rr.eastofealing-第22部分

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　'This　beer　is　definitely　not　what　it　was。'　Pooley　raised　his　pint　and　held　it　towards　the　light。　Through　the　clear　amber　liquid　a　row　of　puter　lines　etched　on　to　the　glass　twinkled　like　the　slats　of　a　Venetian　blind。
　'I　had　been　thinking　the　same；'　Omally　replied。　'It　has　a　definitely　metallic　tang　to　it　nowadays。'
　An　odd　figure　now　entered　the　Flying　Swan。　He　appeared　awkward　and　ill　at　ease　amongst　his　surroundings。　The　stranger　wore　a　wide…brimmed　hat　of　dark　material　and　a　similarly…coloured　cloak　which　reached　to　the　floor；　exposing　only　the　very　tips　of　his　Wellington　boots。
　'It's　Soap；'　Omally　whispered。　'Now　what　do　you　suppose　he　is　doing　here？'
　'e　to　pay　us　our　thirty　quid；　hopefully；'　said　Jim；　who　even　in　wealth　was　never　too　aloof　to　forget　a　creditor。
　Soap　ordered　a　Guinness；　without　the　head；　and　paid　for　the　same　with　a　gold　nugget　which　the　barman　weighed　up　and　mitted　to　the　till。　The　man　in　black　approached　the　two　seated　drinkers。　'Good　day；'　he　said。
　'Not　yet；'　said　the　Omally。　'But　you　have　my　full　permission　to　improve　upon　it　should　you　so　wish。'
　'Might　I　take　a　seat？'
　'If　you　must。'
　Soap　removed　his　hat　and　placed　it　upon　the　table。　His　albino　coiffure　glowed　stunningly　even　in　the　dim　light　of　the　saloon…bar；　the　pink　eyes　wandered　between　the　two　men。　'How's　tricks？'　he　asked。
　'Oh；　going　great　guns；'　Pooley　made　an　airy　gesture。　'Just　sitting　here　drinking　duff　beer；　waiting　for　the　end　of　the　world。　Ringside　seats　to　boot。'
　'Hm。'　Soap　toyed　with　the　ample　brim　of　his　extraordinary　hat。　'I'll　tell　you　what　though；　but。　You're　better　off　here　than　out　there。'　He　thumbed　away　towards　the　glistening　wall　of　light　which　shimmered　in　the　distance　beyond　the　Swan's　upper　panes。　'It's　all　hell　for　sure　in　that　neck　of　the　woods。'
　'You　mean　you've　been　outside？'　Omally　raised　his　ample　eyebrows。
　'Naturally。'　Soap　tugged　lewdly　at　his　lower　eye。　'You　know　the　expression　you　can't　keep　a　good　man　down？　Well　here　it's　a　case　of　a　good　man　down　is　worth　three　in　the　Butts。　Good'n　that；　eh？　One　of　my　own。'
　'Bloody　marvellous；'　said　Pooley　without　conviction。　'So　what　is　going　on　out　there？'
　'Bad　things。'　Soap　stared　sombrely　into　his　pint。　The　sharpened；　ear…rooting　nail　of　his　little　finger　traced　a　runic　symbol　upon　the　knap　of　his　hatbrim。　'Bad　things。'　Soap　sipped　at　his　pint　and　drew　a　slim　wrist　across　his　mouth。　'Bloody　chaos；'　he　said　simply。　'It　makes　me　sick　at　heart　to　see　what　goes　on　out　there；　but　the　Professor　says　that　I　must　keep　the　watch。　Although　he　never　says　for　what。'
　'So　what　have　you　seen；　Soap？'
　'They　are　starving　out　there。'　Soap's　pink　eyes　darted　up　at　his　inquisitor。
　'You're　joking；　surely？'
　'I　am　not。　Since　the　institution　of　the　new　non…monetary　system　of　exchange　the　entire　country　is　literally　in　a　state　of　civil　war。'
　'e　now；'　said　Jim。　'What　you　mean　is　that　a　few　die…hards　are　giving　two　fingers　to　the　printed…palm　brigade。　Bloody　good　luck　to　them　I　say。　I'll　arrange　to　have　a　couple　of　million　drawn　out。　You　take　it　with　my　blessings。'
