From behind the stack of pallets a very foolish voice indeed said suddenly, “Well, I think we’ve outrun them, John. Care for a tailor-made?”
Omally’s eyes widened in horror as he watched the two heads, one his own and the other that of his dearest friend, swivel upon their frictionless bearings, and swing in the direction of the sound. He gestured towards Jim, whose face could just be seen grinning from behind the stack of pallets. “Come, come.”
The robot Pooley leapt forward and grasped the obstruction barring his way. He tore the stack apart with a single movement, sending them smashing to all sides.
Jim looked up white and trembling and saw death staring him right between the eyes. “Help, John,” he squealed, cowering back against the wall. “Do something.”
Grinning like a gargoyle, the robot slowly withdrew from the pocket of his brand new suit, a small wicked-looking black instrument with two extendable electrodes. With a flick of the thumb he armed the mechanism and sent sparks crackling about the tips of the rods.
Omally floundered about seeking a suitable weapon, his hand closed over a length of iron conduit. “Up the rebels,” he cried as he flung himself towards Jim’s attacker. His own double turned upon him to stand glaring, eye to eye. “You bastard,” spat Omally, “come and try your luck.” He swung his cudgel with terrific force but the robot shot out a hand and grasped it, tearing it from his grip and flinging it the length of the warehouse. Omally ducked back as his double delved into its pocket. The smile widened upon its lips as the small black box appeared.
“Hold hard,” a voice echoed about the warehouse. Four pairs of eyes shot in the direction of the sound. A tall, gaunt figure stood crouched in the doorway, silhouetted against the light, legs spread widely apart and hands held forward. “This is a Magnum Forty-four,” he shouted, “biggest handgun in the world and can blow your heads clean off your shoulders. What do you say, punks?”
The robot duplicates looked towards their respective quarries, one cowering and covering his nuts, the other standing defiant, thirty-four-function barlow knife now in hand. They turned in unison towards the source of their annoyance.
“Hold hard or I fire,” cried Sherlock Holmes.
The robots stole forward upon synthetic heels.
“Right on.” Holmes’ trigger finger tightened. Two shots rang out in rapid succession. The robot Pooley span from his feet in a hazy blur, his head a mass of trailing ribbons and sparking wires. The Omally sank to its knees, foul yellow slime spurting from two over-large holes front and back of its plastic skull. He rose to stumble forward, cruel claws scratching at the air, jerked upright, then slumped to the deck, a rag doll flung carelessly aside. Holmes blew into the barrel of his Forty-four, spun it upon his forefinger, and tucked it away into his shoulder holster. “Gotcha,” he said.
Omally clicked back the blade of his barlow knife and thrust the thing into his breast pocket. He stepped over to console the gibbering Pooley. “Thanks yet again,” he said to Sherlock Holmes. “It seems that we are once more in your debt.”
“No sweat,” the great detective replied. He stooped over the twisted “corpse” of the false and fallen Pooley and began to turn out its pockets. Jim crept forward and watched in horror as Holmes examined the contents before tossing them aside. A besmutted handkerchief, a leaky ballpoint pen, an initialled gold Cartier lighter, and a packet of Passing Cloud cigarettes.
Pooley patted frantically at his pockets; they’d been picked obviously. To his further horror his patting disclosed an identically besmutted handkerchief, a leaky ballpoint pen, and the same Cartier lighter, which he had not as yet learned how to fill; even the packet of fags. Pooley held out his hands to Sherlock Holmes. The detective took the cigarette packet and shook it open: seventeen cigarettes. He picked up the robot’s packet: three gone from the packet of twenty.
“Very thorough. Every last detail absolutely correct,” said Holmes. “I would hazard a guess that, should we analyse the fluff in your trouser pockets and that of this demon-spawn here, they would match exactly.” Jim shuddered. Holmes completed his search and satisfied himself that he had taken all relevant matters into account. He rose to leave. “I must away now,” he said. “The game is afoot.”
“It’s costing us an arm and a leg,” said Omally. “Well, good luck to you at the very least.”
“Your sentiment is appreciated, John, but luck plays no part whatsoever in my investigations.” Holmes tapped at his right temple. “It all comes from here. The science of deduction, made art.”
“Yes,” said Omally doubtfully. “Well, be that as it may. My best wishes to you for the success of your mission.”
“Ten-four,” said the detective. “Up and away.” With these few words he leapt out through the warehouse door and was presently lost from view.
“I still say he’s a nutter.” Omally brushed the dust and grime away from the numb and shattered Jim Pooley.
The two electronic cadavers lay spread across the warehouse floor, and it was no pleasant thing to behold your own corpse lying at your very feet. Pocket fluff and all. Omally turned Jim’s head away. “Come on, mate,” said he softly. “We’ve had a good innings here, let’s not spoil it.”
Jim pointed a dangly hand towards his doppelgänger, “It was me,” he said. “It was me.”
“Well, it’s not any more. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“I shouldn’t do it.” A voice from behind froze Omally in his tracks and caused his hand to seek out his barlow knife. “Don’t go outside, I’m telling you.” Omally turned slowly and wearily to face whatever the new threat might be. Across the deserted warehouse floor a head peeped out from a now open manhole. It was Soap Distant. “Lead roof,” said the pink-eyed man from below. “The computer scan cannot penetrate it. That’s why they couldn’t find you.”
Omally peered up into the darkness of the eaves above. “So that was it.”
“Hurry now,” said Soap. “Their back-up boys are on the way.”
John did not need telling twice. Thrusting Pooley before him, he made for the manhole and something which loosely-resembled safety. As Jim’s head vanished into the darkness below John skipped back to where his duplicate lay. Viewing his own remains, he smiled briefly, and stopped to remove the thing’s left boot. Upending this, a bundle of banknotes tumbled out into his hand. “Very thorough indeed,” said John, pocketing the spoils of war.
24
A half a mile beneath the surface of Planet Earth, Soap Distant offered Omally a cup of tea.
“This time I think I will,” said John. “Is there any chance of breakfast, Soap?”
“Certainly.” The pink-eyed man applied himself to the frying-pan.
“Are you all right, Jim?” Omally prodded his companion who was staring dumbly into space.
“It was me,” mouthed Jim.
“Well, it isn’t now. You’re safe.”
“It was me.”
“Sunnyside up,” piped Soap.
“Two on a raft,” Omally replied, “with all the trimmings.”
Shortly a fine breakfast was in the offing. With the aid of much pushing, prompting, and cuffing, Jim was slowly brought back to the land of the living to enjoy his. For every “It was me”, he received a blow to the head. Somewhat after the fashion of the now legendary Pavlov’s pooches he learned the error of his ways. “Could I have another fried slice?” he asked.
Soap obliged. As he turned the bread in the pan he said. “The lead you see, the scan cannot penetrate it. They’ve got an eye in the sky up there watching everybody that’s left, but they can’t see through the lead. I myself lined the Professor’s loft with lead foil. Keeps the buggers out it does.”
Omally wiped his chin. “Very good, Soap. It is pleasing to hear that some precautions can be taken.”