“Well, well, well,” said Omally, grinning hugely. “We do live in interesting times, do we not?”

“Get out of my pub now,” growled Neville with restrained vehemence, “or truly, despite my incapacitation, I shall visit upon you such a pestilence as was never known by any of your bog-trotting ancestors in all the hard times of Holy Ireland.”

“God save all here,” said Omally.

“Get out and stay out,” said Neville the part-time barman.

19

Professor Slocombe laid aside a scale model of the Great Pyramid and leant back in his chair. “No!” he said to himself, “it couldn’t be, no, ludicrous, although…” He rose from his desk and took himself over to the whisky decanter. “No,” he said once more, “out of the question.”

Partly filling an exquisite crystal tumbler, he pressed the prismed top back into the decanter’s neck, and sank into one of the leathern fireside chairs. Idly he turned the tumbler between thumb and forefinger, watching the reflected firelight as it danced and twinkled in the clear amber liquid. His eyelids became hooded and heavy, and his old head nodded gently upon his equally aged shoulders. It was evident to the gaunt-faced figure who lurked in the darkness without the French windows, polluting the perfumed garden air with the acrid stench of creosote, that the old man was well set to take a quick forty.

Needless to say, this was far from being the case, and beneath the snowy lashes two glittering blue eyes watched as a flicker of movement close by the great velvet curtains announced the arrival of a most unwelcome guest. It was a flicker of movement and nothing more, for again the room appeared empty, but for an elderly gentleman, now snoring noisily in a fireside chair.

Professor Slocombe watched as the silent figure delved amongst the crowded papers of his desk and ran his hands over the bindings of the precious books. The Cerean, convinced of his invisibility, went about his evil business with a will, but naught was missed by the Professor, to whom the word “hologram” meant little more than “electronic party trick”.

At length, however, he could stand the defilement of his property no longer. Rising suddenly from his sham repose he addressed his uninvited visitor in no uncertain terms. “Replace my papers and get out of my study at once,” said he, “or know the consequences for your boorish behaviour.”

The Cerean stiffened and turned a startled face towards the Professor. He fingered the dials upon a small black box which hung at his belt.

“You can tinker with that piece of junk until the sun goes dim, but I can assure you that it will not work upon me.”

The Cerean opened his cruel mouth and spoke in an accent which was unlike any other that the Professor had ever heard. “Who are you?” he asked.

Professor Slocombe smiled wanly. “I am either your saviour or your nemesis.”

“I think not,” said the Cerean.

“If you are inclined to prolong your visit, might I offer you a drink?” the old man asked courteously.

The Cerean laughed loudly. “Drink?” said he. “Drink is the ruination of your species. Who do you think invented it for you in the first place?”

“Hm.” The old man nodded thoughtfully; it would be better to keep that piece of intelligence from Pooley and Omally. They might feel inclined to change sides. “As you will,” he said blandly. “May I inquire then why you have come here?”

“I have come to kill you,” said the Cerean, in such an offhand manner that it quite unsettled the Professor’s nerves. “You are proving an annoyance, you and the pink-eyed man beneath. We shall deal with him shortly.”

“That may not be so easy as you might believe.”

The Cerean turned up the palms of his hands. “You are old and decrepit. A single blow will cut the frail cord of your existence.”

“Appearances can sometimes be deceptive,” said the Professor. “I for example happen to be a master of Dimac, the deadliest form of martial art known to mankind. My hands and feet are registered with the local constabulary as deadly weapons. They can…”

“Rip, maim, mutilate, disfigure and kill with little more than the application of a fingertip’s pressure,” said the Cerean. “I know. Who do you think invented Dimac in the first place?”

“I find your conversation tending towards the repetitious. Kindly take your leave now, I have much to do.”

“Such as plotting the downfall of the Cerean Empire?”

“Amongst other things – I do have more important business.”

The man from Ceres laughed hollowly. “You have great courage, old man,” said he. “We of Ceres hold courage and bravery above all other things.”

“I understand that you like a good fight, yes,” said the Professor. “Although you do not always win. How’s the armpit?”

The Cerean clutched at his tender parts. “Shortly,” he snarled, “your race will again know the might of Ceres. They will feel the jackboot upon their necks. You, however, will not be here to witness it.”

“I am expecting to enjoy a long and happy retirement,” said Professor Slocombe, noting to his satisfaction and relief that Gammon had now entered the French windows, wielding an antique warming-pan. “I worry for you, though.”

“Do not waste your concern. When the battle fleet arrives and the true masters of Earth once more set foot upon the planet, they will have none to spare for your puny race.”

“Brave talk. When might we expect this happy event?”

“Two days from now. It is a pity you will miss it.”

“Oh, I won’t miss it. I have a table booked at the Swan upon that evening. It is the darts tournament. We hold the challenge shield, you know.”

“Of course I know. Who do you think invented darts?”

“Are all your race such blatant liars?”

“Enough talk!” The Cerean pushed past the Professor’s desk and crossed the room, to stand glaring, eye to eye with the old man. “I know not who or what you are,” he said. “Certainly you are unlike any human I have encountered hereabouts, although long ago I feel that I have met such men as you. But for the present know only this: as a race, you humans fear death, and you are staring yours in the face.”

Professor Slocombe met the Cerean’s blazing glare with a cold, unblinking stare. “I like you not,” he said mildly. “It was my firm conviction that some compromise might have been reached between our peoples. I strongly disapprove of needless bloodshed, be the blood flowing from human veins or otherwise. There is yet time, if only you could persuade your race to reconsider. Be assured that if you go ahead with your plans you will meet with certain defeat. It is folly to attack Earth. We have been awaiting you for years and we are well prepared.”

“With the corner up, you have,” sneered the Cerean. “You cannot stand against our battle fleet. We will crush you into submission. Slaves you were and slaves you shall yet become.”

“Is there no compassion then, no spark of what we call humanity?”

The Cerean curled his lip. “None,” he said.

“Then at least it makes my task a little easier.”

“Prepare for death,” said the man from Ceres.

“Strike the blighter down,” said Professor Slocombe.

Gammon swung the antique warming-pan with a will and struck the Cerean a mighty blow to the back of the head. A sharp metallic clang announced the departure of a Cerean soul, bound for wherever those lads go to once parted from their unearthly bodies.

“He was surely lying about the darts, wasn’t he, sir?” Gammon asked.

“I sincerely hope so,” the Professor replied. “They might have got a team up.”