rr.thebrentfordtriangle-第36节

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hilled　and　vintage　bottle　of　Pol　Roger。
　This　little　morale…booster　was　another　of　the　Professor's　inspirations。
　'Good　luck　to　you　all；'　said　the　part…time　barman；　patting　Norman　gingerly　upon　the　shoulder。　'Good　luck。'
　A　warlike　conclave　had　formed　at　the　other　end　of　the　bar。　Young　Jack　and　his　demonic　cohorts　were　clustered　about　Old　Jack's　wheelchair；　speaking　in　hushed；　if　heated；　tones。　Neville　sensed　that　above　the　smell　of　creosote；　which　so　strongly　assailed　his　sensitive　nostrils；　there　was　a　definite　whiff　of　brimstone　emanating　from　the　satanic　conspirators。　The　part…time　barman　shuddered。　Why　did　things　always　have　to　be　so　plicated？
　The　Swan　now　swelled　with　crowds　literally　to　bursting　point。　It　was　almost　impossible　to　move　amongst　the　throng；　and　trayloads　of　drinks　were　being　passed　from　the　bar　counter　over　the　heads　of　patrons；　generally　to　arrive　at　their　destinations　somewhat　lighter　of　load。　It　was　rapidly　reaching　the　'every　man　for　himself　stage。　The　atmosphere　was　electric　with　anticipation　and　unbreathable　with　cigar　smoke。　The　noise　was　deafening　and　even　the　Captain　Laser　Alien　Attack　machine　rattled　mutely；　lost　amidst　the　din。　Croughton　the　pot…bellied　potman　had　e　down　with　a　severe　attack　of　no　bottle　and　had　taken　himself　off　to　the　rear　yard　for　a　quiet　fag。
　'Ladies　and　gentlemen；'　bellowed　the　adjudicator　at　the　top　of　his　voice；　'it　is　my　pleasure　to　announce　the　final　and　deciding　contest　of　the　evening。　The　very　climax　of　this　evening's　sport。'　Omally　noted　that　the　word　'sport'　appeared　to　stick　slightly　in　the　adjudicator's　throat。　The　final　for　the　much　coveted　Brentford　District　Darts　Challenge　Trophy　Shield。'
　Neville；　who　had　taken　this　cherished　item　down　from　its　cobwebby　perch　above　the　bar　and　had　carefully　polished　its　tarnished　surface　before　secreting　it　away　in　a　place　known　only　to　himself；　held　it　aloft　in　both　hands。　A　great　cheer　rang　through　the　Swan。
　'Between　the　present　holders；　five　years'　champions；　the　home　team；　the　Flying　Swan。'　Another　deafening　cheer。　'And　their　challengers　from　the　Four　Horsemen。'
　Absolute　silence；　but　for　the　occasional　bitow　in　the　background。
　'Gentlemen；　let　battle　mence。'
　The　home　team；　as　reigning　champions；　had　call　of　the　toss。　As　the　adjudicator　flipped　a　copper　coin　high　into　the　unwholesome　smoke…filled　air；　Professor　Slobe；　who　had　taken　up　station　slightly　to　the　rear　of　Young　Jack；　whispered；　'The　same　coin　had　better　e　down　and　it　had　better　not　land　upon　its　edge。'
　Young　Jack　leered　around　at　his　adversary。　'As　honorary　President；'　he　said；　'I　shall　look　forward　to　you　personally　handing　me　the　shield　upon　your　team's　crushing　defeat。'
　Whether　through　the　action　of　that　fickle　thing　called　fate；　or　through　the　influence　of　some　force　which　the　Professor　had　neglected　to　make　allowance　for；　unlikely　though　that　might　seem；　the　coin　fell　tailside　up　and　the　Four　Horsemen　were　first　upon　the　oche。
