In the Swan, Pooley was at the controls. “There’s eight of them,” he said, “moving in a V formation.” His finger rattled upon the neutron bomb release button, and tiny beads of yellow light swept upwards towards the bobbing cones at the top of the screen.
“Get them, Jim,” screamed Omally. “Come on now, you know how it’s done.”
“I’m trying, aren’t I? Get us a drink for God’s sake.”
Neville, who had fallen rather heavily but happily not upon his tender parts, was on all fours in the middle of the floor. “What the hell is going on?” he gasped. “Get away from the counter, Omally.”
“We’re breaking your machine,” said the breathless Irishman, “don’t knock it.”
“But what was that explosion? My God!” Neville pointed out through the Swan’s front windows. “Half the Ealing Road’s on fire. Call the appliances.”
Pooley bashed at the button with his fist and jumped up and down. “I’ve got one! I’ve got one!”
Overhead, but a little less loudly this time, there was another explosion, followed by the sound of faltering engines and a Messerschmitt dive-bomber scream.
Those present at the Swan ducked their heads as something thundered by at close quarters and whistled away into the distance. There was a moment’s deadly silence followed by a muted but obviously powerful report.
Another Cerean craft had fallen to Earth upon Brentford; given its point of impact, it was unlikely that Jim Pooley would ever again receive a threatening letter regarding an overdue library book.
“There! There!” Neville was pointing and ranting. “It is the third world war and we never got the four-minute warning. I am withholding my vote at the next election.”
Small Dave struggled up from the gutter and shrieked with pain. He had been rather nearer to the library’s destruction and a sliver of shrapnel from the founder’s plaque had caught him in the backside.
“Oh woe, oh woe, oh damn!” he wailed. A less determined man would by now have called it a day and dived for the nearest foxhole, but loathing and hatred overwhelmed the postman, and nothing would turn him from his vendetta. Feeling tenderly at his bleeding bum, he raised the bolt-cutter to the garage lock and applied all his strength. He strained and sweated as he fought with the steel clasp. Finally, with a sickening crunch the metal gave, and the garage door swung upwards.
Small Dave stood panting in the opening, his features shining pinkly by the light of ten thousand blazing dogeared library books. Sweat poured from his face as he surveyed the object of his quest. Snorting and wriggling in the eaves of the lock-up garage was Simon. A camel far from home.
“Now that you have it,” said a voice which loosened Small Dave’s bowels, “what are you going to do with it?”
The postman swung upon his blakeys. “Edgar,” he said, “where in the holy blazes have you been?”
Norman had been almost the first man out of the Swan. As the explosion rang in his ears he had realized that 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.”