“As you please then.” John sat down before her and sipped his Scotch.
“Do you believe in God?” asked Jennifer Naylor.
Omally glanced over his glass. The emerald eyes fixed him in their stare. “I am a Catholic by birth,” he said slowly.
“You were nothing by birth other than man. Please answer the question.”
John took another sip of Scotch. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I wish to know.”
“Then in all candour I must confess to uncertainty.”
“Uncertainty as to a Divine Creator?”
“There are many doctrines, each claiming to be true, each at odds with the other. I was brought up to recognize one, to follow it without question. I asked questions but no-one furnished me with satisfactory answers. I do not know.”
“You lack knowledge.”
“As do we all, I fear. I exist, of that I am reasonably sure. You exist, what senses I possess inform me of the fact. Above and beyond are realms that greater minds than mine have floundered when seeking to explore.”
“The minds of men,” said Jennifer Naylor. “Pitifully limited.”
“They are all we have, we can only make the best of them.”
“Then you never wish to seek a Higher Truth?”
Omally finished his drink. In his experience, such discussions as this rarely led to a satisfactory conclusion, and when held with attractive women, almost never in the direction of the bedroom. “I have no evidence to suggest that Higher Truth exists,” he said, rising to refill his glass. “In my small experience I consider it better to appreciate that which you have, than to vainly seek that which you will never find.” With that banal homily out of the way, he splashed further Scotch into his glass.
“And that is your philosophy of life?”
John sighed inwardly; all this was quite exasperating. He was getting nowhere. “I am sorry if I cannot furnish you with satisfactory answers,” he said, at length. “If you wish an in-depth theological discussion, then I suggest that Professor Slocombe would be your man. He is one who has dedicated his life to the search for these Higher Truths. In fact if the mood is on you, why do we not go and visit him now? I am sure he’d be very pleased to see you.”
“No!” said Jennifer Naylor. “I have no wish to speak to him!”
“Then I’m sorry, because I can’t tell you what you obviously wish to know.”
“No,” said Jennifer, “you cannot.” With that, she raised her glass to her lips and, to Omally’s amazement, poured the entire drink, ice cubes and all, straight down her throat.
“Here, steady on!” croaked John. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
“Omally,” said Jennifer, “exactly what are you good for?”
John grinned crookedly. “I wouldn’t have thought you needed to ask.”
The terrible smile once more spread across the woman’s face. “Would you like some sex?” she asked.
“Well,” said John, “now that you ask …”
33
The grounds surrounding the house of Professor Slocombe had long been protected by an ancient spell which afforded the sage advance warning of all who entered there. Upon this night, as upon countless others past, he sat at his study desk, deep in thought. Before him was spread Ordnance Survey map TQ 17 NE, and upon this cartographical representation of the borough, the lines of the great Star Stadium were etched in green ink within the blued boundaries of the Brentford Triangle. The Professor worked tirelessly with compass and protractor as a long black automobile of advanced design and uncertain nationality drew to a silent halt beyond the walls of his domain. The liveried chauffeur stepped from the cab and opened the rear door, a handkerchief clasped across his face.
Professor Slocombe reached towards the tantalus and poured a single dry sherry. A slight tingling at the nape of his neck set his head on one side, but he shrugged it off and continued with his work. The unbearable stench which then soured his nostrils and the cold chill which swept up his backbone, set him bolt upright in his chair.
“Professor Slocombe,” came a harsh whisper, “am I not to be invited in?” The old man swung about with a gasp of surprise. “You appear startled,” said the figure who now stood in the french windows.
Professor Slocombe regained his composure with some difficulty. The fact that someone had actually slipped unfelt into his presence was sufficient to rattle him considerably. But the appearance of his uninvited guest was one to inspire horror.
He was of medium height, clad in a suit of dark stuff, but of his actual physiognomy, what could be seen was at all odds with all normality. The upper part of the head was covered by what appeared to be a plastic film, strung tightly to contain a mass of ugly folds and bulges. Across the eyes a complicated contraption served as an optical aid, with artificial eyelids which opened and closed at measured intervals. The mouth was hardly visible beneath a bulbous shapeless nose. “Calm yourself, Professor,” whispered the apparition. “I must apologize for my intrusion and also for my appearance. I am not pleasant to gaze upon, I know. Might I sit down, I have little strength?”
Professor Slocombe nodded, “Please do so, can l offer you anything?”
“No, no, do not trouble yourself, I have learned to … to live with my infirmity.” The intruder moved awkwardly, his legs seemed to bend in the wrong places, low at the ankles, high at the misshapen thighs. Whatever was contained within the folds of the dark suit was a human form far gone in disfiguring malady.
Professor Slocombe winced as the cripple lowered himself into a fireside chair; his every movement appeared to cause him excruciating pain. “You are in evident discomfort,” said the Professor. “Might I ask the nature of your illness? I have some skills in healing.”
“No, no,” the intruder raised a gloved hand, “you will not find it listed in any Encyclopedia Pharmacia, nor in any one of your extraordinary books.” He made an inclusive gesture towards the Professor’s vast collection of Thaumaturgical librams. “I am a scientist and a victim of my own experimentation.” Professor Slocombe raised an eyebrow; the invalid had much the look of one who had tampered with occult forces and become subject to the three-fold law of return, whereby an evil sending rebounds upon the magician thrice powerfully. “That, I can assure you, is not the case,” whispered the intruder, breaking in upon the thoughts of his unwilling host.
Professor Slocombe lowered a mental shield and watched in fascination as a shiver ran through the body of his guest.
“As you now understand, my infirmity has brought with it some compensations. They say that when one sense is lost the others become heightened. In my case I have lost almost all my senses. I now possess others that most men would fail to understand.”
“You are an unusual man, to say the very least.”
“I might well say the same about you.”
The Professor composed the fingers of his right hand into a curious grouping. “And now that we have exchanged these pleasantries, I suggest that you outline the purpose of your visit.”
“Quite so. But I surmise that during the brief moments of our acquaintanceship you have already surmised who I am, and suspect why I am here.”
“I believe that you are the organizer of the games, the designer of the stadium and the inventor of the improbable Gravitite.”
“Do I detect a note of chagrin in your pronunciation of the word ‘improbable’?”
“Who are you and what do you want?”
“My name is not important. For the sake of commerce, I am called Kaleton. Do not waste yourself trying to read into it, it was chosen at random. I am here upon what you might call a diplomatic mission to engender a peaceful co-existence between us.”
“‘As a thief in the night’,” said the Professor, quoting Scripture.
Ignoring this, Kaleton said simply, “I am dying.”
“You seek my help.”