cold.
“Drink up,” said Jim finally. “For there is something I must tell you, and I don’t think you are going to like it very much.” Slowly and with much hesitation Pooley made his confession. He told the Irishman everything, from his first theft of the magic bean to his midnight observation of Omally, and on to all that the Professor had told him regarding the coming of the Dark One and his later meeting with the Other Sam.
Omally sat throughout it all, his mouth hanging open and his glass never quite reaching his lips. When finally he found his voice it was hollow and choked. “Old friend,” said he. “We are in big trouble.”
Pooley nodded. “The biggest,” he said. “We had better go to the Professor.”
“I agree,” said Omally. “But we had better have one or two more of these before we go.”
17
When Neville called time at ten thirty the two men stumbled forth into the street in their accustomed manner. They had spoken greatly during that evening and there had been much speculation and much putting together of two and two. If the Messiah to the Church of the Second Coming was the man in the portrait and the man in the portrait was none other than the dreaded Dark One himself, then he was obviously gaining a very firm foothold hereabouts.
As Omally pushed Marchant forward and Pooley slouched at his side, hands in pockets, the two men began to feel wretchedly vulnerable beneath the moon’s unholy light.
“You can almost come to terms with it during the day,” said Pooley. “But at night, that is another matter.”
“I can feel it,” said John. “The streets seem no longer familiar, all is now foreign.”
“I know.”
If Marchant knew, he was not letting on, but out of sheer badness he developed an irritating squeak which put the two men in mind of the now sea-going wheelbarrow, and added to their gloom and despondency.
“This lad is heading for the breaker’s yard,” said Omally suddenly. Marchant ceased his rear- wheel loquaciousness.
A welcoming glow showed from the Professor’s open French windows when presently they arrived. From within came the sound of crackling pages being turned upon the laden desk.
“Professor,” called Jim, tapping upon the pane.
“Come in Jim,” came the cheery reply. “And bring Omally with you.”
The two men looked at one another, shrugged and entered the room. Pooley’s eyes travelled past the old Professor and settled upon the spot where the bean creatures had been housed. “Where are they?” -
“They have grown somewhat, Jim,” said the Professor. “I have been forced to lodge them in larger and more secure quarters.” He rang his bell and Gammon appeared as if by magic, bearing a bottle of scotch upon a silver salver.
“Now then,” the Professor said, after what he felt to be a respectable pause, adequate for the settling into armchairs and the tasting of scotch, “I take it you have something to tell me. I take it further that you have confided all in Mr Omally?” Pooley hung his head. “It is all for the best, I suppose, it was inevitable that you should. So, now that you know, what are your thoughts on the matter, Omally?”
Omally, caught somewhat off guard, was hard pressed for a reply, so he combined a shrug, a twitch and a brief but scholarly grin to signify that he had not yet drawn upon his considerable funds of intellect in order to deal fully with the situation.
The Professor, however, read it otherwise. “You are at a loss,” said he.
“I am,” said John.
“So,” the Professor continued, “what brings you here?”
Omally looked towards Jim Pooley for support. Jim shrugged. “You’d better tell him the lot,” said he.
Omally set about the retelling of his day’s experiences. When the Irishman had finished the Professor rose to his feet. Crossing to one of the gargantuan bookcases he drew forth an old red-bound volume which he laid upon the desk.
“Tell me John,” he said. “You would recognize the figure in the portrait were you to see his likeness again?”
“I could hardly forget it.”
“I have the theory,” said Professor Slocombe, “that we are dealing here with some kind of recurring five-hundred-year cycle. I would like you to go through this book and tell me if a facsimile of the portrait you saw exists within.”
Omally sat down in the Professor’s chair and began to thumb through the pages. “It is a very valuable book,” the Professor cautioned, as John’s calloused thumb bent back the corner of yet another exquisite page.
“Sorry.”
“Tell me, Professor,” said Jim, “if we can identify him and even if we can beat on his front door and confront him face to face, what can we do? Omally and I have both seen him, he’s getting on for seven feet tall and big with it. I wouldn’t fancy taking a swing at him and anyway as far as we can swear to, he hasn’t committed any crime. What do we do?”
“You might try making a citizen’s arrest,” said Omally, looking up from his page-turning.
“Back to the books, John,” said the Professor sternly.
“My wrists are beginning to ache,” Omally complained, “and my eyes are going out of focus looking at all these pictures.”
“Were they sharp, the beaks of those birds?” asked the Professor. John’s wrists received a sudden miraculous cure.
“Well,” said Jim to the Professor, “how do we stop him?”
“If we are dealing with some form of negative theology, then the tried and trusted methods of the positive theology will serve as ever they did.”
“Fire and water and the holy word.”
“The same, I am convinced of it.”
“Got him!” shouted John Omally suddenly, leaping up and banging his finger on the open book. “It’s him, I’m certain, you couldn’t mistake him.”
Pooley and the Professor were at Omally’s side in an instant, craning over his broad shoulders. The Professor leant forward and ran a trembling hand over the inscription below the etched reproduction of the portrait. “Are you certain?” he asked, turning upon Omally. “There must be no mistake, it would be a grave matter indeed if you have identified the wrong man.”
Pooley bent towards the etching. “No,” said he, “there is no mistake.”
The Professor turned slowly away from the two men at the desk. “Gentlemen,” he said solemnly, “that is a portrait of Rodrigo Borgia, born in Valencia January 1st, 1431, died in Rome August 18th, 1503. Rodrigo Borgia – Pope Alexander VI!”
“That is correct,” said a booming voice. “I am Rodrigo Lenzuoli Borgia and I have come for my children!”
The French windows flew back to the sound of shattering glass and splintering woodwork and an enormous figure entered the portal. He was easily seven feet in height and he inclined his massive head as he stepped through the casement. He was clad in the rich crimson robes of the Papacy and was surrounded by a weirdly shimmering aura which glittered and glowed about him.
The Professor crossed himself and spoke a phrase of Latin.
“Silence!” The giant raised his hand and the old Professor slumped into his chair as if cataleptic. Pooley and Omally shrank back against the wall and sought the lamaic secrets of invisibility. The mighty
