“But that thing,” said Jim, “that thing in the building—”

“One thing at a time, Jim. If we obtain a truce from Mr Starling, his promise that he will make no further attempts upon your lives, then you can concentrate upon the job at hand – protecting Griffin Park. I and my associates will deal with Lord Cthulhu.”

Jim threw up his hands, all but spilling his Scotch (but not quite). “It all seems terribly complicated,” he said. “And if you’ll pardon me saying this, aren’t we missing something obvious?”

“Enlighten me,” said the professor.

“Well,” said Jim, “all right, if the team wins the FA Cup, then Griffin Park is saved and the Consortium cannot dig it up and release the serpent. But why are they even bothering to attempt to buy the ground in the first place? Why don’t they just sneak in one night with a load of shovels and simply dig up the blighter?”

“Good point,” said John. “Jim has a good point there, Professor.”

“He does, John, and I will tell you why they cannot do this. It is not a matter of simply digging up the serpent. If it were, then they would have done so already. The serpent remains constrained through the will of God. A digger and a spade would not be sufficient.”

“Then what would?” Jim asked.

“Something,” said the professor, “beyond more than, if I might misuse the word, mere magic. And something that will involve more than a furtive overnight dig. I suspect, and it is only a suspicion, that it would involve the employment of some kind of alternative technology, some kind of energy – although I know not what.”

“And where would this Starling acquire such alternative technology?” Jim asked.

“I have no idea, Jim, but if it exists, then I have no doubt that if he has not already acquired it, he most certainly will.”

“Yes,” said Jim, “but where from?”

“Possibly anywhere, Jim. Possibly from right here.”

“Right here,” said Norman. “Can you drop me off right here?”

“This isn’t your shop,” said the gentleman.

“No, it’s The Flying Swan,” said Norman, who had quite forgotten that he had been barred. “I think I might down a celebratory stiff one or two before I go home.”

“And face your lady wife.”

“Something like that, yes.”

“Then I shall say farewell to you, Mr Hartnel. It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Have your solicitor go through the contracts tomorrow. I will telephone you tomorrow evening and hopefully we will have a deal.”

“Hopefully,” said Norman.

The electrically operated rear door opened and Norman stepped from the car.

“I am very excited about your patents,” said the gentleman. “I make no secret of the fact. They offer, how shall I put this, an alternative technology to the world. We can expect most astonishing things to occur through their employment.”

“The biggest fish swim near the bottom,” said Norman, “and a cheerful look makes a dish into a feast.”

“Quite so.”

“Well, it’s been a pleasure to meet you.” Norman peered at the gentleman’s business card. “Mr Starling,” he said.

Professor Slocombe removed himself from his study.

“Where has he gone?” Jim asked the Campbell.

“To meet with that blackguard Starling, I’m thinking, to strike a deal in exchange for the Eye.” The Campbell waggled his claymore towards the sinister gem that twinkled on Professor Slocombe’s desk.

“Then we must go with him.” John Omally leapt to his feet, spilling precious whisky as he did so.

“You can’t go with him. He’ll not be leaving the house.”

“Then Starling is coming here?”

The Campbell shook his turbaned head.

“Then I don’t understand you,” said Omally.

“They’ll not be meeting in the flesh,” said the Campbell, which really didn’t help matters.

“I know what he’s going to do,” said Jim. “He can really do it?” Jim addressed this question to the Highlander.

“Aye,” said Mahatma Campbell.

“Incredible.” And Jim shook his head. “All my life I’ve wanted to do that.”

“You’ll have to enlighten me, please,” said John. “This conversation appears to be in code.”

“Astral travel,” said Jim. “The professor will put himself into a mystical trance and his ectoplasmic spirit form will leave his physical body and travel to the meeting with Starling.”

“Right,” said John. It was a definite kind of “right”.

“It’s true as Jim says it,” said the Campbell, helping himself to another treble Scotch.

“After you with that decanter,” said John. “But leave his body? That is the stuff of fantasy fiction.”

“That would be irony, would it, John?” said Jim. “Considering what we’ve just been through? But I did it once, left my own body.”

“After ten pints of Large, with the wind behind you.”

“I did, John. I really did.”

John’s glass was refreshed with Scotch. And Jim’s glass took refreshment, too.

“You left your body?” said John. “I have heard of such things. Were you in a car crash or something?”

“John, you’ve known me all my life. Have I ever been in a car crash?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Then let me tell you what happened. Remember yesterday, when you told me all about what was going on and what had really happened to me on Friday night and you said that I took it very well?”

“You did,” said John, “ridiculously well, and then you came up with the plan to visit the Consortium building. Rather a bold plan, I considered, for one so normally timid as yourself.”

“I’m not timid,” said Jim, “I’m just cautious. But the reason I took it so well is because somehow I’ve always been expecting something like this to happen. I’ve always believed in this kind of stuff.”

“It’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

“Because I knew you’d laugh.”

“I’m a Catholic,” said John. “You’d be surprised at all the old rubbish we Catholics believe in.”

“No, I wouldn’t. But this kind of thing has always fascinated me and I always hoped it would be real. You see, when I was a child, my dad gave me a copy of Lobsang Rampa’s book The Third Eye. It’s the autobiography of a man who grew up in a lamasery in Lhasa, Tibet. He became a lama and learned to open the third eye in his forehead. And he could see peoples’ auras and indulge in astral travel and even levitate.”

“Sounds most unlikely,” said John.

“And, sadly, so it proved to be. Years later the book was revealed to be a hoax written by Cyril Henry Hoskins, a plumber from Plympton.”

“Tough luck,” said John.

“But it didn’t put me off,” Jim continued. “And when I was a teenager I discovered Dr Strange in Marvel Comics – the original series, drawn by the now legendary Steve Ditko. Dr Strange learns all the stuff that Lobsang—”

“Cyril,” said John.

“Yes, that Cyril said he’d learned. He battles Baron Mordo and the Dread Dormammu. And I really, really wanted to do that, and every night I would lie naked on my bed and try to leave my body.”

“I’ve never heard it called that before,” said John, doing a Sid James snigger.

“Don’t be crude.” Jim sipped further Scotch. “But every night I tried, concentrating really hard. And then one night I actually did it.”

“You left your body?”

“Floated right out of myself. It was very scary at first. I sort of hung there above my bed, looking down at me, which I can tell you is very strange, because I didn’t look the way I thought I looked.”

Omally shook his head and rolled his eyes.

“Because,” said Jim, “we only see ourselves in mirrors, and that’s the wrong way round. That’s not the way we look to other people. We see ourselves in photographs, but that’s not the same, either.”

“Nice touch,” said John.

“What?”

“I said ‘nice touch’. That little detail adds a bit of authenticity to your ludicrous tale.”