“Poison it?” said Jim. “But how?”
Holmes drew out a sheaf of papers from his pocket, even in the semi-darkness the Professor’s distinctive Gothic penmanship was instantly recognizable. “Feed it with death. The Professor formulated the final equation. He knew that he might not survive so he entrusted a copy to me. What he began so must we finish.”
“Hear, hear.”
“Computers are the products of diseased minds, but they will react only to precise stimuli. Feed them gibberish and you will not confuse them. But feed them with correctly-coded instructions and they will react and function accordingly, in their own unholy madness. Professor Slocombe formulated the final programme. It will direct the machine to reverse its functions, leading ultimately to its own destruction. This programme will override any failsafe mechanism the machine has. I must, however, gain access to one of the terminals.”
“And how do you propose to do that?” Jim enquired as he slyly drained the last drop from his hip-flask. “They all seem a little busy at present.”
Sherlock Holmes drew out his gun. “This is a Forty-four Magnum, biggest…”
“Yes, we are well aware of that. It might, however, attract a little too much attention.”
“My own thoughts entirely. I was wondering, therefore, if you two gentlemen might be prevailed upon to create some kind of diversion.”
“Oh yes?” said Pope John. “What, such as drawing the demonic horde down about our ears whilst you punch figures into a computer terminal?”
Holmes nodded grimly. “Something like that. I will require at least six clear minutes. I know I am asking a lot.”
“You are asking everything.”
Holmes had no answer to make.
John stared hard into the face of Jim Pooley.
The other shrugged. “What the heck?” said he.
“What indeed?” Omally climbed on to his bike. “Room for one more up front.”
Jim smiled broadly and tore off his metallic balaclava. “Then we won’t be needing these any more.”
“No,” said John, removing his own. “I think not.” Raising his hand in a farewell salute he applied his foot to the pedal. “Up the Rebels.”
“God for Harry,” chorused Pooley, as the two launched forward across the floor, bound for destiny upon the worn wheels of Marchant the Wonder Bike.
A strange vibration swept up the mainframe of the great computer. The figures moving upon its face stiffened, frozen solid. Diamond-tipped lights began to flicker and flash, forming into sequences, columns, and star-shapes, and pyramids, veering and changing, pulsing faster and faster. A low purr of ominous humming rose in pitch, growing to a siren-screaming crescendo, as the machine’s defence system suddenly registered the double image coursing across the floor of its very sanctum sanctorum. A ripple of startled movement spread out from the base, as the terminal operators took in the horror. Their heads rose to face the mainframe, their mouths opened, and the curiously mechanical coughing sounds issued forth, swelling to an atavistic howl.
“Do you think they’ve tumbled us, John?” Pooley clapped his hands across his ears and Omally sank his head between his shoulders as the two zig-zagged on between the sea of terminals and their shrieking, howling operators. The robots were rising to their feet, stretching out their arms towards their master, their heads thrown back, their mouths opening and closing. They stormed from their seats to pursue the intruders.
At the back of the hall a stealthy figure in shredded tweed slipped into a vacant chair and flexed his long slim fingers.
“Get away there!” Pooley levelled his travelling hobnail towards a shrieking figure looming before them. He caught it a mighty blow to the chest and toppled it down across the face of a terminal, tearing it from its mounts amidst a tangle of sparking wires and scrambled mechanisms.
“Nice one, Jim.”
“Hard to port, John.”
Omally spun a hasty, wheel-screeching left turn, dodging a cluster of straining hands which clawed towards them. They dived off down another line of abandoned terminals, the robots now scrambling over them, faces contorted in hatred, anxious to be done with the last of their sworn enemy. Small black boxes were being drawn into the light, emitting sinister crackles of blue fire. The chase was on in earnest. And there were an awful lot of the blighters, with just two men to the bike.
The figures on the high gantries now ran to and fro in a fever of manic industry. They worked with inhuman energy, tending and caring to their dark master. The lights about them streamed up the dead black face, throbbing in “V” formations, travelling down again to burst into pentacles and cuneiform. They became a triple-six logo a hundred feet high which reformed into the head of a horned goat, the eyes ringed in blood-red laser fire. Blackpool illuminations it was not.
Holmes laboured away at his terminal, but here and there his trembling fingers faltered and he punched in an incorrect digit. Cursing bitterly, he was forced to erase an entire line and begin again.
“You bastard.” A clawed hand tore off Pooley’s right shirt-sleeve. “I’m down to the arm. Let’s get out of here, John!”
“Strike that man.” As a foaming psychotic rose up before them, Pooley levelled another flailing boot. The floor was now a hell-house of confusion. The robots were fighting with one another, each desperate to wring the life from Pooley and Omally. The cycling duo thundered on. Omally wore the orange jersey. The tour de Brentford was very much on the go.
“Get a move on, your Popeship, they’re closing for the kill.”
John swung away once more, but the road-blocks were up. He skidded about, nearly losing Pooley, who uttered many words of justifiable profanity, and made hurried tracks towards the door. The androids encircled them, black boxes spurting fire. The circle was closing fast and every avenue of escape was blocked as soon as it was entered. Omally drew Marchant to a shivering halt, depositing Pooley on the deck. “If you know how to fly,” he told his bike, “now would be the time to impress me.” Sadly, the old battered sit-up-and-beg showed no inclination whatsoever towards sudden levitation. “Well,” said John, “one must never ask too much of a bike.”
Pooley rose shakily to his feet. To every side loomed a sea of snarling faces, surrounding them in an unbreakable circle. It was many many faces deep, and none looked amenable to a bloodless surrender.
“Goodbye, John,” said Jim, “I never knew a better friend.”
“Goodbye, Jim.” Omally pressed his hand into that of his lifelong companion, a tear rose in a clear blue eye. “We’ll go down fighting at least.”
“At the very least.” Pooley raised his fists. “Beware,” he cried, “this man knows Dimac, the deadliest martial art known to… well, to the two of us any way.”
The crowd rose up as if drawing its collective sulphurous breath, and fell upon them; cruel hands snatched down, anxious to destroy, to draw out the life. Omally struck where he could but the blows rained down upon him, driving him to his knees. Pooley could manage but one last, two-fingered expression of defiance before he was dashed to the deck. The writhing mob poured forward, thrashing and screaming, and it seemed that nothing less than a very timely miracle could save the dynamic duo now.
A great tremor rushed across the floor of the unholy cathedral. The lynch mob drew back in sudden horror, the black marble surface upon which they stood was being jarred as if by some great force battering up at it. Pooley and Omally cowered as the floor moved beneath them. A great crack tore open, tumbling androids to either side of it. Shards of sparkling marble shot up like some black volcanic eruption. An enormous fist thrust up from the depths. Another followed and, as the crowd backed into a growing circle, crying and pointing, a head and shoulders emerged from the destruction, rising noble and titanic amongst the debris.