“I won’t ask what that one turned out to be.”
“The Swan lead by one game to nil,” croaked the adjudicator. “Second game on. Horsemen to throw.”
As this was a championship match, by local rules, the losing team threw first. Young Jack ran his forked tongue about the tip of his dart. “Straight and true this time, Professor,” quoth he.
“With the corner up,” the old man replied.
Young Jack flung his darts in such rapid succession that they were nothing more than a triple blur. They each struck the board “straight and true” within the wired boundaries of the treble twenty, which was nothing more nor less than anybody had expected. The grinning demonologist strode to the board and tore out his darts with a vengeance.
“I should like very much to see the fellow miss once in a while,” Pooley told the Professor. “Just to give the impression that he isn’t infallible.” Professor Slocombe whispered another Latin phrase and Young Jack knocked his pint of mild into his father’s lap. “Thank you,” said Jim, “I appreciated that.”
Archie Karachi was throwing for the Swan. Dressed this evening in a stunning kaftan, oblivious to the damage wrought upon his kitchen, he was definitely on form. Archie had a most unique manner of play. As a singles man, his technique brought a tear to the eye of many a seasoned player. Scorning the beloved treble twenty, he went instead for bizarre combinations which generally had the chalksman in a panic of fingers and thumbs. On a good night with luck at his elbow he could tear away an apparent two hundred in three throws. Even when chalked up, this still had his opponents believing that he had thrown his shots away. Tonight he threw a stunning combination which had the appearance of being a treble nineteen, a double thirteen and a bullseye, although it was hard to be certain.
The degree of mental arithmetic involved in computing the final total was well beyond the man on the chalks and most of the patrons present. When the five hundred and one was scratched out and two hundred and fifty- seven appeared in its place nobody thought to argue.
“I admire that,” said Professor Slocombe. “It is a form of negative psychology. I will swear that if the score does not come up in multiples of twenty, nobody can work it out.”
“I can,” said Omally, “but he is on our side.”
“I can’t,” said Pooley. “He pulls his darts out so quickly I couldn’t even see what he scored.”
“Ah,” said Omally, “here is a man I like to watch.”
The Four Horsemen’s most extraordinary player had to be the man Kelly. He was by no means a great dartsman, but for sheer entertainment value he stood alone. It must be understood that the wondrous scores previously recorded are not entirely typical of the play as a whole, and that not each member of the team was a specialist in his field. The high and impossible scores were the preserve of the very few and finest. Amongst each team, the Swan and the Horsemen being no exception, there were also able players, hard triers, and what might be accurately described as the downright desperate.
The man Kelly was one of the latter. When he flung a dart it was very much a case of stand aside lads, and women and children first. The man Kelly was more a fast bowler than a darts player.
The man Kelly bowled a first dart. It wasn’t a bad one and it plunged wholeheartedly in the general direction of the board. Somewhere, however, during the course of its journey the lone projectile suddenly remembered that it had pressing business elsewhere. The man Kelly’s dart was never seen again.
“A little off centre?” the player asked his fuming and speechless captain.
His second throw was a classic in every sense of the word. Glancing off the board with the sound of a ricocheting rifle bullet it tore back into the assembled crowd, scattering friend and foe alike and striking home through the lobe of Old Pete’s right ear.
The crowd engulfed the ancient to offer assistance. “Don’t touch it,” bellowed the old one. “By God, it has completely cured the rheumatism in my left kneecap.”
Lombard Omega scrutinized the instrument panel and swore between his teeth. “I can’t see this,” he said at length. “This does not make any fucking sense. I mean, be reasonable, our good world Ceres cannot just vanish away like piss down a cesspit in the twinkling of a bleeding eyelid.”
The navigator whispered a silent prayer to his chosen deity. It was an honour to serve upon the flagship of the Cerean battle fleet, but it was a hard thing indeed to suffer the constant stream of obscenity which poured from his commander’s mouth. “We have been away for a very long time,” he ventured. “More than six thousand years, Earth time.”
“Earth time? Earth bleeding time? What is Earth time?”
“Well, as target world, it must be considered to be standard solar time.”
Lombard Omega spat on the platinum-coated deck and ground the spittle in with a fibreglass heel. “This doesn’t half get my dander up,” said he.
Standard solar time was approaching ten-fifteen of the p.m. clock, and the Four Horsemen and the Flying Swan now stood even at two games all and one to play for the Shield. Tension, which had been reaching the proverbial breaking-point, had now passed far beyond that, and chaos, panic, and desperation had taken its place. Omally had ground seven Biros into oblivion and his book now resembled some nightmare of Einsteinian cross-calculation. “I sincerely believe that the ultimate secrets of the universe might well be found within this book,” said Pooley, leafing over the heavily-thumbed pages. For his outspokenness, he received a blow to the skull which sent him reeling. Omally was at present in no mood for the snappy rejoinder.
“For God’s sake get another round in,” said Professor Slocombe. Omally left the table.
“Forgive me if you will,” said Pooley, when the Irishman was engaged in pummelling his way through the crowd towards the bar, “but you do remember that we are under imminent threat of annihilation by these lads from Ceres. I mean, we are still taking it seriously, aren’t we?”
Professor Slocombe patted Pooley’s arm. “Good show,” he said. “I understand your concern. It is always easy to surround oneself with what is safe and comfortable and to ignore the
“Sorry,” said Jim, “but strange as it may seem, I do get a little anxious once in a while.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” croaked the adjudicator in a strangled voice, “the end is near and we must face the final curtain.” There were some boos and a few cheers. “The last match is to play, the decider for the Challenge Shield, and I will ask for silence whilst the two teams prepare themselves.”
A respectful hush fell upon the Swan. Even the boy Rathbone ceased his game. However, this was not through his being any respecter of darts tournaments, but rather that his last two-bob bit had run out, and he was forced up to the bar for more change.
“It is the playoff, five hundred and one to gain. By the toss, first darts to the Horsemen, good luck to all, and game on.”
Professor Slocombe’s eyes swung towards the Horsemen’s team. Something strange seemed to have occurred within their ranks. Old Jack had declined to take his darts and sat sullenly in his wheelchair. The man Kelly was nowhere to be seen, and the other disembodied members of the team had withdrawn to their places of perpetual night and were apparently taking no more interest in the outcome of the game.
Alone stood Young Jack, hollow-eyed and defiant.
“He means to play it alone,” said the Professor. “I do not believe that it is against the rules.”
“By no means,” said Omally. “A man can take on a regiment, should he so choose. As a bookmaker I find such a confrontation interesting, to say the least.”
The Swan’s patrons found it similarly so and Omally was forced to open book upon his shirt sleeves.
Young Jack took the mat. He gave the Professor never a glance as he threw his stygian arrows. To say that he actually threw them, however, would be to give a false account of the matter, for at one moment the darts were in his hand, and in another, or possibly the same, they were plastered into the darts board. No-one saw them leave nor enter, but all agreed that the score was an unbeatable multiple of twenty.
“One hundred and eighty,” came a whispered voice.
Norman stepped to the fore. Although unnoticed by the throng, his darts gave off an electrical discharge which disabled television sets three streets away and spoiled telephonic communications a mile off.
“One hundred and eighty,” came a still small voice, when he had done his business.
Young Jack strode once more into the fray. His eyes shone like a pair of Cortina reversing lamps and a faint
