“That not heap big medicine,” said Barry Geronimo. “That fucking impossible!”

“Not really,” said Julian Membrane. “You see, it is not actually defying gravity. The disc is falling, but it is falling so slowly that its movement is scarcely perceptible. So you see the stadium is really only moored to the five columns. During the two months or so it is in use it will fall possibly two inches or so.”

Even though he felt sure it would get him nowhere, Clyde Ffog persisted, “What if someone drops something during the actual assembling? Hammer? Rivets? Someone in Brentford is sure to get killed!”

“No chance of that whatsoever.” Julian’s smugness was becoming roundly intolerable. “Gravitite possesses other qualities. Its molecular structure is such that two pieces need only be touched together for them to weld unbreakably as one. Therefore no rivets, no visible joins, no hammers. The stadium will be constructed elsewhere in sections, towed into place by dirigibles and manoeuvred together at night.”

Councillor Ffog knew when he was licked. (He also enjoyed it very much at times.) The whole thing was utterly fantastic. Pure science fiction.

Philip Cameron’s eyes suddenly shone with a strange light. It was the light of realization. Realization that The Moment that only comes to a man once in his lifetime had just arrived. Before him, hanging motionless in the air was an apparently endless row of pound note signs.

“This Gravitite stuff,” he said casually, “obviously it can be produced pretty cheaply if you intend to build an entire stadium out it.” Julian nodded. “Then I’m sure you won’t object if I have this piece as a souvenir.”

Julian plucked the disc from the air. It turned weightlessly in his hand. “I’m afraid not,” he said, thrusting it back into his pocket.

“How rude of me,” said Philip, praying despairingly that the cold sweat breaking out on his forehead would remain unnoticed. “Let me write you out a cheque for your time and trouble.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Come now,” crooned Cameron, “you’ll take Barclaycard surely, American Express?”

“I’m afraid not,” Julian patted his pocket.

“Oh, come on, please, it’s only a tiny piece, you can spare it!” Cameron’s voice was cracking and he knew it. So did everyone else.

A suddenly enlightened Barry Geronimo broke in with, “I’ll go cash on it, John, how does a century sound?”

“One hundred and fifty,” said Councillor Ffog, “no, make it two hundred.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Julian raised his hand to bring the feverish bidding to a halt. There were knighthoods in this project and he knew it. Also his partnership had been promised the Gravitite account when it went public after the games. “It is not the money, I assure you,” he lied. “I cannot sell what is not mine to sell. We have been honoured with the trust of our client. M.M.W.T. and G. never betray the trust of a client.”

Philip Cameron sank away into a chair. He had missed his Moment and would live out the rest of his days a broken man. Mavis Peake put her arm about his shoulder and offered her hanky. “Have a good blow,” she said.

“Gentlemen, please,” Julian Membrane raised an admonitory palm towards the Geronimo brothers, whose conversation had turned towards the taking of paleface scalps and who were delving into their medicine bags for suitable war-paint. “Lucas here is a master of Dimac, deadliest form of martial art known to mankind.”

Paul peered suspiciously over his make-up mirror. “Sitting Bullshit,” he said, smearing Mary Quant across his right cheek.

“If there are no further questions,” said Lucas, “we shall not take up any more of your valuable time.”

“I have a couple,” said Clyde Ffog.

“And they are?” The unveiled condescension in Julian’s voice grated upon Ffog’s soul. She’s a prize bitch, this one, he thought to himself.

“Just a couple of small matters I’d like you to put me straight on.”

Julian glanced at the Geronimos. They were momentarily preoccupied with their make-up. “Yes then?”

“Firstly, who owns the sites on which you plan to erect the leg columns?”

“Ah,” said Julian. “That is the beauty of the concept. Our client owns all five sites; he purchased them all most recently. From you, the Brentford Council.”

“I see,” said Ffog. “You seem to have been very thorough indeed.”

Julian smiled broadly and bowed slightly. “Anything else, was there?”

“Just one thing.” Clyde Ffog stroked at his chin. By a bizarre twist of fate his One Moment was just about to occur and he wanted to savour it. “I was just wondering,” he said slowly, “whether you’d got planning permission?”

Julian and Lucas looked at one another. They had not got planning permission. “Ah,” said Julian. “Ah,” said Lucas. “Ah,” said the councillors, although theirs was an entirely different kind of ah. “Ah, indeed,” said Clyde Ffog, smiling broadly.

If The Guinness Book of Records was ever to include a section for “The Largest Backhander Ever Taken By a District Surveyor” it would appear above the name of Clyde Merridew Ffog, formerly of Brentford and now domiciled in the Seychelles. “Would you gentlemen care to step into my office?” asked this most exalted amongst men.

Amidst gasps of horror, murmurs of disbelief and the sound of tomahawks being drawn, Clyde Ffog ushered the two young oiks hurriedly from the chamber.

At precisely eleven o’clock Neville sheepishly opened the saloon-bar door, upon the safety chain. Lowering his pomander he took a delicate peck at the air. It smelt like fish. “It smells like fish,” said the puzzled barkeep.

“That’s because it is fish.” John Omally grinned through the crack. “Open up there, Neville.”

“Sorry, John.” The part-time barman slipped the chain and flip-flopped back across the bar. Omally followed him, a bulging bin-liner slung across his shoulder. “By the saints, Neville,” said he as the barman placed the pomander upon the bar counter and himself behind it, “you smell like the proverbial tart’s handbag!”

“Again, sorry.” Neville held a shining glass beneath the spout of the beer engine and drew off a pint of the very best. He held it to the light. It was clear as an author’s conscience. “The drains must be up,” he tapped at his sensitive nostrils with a free finger, “or something.”

“I understand.” Omally settled himself on to his favourite stool. He had no intention of being drawn into another discourse on the barman’s ENP. “I’ve two beauties here,” he said, depositing his load on to the bar counter. “Fresh river trout,” he explained. He placed his glass to his lips and took the first sip of the day. Neville paused a moment, his day was won or lost upon the outcome of this single sip. “Magic,” said John, smacking his lips together and taking another draught. “Magic.”

Neville relaxed. “Still ten bob a pound, I trust?”

“The very same, a couple of six pounders here.” Neville gave Omally the old fish-eye and took out his pocket scales. “Well, fives at the very least, hand-fed on hempseed and mealworms.”

“Not hand fed upon spanners like those other two you sold me?”

Omally smiled his winning smile and sipped his ale. “You will have your little joke,” said he between sippings.

“And you yours, but not at my expense.” Neville weighed up the fish, cashed up NO SALE on the publican’s piano and drew out five crisp one pound notes. “Shall I take for your pint now?” he asked.

“That’s a bit previous,” said John. “Jim will be here at any moment.”

Neville offered Omally a sociable smile and hauled the day’s catch away to the pub freezer.

Old Pete, Brentford’s horticultural elder statesman, entered the Flying Swan, his half-terrier Chips hard as ever upon his down-at-heels.

“Morning, John,” said he, joining Omally at the bar.