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 dearly. 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 efficiency. I intend to detonate it as the first craft land. We may not be able to get all of the invading vessels, you understand, but if we can take 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 homeworld. 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 conclusions. 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 who, 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.”
