It all seemed to have started with that riot in the Ealing Road. He had been receiving odd little reports prior to this, but they had been mainly of the lights in the sky and rumblings in the earth variety, and merited little consideration. The riot, strange enough in itself in peace-loving Brentford, had turned up the first of a flock of really weird ones, and this verified by the Brentford constabulary.
There was the long black limousine of American manufacture which had roared away from the scene of the crime pursued by two squad cars, and then simply vanished in a most improbable fashion up a cul-de-sac. The boys in blue had made a full-scale search of the area, which backed on to the allotment, but had come up with nothing.
The car had simply ceased to exist.
There was this continuing sequence of power cuts the area had been experiencing. The local sub-station had denied any responsibility and their only comment had been that during their duration the entire power supply seemed literally to drain away, as if down a plughole.
If the disappearance of Brentford’s electricity was weird, then the sudden appearance last week of a one-inch layer of sand completely blanketing Brentford’s football ground was weirder still. The groundsman’s claim that it was sabotage upon the part of a rival team seemed unlikely.
And then, of course, there was this lunatic craze for Jack Palance impersonation which was sweeping the borough. It seemed a localized vogue, as he had had no reports of it coming in from outside the area. But there they were in Brentford, lounging on corners or skulking about up alleyways. Nobody knew who they were, what they were up to, or why they did it, but all agreed that, whyever it was, they did it very well.
The editor sighed. What exactly was going on in Brentford? And whatever it was, was it news? He drained his cup and stared for a moment into its murky bottom for inspiration. He would adjourn to the Swan for a couple of pints of liquid lunch, that was the best thing. Get all this ludicrous stuff out of his mind. He flicked through the pages of his appointments diary, which were as ever blank. All except for tomorrow’s date and this, surprisingly, was encircled thickly in red ink. Now what might that be for? The editor drew his pen from behind his ear and scratched at his head with it.
Of course, how could he have forgotten? Tomorrow night was the most important night of Brentford’s social calendar. The night which Brentford annually awaited with eagerness and anticipation. Tomorrow night was darts night at the Flying Swan. And it promised to be a night that all present would long remember.
21
Professor Slocombe drew together the great curtains and turned to address the small conclave gathered in his study.
The group, three in number, watched the old man warily. The first, Jim Pooley by name, leant against the marble mantelshelf, fingering the magnificent pair of moustachios he had chosen to cultivate. The second, a man of Irish extraction who had recently sold his razor at a handsome profit, lounged in a fireside chair almost unseen behind a forest of curly black beard. The third, a shopkeeper and a victim of circumstance, toyed nervously with his whisky tumbler and prayed desperately for an opportunity to slip away and feed his camel.
There was one last entity present at this gathering, but he was of ethereal stock and invisible to the naked eye. Edgar Allan Poe was maintaining the lowest of all low profiles.
‘I have called you here, gentlemen,’ said Professor Slocombe, ‘because we have almost run out of time. We must act with some haste if we are to act at all.’
‘You have reached a solution then?’ asked Jim hopefully.
‘Possibly.’ The old gentleman made a so-so gesture with a pale right hand. ‘Although I am backing a rank outsider.’
‘I am not a man to favour long odds myself,’ said Omally, ‘unless, of course, I have a man on the inside.’
‘Quite so. Believe me, I have given this matter a very great deal of thought. I have possibly expended more mental energy upon it than I have ever done upon any other problem. I feel that I might have come up with a solution, but the plan relies on a goodly number of factors working to our favour. It is, as you might reasonably expect, somewhat fraught with peril.’
‘Tell us the worst then,’ said Omally. ‘I think you can call us committed.’
‘Thank you, John. In essence it is simplicity itself. This worries me a little, possibly because it lacks any of those conceits of artistic expression which my vanity holds so dear. It is, in fact, a very dull and uninspired plan.’
‘But nevertheless fraught with peril?’
‘Sadly yes. Under my instruction, Soap Distant has turned the allotments into a veritable minefield. The explosive used is of my own formulation, and I can vouch for its efficacy. I intend to detonate it as the first craft land. We may not be able to destroy all of the invading vessels, you understand, but if we can wipe out one or two of the lead ships then I think that it will give us the edge.’
‘But what about the rest of them?’ asked Pooley.
