“Just to be on the safe side,” said Norman to the Professor, who was eyeing these with suspicion. “Now if you two gentlemen would like to sit in the back? I need quite a bit of space in the cockpit.”
Pooley and the Professor climbed aboard and Norman swung back the driving seat after them. “My, my,” said Jim, “that looks quite busy.” The dashboard of the Morris now bore a distinct resemblance to that of Concorde, with rows of twinkling lights, gauges, dials, switches and the like.
“Mostly for show,” said Norman, “for the Japanese market, they love all that kind of stuff.” He busied himself releasing the steel hawsers, then climbed into the pilot’s seat and slammed the door. “Safety belt on,” he said buckling himself up. “Key ignition.” He did that very thing. “Altitude check, zero, check, thrust plates activated, single interlock on, Normanite pods optimum factor six …”
“Norman,” said Professor Slocombe sternly, “is all this pre-flight procedure actually necessary, or do I detect gamesmanship of the ‘bullshit-baffles-brains’ variety at work here?”
“Safety first, Professor. As test pilot it is my responsibility …”
“Test pilot?” said Pooley. “You mean that you haven’t, er, actually flown this thing before?”
“There has to be a first time for everything.”
“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!” Pooley would have flapped his hands wildly and spun about in small circles, but he was firmly wedged in a very small space.
“Be quiet, Jim, have you no sense of adventure? Here we go, chocks away.” Norman revved the engine, engaged something which might have been a gear, but was probably far more complicated, and the car crept out of the lock-up and into the silent street. Norman placed his goggles over his eyes and leant back in his seat. “Up and away.” The car bumped down the kerb and into the road, showing no immediate inclination towards taking flight. “Up and away!” The Morris continued up the street, the only upping it seemed to have in mind. “Bugger!” said Norman. “There seems to be a slight technical hitch.”
Professor Slocombe examined his pocket watch. “We do not have all night,” he said in a cold voice.
“We are a bit overloaded,” said the shopkeeper, “but no problem, there’s a couple of paving slabs in the boot for ballast, I’ll just have them out.” He pulled the vehicle over to the side of the road, switched off the ignition, withdrew the key and climbed out of the car. Pooley noted that his safety belt had left with him, which was probably not an encouraging sign. The Professor was looking far from happy.
“Don’t blame me,” said Jim, “this is none of my doing.”
“Won’t be a tick.” Norman threw open the boot and struggled with a paving slab. It tumbled into the road and fell with a loud crash. The mystery in that, thought Jim, is how it failed to do the obvious and land on his foot. “Just one more and then we’ll be off.”
Jim suddenly realized that he seemed to be sitting much further back in his seat than before and that the view through the windscreen seemed mostly sky. “Norman!” he shouted, turning and tapping on the rear window, “Norman!”
“Shan’t be a tick, soon have it out.” This time the paving slab made a more muffled thump as it struck the ground.
“Oh, bloody hell,” wailed Norman hopping about on one foot, “Oh, bloody …”
“Oh, no!” howled Jim. “We’re going up! Norman, do something!” The shopkeeper hopped and swore. All four wheels of the car were now floating free of the road. The Hartnell Air Car was taking to its avowed natural habitat. “Norman!”
Suddenly realizing the gravity, or in this case non-gravity of the situation, Norman ceased his hopping and made a great leap at the rear bumper as it passed him by. He missed, floundered and toppled into the road where he lay drumming his fists and kicking his feet and crying “Bugger,” over and over again.
The car began to gather speed and altitude in a direct mathematical ratio which was of interest to the Professor alone. “I think you had better take over up front, Jim,” said the old man. “I have never actually driven a car.”
“I have driven cars, but never one like this, and anyway …”
“Anyway, Jim?”
“Anyway, Norman has the ignition key.”
“Ah,” said Professor Slocombe. “Now this presents us with certain unique difficulties. We would appear to be gathering momentum at a rate inversely proportionate to that of a falling object. Thus we are gaining mass. This is interesting, as Newtonic law would naturally presuppose an invalidation in the anti-gravitational properties of Normanite. One should cancel the other out.”
“Fascinating,” said Jim, growing sweaty about the brow.
“Yes,” said Professor Slocombe, “but not good. If we continue to accelerate in this fashion, then I estimate we I will strike the underside of the stadium,” he did a rapid mental calculation, “in approximately fifty-five seconds, give or take. I would consider impact to be a somewhat messy affair doubtless culminating in our extinction.”
Pooley got the message without a further telling of it. He shinned over the driver’s seat and began to tear at the dashboard. “A bit of wire would be your man, Professor.”
“Ah yes, a ‘hot wire’ I believe it’s called, a sound idea.”
The Professor reached into a rip in the seat-back in front of him and with a display of remarkable strength, ripped out a length of rusty spring. “Here you are, Jim, this should be the very thing.”
Pooley snatched the spring from the outstretched hand and delved into the dashboard. “How much time?”
“Thirty seconds, probably less.”
Jim jiggled the spring and thrummed the accelerator pedal. And cursed a lot. Norman had done a thorough job in rewiring the car, he couldn’t raise a spark. “It doesn’t work,” cried Jim, “it doesn’t work!”
“A pity,” said Professor Slocombe. “It was a brave try though.”
The car sped upwards, gaining speed. Far below, Norman watched it receding into the sky. He counted down the seconds beneath his breath and closed his eyes. If it was of any interest to anyone, other than those personally involved in the impending disaster, his mental calculations tallied exactly with those of the Professor.
A small task-force of hand-picked officers crept along the Kew Road. Before them, two figures stalked from shadow to shadow, muttering to one another in urgent muted tones. One was lean and angular and had taken no sustenance whatever this day, the other was broad and bulbous and had only recently pushed his chopsticks aside after a twelve-course belly-buster.
“As Commanding Officer,” said Inspectre Hovis, “I dictate the naming of names. This is Operation Sherringford and history will know us as Hovis’s Heroes.”
“Phooey!” the other replied. “As overall adviser on special attachment to the unit, I demand that this venture be called Operation Hugo, and we, Rune’s Raiders.”
“I have no intention of arguing with you, Rune.”
“Nor, I, you. Rune’s Raiders, or I go home.”
“All right, but it’s Operation Sherringford.”
“Ludicrous! Must I forever pander to your inflated ego?”
The two continued their dispute as they neared the gasometer. Behind them the team of five officers slunk along. To them this was Operation Laurel and Hardy and they were the Lost Patrol.
“All right, Rune,” whispered Hovis, as the two of them skulked in the shadows. “We’re getting close now, what is the plan?”
“Plan?” asked Hugo Rune.
“Plan, man, you do have one, don’t you?”
“Do you mean the plan for Operation Hugo, or that other one?”
Hovis muttered beneath his breath, no matter what the outcome of this operation was, he had determined that Rune’s immediate future was going to be subject to the pleasure of Her Majesty. “The plan.”
“Yes?”
“Operation Hugo,” spat Inspectre Hovis.