And now, there could be little doubt about it, the camel’s feet no longer reached the ground. In fact, the creature was floating in open defiance of all the accepted laws of gravity, some eighteen inches above the deck.
“Now that’s what I would call odd,” said Norman, startling the hovering ship of the desert and causing it to break wind loudly – a thing which, in itself, might be tolerable in the sandblown reaches of the Sahara, but which was no laughing matter in an eight-by-twelve lock-up garage. “Ye gods,” mumbled Norman, covering his nose with a soot-stained pullover sleeve.
It was now that he noticed yet another untoward feature about the animal, which, had it been the property of the now legendary P.T. Barnum, would no doubt have earned that great showman a fortune rivalling that of Croesus himself: the camel had the appearance of being not quite in focus. Although Norman screwed up his eyes and viewed it from a variety of angles, the zero gravity quadruped remained a mite indistinct and somewhat fuzzy about the edges.
Norman took out an unpaid milk bill and scrawled a couple of dubious equations upon its rear. Weight being the all-important factor of his experiment, it was obvious that his calculations regarding molecular transfer were slightly at fault. He rose from his uncomfortable posture and, the air having cleared a little, picked up a clump of wisely commandeered cabbage leaves and offered them to the camel, now firmly lodged in the rafters. The thing, however, declined this savoury morsel and set up a plaintive crying which sent chills up the back of the scientific shopkeeper.
“Ssh… ssh, be quiets, damn yous,” whistled Norman, flapping his arms and searching desperately about for the wherewithal to silence the moaning creature. Something drastic would have to be done, of that there was no doubt. This camel, although living proof of his experiment’s success, was also damning evidence against him, and its disclosure to the public at such a time, when he stood poised on the very threshold of a major breakthrough, could only spell doom to his plans in dirty big red letters.
Norman groaned plurally. That must not be allowed to happen. He had had run-ins with the popular press before, and he knew full well the dire consequences. Some way or other he would have to dispose of his hovering charge. Perhaps he could merely await nightfall then drag it outside and allow it to float away upon the wind. Norman shuddered, with his luck the camel would most likely rise to a point just beyond reach and hang there for all the world to see. Or far worse than that, it might sweep upwards into an aircraft’s flight-path and cause a major disaster. These thoughts brought no consolation to the worried man.
The camel was still bewailing its lot in excessively loquacious terms and Norman, a man who was rapidly learning the true meaning of the word desperation, tore off his pullover and, having dragged the moaning beastie momentarily to ground level, stuffed the patchworked woolly over its head. A blessed silence descended upon the lockup, and Norman breathed a twin sigh of relief. Perhaps, he mused, with its obviously unstable molecular structure the camel might simply deteriorate to such a point that a slight draught would waft it away into nothingness.
This seemed a little cruel, as the camel was something of an unwilling victim of circumstance, and Norman was not by nature a cruel or callous man. But considering the eventual good which his great quest would bring to the people of Brentford, the shopkeeper considered the sacrifice to be a small and necessary one.
It will thank me for it in the end, he told himself. To die in so noble a cause. I shall see to it that a memorial is built, the tomb of the unknown camel. We might even organize some kind of yearly festival in its honour. Camel Day, perhaps? Hold it on Plough Monday, incorporate a few morris dancers in Egyptian garb and a maypole or two, make a day of it. Yes, the camel had played its part and it would not go unrewarded.
Anyway, thought Norman, if it doesn’t simply evaporate I can always speed the process up with a decent-sized weedkiller bomb.
9
Pooley and Omally sat at a secluded corner-table in the Flying Swan.
“I can’t understand the Professor,” said Jim. “Didn’t seem to be himself at all.”
Omally shook his head, “I don’t know,” he replied. “Appeared to me a clear case of keep-the-golfers-guessing. I suspect that he knows a good deal more than he was letting on to.”
“Not much ever gets by him. He certainly made short work of the cabbage leaf.”
Omally leant back in his seat and cast his arms wide. “But where are we?” he asked. “Nowhere at all! We have council men doing the impossible at their every opportunity, we have runic ideograms appearing magically upon the ground and camels working their way through the season’s produce. I don’t like any of it, it smacks to me of some great conspiracy to confound honest golfers and put them off their game.”
“I suspect that it goes a little deeper than that,” said Jim, “but I agree that it does nothing to enhance the play. Perhaps we should quit the allotment now. Move on to pastures new. There are several large bombsites down near the docks surrounded by high walls. I know of a secret entrance or two.”
“Never,” said Omally boldly. “I have had enough of running. If we do not make our stand now, the bastards will eventually drive us into the sea and I care little for the prospect of underwater golf.”
“Cork balls,” said Pooley.
“I beg your pardon?”
Bitow Bitow Bitow Bitow Bitow Whap… “What?” Nicholas Roger Raffles Rathbone turned a full circle upon his heel and drove his reddening fists down on to the console of the Captain Laser Alien Attack Machine. “You bastard!” he said earnestly. “You bloody sneaked an extra saucer in there.” He turned towards the bar where Neville stood, his ears protected by cotton-wool balls and his hands feverishly at work with the polishing cloth. “Have you altered this machine?” he cried.
“Get stuffed,” said Neville.
“I know the sequences,” Nick continued unabashed, “thirty shots, then a big saucer, thirty-eight, then a mother ship. Somebody has tampered with this machine.”
Neville laid down his polishing cloth, plucked the ineffective cotton plugs from his ears and glowered across the bar. “No-one has touched it,” he said, his words forming between two rows of teeth which were showing some signs of wear. “No-one has touched, tampered or tinkered with it. No official brewery representative has ever called to service it. No engineers came to polish its paintwork, change its bulbs or fondle its inner workings, nor even to empty it of the king’s ransom it must by now contain. It seemingly never breaks down, nor needs any maintenance, it runs from its own power supply and is a law unto itself. If you have any complaints I suggest that you address them directly to the machine. With any luck it will take exception to your manner and electrocute you!”
“Someone’s been tampering,” said Nick, delving into his pockets for more two-bob bits, “I know the sequences.”
The part-time barman turned away in disgust. “Jim,” he said, beckoning across the counter towards Pooley, “might I have a word or two in your ear?”
Pooley hastened from his chair, favouring the possibility of a free drink. “Your servant, bar lord,” said he.
“Jim,” said Neville, gesturing towards the hunched back of the green-haired youth, “Jim, has Omally come up with anything yet regarding this abomination? I am at my wits’ end. My letter of resignation is folded into the envelope and the stamp is on.”
Jim chewed upon his lip. It was obvious that Neville was speaking with great sincerity. It would be a tragedy indeed if Brentford lost the best part-time barman it ever had. Especially over so trivial a thing as a gambling machine.
“In truth,” lied Jim with great conviction, “Omally and I have spent the entirety of the afternoon discussing this very matter. We were doing so even when you called me across. We are, I think, nearing a solution.”