‘That is where we must trust very much to psychology. These beings have travelled a very long way to return to their home world. As you are well aware, it no longer exists. When they discover this, they will logically be asking themselves the big “Why”. They are being guided here by the communicating beacon in the Swan, but if the first craft to land are instantly destroyed, then I feel it reasonable to assume that they will draw their own conclusion
s. They will reason that the men of Earth have evolved into a superior force, which is capable of destroying entire planets, should it so wish. I can only hope that they will hastily take themselves elsewhere. They have a long, long way to call for reinforcements, should any actually exist.’
‘I can accept that in theory,’ said Omally, ‘but with some reservations. There are a goodly number of ifs and buts to it.’
‘I accept it wholeheartedly,’ said Jim. ‘My name has so far gone unmentioned and that suits me well enough.’
‘There are one or two little matters to be cleared up,’ said Professor Slocombe somewhat pointedly. ‘That is where you come in.’
‘This would be the fraught with peril side of it I expect,’ said Jim dismally.
Professor Slocombe nodded. ‘There is the small matter of the communicating beacon in the Swan. It will have to be switched off. We cannot afford to have the Cereans here giving the game away, now can we?’
Jim shook his head gloomily. ‘I suppose not,’ he said.
‘We have only one opportunity to deal with the thing and that is tomorrow night.’
‘I have to play in the finals tomorrow night,’ Norman complained. ‘Omally here promised I would do so.’
‘You haven’t fulfilled your side of the bargain yet,’ said the voice behind the beard. ‘The machine still hums, you have done nothing.’
‘I haven’t had a chance yet. I can’t get in there, I’m barred, don’t you remember?’
‘Steady on now,’ said Professor Slocombe, raising a pale hand. ‘All can be reconciled.’
‘The machine cannot be broken,’ said Jim. ‘Be assured of it. We are doomed.’
‘I can vouch for the fact that it cannot be destroyed from within the Swan,’ said the Professor, ‘because I have already tried.’
‘Come again?’ said Pooley.
‘Fair dos,’ said Professor Slocombe. ‘You surely do not believe that I have been idle?’ All present shook their heads vigorously. ‘My retainer, Gammon, despite his advanced years and decrepit appearance, is a master of disguise. Twice he has visited the Swan with a view to disabling the device. Firstly, he arrived in the guise of a brewery representative come to check the electrics. He assured me that the machine cannot be switched off in any manner whatever and also that Neville has no love whatever for brewery representatives. Later, he returned as an engineer come to service the device prior to switching it off. This time he received a three-course meal on the house, washed down with half a bottle of champagne, but still met with complete failure. Even a diamond-tipped drill could not penetrate the machine’s shell.’
‘I told you we were doomed,’ said Pooley. ‘I am for a Jack Palance mask and a dark suit, me.’
Norman shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘I really think I must be going,’ he said. ‘I can’t do anything if I cannot get inside the machine. Feel free to contact me at any time, but for now, goodbye.’
‘Not so fast,’ said Professor Slocombe. ‘I have given the matter much thought, and feel that I have found the solution.’
‘Can I go anyway?’ Norman asked. ‘I do have to be up early in the morning.’
‘Test-driving your Morris?’ Omally asked. The shopkeeper slumped back into his chair.
‘We are dealing,’ said Professor Slocombe, ‘with beings that, although possessed of superior intelligence, are not altogether dissimilar to ourselves. They are of the opinion that we are a rising, but still inferior race. They might have your card marked, Pooley, but I doubt whether they have contemplated open sabotage. Certainly their machine is outwardly protected. But it might have its weakness if attacked from a different direction.’
‘How so?’ Pooley asked.
‘From behind. The thing is faced against the wall of the Swan. My belief is that if we break through from behind we might find little resistance.’
‘What, through the wall of Archie Karachi’s Curry Garden? I can’t see Kali’s Curry King giving us the go-ahead on that one.’
‘But Archie Karachi is a member of the Swan’s darts team. I myself have seen the sign on his door, “Closed for Business All Day Thursday”.’
Pooley tweaked the end of a moustachio whose length would have brought a jealous glance from Salvador Dali himself. ‘With all the noise in the Swan,’ said he, ‘nobody is going to pay much attention to a bit of banging next door.’
‘My thoughts entirely. We will need a spy on the inside though, just to keep an eye out. Gammon will take care of that side of it. When we have broken through to the machine it will be down to you, Norman, to deal with it appropriately.’
‘No problem there,’ said the shopkeeper, blowing on his fingertips. ‘There is no machine built which I cannot get to grips with.’
‘You might find a surprise or two when we open it.’
