At length, however, he could stand the defilement of his property no longer. Rising suddenly from his sham repose he addressed his uninvited visitor in no uncertain terms. “Replace my papers and get out of my study at once,” said he, “or know the consequences for your boorish behaviour.”
The Cerean stiffened and turned a startled face towards the Professor. He fingered the dials upon a small black box which hung at his belt.
“You can tinker with that piece of junk until the sun goes dim, but I can assure you that it will not work upon me.”
The Cerean opened his cruel mouth and spoke in an accent which was unlike any other that the Professor had ever heard. “Who are you?” he asked.
Professor Slocombe smiled wanly. “I am either your saviour or your nemesis.”
“I think not,” said the Cerean.
“If you are inclined to prolong your visit, might I offer you a drink?” the old man asked courteously.
The Cerean laughed loudly. “Drink?” said he. “Drink is the ruination of your species. Who do you think invented it for you in the first place?”
“Hm.” The old man nodded thoughtfully; it would be better to keep that piece of intelligence from Pooley and Omally. They might feel inclined to change sides. “As you will,” he said blandly. “May I inquire then why you have come here?”
“I have come to kill you,” said the Cerean, in such an offhand manner that it quite unsettled the Professor’s nerves. “You are proving an annoyance, you and the pink-eyed man beneath. We shall deal with him shortly.”
“That may not be so easy as you might believe.”
The Cerean turned up the palms of his hands. “You are old and decrepit. A single blow will cut the frail cord of your existence.”
“Appearances can sometimes be deceptive,” said the Professor. “I for example happen to be a master of Dimac, the deadliest form of martial art known to mankind. My hands and feet are registered with the local constabulary as deadly weapons. They can…”
“Rip, maim, mutilate, disfigure and kill with little more than the application of a fingertip’s pressure,” said the Cerean. “I know. Who do you think invented Dimac in the first place?”
“I find your conversation tending towards the repetitious. Kindly take your leave now, I have much to do.”
“Such as plotting the downfall of the Cerean Empire?”
“Amongst other things – I do have more important business.”
The man from Ceres laughed hollowly. “You have great courage, old man,” said he. “We of Ceres hold courage and bravery above all other things.”
“I understand that you like a good fight, yes,” said the Professor. “Although you do not always win. How’s the armpit?”
The Cerean clutched at his tender parts. “Shortly,” he snarled, “your race will again know the might of Ceres. They will feel the jackboot upon their necks. You, however, will not be here to witness it.”
“I am expecting to enjoy a long and happy retirement,” said Professor Slocombe, noting to his satisfaction and relief that Gammon had now entered the French windows, wielding an antique warming-pan. “I worry for you, though.”
“Do not waste your concern. When the battle fleet arrives and the true masters of Earth once more set foot upon the planet, they will have none to spare for your puny race.”
“Brave talk. When might we expect this happy event?”
“Two days from now. It is a pity you will miss it.”
“Oh, I won’t miss it. I have a table booked at the Swan upon that evening. It is the darts tournament. We hold the challenge shield, you know.”
“Of course I know. Who do you think invented darts?”
“Are all your race such blatant liars?”
“Enough talk!” The Cerean pushed past the Professor’s desk and crossed the room, to stand glaring, eye to eye with the old man. “I know not who or what you are,” he said. “Certainly you are unlike any human I have encountered hereabouts, although long ago I feel that I have met such men as you. But for the present know only this: as a race, you humans fear death, and you are staring yours in the face.”
Professor Slocombe met the Cerean’s blazing glare with a cold, unblinking stare. “I like you not,” he said mildly. “It was my firm conviction that some compromise might have been reached between our peoples. I strongly disapprove of needless bloodshed, be the blood flowing from human veins or otherwise. There is yet time, if only you could persuade your race to reconsider. Be assured that if you go ahead with your plans you will meet with certain defeat. It is folly to attack Earth. We have been awaiting you for years and we are well prepared.”
“With the corner up, you have,” sneered the Cerean. “You cannot stand against our battle fleet. We will crush you into submission. Slaves you were and slaves you shall yet become.”
“Is there no compassion then, no spark of what we call humanity?”
The Cerean curled his lip. “None,” he said.
“Then at least it makes my task a little easier.”
“Prepare for death,” said the man from Ceres.
“Strike the blighter down,” said Professor Slocombe.
Gammon swung the antique warming-pan with a will and struck the Cerean a mighty blow to the back of the head. A sharp metallic clang announced the departure of a Cerean soul, bound for wherever those lads go to once parted from their unearthly bodies.
“He was surely lying about the darts, wasn’t he, sir?” Gammon asked.
“I sincerely hope so,” the Professor replied. “They might have got a team up.”
20
The editor of the Brentford Mercury screwed the cap back on to his fountain pen and wedged the thing behind his right ear. He leant back in his pockmarked swivel chair and gazed up at the fly-specked yellow ceiling of his grimy office. Before him, upon the overloaded desk, was a mountain of reports which, although being the very bread of life to the Fortean Society, could hardly be considered even food for thought to the simple folk of Brentford.
Certainly mystery and intrigue had been known to sell a few papers, but this stuff was silly season sensationalism and it wasn’t the silly season for another month or more. The editor reached into his drawer for his bottle of Fleet Street Comfort. Tipping the pencils from a paper cup, he filled it to the brim.
It all seemed to have started with that riot in the Ealing Road. He had been receiving odd little reports prior to this, but they had been mainly of the lights in the sky and rumblings in the earth variety, and merited little consideration. The riot, strange enough in itself in peace-loving Brentford, had turned up the first of a flock of really weird ones, and this verified by the Brentford constabulary.
There was the long black limousine of American manufacture which had roared away from the scene of the crime pursued by two squad cars, and then simply vanished in a most improbable fashion up a cul-de-sac. The boys in blue had made a full-scale search of the area, which backed on to the allotment, but had come up with nothing. The car had simply ceased to exist.
There was this continuing sequence of power cuts the area had been experiencing. The local sub-station had denied any responsibility and their only comment had been that during their duration the entire power supply seemed literally to drain away, as if down a plughole.
If the disappearance of Brentford’s electricity was weird, then the sudden appearance last week of a one-inch layer of sand completely blanketing Brentford’s football ground was weirder still. The groundsman’s claim that it was sabotage upon the part of a rival team seemed unlikely.
And then, of course, there was this lunatic craze for Jack Palance impersonation which was sweeping the borough. It seemed a localized vogue, as he had had no reports of it coming in from outside the area. But there they were in Brentford, lounging on corners or skulking about up alleyways. Nobody knew who they were, what they were up to, or why they did it, but all agreed that, whyever it was, they did it very well.