　'Money　won't　do　it；'　said　Soap。　'Paper　currency　is　illegal。　All　assets　were　instantly　frozen　on　the　day　of　the　change。　Each　individual　had　to　hand　in　his　cash　to　the　bank　upon　his　turn　for　registration。　Those　who　refused　to　submit　to　the　change　found　every　door　closed　to　them。　They　could　not　travel　upon　buses　or　trains　or　buy　petrol　for　their　own　cars；　nor　milk　from　the　milkman；　nor　bread　from　the　bakers。　Their　friends　and　neighbours　rejected　them。　Even　members　of　their　own　families；　those　who　had　the　mark；　refused　them。　They　were　ostracized　totally　from　society。　Many　went　straight　to　the　banks　but　were　told　that　they　had　missed　their　opportunity　and　that　was　that。'
　'And　that　no　man　might　buy　or　sell；　save　he　that　had　the　mark　or　the　name　of　the　beast　or　the　number　of　his　name；'　said　Jim　Pooley　in　a　leaden　voice。
　'The　very　same。'
　'The　callous　bastards；'　said　John　Omally。　'So　what　happened　then？'
　'Exactly　what　you　might　expect。　Open　rebellion　on　the　part　of　the　unmarked。　What　they　could　no　longer　buy　they　took。　There　was　looting　and　burning　and　killing。　Much　killing。　Under　the　direction　of　the　Government's　master　puter　martial　law　was　imposed。　The　puter　issued　a　brief　edict：　all　those　who　do　not　bear　the　mark　to　be　shot　on　sight。'
　'Are　you　making　this　up；　Soap？'　Omally　leant　forward　in　his　seat　and　waggled　his　fist　threateningly　beneath　the　hollow　Earther's　all…but…transparent　nose。　'Jim　and　I　have　both　sussed　that　something　pretty　pony　is　going　on　here。　Although　we　are　trapped　by　a　seemingly　impenetrable　barrier；　the　shops　never　run　dry。　There　is　always　milk　and　fags；　bread　and　beer；　although　that　is　tasting　a　bit　odd　of　late。　It　must　all　be　ing　in　from　the　outside；　although　we　haven't　figured　out　exactly　how　as　yet。　Parachutes　in　the　dead　of　night　we　suspect。'
　'You're　on　a　wrong'n；'　said　Soap。　'Nothing　gets　in　or　out　except　me。　And　there's　no　food　going　begging　out　there　either。'
　'So　how　do　you　account　for　it　then？'
　'It　is　all　manufactured　right　here　in　the　parish。'
　'Oh　rot；'　said　Jim。　'Do　you　see　any　cows　grazing　in　the　Memorial　Park；　or　any　hop　fields　or　tobacco　plantations？　Talk　sense；　Soap；　please。　How　could　any　of　it　be　made　here？'
　'It　is　all　artificially　produced。　Every　last　little　thing；　it's　all　synthetic。　Including　your　manky　beer。'　Soap　pushed　his　glass　aside。　'I　can't　tell　you　how　it's　done　but　I　can　tell　you　who's　doing　it。'
　'Lateinos　and　bloody　Romiith；'　said　Omally　in　a　doom…laden　voice。
　'None　other。　What　do　you　think　the　walls　are　up　for　anyway？'
　'To　keep　us　in；'　Jim　said　gloomily。　'To　keep　me　in　and　stop　me　spending　my　money。'
　'Wrong；'　said　Soap。　'To　keep　the　others　out。　Those　walls　were　whipped　up　to　protect　the　master　puter　plex　in　Abaddon　Street。　It　is　the　centre　of　the　whole　operation。'
　'They　got　my　antique　bedstead；　the　bastards；'　snarled　Omally；　'and　now　my　beer　also。　Will　it　never　end？'
　'But　why　is　this　master　plex　in　Brentford？'　Jim　asked。　Td　always　pictured　Armageddon　getting　off　to　its　first　round　in　a　somewhat　more　Biblical　setting。　The　gasworks　and　the　flyover　just　don't　seem　to　fit。'
