rr.thebrentfordtriangle-第12部分

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　Omally　smiled　a　sickly　smile　and　tapped　his　nose。　'Leave　it　to　Jim；'　he　counselled。　'He　knows　what　he's　doing。　Wins　over　the　machine's　confidence；　probes　its　defences；　finds　the　weak　spot　and　Bitov！'
　'Bitow；'　said　Neville　giving　the　Irishman　what　is　universally　known　as　the　old　fisheye。　'Bitow　it　had　better　be。'
　Omally　grinned　unconvincingly　and　ordered　another　pint。
　Bitow　Bitow　Bitow　Bitow　Whap。。。　'What？'
　'Aha；'　yelled　Raffles　Rathbone；　'forgot　to　tell　you　about　their　strike　ships。　They　got　you　that　time。　Care　for　a　game　of　doubles？'
　'Certainly；'　said　Jim；　'last　to　ten　thousand　gets　the　beer　in。'
　'You're　on；'　said　the　lad。
　Omally　hid　his　head　in　his　hands　and　groaned。
　At　ten…thirty　Neville　called　time；　just　to　see　what　might　happen。　As　ever　the　response　was　minimal。　A　few　lingering　tourists；　up　to　enjoy　the　tours　around　the　derelict　gasworks；　upped　and　had　it　away　in　search　of　their　coaches；　which　had　left　an　hour　before。　But　by　the　local　colour　the　cry　was　unheeded　as　ever。　John　Omally；　whose　face　was　now　contorted　into　an　expression　which　would　have　put　the　wind　up　Rondo　Hatton；　sat　upon　his　barstool　sipping　at　the　fourth　pint　of　Large　he　had　been　forced　into　buying　himself　during　the　course　of　the　evening。　Jim　Pooley　had　spent　the　last　four　solid　hours　locked　in　mortal　bat　with　the　ever…alert　invaders　from　the　outer　limits　of　the　cosmic　infinite。
　For　his　part；　young　Nick　had　never　been　happier。　He　had　borne　the　old　slings　and　arrows　of　outrageous　fortune　regarding　his　involvement　with　the　videotic　projection　of　the　alien　strike　force　for　a　goodly　while。　To　be　teamed　up　now　with　Jim　Pooley；　a　man　he　had　for　long　admired；　gave　him　a　definite　feeling　of　invincibility。　Together　they　would　score　maximum　high　points　and　get　the　mystery　bonus。　'Get　that　man；'　he　yelled；　dancing　like　a　demented　dervish。　'Give　that　lad　some　stick。。。　nice　one。'
　Pooley　paused　at　long　last　to　take　breath。　His　neutron　bomb　release　finger　had　the　cramp　and　he　was　beginning　to　suffer　withdrawal　symptoms　from　his　self…imposed　spell　of　drinklessness。
　'I　must　rest　now；'　he　told　Rathbone。　'I　heard　our　good　barman　calling　for　the　towels　up　and　the　habits　of　a　lifetime　cannot　be　set　aside　in　a　single　evening。　I　am　called　to　the　bar。'
　'You　are　a　mean　player；'　said　the　boy　admiringly。　'It　has　been　a　pleasure　to　do　battle　with　you。'
　'You　have　the　edge　by　virtue　of　practice；'　replied　Jim；　'but　I'll　give　you　a　run　for　your　money　tomorrow　lunchtime。'
　'You're　on；'　said　Raffles　Rathbone。
　When　Jim　found　his　way　to　the　bar　counter　he　was　somewhat　astonished　by　the　full　extent　of　Omally's　hostility。
　'What　in　the　name　of　all　the　saints；　including　even　those　who　have　recently　been　given　the　big　〃E〃　by　the　present　papacy；　do　you　think　you　are　up　to？'　the　Irishman　asked。
　Pooley　was　unrepentant。　'Psychology？'　he　suggested。
　'Psychology？'
　'Yes；　you　know；　win　over　the　machine's　confidence；　probe　its　defences；　find　the　weak　spot　then　Bitow！　Whose　round　is　it？'
　'Yours；'　said　Omally；　'Irrefutably　yours。'
