big trouble was in store and that if he was to take his great quest to its ultimate conclusion, now was going to have to be the time.
Clutching his purloined microcircuit to his bosom he had braved the rain of fire and legged it back to his shop and his workroom. Now, as the explosions came thick and fast from all points of the compass, he fiddled with a screwdriver and slotted the thing into place.
“Power inductor,” he said to himself, “will channel all the power from miles around directly into the apparatus. Wonderful, wonderful!”
Norman threw the much-loved “we belong dead” switch and his equipment sprang into life.
In the Swan, the lights momentarily dimmed. “Another power cut,” groaned Neville. “All I bloody need, another power cut. Typical it is, bloody typical.”
Pooley thundered away at the machine, watched by the Professor and John Omally, who was feeding the lad with scotch.
“Go to it, Jim,” Omally bashed Pooley repeatedly upon the back. “You’ve got them on the run. Here you missed that one, pay attention, will you?”
Pooley laboured away beneath the Irishman’s assault. “Lay off me, John,” he implored. “They’re firing back. Look at that.”
The skyline upon the screen had suddenly been translated into that of the immediate area. The silhouettes of the flatblocks and the gasometer were now clearly visible. As the three men stared in wonder, a shower of sparks descended upon the screen from one of the circling craft and struck the silhouette. Outside, a great roar signalled the demolition of one of the flatblocks.
“Get them, you fool, get them.”
Unnoticed, Raffles Rathbone edged towards the door and slipped through it, having it hastily away upon his toes towards the allotments.
The Swan’s lights dimmed once more.
In Norman’s kitchenette, lights were flashing, and a haze of smoke was rising from many a dodgy spot weld.
Norman sat at his console, punching coordinates into his computer, an ever-increasing hum informing him that the equipment was warming up nicely.
Clinging to the controls of a not altogether dissimilar console was a swarthy clone of a famous film star; Lombard Omega had taken the controls.
“Treachery,” he spat, from between his gritted and expensively capped teeth. “Fucking treachery! Those bastards have drawn us into a trap. Bleeding change of government, I shouldn’t wonder. How many ships lost, Mr Navigator?”
The navigator shrank low over his guidance systems. “Four now, sir,” he said, “no, make that five.”
“Take us out of autopilot then, I shall fly this frigging ship manually.”
One of the remaining blips vanished from the video screen of the Captain Laser Alien Attack machine.
“Oh dear,” said the Professor. “It had occurred to me that they might just twig it.”
“There’s still another two,” said Omally. “Get them, get them!”
There was now a good deal of Brentford which was only memory. The New Inn had gone, along with the library, and one of the gasometers was engulfed in flame. A falling craft had cut Uncle Ted’s greengrocery business cleanly out of the Ealing Road, which, survivors of the holocaust were later to remark, was about the only good thing to come out of the whole affair. There had miraculously been no loss of life, possibly because Brentford boasts more well-stocked Anderson shelters per square mile than any other district in London, but probably because this is not that kind of book.
Pooley was faltering in his attack. “My right arm’s gone,” moaned he, “and my bomb release button finger’s got the cramp, I can play no more.”
Omally struck his companion the now legendary blow to the skull.
“That does it!” Pooley turned upon Omally. “When trouble threatens, strike Jim Pooley. I will have no more.”
Pooley threw a suddenly uncramped fist towards Omally’s chin. By virtue of its unexpected nature and unerring accuracy, he floored the Irishman for a good deal more than the count of ten.
Professor Slocombe looked down at the unconscious figure beneath the beard. “If that score is settled, I would appreciate it if you would apply yourself once more to the machine before the other two craft catch wind of what is going on and switch to manual override.”
“Quite so,” said Pooley, spitting upon his palms and stepping once more to the video screen.
Small Dave backed away from Edgar Allan Poe, his tiny hands a flapping blur. “What is all this?” he demanded. “I don’t like the look of you one bit.”
The Victorian author approached upon silent, transparent feet. “You conjured me here,” he said, “and I came willingly, thinking you to be a disciple. But now I find that I am drawn into a position from which I am unable to extricate myself. That I must serve you. That cannot be!”
“So leave it then,” whined Small Dave. “I meant no offence to you, I only wanted a little assistance.”
“You realize who I am? I am Poe, the master of terror. The greatest novelist ever to live. Poe, the creator of Dupin, the world’s original consulting detective. Dupin who was not, I repeat not, a dwarf. You mess me about with your trivial vendettas. I have spoken with Professor Slocombe, there is only one way I can find release. You vindictive grudge-bearing wee bastard!”
Small Dave backed towards the floating camel. Simon was floundering amongst the rafters, bawling now at the top of his voice, loosening slates and splintering woodwork.
“Stay away from me,” shrieked Small Dave.
“Stay away from me!” shrieked Simon in fluent dromedary.
Edgar Allan Poe stalked onwards, his patent leather pumps raising dust upon another plane, but leaving no footprint upon the Earth.
“Stay away from me!”
Simon gave a great lurch and burst out of the rafters of the lock-up garage. As he rose through the shattered opening towards the stars, Edgar Allan Poe lunged forward and, in a single movement, bound the trailing halter line firmly about Small Dave’s wrist.
“Oh no!” wailed the dwarf as he was dragged from his feet to follow the wayward camel through the open roof.
Edgar Allan Poe watched them go. “I will be off now,” he said, and, like Small Dave, he was.
In Norman’s kitchenette all sorts of exciting things were happening. Dials were registering overload to all points of the compass, lights were flashing, and buzzers buzzing.
The great brain-hammering hum had reached deafening point and a hideous pressure filled the room, driving Norman’s head down between his shoulderblades and bursting every Corona bottle upon his shop shelves. With superhuman effort he thumped down another fist full of switches, clasped his hands across his ears, and sank to the floor.
Every light in Brentford, Chiswick, Hounslow, Ealing, Hanwell, Kew, and, for some reason, Penge went out.
Lombard Omega squinted through a porthole. “Blackout!” he growled. “Fucking blackout, the wily sods. Mr Navigator, how many of us left?”
The navigator looked up from his controls. “We are it,” he said.
What Lombard Omega had to say about that cannot possibly be recorded. It must, however, be clearly stated in his defence that it was one of his ancestors who had invented the Anglo-Saxon tongue.
“Take us in low,” he said. “We will strafe out the entire area. Stand by at the neutron bomb bays and make ready the Gamma weapon.”
“Not the Gamma weapon?” said all those present.
“The Gamma weapon!”
“Fuck me,” said the navigator.
