“Has he, be damned?” The Professor bit upon his lower lip. “Now that is another matter entirely.”
“Ha,” said Holmes, nodding his head, “and now would you like me to bring you the automaton, that you might inspect his workings at first hand?”
“Very much. Do you consider that such might be achieved in safety?”
“Certainly, I took the liberty of following the ample trail he left, after my interview with Norman. He is holed up on the allotment.”
“Holed up?”
“Certainly, in Mr Omally’s shed. If I can catch him unawares I shall bring him here at gunpoint. Although I must confess to a certain bafflement here. How might it be that an automaton who can leap without effort or apparent harm through ceilings and walls, fears the simple bullet?”
“Ha, yourself!” said Professor Slocombe. “You have your secrets and I have mine. Go then, with my blessing, but stay upon your guard. Take no unnecessary risks.”
“Natcho,” said Sherlock Holmes, turning as he left to make a gesture which all lovers of the New York television cop genre know to be the “soul fist”.
“Natcho?” Professor Slocombe shook his old head and returned once more to his work.
21
Having slipped away to Jack Lane’s for a pint or three of non-takeover-brewery beer, Pooley and Omally now loped down a bunting bedecked Sprite Street. To either side, front gardens bulged with sections of the home-made floats destined to join the grand carnival procession of this year’s Festival which, meaningless as it now appeared, showed every sign of going on regardless. Exactly what the theme of the parade was, neither man very much cared. As they ambled along they muttered away to one another in muted, if urgent, tones.
“As I see it,” mumbled John, “we have few options left open to us at present. If the end of civilization is approaching there is little, if anything, we can do about it.”
“But what about all my millions?” Jim complained. “I thought that the holders of the world’s wealth always had it up and away on their hand-mades and sailed their luxury yachts into the sunset at the merest mention of impending doom.”
“What, off down the canal you fancy?”
“Well, somewhere, surely? Let us at least go down with Soap and weather it out until the troubles are over.”
“I had considered that, but you will recall that it is very dark down there in his neck of the woods. And darkness would seem to be the keynote of this whole insane concerto.”
“So what do we do then?”
The two stopped on the corner of Abaddon Street and stood a moment, gazing up at the great black monolith towering above them.
“I have been giving this matter a great deal of thought and I think I have come up with an answer.”
“It better be a goody.”
“It is, but not here. Walls have ears as they say. Let us hasten away to a place of privacy and discuss this matter.”
It did not take a child of six to put the necessary two and two together and come up with Omally’s suggestion for a likely conspiratorial hideaway. “My hut,” said John.
The two men strode over the allotments, each alone with his particular thoughts. The first inkling that anything of a more untoward nature than was now the common norm was currently on the go thereabouts hit them like the proverbial bolt from the blue. The sound of gunfire suddenly rattled their eardrums, and the unexpected sight of Omally’s corrugated iron roof rising from its mountings and coming rapidly in their direction put new life into their feet.
“Run for your life,” yelled Omally.
“I am already, get out of my way.”
The roof smashed to earth, sparing them by inches. The cause of the shed’s destruction tumbled down to bowl over and over between them. Norman’s duplicate rose to his feet and glared back towards the ruined hut. Sherlock Holmes appeared at the doorway wielding his gun.
“Not again.” Pooley crawled away on all fours, seeking safety.
“Stop him,” cried Sherlock Holmes.
“With the corner up, pal.”
“Hold hard or I fire.”
Norman’s duplicate turned upon his attacker. He snatched up a ten-gallon oil-drum which was harmlessly serving its time as a water-butt and raised it above his head. Holmes stood his ground, feet planted firmly apart, both hands upon his weapon. “This is a Magnum Forty-four,” he said, “biggest handgun in the world, and can blow your head clean off your shoulders.”
“He has definitely been watching too many videos,” whispered Omally as he crawled over to Pooley’s place of safety.
“Now I know what you’re thinking,” Holmes continued, “you’re thinking, in all that commotion did he fire five shots or six, that’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it, punk?”
“I much preferred the Victorian approach,” said Jim Pooley.
Norman’s robot stiffened; he was not adverse to watching the occasional Clint Eastwood movie himself on Norman’s home-made video.
“Do you know, in all the excitement I’m not really sure myself? So what do you say, punk?”
The mechanical punk, who had seen that particular film six times said, “It’s a fair cop, governor,” and raised its hands.
“Up against the wall and spread’m mother,” cried Sherlock Holmes, causing Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to veritably spin in his grave.
Not too long later, Jim Pooley, John Omally, and Mr Sherlock Holmes, this time accompanied by a near-perfect facsimile of a highly-regarded local shopkeeper, entered the Professor’s study. The scholar looked up from his desk and turned about in his chair. “You made very short work of that,” he said. “Good afternoon, Norman.”
The mechanical shopkeeper regarded the Professor as if he was guano on a hat-brim. “You would do well to leave well enough alone,” said he.
Professor Slocombe turned up his palms. “Please be seated, I have no wish to detain you longer than necessary. I merely seek a few answers to certain pressing questions.”
The duplicate clutched at his chest. “To take away my life, more likely.”
“No, no, I swear. Please be seated.” Professor Slocombe turned to his other guests. “Please avail yourselves, gentlemen, Norman and I have much to speak of.”
Holmes held his gun pointing steadily towards the robot’s spinning heart. “You counselled care, Professor,” said he, “and now it is my turn.”
“A degree of trust must exist, Holmes, kindly put aside your gun.”
Holmes did so. Pooley and Omally fought awhile over the decanter and finally came to an agreement.
“It is of the greatest importance that we speak with each other,” Professor Slocombe told the robot. “Please believe that I wish you no harm. Will you play straight with me?”
“I will, sir, but have a care for him. The man is clearly mad. Calls himself Sherlock Holmes but knows not a thing of the thirty-nine steps. I would have come to you of my own accord.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes.” The robot cleared his throat with a curiously mechanical coughing sound which sent the wind up Pooley and Omally. “Things cannot be allowed to continue as they are.”
Professor Slocombe raised his eyebrows. “You are aware of that?”
“I can hear them talking. They gnaw at my brain but I will not allow them ingress. I am Norman’s man and sworn by the bond of birth to protect him.”
“Your loyalty is commendable.”
“I am sworn to serve mankind.”
“From behind a counter,” sneered Omally.
The robot nodded grimly. “It sounded a little more noble the way I put it, but no matter, there is little enough of mankind now left to serve. The shop doorbell is silent the better part of the day. Trade declines; I rarely punch an order into the terminal, and when I do, the new stocks which finally arrive are further foreshortened. The master computer now runs it all. Mankind is on the wane, the new order prevails, night falls upon Brentford and the world. It is the coming of Ragnorok. Götterdämmerung.”