　'I　got　fifteen　thousand　two　hundred　and　one；'　said　Jim　proudly；　'personal　high　score；　take　a　bit　of　beating　that。'
　'Your　head　likewise。'
　'It's　in　the　wrist　action；'　Pooley　continued　informatively；　'and　you　have　to　know　the　sequences；　once　you　know　the　sequences　you　can　go　for　the　high…scoring　ships　and　simply　dodge　the　lower　ones。　It's　simple　enough　once　you've　sussed　it　out。'
　'You're　mad；'　said　Omally。　'You　were　right　about　the　X…rays；　they've　burned　out　your　brain。'
　'Wrist　action；'　said　Pooley；　drumming　his　killing　finger　on　to　the　bar。　'One；　two；　three；　Bitow；　move　to　the　left；　Bitow；　Bitow；　Bitow。'
　'I　will　kill　you。'
　'Tell　you　what；'　said　Jim；　'I'll　give　you　a　game　of　doubles　tomorrow。　Nick　will　be　here　and　he　can　give　you　a　few　pointers；　ydu'll　soon　pick　it　up。　Last　one　to　two　thousand　points　gets　the　drinks　in；　what　do　you　say？'
　Omally　buried　his　face　in　his　hands　and　began　to　sob　plaintively。　Pooley　finished　the　Irishman's　pint　for　him。　'You　couldn't　spare　a　couple　of　two…bobs；　could　you；　John？'　he　asked。　'I　just　thought　I'd　get　in　another　game　before　we　go。'
　
　10
　Small　Dave　peeled　open　a　packet　of　frozen　filet　mignon　amoureuse　and　oozed　it　into　the　cankerous　baking　tray　which　had　served　his　family　for　several　generations。　Turning　the　enamel　oven　up　to　regulo　six；　he　popped　the　gourmet's　nightmare　on　to　a　vacant　shelf　and　slammed　shut　the　door。　This　having　been　done　to　his　satisfaction；　the　dwarfish　postman　slouched　over　to　his　sawn…down　armchair　and　flung　himself　into　it。　He　was　not　a　happy　man。
　It　is　a　sad　fact　that　those　unfortunates　amongst　us　who　are　born　lacking　certain　vital　parts；　or　possess　others　to　over…abundance；　have　good　cause　to　bear　grievance　regarding　their　lots　in　life。　Those　blessed　with　the　lucky　humpty　back；　those　who　perpetually　bump　their　heads　upon　the　undersides　of　road　bridges；　or　are　capable　of　walking　beneath　bar　stools　without　stooping；　tend　to　feel　that　the　gods　have　dealt　with　them　rather　shabbily。
　Small　Dave　was　one　of　this　unhappy　crew　and　he　played　the　thing　up　for　all　it　was　worth。　He　took　kindness　for　pity；　the　friendly　word　for　the　cutting　jibe；　and　spent　his　days　making　life　miserable　for　a　munity　which　would　gladly　have　taken　him　as　one　of　its　own　had　he　given　it　half　a　chance。　When　it　came　to　having　the　old　chip　on　the　shoulder　the　little　postman　was　in　a　class　by　himself。　The　arguments　that　many　a　famous　man　had　been　well　below　average　height　and　that　it　wasn't　a　man's　height　that　mattered；　it　was　what　he　had　in　his　heart；　fell　upon　very　deaf　ears。　Small　Dave　had　resolved　that　if　it　stood　taller　than　four　feet　and　walked　about；　he　hated　it。
　He　was　not　exactly　Mr　Popular　in　Brentford。　In　fact；　in　a　parish　which　tolerated　almost　every　kind　of　eccentricity；　he　managed　to　achieve　some　notoriety。
　This　pleased　his　contemporaries；　for；　after　all；　they　had　wasted　a　lot　of　breath　trying　to　convince　him　that　you　didn't　have　to　be　tall　to　be　famous。　Now　they　felt　a　lot　less　conscience…stricken　about　hating　the　vindictive；　grudge…bearing　wee　bastard。
