rr.thebrentfordtriangle-第30部分

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e　from　his　desk　and　took　himself　over　to　the　whisky　decanter。　'No；'　he　said　once　more；　'out　of　the　question。'
　Partly　filling　an　exquisite　crystal　tumbler；　he　pressed　the　prismed　top　back　into　the　decanter's　neck；　and　sank　into　one　of　the　leathern　fireside　chairs。　Idly　he　turned　the　tumbler　between　thumb　and　forefinger；　watching　the　reflected　firelight　as　it　danced　and　twinkled　in　the　clear　amber　liquid。　His　eyelids　became　hooded　and　heavy；　and　his　old　head　nodded　gently　upon　his　equally　aged　shoulders。　It　was　evident　to　the　gaunt…faced　figure　who　lurked　in　the　darkness　without　the　French　windows；　polluting　the　perfumed　garden　air　with　the　acrid　stench　of　creosote；　that　the　old　man　was　well　set　to　take　a　quick　forty。
　Needless　to　say；　this　was　far　from　being　the　case；　and　beneath　the　snowy　lashes　two　glittering　blue　eyes　watched　as　a　flicker　of　movement　close　by　the　great　velvet　curtains　announced　the　arrival　of　a　most　unwele　guest。　It　was　a　flicker　of　movement　and　nothing　more；　for　again　the　room　appeared　empty；　but　for　an　elderly　gentleman；　now　snoring　noisily　hi　a　fireside　chair。
　Professor　Slobe　watched　as　the　silent　figure　delved　amongst　the　crowded　papers　of　his　desk　and　ran　his　hands　over　the　bindings　of　the　precious　books。　The　Cerean；　convinced　of　his　invisibility；　went　about　his　evil　business　with　a　will；　but　naught　was　missed　by　the　Professor；　to　whom　the　word　'hologram'　meant　little　more　than　'electronic　party　trick'。
　At　length；　however；　he　could　stand　the　defilement　of　his　property　no　longer。　Rising　suddenly　from　his　sham　repose　he　addressed　his　uninvited　visitor　in　no　uncertain　terms。　'Replace　my　papers　and　get　out　of　my　study　at　once；'　said　he；　'or　know　the　consequences　for　your　boorish　behaviour。'
　The　Cerean　stiffened　and　turned　a　startled　face　towards　the　Professor。　He　fingered　the　dials　upon　a　small　black　box　which　hung　at　his　belt。
　'You　can　tinker　with　that　piece　of　junk　until　the　sun　goes　dim；　but　I　can　assure　you　that　it　will　not　work　upon　me。'
　The　Cerean　opened　his　cruel　mouth　and　spoke　in　an　accent　which　was　unlike　any　other　that　the　Professor　had　ever　heard。　'Who　are　you？'　he　asked。
　Professor　Slobe　smiled　wanly。　'I　am　either　your　saviour　or　your　nemesis。'
　'I　think　not；'　said　the　Cerean。
　'If　you　are　inclined　to　prolong　your　visit；　might　I　offer　you　a　drink？'　the　old　man　asked　courteously。
　The　Cerean　laughed　loudly。　'Drink？'　said　he。　'Drink　is　the　ruination　of　your　species。　Who　do　you　think　invented　it　for　you　hi　the　first　place？'
　'Hm。'　The　old　man　nodded　thoughtfully；　it　would　be　better　to　keep　that　piece　of　intelligence　from　Pooley　and　Omally。　They　might　feel　inclined　to　change　sides。　'As　you　will；'　he　said　blandly。　'May　I　inquire　then　why　you　have　e　here？'
　'I　have　e　to　kill　you；'　said　the　Cerean；　in　such　an　offhand　manner　that　it　quite　unsettled　the　Professor's　nerves。　'You　are　proving　an　annoyance；　you　and　the　pink…eyed　man　beneath。　We　shall　deal　with　him　shortly。'
　'That　may　not　be　so　easy　as　you　might　believe。'
