“Nothing of the kind. The fact that he has done this suggests that he has doubts, fears that he will not succeed in his insane scheme.”
“But what of it all? You can’t be certain he isn’t telling the truth.”
“No, I cannot be certain, but the threat is palpable and we must make all efforts to confound his plans.”
“The Soul of the World,” said Pooley. “Some adversary.”
“No, Jim, I will not have it. We now have the wherewithal to enter the stadium, we shall see what we shall see.”
“Professor,” said Jim seriously, “you have held your ceremonies here, upon home territory. I am not a fool, I know that here you are at your strongest, your most powerful. But up there, out in the open, on Kaleton’s home pitch, we might not fare too well.”
“Jim, do you understand what is meant by the ‘balance of equipoise’?”
“Like Newton’s third Law of Motion — every force has an equal and opposing force, that kind of thing?”
The Professor scratched at his chin. “You are coming into your own, Jim.”
“I have no idea what you mean,” said Jim, although he knew that he did.
“Terrible forces rage and thrust, the universe is not a peaceful place, but the balance remains, one thing cancels out another. There is harmony. A universal plan exists.”
“God,” said Pooley, “you are talking about God.”
“If you put it in those terms, then yes I am. Universal Spirit, call it what you will, for every yes there is a no, two sides to every question. Without an over-lying logic there would be just chaos.”
“I dare not think about the stars,” said Jim.
“That is one of the most profound statements I have ever heard.”
“It is?” Jim asked. “I have others if you wish to compile a list.”
“Now is not the appropriate time, perhaps tomorrow.”
“If there is a tomorrow.”
“Aha!” said Professor Slocombe. “Perk up, Jim, here comes Biggles.”
“What ho, chaps,” said Norman Hartnell, thrusting his head through the french windows.
“Watchamate, Norman, oh dear me.” Jim made a painful face as the scientific shopkeeper stepped into the study. He was clad in a leather helmet, replete with goggles. Little woolly explosions broke from his ancient RAF flying-jacket, a silk scarf hung about his neck.
“Wizard prang,” said Norman Hartnell.
Professor Slocombe glanced at Pooley. Jim made a brave face. In his left trouser pocket a nubbin of fluff resembled the ear-lobe of the legendary Jack Palance. “Bear with him,” said Jim. “He says it will work.”
“And so it will and does,” said Norman. “Who’s going up for a spin then?”
The Professor placed instruments of his enigmatic trade into a Gladstone bag and snapped it shut. “If we are all ready,” said he.
Pooley took a deep breath. “All right,” he said, “let’s go.”
The three men walked out into the night streets of Brentford. It seemed a clear night, peaceful, just like any other. But Jim and the Professor knew to the contrary. Something lurked, a big bad goblin, waiting to gobble them all up. Norman marched ahead with a jaunty step. He just doesn’t know, thought Pooley, but what if he did? What if everyone knew? If things went badly tonight and all was as Kaleton had said, the world of men would soon be in for a dire shock. A rude awakening. All that was normal, all that was expected to be, all those plans and futures, gone up in a puff of smoke, or a bloody big bang. Or something. Jim had no idea what, but whatever it was was no laughing matter.
Norman led them to the row of lock-up garages, amidst many a furtive sideways glance to assure himself that they were not to be observed. Amidst many more furtive sideways glances, he took out his ring of keys and applied one to the lock. The up-and-over door did that very thing and Norman turned with a flurry of flapping arms. “Your chariot awaits,” said he.
The Morris Minor stood, looking somewhat the worse for wear. Pooley and the Professor edged about it, peering and wondering. Strange metal carbuncles had been welded on to the bonnet and a battery of commandeered flue-pipes, vacuum cleaner nozzles and shower sprinklers projected from beneath the boot. Metal hawsers were strung across the car and secured to iron rings set into the concrete floor.
“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!”