rr.thebrentfordtriangle-第25章

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　'That　may　not　be　so　easy　as　you　might　believe。'
　The　Cerean　turned　up　the　palms　of　his　hands。　'You　are　old　and　decrepit。　A　single　blow　will　cut　the　frail　cord　of　your　existence。'
　'Appearances　can　sometimes　be　deceptive；'　said　the　Professor。　'I　for　example　happen　to　be　a　master　of　Dimac；　the　deadliest　form　of　martial　art　known　to　mankind。　My　hands　and　feet　are　registered　with　the　local　constabulary　as　deadly　weapons。　They　can。。。　'
　'Rip；　maim；　mutilate；　disfigure　and　kill　with　little　more　than　the　application　of　a　fingertip's　pressure；'　said　the　Cerean。　'I　know。　Who　do　you　think　invented　Dimac　in　the　first　place？'
　'I　find　your　conversation　tending　towards　the　repetitious。　Kindly　take　your　leave　now；　I　have　much　to　do。'
　'Such　as　plotting　the　downfall　of　the　Cerean　Empire？'
　'Amongst　other　things　…　I　do　have　more　important　business。'
　The　man　from　Ceres　laughed　hollowly。　'You　have　great　courage；　old　man；'　said　he。　'We　of　Ceres　hold　courage　and　bravery　above　all　other　things。'
　'I　understand　that　you　like　a　good　fight；　yes；'　said　the　Professor。　'Although　you　do　not　always　win。　How's　the　armpit？'
　The　Cerean　clutched　at　his　tender　parts。　'Shortly；'　he　snarled；　'your　race　will　again　know　the　might　of　Ceres。　They　will　feel　the　jackboot　upon　their　necks。　You；　however；　will　not　be　here　to　witness　it。'
　'I　am　expecting　to　enjoy　a　long　and　happy　retirement；'　said　Professor　Slobe；　noting　to　his　satisfaction　and　relief　that　Gammon　had　now　entered　the　French　windows；　wielding　an　antique　warming…pan。　'I　worry　for　you；　though。'
　'Do　not　waste　your　concern。　When　the　battle　fleet　arrives　and　the　true　masters　of　Earth　once　more　set　foot　upon　the　planet；　they　will　have　none　to　spare　for　your　puny　race。'
　'Brave　talk。　When　might　we　expect　this　happy　event？'
　'Two　days　from　now。　It　is　a　pity　you　will　miss　it。'
　'Oh；　I　won't　miss　it。　I　have　a　table　booked　at　the　Swan　upon　that　evening。　It　is　the　darts　tournament。　We　hold　the　challenge　shield；　you　know。'
　'Of　course　I　know。　Who　do　you　think　invented　darts？'
　'Are　all　your　race　such　blatant　liars？'
　'Enough　talk！'　The　Cerean　pushed　past　the　Professor's　desk　and　crossed　the　room；　to　stand　glaring；　eye　to　eye　with　the　old　man。　'I　know　not　who　or　what　you　are；'　he　said。　'Certainly　you　are　unlike　any　human　I　have　encountered　hereabouts；　although　long　ago　I　feel　that　I　have　met　such　men　as　you。　But　for　the　present　know　only　this：　as　a　race；　you　humans　fear　death；　and　you　are　staring　yours　in　the　face。'
　Professor　Slobe　met　the　Cerean's　blazing　glare　with　a　cold；　unblinking　stare。　'I　like　you　not；'　he　said　mildly。　'It　was　my　firm　conviction　that　some　promise　might　have　been　reached　between　our　peoples。　I　strongly　disapprove　of　needless　bloodshed；　be　the　blood　flowing　from　human　veins　or　otherwise。　There　is　yet　time；　if　only　you　could　persuade　your　race　to　reconsider。　Be　assured　that　if　you　go　ahead　with　your　plans　you　will　meet　with　certain　defeat。　It　is　folly　to　attack　Earth。　We　have　been　awaiting　you　for　years　and　we　are　well　prepared。'
　'With　the　corner　up；　you　have；'　sneered　the　Cerean。　'You　cannot　stand　against　our　battle　fleet。　We　will　crush　you　into　submission。　Slaves　you　were　and　slaves　you　shall　yet　bee。'
　'Is　there　no　passion　then；　no　spark　of　what　we　call　humanity？'