　The　Cerean　turned　up　the　palms　of　his　hands。　'You　are　old　and　decrepit。　A　single　blow　will　cut　the　frail　cord　of　your　existence。'
　'Appearances　can　sometimes　be　deceptive；'　said　the　Professor。　'I　for　example　happen　to　be　a　master　of　Dimac；　the　deadliest　form　of　martial　art　known　to　mankind。　My　hands　and　feet　are　registered　with　the　local　constabulary　as　deadly　weapons。　They　can。。。　'
　'Rip；　maim；　mutilate；　disfigure　and　kill　with　little　more　than　the　application　of　a　fingertip's　pressure；'　said　the　Cerean。　'I　know。　Who　do　you　think　invented　Dimac　in　the　first　place？'
　'I　find　your　conversation　tending　towards　the　repetitious。　Kindly　take　your　leave　now；　I　have　much　to　do。'
　'Such　as　plotting　the　downfall　of　the　Cerean　Empire？'
　'Amongst　other　things　…　I　do　have　more　important　business。'
　The　man　from　Ceres　laughed　hollowly。　'You　have　great　courage；　old　man；'　said　he。　'We　of　Ceres　hold　courage　and　bravery　above　all　other　things。'
　'I　understand　that　you　like　a　good　fight；　yes；'　said　the　Professor。　'Although　you　do　not　always　win。　How's　the　armpit？'
　The　Cerean　clutched　at　his　tender　parts。　'Shortly；'　he　snarled；　'your　race　will　again　know　the　might　of　Ceres。　They　will　feel　the　jackboot　upon　their　necks。　You；　however；　will　not　be　here　to　witness　it。'
　'I　am　expecting　to　enjoy　a　long　and　happy　retirement；'　said　Professor　Slobe；　noting　to　his　satisfaction　and　relief　that　Gammon　had　now　entered　the　French　windows；　wielding　an　antique　warming…pan。　'I　worry　for　you；　though。'
　'Do　not　waste　your　concern。　When　the　battle　fleet　arrives　and　the　true　masters　of　Earth　once　more　set　foot　upon　the　planet；　they　will　have　none　to　spare　for　your　puny　race。'
　'Brave　talk。　When　might　we　expect　this　happy　event？'
　'Two　days　from　now。　It　is　a　pity　you　will　miss　it。'
　'Oh；　I　won't　miss　it。　I　have　a　table　booked　at　the　Swan　upon　that　evening。　It　is　the　darts　tournament。　We　hold　the　challenge　shield；　you　know。'
　'Of　course　I　know。　Who　do　you　think　invented　darts？'
　'Are　all　your　race　such　blatant　liars？'
　'Enough　talk！'　The　Cerean　pushed　past　the　Professor's　desk　and　crossed　the　room；　to　stand　glaring；　eye　to　eye　with　the　old　man。　'I　know　not　who　or　what　you　are；'　he　said。　'Certainly　you　are　unlike　any　human　I　have　encountered　hereabouts；　although　long　ago　I　feel　that　I　have　met　such　men　as　you。　But　for　the　present　know　only　this：　as　a　race；　you　humans　fear　death；　and　you　are　staring　yours　in　the　face。'
　Professor　Slobe　met　the　Cerean's　blazing　glare　with　a　cold；　unblinking　stare。　'I　like　you　not；'　he　said　mildly。　'It　was　my　firm　conviction　that　some　promise　might　have　been　reached　between　our　peoples。　I　strongly　disapprove　of　needless　bloodshed；　be　the　blood　flowing　from　human　veins　or　otherwise。　There　is　yet　time；　if　only　you　could　persuade　your　race　to　reconsider。　Be　assured　that　if　you　go　ahead　with　your　plans　you　will　meet　with　certain　defeat。　It　is　folly　to　attack　Earth。　We　have　been　awaiting　you　for　years　and　we　are　well　prepared。'
　'With　the　corner　up；　you　have；'　sneered　the　Cerean。　'You　cannot　stand　against　our　battle　fleet。　We　will　crush　you　into　submission。　Slaves　you　were　and　slaves　you　shall　yet　bee。'
