20

The editor of the Brentford Mercury screwed the cap back on to his fountain pen and wedged the thing behind his right ear. He leant back in his pockmarked swivel chair and gazed up at the fly-specked yellow ceiling of his grimy office. Before him, upon the overloaded desk, was a mountain of reports which, although being the very bread of life to the Fortean Society, could hardly be considered even food for thought to the simple folk of Brentford.

Certainly mystery and intrigue had been known to sell a few papers, but this stuff was silly season sensationalism and it wasn’t the silly season for another month or more. The editor reached into his drawer for his bottle of Fleet Street Comfort. Tipping the pencils from a paper cup, he filled it to the brim.

It all seemed to have started with that riot in the Ealing Road. He had been receiving odd little reports prior to this, but they had been mainly of the lights in the sky and rumblings in the earth variety, and merited little consideration. The riot, strange enough in itself in peace-loving Brentford, had turned up the first of a flock of really weird ones, and this verified by the Brentford constabulary.

There was the long black limousine of American manufacture which had roared away from the scene of the crime pursued by two squad cars, and then simply vanished in a most improbable fashion up a cul-de-sac. The boys in blue had made a full-scale search of the area, which backed on to the allotment, but had come up with nothing. The car had simply ceased to exist.

There was this continuing sequence of power cuts the area had been experiencing. The local sub-station had denied any responsibility and their only comment had been that during their duration the entire power supply seemed literally to drain away, as if down a plughole.

If the disappearance of Brentford’s electricity was weird, then the sudden appearance last week of a one-inch layer of sand completely blanketing Brentford’s football ground was weirder still. The groundsman’s claim that it was sabotage upon the part of a rival team seemed unlikely.

And then, of course, there was this lunatic craze for Jack Palance impersonation which was sweeping the borough. It seemed a localized vogue, as he had had no reports of it coming in from outside the area. But there they were in Brentford, lounging on corners or skulking about up alleyways. Nobody knew who they were, what they were up to, or why they did it, but all agreed that, whyever it was, they did it very well.

The editor sighed. What exactly was going on in Brentford? And whatever it was, was it news? He drained his cup and stared for a moment into its murky bottom for inspiration. He would adjourn to the Swan for a couple of pints of liquid lunch, that was the best thing. Get all this ludicrous stuff out of his mind. He flicked through the pages of his appointments diary, which were as ever blank. All except for tomorrow’s date and this, surprisingly, was encircled thickly in red ink.

Now what might that be for? The editor drew his pen from behind his ear and scratched at his head with it.

Of course, how could he have forgotten? Tomorrow night was the most important night of Brentford’s social calendar. The night which Brentford annually awaited with eagerness and anticipation. Tomorrow night was darts night at the Flying Swan. And it promised to be a night that all present would long remember.

21

Professor Slocombe drew together the great curtains and turned to address the small conclave gathered in his study.

The group, three in number, watched the old man warily. The first, Jim Pooley by name, leant against the marble mantelshelf, fingering the magnificent pair of moustachios he had chosen to cultivate. The second, a man of Irish extraction who had recently sold his razor at a handsome profit, lounged in a fireside chair almost unseen behind a forest of curly black beard. The third, a shopkeeper and a victim of circumstance, toyed nervously with his whisky tumbler and prayed desperately for an opportunity to slip away and feed his camel.

There was one last entity present at this gathering, but he was of ethereal stock and invisible to the naked eye. Edgar Allan Poe was maintaining the lowest of all low profiles.

“I have called you here, gentlemen,” said Professor Slocombe, “because we have almost run out of time. We must act with some haste if we are to act at all.”

“You have reached a solution then?” asked Jim hopefully.

“Possibly.” The old gentleman made a so-so gesture with a pale right hand. “Although I am backing a rank outsider.”

“I am not a man to favour long odds myself,” said Omally, “unless, of course, I have a man on the inside.”

“Quite so. Believe me, I have given this matter a very great deal of thought. I have possibly expended more mental energy upon it than I have ever done upon any other problem. I feel that I might have come up with a solution, but the plan relies on a goodly number of factors working to our favour. It is, as you might reasonably expect, somewhat fraught with peril.”

“Tell us the worst then,” said Omally. “I think you can call us committed.”

“Thank you, John. In essence it is simplicity itself. This worries me a little, possibly because it lacks any of those conceits of artistic expression which my vanity holds so dearly. It is, in fact, a very dull and uninspired plan.”

“But nevertheless fraught with peril?”

“Sadly yes. Under my instruction, Soap Distant has turned the allotments into a veritable minefield. The explosive used is of my own formulation, and I can vouch for its efficiency. I intend to detonate it as the first craft land. We may not be able to get all of the invading vessels, you understand, but if we can take out one or two of the lead ships then I think that it will give us the edge.”

“But what about the rest of them?” asked Pooley.

“That is where we must trust very much to psychology. These beings have travelled a very long way to return to their homeworld. As you are well aware, it no longer exists. When they discover this, they will logically be asking themselves the big ‘Why’. They are being guided here by the communicating beacon in the Swan, but if the first craft to land are instantly destroyed, then I feel it reasonable to assume that they will draw their own conclusions. They will reason that the men of Earth have evolved into a superior force, which is capable of destroying entire planets, should it so wish. I can only hope that they will hastily take themselves elsewhere. They have a long, long way to call for reinforcements, should any actually exist.”

“I can accept that in theory,” said Omally, “but with some reservations. There are a goodly number of ifs and buts to it.”

“I accept it wholeheartedly,” said Jim. “My name has so far gone unmentioned and that suits me well enough.”

“There are one or two little matters to be cleared up,” said Professor Slocombe somewhat pointedly. “That is where you come in.”

“This would be the fraught with peril side of it I expect,” said Jim dismally.

Professor Slocombe nodded. “There is the small matter of the communicating beacon in the Swan. It will have to be switched off. We cannot afford to have the Cereans here giving the game away, now can we?”

Jim shook his head gloomily. “I suppose not,” he said.

“We have only one opportunity to deal with the thing and that is tomorrow night.”

“I have to play in the finals tomorrow night,” Norman complained. “Omally here promised I would do so.”

“You haven’t fulfilled your side of the bargain yet,” said the voice behind the beard. “The machine still hums, you have done nothing.”

“I haven’t had a chance yet. I can’t get in there, I’m barred, don’t you remember?”