“Ladies and gentlemen,” bellowed the adjudicator at the top of his voice, “it is my pleasure to announce the final and deciding contest of the evening. The very climax of this evening’s sport.” Omally noted that the word “sport” appeared to stick slightly in the adjudicator’s throat. “The final for the much coveted Brentford District Darts Challenge Trophy Shield.”
Neville, who had taken this cherished item down from its cobwebby perch above the bar and had carefully polished its tarnished surface before secreting it away in a place known only to himself, held it aloft in both hands. A great cheer rang through the Swan.
“Between the present holders, five years’ champions, the home team, the Flying Swan.” Another deafening cheer. “And their challengers from the Four Horsemen.”
Absolute silence, but for the occasional bitow in the background.
“Gentlemen, let battle commence.”
The home team, as reigning champions, had call of the toss. As the adjudicator flipped a copper coin high into the unwholesome smoke-filled air, Professor Slocombe, who had taken up station slightly to the rear of Young Jack, whispered, “The same coin had better come down and it had better not land upon its edge.”
Young Jack leered around at his adversary. “As honorary President,” he said, “I shall look forward to you personally handing me the shield upon your team’s crushing defeat.”
Whether through the action of that fickle thing called fate, or through the influence of some force which the Professor had neglected to make allowance for, unlikely though that might seem, the coin fell tailside up and the Four Horsemen were first upon the oché.
Through merit of his advanced years and the ever-present possibility that he would not survive another championship game through to the end, Old Jack threw first.
Professor Slocombe did not trouble to watch the ancient as he struggled from his wheelchair, assisted by his two aides, and flung his darts. His eyes were glued to the hands of Young Jack, awaiting the slightest movement amongst the dark captain’s metaphysical digits.
It was five hundred and one up and a five-game decision and each man playing was determined to give of his all or die in the giving. Old Jack gave a fair account of himself with an ample ton.
Norman took the mat. As he did so, both Pooley and Omally found their eyes wandering involuntarily over the heads of the crowd towards the electric Guinness clock.
Three times Norman threw and three times did those two pairs of eyes observe the fluctuation in the clock’s hand.
“He cheats, you know,” whispered Pooley.
“I’ve heard it rumoured,” Omally replied.
“One hundred and eighty,” boomed the man in the rented tux.
On the outer rim of the solar system, where the planets roll, lax, dark and lifeless, appeared nine small white points of light which were definitely not registered upon any directory of the heavens. They moved upon a level trajectory and travelled at what appeared to be an even and leisurely pace. Given the vast distances which they were covering during the course of each single second, however, this was obviously far from being the case.
Upon the flight deck of the leading Cerean man o’ war, the Starship Sandra, stood the Captain. One Lombard Omega by name, known to some as Lord of a Thousand Suns, Viceroy of the Galactic Empire and Crown Prince of Sirius, he was a man of average height with high cheekbones and a slightly tanned complexion. He bore an uncanny resemblance to a young Jack Palance and, even when travelling through the outer reaches of the cosmic infinite, smelt strongly of creosote.
“Set a course for home,” he said, affecting a noble stance and pointing proudly into space. “We have conquered the galaxy and now return in triumph to our homeworld. Ceres, here we come.”
The navigator, who bore a striking resemblance to his Captain, but whose rank merited a far less heavily braided uniform and fewer campaign ribbons, tapped out a series of instructions into a console of advanced design. “Goodness me,” said he, as the computer guidance system flashed up an unexpected reply to his instructions upon a three-dimensional screen. “Now there’s a funny thing.”
Lombard Omega leant over his shoulder and squinted into the glowing display of nine orbiting worlds. “Where’s the fucking planet gone?” he asked.
“One hundred and forty,” shouted the adjudicator, oblivious to what was going on at the outer edge of the solar system. “The Horsemen needs ninety-seven.”
“If they aren’t cheating,” said Pooley, “they are playing a blinder of a game.”
“Oh, they’re cheating all right,” Omally replied, “although I don’t think the Professor has worked out quite how yet.”
In truth the Professor had not; he had watched Young Jack like a hawk and was certain that he had observed no hint of trickery. Surely the Horsemen could not be winning by skill alone?
Billy “Banjoed” Breton, the Horsemen’s inebriate reserve, was suddenly up on the oché. The very idea of a team fielding a reserve in a championship match was totally unheard of, the role of reserve being by tradition filled by the pub’s resident drunk, who acted more as mascot and comedy relief than player.
A rumble of disbelief and suspicion rolled through the crowd. Two of the Horsemen’s team pointed Billy in the direction of the board. “Over there,” they said. Billy aimed his dart, flight first.
“Young Jack is having a pop at the Professor,” said Omally. “He is definitely working some kind of a flanker.”
A look of perplexity had crossed Professor Slocombe’s face. He cast about for a reason, but none was forthcoming. A gentle tap at his elbow suddenly marshalled his thoughts. “There is one outside and one by the machine,” said Edgar Allan Poe.
Professor Slocombe nodded.
“May I ask the purpose of the game?”
“It is a challenge match between the hostelry known as the Four Horsemen and our own beloved Flying Swan,” Professor Slocombe replied telepathically.
“Then may I ask why you allow your opponents the edge by having their missiles guided by a spirit form?” A smile broke out upon Professor Slocombe’s face which did not go unnoticed by John Omally.
“He’s sussed it,” said John.
Professor Slocombe leant close to the ear of Young Jack. “Have you ever heard me recite the rite of exorcism?” he asked. “I have it down to something of a fine art.”
Young Jack cast the old man the kind of look which could deflower virgins and cause babies to fill their nappies. “All right,” said he, “we will play it straight.”
“That you will never do. But simply chalk that one up and be advised.”
“Forty-seven,” bawled the adjudicator, who was growing hoarse.
“Unlucky,” said Professor Slocombe.
“The Swan need sixty-eight.” The Swan got it with little difficulty.
Lombard Omega ran up and down the flight deck, peering through the plexiglass portholes and waving his fists in the air. “Where’s it gone?” he ranted at intervals. “Where’s it fucking gone?”
His navigator punched all he could into the console and shrugged repeatedly. “It just isn’t there,” he said. “It’s gone, caput, finito, gone.”
“It must be there! It was fucking there when we left it!”
The navigator covered his ears to the obscenity. “It honestly isn’t, now,” he said. “There’s a lot of debris about, though, a veritable asteroid belt.”
“You find something and find it quick,” growled his Commanding Officer, “or you go down the shit chute into hyperspace.”
The navigator bashed away at the console like a mad thing. “There’s no trace,” he whispered despairingly, “the entire system’s dead.” He tapped at the macroscopic intensifier. “Oh no it isn’t, look, there’s a signal.”