　'Is　there　no　passion　then；　no　spark　of　what　we　call　humanity？'
　The　Cerean　curled　his　lip。　'None；'　he　said。
　'Then　at　least　it　makes　my　task　a　little　easier。'
　'Prepare　for　death；'　said　the　man　from　Ceres。
　'Strike　the　blighter　down；'　said　Professor　Slobe。
　Gammon　swung　the　antique　warming…pan　with　a　will　and　struck　the　Cerean　a　mighty　blow　to　the　back　of　the　head。　A　sharp　metallic　clang　announced　the　departure　of　a　Cerean　soul；　bound　for　wherever　those　lads　go　to　once　parted　from　their　unearthly　bodies。
　'He　was　surely　lying　about　the　darts；　wasn't　he；　sir？'　Gammon　asked。
　'I　sincerely　hope　so；'　the　Professor　replied。　'They　might　have　got　a　team　up。'
　
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　The　editor　of　the　Brentford　Mercury　screwed　the　cap　back　on　to　his　fountain　pen　and　wedged　the　thing　behind　his　right　ear。　He　leant　back　in　his　pockmarked　swivel　chair　and　gazed　up　at　the　fly…specked　yellow　ceiling　of　his　grimy　office。　Before　him；　upon　the　overloaded　desk；　was　a　mountain　of　reports　which；　although　being　the　very　bread　of　life　to　the　Fortean　Society；　could　hardly　be　considered　even　food　for　thought　to　the　simple　folk　of　Brentford。
　Certainly　mystery　and　intrigue　had　been　known　to　sell　a　few　papers；　but　this　stuff　was　silly　season　sensationalism　and　it　wasn't　the　silly　season　for　another　month　or　more。　The　editor　reached　into　his　drawer　for　his　bottle　of　Fleet　Street　fort。　Tipping　the　pencils　from　a　paper　cup；　he　filled　it　to　the　brim。
　It　all　seemed　to　have　started　with　that　riot　in　the　Haling　Road。　He　had　been　receiving　odd　little　reports　prior　to　this；　but　they　had　been　mainly　of　the　lights　in　the　sky　and　rumblings　in　the　earth　variety；　and　merited　little　consideration。　The　riot；　strange　enough　in　itself　in　peace…loving　Brentford；　had　turned　up　the　first　of　a　flock　of　really　weird　ones；　and　this　verified　by　the　Brentford　constabulary。
　There　was　the　long　black　limousine　of　American　manufacture　which　had　roared　away　from　the　scene　of　the　crime　pursued　by　two　squad　cars；　and　then　simply　vanished　in　a　most　improbable　fashion　up　a　cul…de…sac。　The　boys　in　blue　had　made　a　full…scale　search　of　the　area；　which　backed　on　to　the　allotment；　but　had　e　up　with　nothing。　The　car　had　simply　ceased　to　exist。
　There　was　this　continuing　sequence　of　power　cuts　the　area　had　been　experiencing。　The　local　sub…station　had　denied　any　responsibility　and　their　only　ment　had　been　that　during　their　duration　the　entire　power　supply　seemed　literally　to　drain　away；　as　if　down　a　plughole。
　If　the　disappearance　of　Brentford's　electricity　was　weird；　then　the　sudden　appearance　last　week　of　a　one…inch　layer　of　sand　pletely　blanketing　Brentford's　football　ground　was　weirder　still。　The　groundsman's　claim　that　it　was　sabotage　upon　the　part　of　a　rival　team　seemed　unlikely。
　And　then；　of　course；　there　was　this　lunatic　craze　for　Jack　Palance　impersonation　which　was　sweeping　the　borough。　It　seemed　a　localized　vogue；　as　he　had　had　no　reports　of　it　ing　in　from　outside　the　area。　But　there　they　were　in　Brentford；　lounging　on　corners　or　skulking　about　up　alleyways。　Nobody　knew　who　they　we