‘Child’s play,’ said Norman with sudden bravado. He was quite warming to the idea of all this. He had mnever liked Archie Karachi very much, and the thought of knocking down his kitchen wall held great appeal. Also, if this machine was everything the Professor seemed to think it was, it was bound to contain more than a few serviceable components. ‘Just lead me to it.’
Omally chuckled behind his whiskers. ‘Bravo, Norman,’ said the Professor, smiling profusely. ‘Now, if you will pardon me, I suggest that we bring this meeting to a close, I have several loose ends still to tie up.’
The old man took a scrap of paper from his pocket and held it to each man in turn. ‘We will meet tomorrow, seven-thirty p.m. sharp at this address. Please do not speak it aloud.’
The three men committed the thing to memory. With the briefest of goodbyes and no hand-shaking, they took their leave.
Professor Slocombe closed the French windows behind them and bolted the shutters. ‘Now,’ he said, turning upon the silent room, ‘will you make yourself known to me of your own accord, Mr Poe, or must I summon you into visibility?’
‘I should prefer that we did it the easy way,’ said Edgar Allan Poe. ‘We have much to speak of.’
22
Neville the part-time barman took up his mail from the mat and thrust it into his dressing-gown pocket. Amongst the bills and circulars were no less than three postcards sporting rooftop views of Brentford, but the barman did not give these even a cursory glance.
He had been up half the night trying to work out a deal with his pagan deity over his ill-considered blood oath, but was still far from certain that the matter would be allowed to rest. It was always a hairy business wheeling and dealing with the Elder Gods of Ancient Earth.
Neville drew the brass bolts and flung the door open to sniff the morning air. It smelt far from promising. He took a deep breath, scratched at his bony ribs, and gave the world a bit of first thing perusal. It had all the makings of a beautiful day but Neville could not find any joy to be had in the twinkling sunlight and precocious bird song.
Like others who had gone before him, Neville the part-time barman was a very worried man. The day he had been dreading had come to pass. All over Brentford, dartsmen were awakening, flexing their sensitive fingers, and preparing themselves for the biggest night of the year. The Swan’s team had been growing surlier by the day. Where was Norman? they asked. Why was he not practising with them? Neville’s excuses had been wearing thinner than the seat of his trousers. If Norman did not turn up for the tournament the consequences did not bear thinking about.
Neville looked thoughtfully up the road towards the corner shop. Perhaps he should just slip along now and smooth the matter over. Throw himself on Norman’s mercy if necessary, promise him anything. Omally had said that the shopkeeper would be present, but was he ever to be trusted?
Neville hovered upon his slippered toes. It would be but the work of a minute. Norman would be numbering up his papers, he could say he just called in for a box of matches, exchange a few niceties, then leave with a casual ‘Look forward to seeing you tonight.’ Something like that.
Neville took a step forward. At that mome
nt, in the distance, a figure appeared from the shop doorway. Neville’s heart rose; it was telepathy surely. The shopkeeper was coming to make his peace. All his troubles were over.
Nicholas Roger Raffles Rathbone hoisted his paper bag into the sunlight. Neville’s heart fell. ‘Bugger, bugger, bugger,’ said the part-time barman, returning to the saloon-bar, and slamming the door behind him.
Parked close to the kerb in a side road opposite to the Swan, and lost for the most part in the shadow of one of the flat blocks, was a long sleek black automobile with high fins. In the front seat of this gleaming motor car sat a man of average height, with a slightly tanned complexion and high cheek-bones. He bore an uncanny resemblance to a young Jack Palance, as did his passenger, who lounged in a rear seat, smoking a green cheroot. The two watched the paperboy as he passed within a few feet of their highly polished front bumper and vanished into one of the flat blocks.
No words passed between these two individuals, but the driver glanced a moment into his rear-view mirror, and his passenger acknowledged the reflected eyes with a knowing nod.
The day passed in an agonizing fashion. Pooley and Omally took their lunchtime’s pleasure in a neutral drinking house at Kew, where they sat huddled in an anonymous corner, speaking in hushed tones, bitterly bewailing the exorbitant prices, and casting suspicious glances at every opening of the saloon-bar door.
Norman closed up his shop at one and busied himself in his kitchenette. What he did there was strictly his own business, and he had no intention of letting anything, no matter how alien, interfere with his afternoon’s work.
In his sewage outlet pipe, Small Dave paced up and down. His hair was combed forward across his forehead and his left hand was thrust into his shirt in a fashion much favoured by a diminutive French emperor of days gone by. As he paced he muttered, and the more he muttered the more apparent it became that he was plotting something which was to cause great ill to any camel owners in Brentford.
The Brentford Triangle Page 16