Norman’s duplicate turned upon his attacker. He snatched up a ten-gallon oil-drum which was harmlessly serving its time as a water-butt and raised it above his head. Holmes stood his ground, feet planted firmly apart, both hands upon his weapon. “This is a Magnum Forty-four,” he said, “biggest handgun in the world, and can blow your head clean off your shoulders.”
“He has definitely been watching too many videos,” whispered Omally as he crawled over to Pooley’s place of safety.
“Now I know what you’re thinking,” Holmes continued, “you’re thinking, in all that commotion did he fire five shots or six, that’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it, punk?”
“I much preferred the Victorian approach,” said Jim Pooley.
Norman’s robot stiffened; he was not adverse to watching the occasional Clint Eastwood movie himself on Norman’s home-made video.
“Do you know, in all the excitement I’m not really sure myself? So what do you say, punk?”
The mechanical punk, who had seen that particular film six times said, “It’s a fair cop, governor,” and raised its hands.
“Up against the wall and spread’m mother,” cried Sherlock Holmes, causing Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to veritably spin in his grave.
Not too long later, Jim Pooley, John Omally, and Mr Sherlock Holmes, this time accompanied by a near-perfect facsimile of a highly-regarded local shopkeeper, entered the Professor’s study. The scholar looked up from his desk and turned about in his chair. “You made very short work of that,” he said. “Good afternoon, Norman.”
The mechanical shopkeeper regarded the Professor as if he was guano on a hat-brim. “You would do well to leave well enough alone,” said he.
Professor Slocombe turned up his palms. “Please be seated, I have no wish to detain you longer than necessary. I merely seek a few answers to certain pressing questions.”
The duplicate clutched at his chest. “To take away my life, more likely.”
“No, no, I swear. Please be seated.” Professor Slocombe turned to his other guests. “Please avail yourselves, gentlemen, Norman and I have much to speak of.”
Holmes held his gun pointing steadily towards the robot’s spinning heart. “You counselled care, Professor,” said he, “and now it is my turn.”
“A degree of trust must exist, Holmes, kindly put aside your gun.”
Holmes did so. Pooley and Omally fought awhile over the decanter and finally came to an agreement.
“It is of the greatest importance that we speak with each other,” Professor Slocombe told the robot. “Please believe that I wish you no harm. Will you play straight with me?”
“I will, sir, but have a care for him. The man is clearly mad. Calls himself Sherlock Holmes but knows not a thing of the thirty-nine steps. I would have come to you of my own accord.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes.” The robot cleared his throat with a curiously mechanical coughing sound which sent the wind up Pooley and Omally. “Things cannot be allowed to continue as they are.”
Professor Slocombe raised his eyebrows. “You are aware of that?”
“I can hear them talking. They gnaw at my brain but I will not allow them ingress. I am Norman’s man and sworn by the bond of birth to protect him.”
“Your loyalty is commendable.”
“I am sworn to serve mankind.”
“From behind a counter,” sneered Omally.
The robot nodded grimly. “It sounded a little more noble the way I put it, but no matter, there is little enough of mankind now left to serve. The shop doorbell is silent the better part of the day. Trade declines; I rarely punch an order into the terminal, and when I do, the new stocks which finally arrive are further foreshortened. The master computer now runs it all. Mankind is on the wane, the new order prevails, night falls upon Brentford and the world. It is the coming of Ragnorok.
“Stick the Laurence Olivier circuits into override, you clockwork clown,” said John Vincent Omally, Man of Earth.
“How would you like me to fill your mouth with boot?” the robot enquired.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said Professor Slocombe, “let us have a little decorum please.”
“Well, he’s had my shed down,” Omally complained. “For one sworn to protect mankind he’s about as much use as a nipple on a-”
“Quite so, John. Please be calm, we will achieve nothing by fighting amongst ourselves. We must all pull together.”
“You can pull whatever you want,” said the robot, “but take it from me, you had better start with your fingers. Unless you can come up with something pretty special, pretty snappish, then you blokes are banjoed, get my meaning, F… U… C…”
“Language, please,” said Professor Slocombe. “I think we catch your drift. Something pretty special was what I had in mind.”
22
“AAAAOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAOOOOO… O… UH?”
Neville the part-time barman awoke after an absence of some eleven chapters. Scorning the tried and tested “Where am I?” he settled for “Why have I got a light bulb stuck up my left nostril?” which was at least original. His eyes rolled up towards the ceiling, several inches above his face, and a great hand rose to brush away the obstruction blocking one side of his nose. This bed is a bit high, thought Neville. But then the dreadful memories of his most despicable situation came flooding back in a tidal wave of adipose tissue.
“The fat!” groaned Neville, his voice rumbling up from the depths of his stomach to shiver the ceiling above. “The terrible fat!” He tried to move his great St Paul’s dome of a head, but it seemed to be wedged tightly into an upper corner of the tiny hospital room. Painfully he struggled and shifted until he was able to peer down over the great massed army of himself and gauge some idea of how the land lay. It lay someway distant in the downwards direction. “OOOOOAAAAAAOOOOOOAAA… UH,” moaned Neville. “Worse, much worse.”
A sudden sound distracted him from his misery, somewhere beneath his spreading bulk and slightly to one side, a door appeared to be opening. From his eyrie above the picture-rail Neville watched a minuscule nurse enter the already crowded room.
“And how are we today?” asked this fairy person.
“We?” Neville’s voice arose in desperation. “You mean that there is more than one of me now?”
“No, no.” The tiny nurse held up a pair of doll-like hands. “You are doing very well, making good progress, great signs of improvement, nothing to fear.”
Neville now noticed to his increasing horror that the midget was brandishing a hypodermic syringe. Which, although perched between her tiddly digits like a Christmas cracker fag-holder, looked none the less as threatening as any of the others he had recently experienced at hind quarters.
“Time for your daily jab, roll over please.”
“Roll over? Are you mad, woman?” Neville wobbled his jowls down at the nurse.
The woman smiled up at him. “Come on now, sir,” she wheedled. “We’re not going to throw one of our little tantrums now, are we?”
If Neville could have freed one of his feet, possibly the one which was now wedged above the curtain-rail surrounding his bed, he would have happily stamped the tiny nurse to an omelette.
“Come on now, sir, roly-poly.”
