“I was at a loss to find a means of gaining entry,” the Professor explained, “but Holmes reasoned the thing through and deduced their method.”
“If it’s a lock then I shall pick it.”
“Not on this occasion, John. But one of us here has the key in his hand even now.”
“Oh no,” said Jim, thrusting his tattooed hand into his pocket. “Not this boy, not in there.”
“You have the right of admission, Jim, right there in the palm of your hand.”
“No, no, no.” Pooley shook his head vigorously, “An eight a.m. appointment with Albert Pierrepoint I should much prefer.”
“In my mind, only one course of action lies open. Unless we can penetrate the building and apply the proverbial spanner to the computer’s works, all will be irretrievably lost. We cannot think to destroy the dark God himself. But if his temple is cast down and his worshippers annihilated, then he must withdraw once more, into the place of forever night from whence he has emerged.” Professor Slocombe re-cranked the mechanism and the room fell into darkness.
“Oh doom,” said Jim Pooley. “Oh doom and desolaoooow! Let go there, John.”
“We must make our move now.” Professor Slocombe’s voice echoed in the void. “There is no more time, come at once.” He opened the door and the wan light from the stairs entered the strange roof chamber.
“But we cannot go outside,” said Omally. “One step out of this house and good night.”
“Have no fear, I have taken the matter into consideration.” Professor Slocombe led the two lost souls back to his study. “You are not going to like this, John,” said he, as he opened the desk drawer.
“That should create no immediate problem. I have liked nothing thus far.”
“So be it.” Professor Slocombe drew out a number of items, which had very much the appearance of being metallic balaclava helmets, and laid them on the table.
“Superman outfits,” said Pooley, very impressed. “I should have realized, Professor, you are one of the Justice League of America.”
“Silence, Pooley.”
“Sorry, John.”
“As ludicrous as these items at first must appear, they may well be our salvation. As you are no doubt now aware, the Lateinos and Romiith computer scan cannot penetrate lead. Hopefully, these lead-foil helmets will shield our brain patterns from the machine’s detection and allow us to move about unmolested.”
“Size seven and a half,” said Jim. “But I can fit into a seven at a push.”
“Good man. As an extra precaution, if each of you could slip another piece of foil into your breast pocket then your heartbeat should be similarly concealed. No doubt the infra-red image produced by body heat will still register, but the result should be somewhat confused. ‘Will not compute’, I believe the expression to be.”
“Bravo.” Omally slipped on his helmet without hesitation.
“Very Richard the Lionheart,” chuckled Pooley.
“A fine man,” said Professor Slocombe. “I knew him well.”
The three men, now decked out in their ludicrous headgear, slipped through the Professor’s French windows and out into the garden. At times one has to swallow quite a lot for a quiet life in Brentford.
Above the wall the titanic floats filled the street. As one by one the balaclava’d goodguys eased their way into the swaying crowd, each held his breath and did a fair bit of praying. Professor Slocombe plucked at Omally’s sleeve. “Follow me.” The marching horde plodded onward. The floats dwarfed both street and sky. Jim peered about him; he was walking in a dream. The men and women to either side of him, each wearing their pair of minuscule headphones, were unreal. And that he knew to be true in every sense of the word. At close hand, the floats appeared shabby and ill-constructed; a mish-mash of texture and hue coming together as if, and no doubt it was exactly thus, programmed to create an overall effect. No hand of man had been at work here. Like all else it was a sick parody, a sham, and nothing more. The bolted wheel near at hand turned in faulty circles grinding the tarmac, untrue. But it was hypnotic, its unreality drew the eye and held it there. “Come on, Jim.” Omally tugged at Pooley’s sleeve. “You’re falling behind again.”
Pooley struggled on. Ahead, the Lateinos and Romiith building dwarfed all beneath its black shadow. The sky was dark with tumbling clouds, strange images weaved and flowed beyond the mysterious glittering walls, shimmering over the roof-tops. Even now something terrible was occurring beyond the boundaries of the borough.
The awful procession turned out of the Butts and up into Moby Dick Terrace. Professor Slocombe drew his followers aside from the throng and the helmeted duo scuttled after him. “Make haste now.”
The Lateinos and Romiith building filled the eastern skyline. Jim noted with increasing gloom that an entire terrace of houses had gone, overwhelmed by the pitiless structure which reared into the darkling sky.
On a roadside bench ahead an old man sat with his dog.
“Good day, lads,” said Old Pete, as the strangely-clad threesome passed him by at close quarters. “Fair old do this year, isn’t it?”
“Bloody marvellous,” Pooley replied. “Hope to see you later for one in the Swan if all goes well.”
Old Pete cleared his throat with a curiously mechanical coughing sound. “Look out for yourself,” said he.
The three men continued their journey at the Jog.
“Stop here now,” said Professor Slocombe, as they came finally to the corner of the street. “I am expecting somebody.”
“A friend I hope.”
“That would be nice,” said Jim, with a little more flippancy than the situation warranted. “Organizer of the Festival raffle is it? Or chairman of the float committee?”
Omally took what he considered to be one of the last opportunities left to him to welt Jim about the head. “Oow ouch!” he said, clutching at a throbbing fist. Pooley smiled sweetly. “How much do you want for the copyright of this helmet?” he asked the Professor.
“Leave it out, you two. Here he comes.”
Along the deserted pavement, weaving with great difficulty, came an all too familiar figure, clad in grey shopkeeper’s overall and trilby hat. But what was this that the clone shopkeeper rode upon his precarious journey? Could this be that creaking vestige of a more glorious age, now black and pitted and sorely taken with the rest? Surely we have seen these perished hand-grips before? Marvelled at the coil-spring saddle and oil-bath chainguard? The stymied Sturmey Archer Three-speed and the tungsten-carbide lamp? Yes, there can be no doubt, it is that noted iron stallion, that prince of pedaldom, squeaking and complaining beneath the weight of its alien rider, it can be no other. Let men take note and ladies beware: Marchant the wonder bike, it is he.
“Get off my bleeding bicycle,” yelled John Omally.
Norman the Second leapt down from his borrowed mount with some alacrity. Not, however, with sufficient alertness to avoid the sneaky pedal which had been awaiting its chance to drive in deep. Norman’s right trouser cuff vanished into the oil-bath and the automated shopman bit the dust.
“Bastard,” squealed the mechanical man. “I’ll do for you.”
“Nice one, Marchant,” said John, drawing his bike beyond reach. The bicycle rang its bell in greeting and nuzzled its handlebar into its master’s waistcoat.
“Bloody pathetic isn’t it?” said Jim. “A boy and his bike, I ask you.”
“Do you think we might apply ourselves to the job in hand?” the Professor asked.
“I like the helmets,” said Norman the Second. “What is it then, Justice League of America?”
“A running gag I believe,” Jim replied. “Did you have to bring his bike? That thing depresses me.”
“Easy Jim, if I am going to die, I will do it with Marchant at my side, or at least under my bum.”