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.”

“Bloody pathetic.”

“Time to do your party trick, Jim,” said Omally. “Professor?”

The old man indicated a dimly-lit panel on the bleak wall. “Just there,” he said.

“I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” Jim complained. “I think the best idea would be to give the place a good leaving alone.”

“Stick your mitt out, Jim.”

The cursed Croesus placed his priceless palm on to the panel. There was a brief swish and a section of the wall shot aside. A very bad smell came from within.

“Quickly now,” said the Professor. “Keep your hand on the panel until we’re all in, Jim.”

A moment later the gap closed upon three men, one robot shopkeeper, and a bike called Marchant.

“Blimey,” said Omally. “I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this.”

They stood now in what might have been the lobby and entrance hall of any one of a thousand big business consortiums. The traditional symbols of success and opulence, the marble walls, thick plush carpeting, chromium reception desk, even the rubber plant in its Boda plant-stand, were all there. It was so normal and so very ordinary as to be fearful. For behind this facade, each man knew, lurked a power more evil than anything words were able to express.

“Gentlemen,” said Professor Slocombe, “we are now in the belly of the beast.”

Omally suddenly clutched at his stomach. “I think I’m going to chuck up,” he said. “I can feel something. Something wrong.”

“Hold on.” The Professor laid a calming hand upon Omally’s arm. “Speak the rosary; it will pass.”

Beneath his breath Omally whispered the magical words of the old prayer. Its power was almost instantaneous, and the sick and claustrophobic feeling lifted itself from his shoulders, to alight upon Jim Pooley.

“Blech,” went Jim. Being a man of fewer words and little religious conviction, he threw up over the rubber plant.

“That will please the caretaker,” chuckled Omally.

“Sorry,” said Jim, drawing his shirt-sleeve over the cold sweat on his brow. “Gippy tummy I think. I must be going cold turkey for the want of a pint.”

“You and me both. Which way, Professor?”

The old man fingered his chin. “There is no-one on the desk, shall we take the lift?”

Norman the Second shook his head, “I would strongly advise the stairs. A stairway to oblivion is better than no stairway at all I always say. Would you like me to carry your bike, John, or would you prefer to chain it to the rubber plant?”

“I’ll carry my own bike, thank you.”

Pooley squinted up at the ragged geometry, spiralling into nothingness above. “Looks like a long haul,” said he. “Surely the cellar would be your man, down to the fuse boxes and out with the fuse. I feel that I have done more than my fair share of climbing today.”

“Onward and upward.”

Now there just may be a knack to be had with stairs. Some speak with conviction that the balls of the feet are your man. Others favour shallow breathing or the occupation of the mind upon higher things. Walking up backwards, that one might deceive your legs into thinking they were coming down, has even been suggested. In the course of the next fifteen minutes it must fairly be stated that each of these possible methods and in fact a good many more, ranging from the subtly ingenious to the downright absurd, were employed. And each met with complete and utter failure.

“I’m gone.” Pooley sank to his knees and clutched at his heart.

“Nurse, the oxygen.” Omally dragged himself a stair or more further and collapsed beneath his bike. “We must give poor Jim a breather,” he said. “The life of ease has gone to his legs.”

“Are you all right yourself?” Norman the Second enquired.

“Oh yes.” Omally wheezed bronchitically and wiped the sweat from his eyes. “It is Jim I fear for.”

Professor Slocombe peered down from a landing above. If his ancient limbs were suffering the agonies one would naturally assume them to be, he showed no outward sign. The light of determination burned in his eyes. “Come on now,” he urged. “We are nearly there.”

“Nearly there?” groaned Jim. “Not only can I hear the grim reaper sharpening his scythe, I am beginning to see the sparks.”

“You’ve enough breath, Jim; lend him your arm, John.”

“Come on, Jim.” Omally shouldered up his bike and aided his sagging companion. “If we get out of this I will let you buy me a drink.”

“If we get out of this I will buy you a pub.”

“Onward and upward then.”

Another two flights passed beneath them; to John and Jim it was evident that some fiendish builder was steadily increasing the depth of the treads.