then it had been done with a purpose. There was no accident or casual element of chance evident here. This was something else, something very very special. And he would have to find out the purpose. And to do that, he would first have to make his escape from this great cold dark room at the very hurry-up. Before the chill began to shrink anything. Upon those tireless, finely-muscled legs that Charles Atlas had promised to a dozen generations of sickly youth, Neville took flight and sped away with great leaps and bounds, seeking the exit.
29
A good half-mile beneath the barbarian barman’s thundering feet, John Omally opened another bottle of carrot claret and poured himself a large glass. “Soap,” said he to his host, “this is good stuff you have here.”
“Nectar,” Jim Pooley agreed. “Write me down the recipe and I will provide for your old age.”
Soap grinned stupidly. “You must try the cigars,” he said, rising unsteadily from his horrendous armchair and tottering over to the box.
“Home-grown?”
Soap made a crooked “O” out of his thumb and forefinger. “I have a five spot says you cannot identify the blend.”
“Take it out of the money you still owe us,” said Jim.
Soap handed out a brace of lime-green coronas. Omally took his dubiously and rolled it against his ear. “Not a sprout?” he asked in a fearful voice.
“Heavens no.” Soap crossed his heart. “Would I do that to you?”
Pooley sniffed his along its length. “Not spud?”
“Absolutely not. I know Omally stuffs his peelings into his pipe, but even he would draw the line at manufacturing cigars from them.”
“They don’t roll,” said John, making the motions.
The two men lit up, and collapsed simultaneously into fits of violent coughing.
“Whatever it is,” wheezed John, tears streaming from his eyes, “it’s good stuff.”
“Perhaps a little sharp.” Jim’s face now matched the colour of his cigar.
“Do you give up?”
“Indubitably.”
“Well I shan’t tell you anyway.” Soap slumped back into his chair, hands clasped behind his head.
The ruddy hue slowly returned to Jim’s face as he got the measure of his smoke. “How long do you think we are going to have to fiddle about down here?” he asked.
Soap shrugged.
Omally tapped a quarter-inch of snow-white ash into a glass cache pot of the Boda persuasion. “We can’t stay down here indefinitely, Soap,” he said. “Although your hospitality is greatly appreciated, you must surely realize that we must make some attempts at salvaging something of our former lives. We were quite fond of them.”
Soap waved his hands at the Irishman. “All in good time, John. The Prof will tip us the wink. For now, have a drink and a smoke and a pleasant chat.”
“I fear we will shortly exhaust all topics of conversation.”
“Not a bit of it, I am a fascinating conversationalist. On most matters I am eloquence personified. My range is almost inexhaustible.”
“And your modesty legend. I know.”
“All right then, what is your opinion of evolution?”
“A nine-aeon wonder.” Omally awaited the applause.
“I have a somewhat revolutionary theory of my own.”
“I do not wish to hear it.”
“I subscribe to the view that the world was created five minutes ago, complete with all records and memories. Although an improbable hypothesis, I think you will find it logically irrefutable.”
“And how long have you held this belief?”
“Hard to say, possibly four and a half minutes.”
“Fol-de-rol.”
“Well, what about politics, then? As an Irishman, you must have some definite views.”
“As an Irishman, I never trouble to give the matter a moment’s thought.”
“Religion, then?”
“I subscribe to the view that the world was created five minutes ago. Are you looking for a grazed chin, Soap?”
“Only trying to pass the time with a little pleasant intercourse.”
“Careful,” said Jim.
“Well, I get few callers.”
“Hardly surprising, your address is somewhat obscure even for the A to Z.”
“Would you care to see my mushroom beds?”
“Frankly, no.”
“I spy with my little eye?”
“Stick it in your ear, Soap.”
The three men sat awhile in silence. Jim picked a bit of chive out of his teeth and won five quid from Soap. But other than that there was frankly no excitement to be had whatsoever, which might in its way have been a good thing, for there was a great deal of it in the offing. A sudden bout of urgent knocking rattled Soap Distant’s front door.
“Expecting guests?” Omally asked. “Ladies, I trust. Current affairs have played havoc with my social calendar.”
Soap’s face had, within the twinkling of an eye, transformed itself from an amiable countenance into the all-too-familiar mask of cold fear. “Are either of you tooled up?” he asked inanely.
“I have my barlow knife,” said Omally, rapidly finishing his drink.
“And me my running shoes,” said Jim. “Where’s the back door, Soap?”
Mr Distant dithered in his armchair. “No-one knows of this place,” he whispered hoarsely. The pounding on the door informed him that that statement was patently incorrect.
Omally rose hurriedly from his seat. “Lead us to the priesthole, Soap, and make it snappy.”
“I’m for that.” Jim leapt up and began smacking at the walls. “Where’s the secret panel, Soap?”
Soap chewed upon his knuckles. “It’s the other me,” he whimpered. “I knew it had to happen, even here.”
“The odds are in its favour. Kindly show us the way out.”
“There’s no other exit.”
“Then find us a place to hide, someone must continue to serve the cause, even if you are indisposed.”
“Yes, fair do’s,” Jim agreed, as the pounding rattled ornaments and nerves alike. “If it’s the other you, then he may not know John and I are here. We at least should hide until the bloodshed is over.”
“Oh, thanks very much, pals.”
“We’d do the same for you.”
“Come again?”
“Open up there.” A voice from without brought the ludicrous conversation to a halt.
“It’s Sherlock Holmes,” said Omally. “Let him in.”