　Through　merit　of　his　advanced　years　and　the　ever…present　possibility　that　he　would　not　survive　another　championship　game　through　to　the　end；　Old　Jack　threw　first。
　Professor　Slobe　did　not　trouble　to　watch　the　ancient　as　he　struggled　from　his　wheelchair；　assisted　by　his　two　aides；　and　flung　his　darts。　His　eyes　were　glued　to　the　hands　of　Young　Jack；　awaiting　the　slightest　movement　amongst　the　dark　captain's　metaphysical　digits。
　It　was　five　hundred　and　one　up　and　a　five…game　decision　and　each　man　playing　was　determined　to　give　of　his　all　or　die　in　the　giving。　Old　Jack　gave　a　fair　account　of　himself　with　an　ample　ton。
　Norman　took　the　mat。　As　he　did　so；　both　Pooley　and　Omally　found　their　eyes　wandering　involuntarily　over　the　heads　of　the　crowd　towards　the　electric　Guinness　clock。
　Three　times　Norman　threw　and　three　times　did　those　two　pairs　of　eyes　observe　the　fluctuation　in　the　clock's　hand。
　'He　cheats；　you　know；'　whispered　Pooley。
　'I've　heard　it　rumoured；'　Omally　replied。
　'One　hundred　and　eighty；'　boomed　the　man　in　the　rented　tux。
　On　the　outer　rim　of　the　solar　system；　where　the　planets　roll；　lax；　dark　and　lifeless；　appeared　nine　small　white　points　of　light　which　were　definitely　not　registered　upon　any　directory　of　the　heavens。　They　moved　upon　a　level　trajectory　and　travelled　at　what　appeared　to　be　an　even　and　leisurely　pace。　Given　the　vast　distances　which　they　were　covering　during　the　course　of　each　single　second；　however；　this　was　obviously　far　from　being　the　case。
　Upon　the　flight　deck　of　the　leading　Cerean　man　o'　war；　the　Starship　Sandra；　stood　the　Captain。　One　Lombard　Omega　by　name；　known　to　some　as　Lord　of　a　Thousand　Suns；　Viceroy　of　the　Galactic　Empire　and　Crown　Prince　of　Sirius；　he　was　a　man　of　average　height　with　high　cheekbones　and　a　slightly　tanned　plexion。　He　bore　an　uncanny　resemblance　to　a　young　Jack　Palance　and；　even　when　travelling　through　the　outer　reaches　of　the　cosmic　infinite；　smelt　strongly　of　creosote。
　'Set　a　course　for　home；'　he　said；　affecting　a　noble　stance　and　pointing　proudly　into　space。　'We　have　conquered　the　galaxy　and　now　return　in　triumph　to　our　home　world。　Ceres；　here　we　e。'
　The　navigator；　who　bore　a　striking　resemblance　to　his　Captain；　but　whose　rank　merited　a　far　less　heavily　braided　uniform　and　fewer　campaign　ribbons；　tapped　out　a　series　of　instructions　into　a　console　of　advanced　design。　'Goodness　me；'　said　he；　as　the　puter　guidance　system　flashed　up　an　unexpected　reply　to　his　instructions　upon　a　three…dimensional　screen。　'Now　there's　a　funny　thing。'
　Lombard　Omega　leant　over　his　shoulder　and　squinted　into　the　glowing　display　of　nine　orbiting　worlds。　'Where's　the　fucking　planet　gone？'　he　asked。
　'One　hundred　and　forty；'　shouted　the　adjudicator；　oblivious　to　what　was　going　on　at　the　outer　edge　of　the　solar　system。　'The　Horsemen　needs　ninety…seven。'
　'If　they　aren't　cheating；'　said　Pooley；　'they　are　playing　a　blinder　of　a　game。'
　'Oh；　they're　cheating　all　right；'　Omally　replied；　'although　I　don't　think　the　Professor　has　worked　out　quite　how　yet。'
　In　truth　the　Professor　had　not；　he　had　watched　Young　Jack　like　a　hawk　and　was　certain　that　he　had　observed　no　hint　of　trickery。　Surely　the　Horsemen　could　not　be　winning　by　skill　alone？
