“Let me give it a welt with my hammer.”

“No, no, just a minute.” Norman traced the circuitry with his screwdriver, whistling all the while. “Each module is fed by the main power supply, somewhere deep within the Earth, it appears. This is evidently some sort of communications apparatus. There is a signalling device here, obviously for some sort of guidance control. Here is the basic circuitry which powers the games centre. Here is a gravitational field device to draw down orbiting objects on to a preprogrammed landing site. The whole thing is here, complete tracking, guidance, communication and landing controls. There are various other subsidiary components: outward defence modifications, protecting the frontal circuitry, alarm systems, etcetera.”

The Professor nodded. “Disconnect the guidance, communications, and landing systems, if you please, Norman.”

Norman delved into the works, skilfully removing certain intricate pieces of microcircuitry. “It occurs to me,” he said, “speaking purely as a layman, that as a protective measure we might reverse certain sections merely by changing over their positive and negative terminals.”

Professor Slocombe scratched at his snowy head. “To what end?”

“Well, if this device is guiding the craft in by means of gravitational beams locked into their computer guidance systems, if we were to reverse the polarity, then as they punch in their coordinates on board the ships, the machine will short them out, and possibly destroy the descending craft.”

“Will it work?”

Norman tapped at his nose. “Take it from me, it won’t do them a lot of good. Come to think of it, it might even be possible to cross-link the guidance system with the actual games programme on the video machine. Pot the bastards right out of the sky as they fly in.”

“Can you do it?”

“Can I do it, Professor?” Norman unscrewed a series of terminals and reconnected them accordingly. He also removed a small unobtrusive portion of the contrivance, which appeared of importance only to himself, and secreted it within his toolbox.

“Are you all done?” the Professor asked, when the shopkeeper finally straightened up.

“All done,” said Norman, pulling off his gloves and tossing them into his tool-box. “A piece of cake.”

Professor Slocombe rose upon creaking knees and patted the brick dust from his tweeds. He put a hand upon the shopkeeper’s shoulder and said, “You have done very well, Norman, and we will be for ever in your debt. The night, however, is far from over. In fact it has just begun. Do you think that you might now pull off the double by winning the darts match?”

Norman nodded. He had every intention of pulling off the treble this night. But that was something he was keeping very much to himself.

The Swan was filling at a goodly pace. With seven local teams competing for the cherished shield, business was already becoming brisk. Neville had taken on extra barstaff, but these were of the finger-counting, change-confusing variety, and were already costing him money. The part-time barman was doing all he could, but his good eye wandered forever towards the Swan’s door.

When at quarter past eight it swung open to herald the arrival of Omally, Pooley, Professor Slocombe and Norman, the barman breathed an almighty sigh of relief. Omally thrust his way through the crowd and ordered the drinks. “As promised,” he announced, as the Swan’s team enveloped Norman in their midst with a great cheer.

Neville pulled the pints. “I am grateful, Omally,” said he, “these are on the house.”

“And will be for a year, as soon as the other little matter is taken care of.”

“The machine?”

“You will have to bear with me just a little longer on that one. Whatever occurs tonight you must stand resolute and take no action.”

Neville’s suspicions were immediately aroused. “What is likely to occur?”

Omally held up his grimy hands. “The matter is under the control of Professor Slocombe, a man who, I am sure you will agree, can be trusted without question.”

“If all is as you say, then I will turn a blind eye to that despoiler of my loins who has come skulking with you.” Omally grinned handsomely beneath his whiskers. Neville loaded the drinks on to a tray and Omally bore them away to the Professor’s reserved table.

A bell rang and the darts tournament began. A hired Master of Ceremonies, acting as adjudicator and positive last word, clad in a glittering tuxedo and sporting an eyebrow-pencil moustache, announced the first game.

First on the oché were the teams from the Four Horsemen and the New Inn. Jack Lane, resident landlord at the Four Horsemen these forty-seven long years, struggled from his wheelchair and flung the very first dart of the evening.

“Double top, Four Horsemen away,” announced the adjudicator in a booming voice.

Outside in the street, two figures who closely resembled a pair of young Jack Palances, and who smelt strongly of creosote, were rapidly approaching the Swan. They walked with automaton precision, and their double footfalls echoed along the deserted Ealing Road.

“Double top,” boomed the adjudicator, “New Inn away.”

Pooley and Omally sat in their grandstand seats, sipping their ale. “Your man Jarvis there has a fine overarm swing,” said Omally.

“He is a little too showy for my liking,” Pooley replied. “I will take five to four on the Horsemen if you’re offering it.”

Omally, who had already opened his book and was now accepting bets from all comers, spat on his palm and smacked it down into that of his companion. “We are away then,” said he.

Bitow bitow bitow went the Captain Laser Alien Attack Machine, suddenly jarring the two men from their appreciation of life’s finer things, and causing them to leap from their chairs. Omally craned his neck above the crowd and peered towards the sinister contrivance. Through the swelling throng he could just make out the distinctive lime-green coiffure of Nicholas Roger Raffles Rathbone.

“It is the young ninny,” said John. “Five to four you have then, I will draw up a page for you.”

Neville was by now moving up and down the bar, taking orders left, right, and centre. The till jangled like a fire alarm, and Croughton the pot-bellied potman was already in a lather.

No-one noticed as two men with high cheekbones and immaculate black suits entered the Swan and lost themselves in the crowds. No-one, that is, but for a single disembodied soul who lightly tapped the Professor upon the shoulder. “All right,” said the old man, without drawing his eyes from the match in play. “Kindly keep me informed.”

The Four Horsemen was faring rather badly. The lads from the New Inn had enlisted the support of one Thomas “Squires” Trelawny, a flightsmaster from Chiswick. “Who brought him in?” asked Pooley. “His name is not on the card.”

“A late entry, I suppose, do I hear a change in the odds?”

“Treacherous to the end, Omally,” said Jim Pooley. “I will not shorten the odds, who is the next man up?”

“Jack’s son, Young Jack.”

Young Jack, who was enjoying his tenth year in retirement, and looked not a day over forty, put his toe to the line and sent his feathered missile upon its unerring course into the treble twenty.

A great cheer went up from the Horsemen’s supporters. “He once got three hundred and one in five darts,” Omally told Jim.

“He is in league with the devil though but.”

“True, that does give him an edge.”

Somehow Young Jack had already managed to score one hundred and eighty-one with three darts, and this pleased the lads from the Four Horsemen no end. To much applause, he concluded his performance by downing a pint of mild in less than four seconds.

“He is wearing very well considering his age,” said Omally.

“You should see the state of his portrait in the attic.”