　Small　Dave　dug　his　pointed　nails　into　the　chair's　ragged　arms　and　looked　up　at　the　clock。　Nearly　midnight；　nearly　time　to　get　this　camel　business　sorted　out　good　and　proper。　He　had　been　made　to　look　very　foolish　this　day；　but　he　would　have　his　revenge。　Rising　from　his　chair　and　setting　flame　to　his　acorn　pipe；　he　paced　the　threadbare　carpet；　emitting　plumes　of　sulphurous　herbal　smoke。　At　intervals　he　raised　his　fists　towards　heaven　and　at　others　he　took　to　bouts　of　violent　hand　flapping。
　At　length　the　china　Alsatian　mantelclock　struck　the　witching　hour　and　Small　Dave　ceased　his　manic　pacing。　Striking　one　diminutive　fist　into　the　palm　of　its　opposite　number；　he　lurched　from　the　room　as　if　suddenly　dragged　forward　by　the　ethereal　cord　which　binds　body　and　soul　together。　Up　the　staircase　he　went　at　a　goodly　pace；　across　a　lino…covered　landing；　and　up　to　the　doorway　of　what　estate　agents　laughingly　refer　to　as　the　Master　Bedroom。
　Here　he　halted；　breathing　heavily；　further　hasty　progress　rendered　impossible　by　the　nature　of　the　room's　contents。　It　was　literally　filled　with　books。　How　the　floor　of　the　room　was　capable　of　supporting　such　a　load　was　a　matter　for　debate；　but　that　the　room　contained　what　surely　would　have　been　sufficient　to　overstock　an　average　public　library　was　beyond　doubt。　The　books　cramming　the　open　doorway　formed　a　seemingly　impenetrable　barrier。
　Small　Dave　looked　furtively　around；　then　withdrew　a　long　key　which　he　wore　on　a　leather　thong　about　his　neck。　Stooping；　he　found　the　hidden　keyhole　and　swung　open　a　tiny　concealed　door；　formed　from　dummy　bookbacks。　With　a　curious　vole…like　snuffling；　he　dropped　to　all　fours　and　scampered　into　the　opening。　The　door　of　books　swung　silently　shut　behind　him；　leaving　no　trace　of　its　presence。
　Inside　the　room　of　books；　Small　Dave　penetrated　a　tortuous　labyrinth　of　tiny　tunnels　which　were　of　his　own　creating。　Deeper　and　deeper　into　the　books　he　went；　to　the　room's　very　core；　where　he　finally　emerged　into　a　central　chamber。　It　was　a　chamber　wrought　with　exact　precision　into　the　interior　of　a　perfect　pyramid；　aligned　to　the　four　cardinal　points　and　fashioned　from　the　choicest　leather…bound　volumes　of　the　entire　collection。
　Within　this　extraordinary　bower；　illuminated　by　the　room's　original　naked　fly…specked　bulb；　were　ranged　an　array　of　anomalous　objects。　A　low　dais　surmounted　by　a　single　velvet　cushion；　a　crystal；　a　milk　bottle　containing　joss　sticks；　a　framed　picture　of　Edgar　Allan　Poe　and　a　lone　sprout　under　a　glass　dome。
　Small　Dave　scrambled　on　to　the　velvet　cushion　and　closed　his　eyes。　The　spines　of　the　books　stared　down　upon　him；　a　multi…coloured　leathern　brickwork。　He　knew　that　he　could　never　remove　a　single　volume；　for　fear　of　premature　burial；　but　as　he　had　read　every　book　in　the　room　several　times　over　and　had　memorized　all　by　heart　he　had　little　need　ever　to　consult　them。　His　knowledge　of　the　books　transcended　mere　perusal　and　absorption　of　their　printed　words。　He　sought　the　deeper　truths；　and　to　do　so　it　was　necessary　for　him　to　consort　with　their　very　author。　For　if　it　was　strange　that　such　a　chamber　should　exist　and　that　such　a