“You saved our lives, Jim.”

“Really? But I wasn’t here, something happened, I was somewhere else.”

“I know, and now I begin to understand.”

“Has he gone?” Jim stared about fearfully. “Is he — is it — dead?”

“Not yet, I regret.”

“Oh God,” said Pooley. “Then we can expect more of the same.”

“Or worse, I suspect. But come, I want to show you something.” The Professor led Jim to his desk where a beautiful Victorian brass microscope stood. “Have a look in here.” He indicated the eye-piece.

Jim took a peep. “Bloody hell!” he swore, leaping back. “It’s alive in there.”

“Indeed, very much so. What did you see?”

“Little things, buzzing about like crazy, they looked …”

“Yes?”

“Angry,” said Jim, “Very angry.”

“And so they are. They are the very stuff of our friend Kaleton.”

“Friend?”

“My apologies, the word is most inappropriate. They are, if you like, a portion of his very essence. The silver flask drew in a quantity of his substance. He left in some confusion before it could take more, but what we have is sufficient.”

“So what does it mean?”

“It means that the non-man Kaleton is a ‘Grex’. A large body of separate organisms which when grouped together form the semblance of something else, either for camouflage or defence. Certain bacteria have the ability to do this when faced with starvation. They pass a message through a chain of single cells, amalgamate into a larger form and refunction in a different manner. They lose their individuality in the cause of mass survival.”

“It’s a bit early for me,” said Jim.

“Then look upon it as a microcosm of human society. A single naked individual could not survive, but in harmony, in rapport with the whole, protected and fed by the whole, he or she is able to function, to exist. Kinship, harmony, team spirit, that is loosely how society maintains its equilibrium. As a single body.”

“Hm,” said Jim. “It’s not the same. We may be part of the whole en masse, but we are each individuals, not one big homogenous blob. It doesn’t compute.”

“Oh, it does. It may be impossible to predict what a single individual will do, but one can predict with absolute accuracy what, say, a million people will do at any given time. They will get up at a certain hour, go to work at a certain hour, take lunch at a certain hour.”

“Yes, I get the picture,” said Jim, “although I don’t like it. Every man is an island, I am not a number, I am a free man, that kind of stuff.”

“No-one could ever doubt that you are an individual, Jim.”

Pooley chewed upon the Professor’s words that might have been a compliment. If it was, he meant to savour it, he didn’t get them that often. “What about this Soul of the World stuff?” he said presently.

“It is an ancient belief,” said Professor Slocombe, “universal as the Flood legend. The Buddhists believe in Rigdenjypo, king of the world, who dwells at the very centre of the planet in Shamballa, capital city of earth. All religions, past and present, have recognized a single Divine Creator, a God of the gods. Kaleton does not claim to be the universal deity, he claims to be the very spirit of this planet. Soul of the World made flesh.”

“And do you believe his claims?”

“No,” said the Professor, “I cannot. I dare not. His case is well argued, mankind has much to answer for, but there are too many contradictions. To quote an old chess-playing chum, and putting it crudely, ‘If the earth seeks to lose man, it has merely to fart.’”

“Well, whoever, or whatever he is, he means business.”

“Perk up, Jim, we’re not beaten yet.”

Pooley stroked his jaw. “Something he said struck a chord, I’m trying to think what it was.” Professor Slocombe jiggled Pooley’s brain cells with an unspoken word. “Ah yes,” said Jim, “I remember. About the stadium, two feet in the water and three upon the land.”

“Yes?”

“It’s the old rhyme, ‘The Ballad of the Two Kings of Brentford’, you remember?”

“Tell me.”

“‘There live two kings of Brentford

Who fought for a single throne.

One lives in a tower of iron

and one in a tower of stone.’”

“Go on.”

“There’s a verse that goes,

‘And a black star rose above them

A sword in every hand.

Two feet upon the water

And three upon the land.’

That’s it.”

“There’s more,” said the Professor, “can you recall?”

“No,” said Jim, “my brain is gone. Something about a final battle and a ‘heart of burning gold’, but I can’t remember it.”

“Never mind, you have done very well. Two feet in the water and three on the land, the black star, that is clear enough.”

“I’m starving,” said Jim.

“Then I shall ring for breakfast.”

“Is it on the tariff or on the house?” asked Jim who, despite evidence to the contrary, was still nobody’s fool.

“On the house,” said the Professor. “You have certainly earned it.” He rang a small brass bell and Gammon appeared almost upon the instant, tray in hand. “You know what this means?” the Professor asked as Pooley set about the morning’s fry-up.

“Go on,” said Pooley, between munchings.

“It means that we must enter the stadium, the heart of it all lies right up there.”

“It will be a long hard climb.”

“An impossible climb, defended at every inch, I shouldn’t wonder, but you’ll find a way.”

“Me?” Pooley choked upon his toast.

“Oh yes,” said the Professor. “I am confident that you will come up with something.” Then you are a fool to yourself, thought Jim. “Oh no I’m not,” said Professor Slocombe.

41

At a little after eleven, Pooley stood in the Professor’s garden, breathing fresh air and pointedly ignoring the weeds which sprouted on the west lawn. The invisible barrier was down, which seemed a hopeful sign, and the sky was blue. At least Jim assumed it to be blue, for looking up, he remembered that what he was actually seeing was the image projected by the underside of the great stadium. The black star which rose above them. Jim shrugged away the chill which crept up his back, put his best foot forward and strode down to the Swan. “The condemned man enjoyed a hearty pint” being the order of the day.

To Jim’s amazement, the bar was already quite crowded, the piano was playing and Neville was going hell for leather behind the pump. The part-time barman spied Pooley’s approach as did a shabby-looking man in a greasy brown trilby, who cowered behind his newspaper.

“Well, well,” said Neville, “the wanderer returns.”

“Watchamate, Neville,” said the dejected Jim, “and a pint of Large, please.”

“And where’s your mate then?” Neville did the honours at the pump handle.

Pooley perused his unpolished toecaps. “I have no idea,” he said softly. “Hasn’t he been in then?”

“No,” said Neville, “he’s done a bunk.” He placed the perfect pint before his patron. “Jim, is everything all right?”

Pooley shook his head. “Anything but. I don’t know what’s happened to John, the Professor says …”

“Three more pints over here.” The voice belonged to Norman.

“Excuse me, Jim, I’ll be back in a minute.” Neville scooped up the pennies Pooley had placed on the bar and went off to serve the shopkeeper.

“He’s bunging money about like there’s no tomorrow,” said Old Pete at Pooley’s elbow. “I’d dive in now if I was you.”

“Oh yes, and what’s the celebration?” Jim asked, out of no particular interest.

“This Gravitite business. You know, that wondercrap that holds the stadium up. Norman’s knocked up his own version and you’ll never guess what?”

“He’s won the Nobel prize.”

“Not yet. But he took his formula down to the patent’s office and it turns out that there’s no patent on it. The other geezer never got around to having his registered. Norman is sitting on a gold mine.”