Professor Slocombe pressed his hand once more to John’s shoulder, and led the stumbling man away.
“All well and bloody good,” came a voice from the grave. “But who is going to turn my head around for me?”
Omally spun about. “Jim, you old bastard!”
“Who else would it bloody be? My head, John, if you please? It is most uncomfortable.”
The lads at the Cottage Hospital were nothing if not thorough. Spending their days as they did, playing dominoes and hunt the hypodermic, they were more than willing to face up to the challenge of the bloody spectacle Professor Slocombe presented them with. Having run a light-pen quickly over Pooley’s right hand they pronounced him private patient and went about their tasks with a will. Had not the Professor been a member of the Board of Governors, there seemed little doubt that they would have been a great deal more thorough than they were. Most likely to the extremes of an exploratory operation or two, with the removal of Pooley’s tonsils as an encore. As it was they prodded and poked, applied iodine, took X-rays, forced him to remove his trousers, turned his head to the right, and made him cough. As an afterthought they inoculated him against tetanus, mumps, whooping cough, and diphtheria. As Doctor Kildare came up on the hospital tele-video they summarily dismissed him with a few kind words, a large bill, and a prescription for Interferon no chemist could ever hope to fill.
“See,” said Omally, as the four men left the hospital, “all this fuss and not a bone broken.”
Pooley felt doubtfully at his bruised limbs. “I will not bore you with my opinion of the National Health Service,” said he. “Nor even waste my time bewailing my lot, as my pleas for sympathy fall for ever upon deaf ears.”
At last the four men entered the Professor’s study. A large medicinal gold watch was handed at once to the invalid who was placed in a heavily-cushioned chair. “My thanks,” said Jim, pocketing it away in his throat. The sun danced in upon the carpet and the four weary men lay slumped in various armchairs, each unwilling to be the first to break the tranquil silence. Pooley’s limbs creaked and complained to themselves. With a crackling hand he poured himself another drink. Holmes and the Professor exchanged occasional guarded glances, and the old man appeared at times obsessed with the silver pentacle which hung upon his watch-chain. Omally drummed his fingers soundlessly upon the chair’s arm and waited for the storm to break; the silence was rapidly becoming close and oppressive.
Finally Jim could stand it no longer. “All right,” he said, climbing painfully to his feet. “What is going on? You all know a lot more of this than me.”
“I don’t,” said Omally, “but I am beginning to have my suspicions.”
“So what is it?” Pooley turned to the Professor. “I have just miraculously survived an attempt upon my life by a lunatic chauffeur. Such should be the cause for some small rejoicing surely. If I was dead, Omally here would already be ordering the beer for the wake.”
Professor Slocombe stepped over to his desk and took up the day’s copy of the
Pooley perused the encircled article with little interest and less comprehension. “It’s about computer lines,” said he. It did not go unnoticed by Holmes and the Professor that his right hand slid unobtrusively away into his trouser pocket.
“It is much more than that,” said the old man. “It is an essential link in a dark chain of events which, unless severed, will inevitably engirdle us all. To our ultimate destruction.”
“Come now,” said Jim. “It is just some nonsense about banks and computers, nothing more I assure you.”
Professor Slocombe shook his head, “Sadly, it is a great deal more than that. It is conclusive proof that all my worst fears are founded and even now the prophecies of the book of Revelation are coming to pass.”
“You jest, surely?”
Professor Slocombe shook his head once more. “Believe in what I say,” said he. “We are facing the greatest threat mankind has faced since the deluge. We are facing the final conflict. The apocalypse. Even now the curtains are closing.”
“No.” Jim shook his head violently and not a little painfully. “All the stuff in that old book is most depressing. Look at me now. I experienced a slight setback, but it was the result of pure spite on Bob’s part. Just because I won and he’s banged up in hospital a bit scorched. I am battered but wealthy. The gods are smiling upon me.”
“No,” said Professor Slocombe. “Money will not buy you out of this one, especially money which was never intended for your use.”
Pooley scratched at his head, raising a fine cloud of dust. “You wouldn’t care to enlarge a little on this would you Professor?” he asked. “You see such news catches me at a rather inopportune moment. John and I are planning a bit of a holiday. Armageddon might interfere with our traveller’s cheques.”
Professor Slocombe shook his head once more. Jim was beginning to find the habit mildly annoying. He had millions of pounds knocking about in the bank and was now really looking forward to spending them before they caught the moth. “Do you really believe yourself to be one favoured of the gods?”
Jim nodded noisily. “At this time definitely yes.”
“All right then, I will make this short, but by no means sweet. We will speak of these matters again. For now let me read you a verse or two from the Revelation; possibly it will convince you, possibly not.” Definitely not, thought Jim Pooley. The Professor took himself over to his desk where he sat before the large and outspread family Bible. “I will spare you the preliminaries as it is obvious that you consider your time valuable. I will simply give you the relevant part and allow you to muse upon it.”
“Thanks,” said Jim doubtfully.
“Revelation, Chapter Thirteen,” said Professor Slocombe. “This speaks of the beast that has risen from the Earth. We will address our attention to verses sixteen, seventeen; and eighteen.” He spoke the final number with a deadly intensity.
“Go ahead then.”
The Professor adjusted his ivory pince-nez and read aloud from the open book:
The Professor gently closed the Holy Book and looked up towards Jim Pooley. The millionaire sat bolt upright in his chair. His eyes were unblinking and stared ever downward towards the open palm of his right hand, where the computer bar code was indelibly printed. Eighteen computer lines. Three rows of six. The number of a man, six hundred, three score and six.
666
The number of the Beast. Things were suddenly beginning to sink in.
“Oh dear,” said John Omally, who was not a man unacquainted with the Scriptures. “Why did I just know you were going to choose those very verses to be today’s text?”
15
At a little after five of the clock, Pooley and Omally left Professor Slocombe’s house behind and trudged up the long crescent bound for the Swan. Although the old man had served a fine tea, neither could raise much of an appetite, finding to it more than a hint of the Messianic feast. With rumbling guts and grumbling tongues