　'You'll　have　to　ask　the　Professor　about　that；'　said　Soap。　'Or　possibly　your　man　there。'　Soap　stretched　out　a　pale　hand　towards　the　tall；　gaunt　spectre　wearing　long　out…moded　tweeds　and　smoking　a　Turkish　cigarette　who　now　stood　majestically　framed　in　the　Swan's　famous　portal。
　'Gentlemen；'　said　Mr　Sherlock　Holmes；　gesturing　to　the　three　seated　figures；　two　of　which　were　now　cowering　away　and　seeking　invisibility；　'if　I　might　just　prevail　upon　your　aid　in　a　small　matter。'
　'And　there　was　I　utterly　convinced　that　things　could　get　no　worse；'　said　John　Omally。　'Oh　foolish　fellow　me。'
　
　18
　Sherlock　Holmes　strode　up　the　Baling　Road；　his　cigarette　billowing　smoke　about　his　angular　visage。　Pooley　and　Omally　plodded　behind；　and　had　they　chosen　to　pause　a　moment　and　look　around　they　might　just　have　caught　sight　of　the　manhole　cover　which　closed　upon　Soap's　retreating　form。
　'I　merely　wish　you　to　be　close　at　hand；'　said　Sherlock　Holmes　as　he　marched　along。　'Just　button　your　lips　and　hang　loose；　got　me？'
　Pooley；　who　had　recently　purchased　for　the　detective　an　advanced　video　recorder　and　the　plete　series　of　Basil　Rathbone　cassettes；　thought　to　detect　the　hint　of　an　American　accent　creeping　into　the　Victorian　voice。　'Oh；　gotcha；'　he　said。
　Outside　Norman's　corner…shop　Holmes　drew　to　a　sudden　halt。　His　two　followers　did　likewise　and　peered　without　enthusiasm　through　the　spotless　Plexiglas　of　the　new　aluminium…framed　door　to　where　Norman　stood　behind　his　shining　counter。　The　true　shopkeeper　was　busy　in　his　kitchenette；　bent　low　over　a　set　of　indecipherable　plans　scrawled　on　to　the　innards　of　a　cornflake　packet。　He　scarcely　heard　the　shopdoor…bell　chime　out　an　electronic　fanfare。　His　double　peered　up　from　the　countertop　puter　terminal　and　surveyed　his　three　potential　customers。　The　Irish　one；　cowering　to　the　rear；　owed；　he　recalled。　Clearing　his　throat　with　a　curiously　mechanical　coughing　sound；　he　asked；　'How　might　we　serve　you；　gentlemen？'
　'We？'　queried　Sherlock　Holmes。
　'The　plurality　is　used　in　a　purely　business　sense；'　the　robot　replied。　'We；　the　interest；　which　is　Norman　Hartnell；　corner　shop；　as　a　small　concern；　realize　the　need　to　extend　a　personal　wele　to　the　prospective　client　in　these　petitive　times。'
　'Very　precise；'　said　Sherlock　Holmes。　'An　ounce　of　Ships；　if　you　please。'
　'Certainly；　sir。'　The　robot　slipped　his　hand　behind　his　back　and　drew　out　the　packet。　Omally　considered　that　to　be　a　pretty　sneaky　move　by　any　reckoning。
　'You　have　redecorated　your　premises；　I　see；'　said　Holmes。
　Considering　this　to　be　a　simple　statement　of　fact　which　required　no　reply；　the　robot　offered　none。
　'And　all　achieved　with　the　left　hand。'
　The　creation　stiffened　ever　so　slightly　but　retained　its　posure；　although　a　fleeting　look　of　suspicion　crossed　its　face。　Pooley　and　Omally　both　stepped　back　unconsciously。
　'I　was　always　given　to　understand　that　you　were　right…handed；'　Holmes　continued。
　'That　will　be　eighteen　shillings　and　sixpence；　please；　sir。'　The　robot　stretched　forward　both　hands；　that　he　might　exhibit　no　per