　The　Cerean　curled　his　lip。　'None；'　he　said。
　'Then　at　least　it　makes　my　task　a　little　easier。'
　'Prepare　for　death；'　said　the　man　from　Ceres。
　'Strike　the　blighter　down；'　said　Professor　Slobe。
　Gammon　swung　the　antique　warming…pan　with　a　will　and　struck　the　Cerean　a　mighty　blow　to　the　back　of　the　head。　A　sharp　metallic　clang　announced　the　departure　of　a　Cerean　soul；　bound　for　wherever　those　lads　go　to　once　parted　from　their　unearthly　bodies。
　'He　was　surely　lying　about　the　darts；　wasn't　he；　sir？'　Gammon　asked。
　'I　sincerely　hope　so；'　the　Professor　replied。　'They　might　have　got　a　team　up。'
　
　20
　The　editor　of　the　Brentford　Mercury　screwed　the　cap　back　on　to　his　fountain　pen　and　wedged　the　thing　behind　his　right　ear。　He　leant　back　in　his　pockmarked　swivel　chair　and　gazed　up　at　the　fly…specked　yellow　ceiling　of　his　grimy　office。　Before　him；　upon　the　overloaded　desk；　was　a　mountain　of　reports　which；　although　being　the　very　bread　of　life　to　the　Fortean　Society；　could　hardly　be　considered　even　food　for　thought　to　the　simple　folk　of　Brentford。
　Certainly　mystery　and　intrigue　had　been　known　to　sell　a　few　papers；　but　this　stuff　was　silly　season　sensationalism　and　it　wasn't　the　silly　season　for　another　month　or　more。　The　editor　reached　into　his　drawer　for　his　bottle　of　Fleet　Street　fort。　Tipping　the　pencils　from　a　paper　cup；　he　filled　it　to　the　brim。
　It　all　seemed　to　have　started　with　that　riot　in　the　Haling　Road。　He　had　been　receiving　odd　little　reports　prior　to　this；　but　they　had　been　mainly　of　the　lights　in　the　sky　and　rumblings　in　the　earth　variety；　and　merited　little　consideration。　The　riot；　strange　enough　in　itself　in　peace…loving　Brentford；　had　turned　up　the　first　of　a　flock　of　really　weird　ones；　and　this　verified　by　the　Brentford　constabulary。
　There　was　the　long　black　limousine　of　American　manufacture　which　had　roared　away　from　the　scene　of　the　crime　pursued　by　two　squad　cars；　and　then　simply　vanished　in　a　most　improbable　fashion　up　a　cul…de…sac。　The　boys　in　blue　had　made　a　full…scale　search　of　the　area；　which　backed　on　to　the　allotment；　but　had　e　up　with　nothing。　The　car　had　simply　ceased　to　exist。
　There　was　this　continuing　sequence　of　power　cuts　the　area　had　been　experiencing。　The　local　sub…station　had　denied　any　responsibility　and　their　only　ment　had　been　that　during　their　duration　the　entire　power　supply　seemed　literally　to　drain　away；　as　if　down　a　plughole。
　If　the　disappearance　of　Brentford's　electricity　was　weird；　then　the　sudden　appearance　last　week　of　a　one…inch　layer　of　sand　pletely　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　ing　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　Slobe　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　Slobe；　'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　e　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　mitted。'
　'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　home　world。　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　municating　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　Slobe　somewhat　pointedly。　'That　is　where　you　e　in。'
　'This　would　be　the　fraught　with　peril　side　of　it　I　expect；'　said　Jim　dismally。
　Professor　Slobe　nodded。　'There　is　the　small　matter　of　the　municating　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　nigh