　Billy　'Banjoed'　Breton；　the　Horsemen's　inebriate　reserve；　was　suddenly　up　on　the　oche。　The　very　idea　of　a　team　fielding　a　reserve　in　a　championship　match　was　totally　unheard　of；　the　role　of　reserve　being　by　tradition　filled　by　the　pub's　resident　drunk；　who　acted　more　as　mascot　and　edy　relief　than　player。
　A　rumble　of　disbelief　and　suspicion　rolled　through　the　crowd。　Two　of　the　Horsemen's　team　pointed　Billy　in　the　direction　of　the　board。　'Over　there；'　they　said。　Billy　aimed　his　dart；　flight　first。
　'Young　Jack　is　having　a　pop　at　the　Professor；'　said　Omally。　'He　is　definitely　working　some　kind　of　a　flanker。'
　A　look　of　perplexity　had　crossed　Professor　Slobe's　face。　He　cast　about　for　a　reason；　but　none　was　forthing。　A　gentle　tap　at　his　elbow　suddenly　marshalled　his　thoughts。　There　is　one　outside　and　one　by　the　machine；'　said　Edgar　Allan　Poe。
　Professor　Slobe　nodded。
　'May　I　ask　the　purpose　of　the　game？'
　'It　is　a　challenge　match　between　the　hostelry　known　as　the　Four　Horsemen　and　our　own　beloved　Flying　Swan；'　Professor　Slobe　replied　telepathically。
　'Then　may　I　ask　why　you　allow　your　opponents　the　edge　by　having　their　missiles　guided　by　a　spirit　form？'　A　smile　broke　out　upon　Professor　Slobe's　face　which　did　not　go　unnoticed　by　John　Omally。
　'He's　sussed　it；'　said　John。
　Professor　Slobe　leant　close　to　the　ear　of　Young　Jack。　'Have　you　ever　heard　me　recite　the　rite　of　exorcism？'　he　asked。　'I　have　it　down　to　something　of　a　fine　art。'
　Young　Jack　cast　the　old　man　the　kind　of　look　which　could　deflower　virgins　and　cause　babies　to　fill　their　nappies。　'All　right；'　said　he；　'we　will　play　it　straight。'
　'That　you　will　never　do。　But　simply　chalk　that　one　up　and　be　advised。'
　'Forty…seven；'　bawled　the　adjudicator；　who　was　growing　hoarse。
　'Unlucky；'　said　Professor　Slobe。
　'The　Swan　need　sixty…eight。'　The　Swan　got　it　with　little　difficulty。
　Lombard　Omega　ran　up　and　down　the　flight　deck；　peering　through　the　Plexiglas　portholes　and　waving　his　fists　in　the　air。　'Where's　it　gone？'　he　ranted　at　intervals。　'Where's　it　fucking　gone？'
　His　navigator　punched　all　he　could　into　the　console　and　shrugged　repeatedly。　'It　just　isn't　there；'　he　said。　'It's　gone；　caput；　finite；　gone。'
　'It　must　be　there！　It　was　fucking　there　when　we　left　it！'
　The　navigator　covered　his　ears　to　the　obscenity。　'It　honestly　isn't；　now；'　he　said。　'There's　a　lot　of　debris　about；　though；　a　veritable　asteroid　belt。'
　'You　find　something　and　find　it　quick；'　growled　his　manding　Officer；　'or　you　go　down　the　shit　chute　into　hyperspace。'
　The　navigator　bashed　away　at　the　console　like　a　mad　thing。　'There's　no　trace；'　he　whispered　despairingly；　'the　entire　system's　dead。'　He　tapped　at　the　macroscopic　intensifier。　'Oh　no　it　isn't；　look；　there's　a　signal。'
　Lombard　was　at　his　side　in　an　instant。　'Bring　it　up　then；　you　wally。　Bring　the　frigging　thing　up。'
　The　navigator　enlarged　the　image　upon　the　three…dimensional　screen。　'It's　on　Planet　Earth；'　he　said。　'A　triangulation　and　a　ley　image；　the　constellation　of　the　Plough　surely；　and　look　ther