But it was no light of Earth. Although the symbol glowed with a dazzling brilliance, the light seemed self-contained and threw no illumination on to the awe-struck faces of the two golfers. Then, with an audible crackle, the light rose in a green column, a clear laser-like shaft, directly into the night sky.
“Erg, erg,” went Jim, gesticulating wildly in many directions. All over the allotments identical columns of light were rising. They soared into the black void of space, and although they dwindled to whitened hairs, there seemed no end to their journeyings.
“Say this isn’t happening,” Omally implored.
Pooley could only offer another “Erg”, which was of no comfort whatever. In fact, as a means of communication the word “Erg” was proving something of a dead loss.
Just then the lights went out. One by one they snapped off, leaving the night as it were untouched, although Pooley and Omally knew very much to the contrary. Pooley at last found a tiny croaking voice which had been hiding at the back of his throat. “What were they, John?”
Omally shook his head. “I think that it is possibly God’s way of telling us to give up golf.”
Pooley found this explanation doubtful to say the least. “God, I think, is generally a little more direct about these things. A great man for a thunderbolt is God. But whatever it was, it was the final straw, the allotment has lost its charm for me.”
“I can sympathize.” Omally struggled to his feet and took to dusting down his tweeds with his one good hand. “With wandering camels, vanishing council spies, symbols and searchlights, there does seem to be an unwonted amount of activity hereabouts of late.”
“I’m for telling the Professor,” said Jim, getting a perfect mental image of a whisky decanter.
Omally had taken to soaking his scorched fingers in a nearby water-butt. “I think,” said he, “that the Professor has pressing business of his own. But, as you see, the coin has now reached the ground.” He pointed towards where the rogue penny now lay upon the exposed symbol. “And even though it is still ‘heads’, in the face of the unfortunate accident which befell you I am willing to concede the toss.”
“Thank you.” Pooley stroked his trouser region gingerly, the old three-piece suite was smarting like a good ’un. “I have quite gone off golf now, I should prefer a glass or two of nerve tonic rather better.”
“Aha!” Omally tapped his nose. “I think there might be a bottle or two of such stuff maturing even now in my hut, would you care to step across?”
“I would indeed, but slowly now, I am not feeling at my best.”
The two men wended their way over the allotment, treading warily and taking great lengths to avoid those areas where the strange symbols lay glowing faintly in the moonlight.
Omally’s plot was always a matter for discussion and debate amongst his fellow allotment-holders. John tended to steer clear of the general run-of-the-mill, socially acceptable forms of crop and specialize rather in things with unpronounceable Latin names and heady fragrances. Sniffing moggies often emerged from his plot vacant-eyed and staggering.
Pooley stepped carefully across Omally’s bed of flowering mandrake and gestured towards a row of towering belladonna. “You have an unsavoury looking crop on at present,” he said, by way of making conversation.
“Export orders mostly,” John told him. The shed itself had a good deal of the gingerbread cottage about it, with its trelliswork of climbing wolfsbane and its poppy-filled window boxes. Omally unpadlocked the door and picked up a couple of picture postcards from the welcome mat. One of these carried upon its face a rooftop view of Brentford. Omally read this one aloud: “Encountering difficulties dismantling Ark due to petrified condition, may be forced to bring it down in one piece. Regards to all, Archroy.”
“Do you actually believe any of the stuff he writes?” Pooley asked.
Omally shrugged his broad and padded shoulders. “Who is to say? He sends these cards to Neville and one or two other prominent Brentonians. I suspect there will shortly be a request for financial assistance with the Ark’s transportation. No doubt he will wish to have the money orders forwarded to some post-office box in West Ealing.”
“You are a hard man, John.”
“I am a realist,” said the realist.
Omally’s bottles were unearthed and drinks were poured. The two lazed variously upon potato sacks, sharing a Woodbine and musing upon this and that. As the contents of the bottles dwindled, likewise did the musing upon this and that. More and more did this musing spiral inwards, its vagueness and generalities crystallizing with each inward sweep to become definites and absolutes. And thus did these definites and absolutes eventually centre upon the woes and anguishes of interrupted golf tournaments and, in particular, their own.
“It is becoming intolerable,” said Pooley, draining his enamel mug and refilling it immediately.
“Unbearable,” said Omally, doing likewise.
“Something must be done.”
“Absolutely.”
“Something drastic.”
“Quite so.”
“My bottle is empty,” said Jim.
Omally tossed him another.
“Good health to you, John.”
“And to yourself.”
Three hours and as many bottles later the matter was coming very near to being resolved. A vote was being taken and by a show of hands it was carried unanimously. It was agreed that with the aid of two long-handled shovels, each fitted with rubber handgrips as a precautionary measure, the mysterious symbols would be dug from the ground. They would be transported by wheelbarrow, similarly insulated about the handle regions, to the river and therein unceremoniously dumped. With these obstacles to play satisfactorily removed, attention would be turned towards the matter of the council spies. It had not been fully resolved as to the exact course of action to be taken over this, but it was generally agreed that the employment of stout sticks would play a part in it.
The moon had by now run a fair distance along its nightly course, and when the men emerged from Omally’s hut the allotment had about it the quality of a haunted place. There was a harsh, collars-up chill in the air and the low moon now cast long and sinister shadows across a deathly-tinted ground. The prospect of digging up a potential minefield held little if any appeal whatsoever.
“Best make a fresh start in the morning,” said Pooley, rubbing his hands briskly together. “I’m for my cosy nest, bed ways is best ways and all that.”
Omally grasped the retreating Jim firmly by his threadbare collar. “Not so fast, Pooley,” said he, “you are not going to bottle out on this now.” Jim thought to detect a lack of conviction in the Irishman’s tone. “I suggest a compromise.”
Pooley hovered on his toes. “You mean do it in shifts, you dig tonight, I tomorrow, I applaud that.”
“Hardly.” Omally tightened his grip. “I mean rather that we go round and set markers beside the symbols so we will be able to locate them. Then we both dig tomorrow.”
Pooley thought this not only sound but also far less strenuous. “That is using the old grey matter,” he told John. “Now, if you will release your grip, which is causing no little interference to my general welfare about the throat regions, I shall do my best to assist you.”
Now began the inevitable discussion upon the best method of accomplishing the task in hand. Pooley suggested the hardy sprout as a piece of vegetable matter suitable for the job. In the interests of good taste Omally put up the spud as the ideal substitute. The war then waged between bean poles loaded with tinfoil, shredded newspaper laid out in the form of pentagrams and a whole host of objects ranging from the noble and worthy to the positively obscene. Finally, after Pooley had made a suggestion so ludicrous as to bring the naturally short-tempered Irishman within a hairbreadth of killing him there and then, Omally put his foot down once and for all.