“The very same, Jim. William Starling should have died when the holocaust occurred at the turn of the twentieth century and all the supertechnology was destroyed. I do not know all of the details. It all has to do with alternative histories and alternative futures. Such things cause the mind to spin. Somehow some remnants of the super-technology survived, and Norman acquired them.”

“His patents?” said Jim.

“They were not his. Starling had accumulated his wealth because for a period he had been able to travel freely from his present into our present. Consequently he knew what to invest in, and he knew what would happen before it did so. But then, I am not without knowledge and I was able to predict what would occur – including the arrival of my old friend Mr H.G. Wells, with whom I have had the pleasure of spending many delightful chess-playing evenings over the last few months whilst Norman worked on repairing his Time Machine. The one in the back of the van here. I hope it didn’t take too much of a knock in the crash.”

Jim shook his head, but it didn’t help to ease his confusion. “Are we nearly there yet?” he asked.

“Nearly,” said John.

“Can’t you catch up with Starling?”

“He’s riding a Harley Davidson,” said John. “And I do not know swearwords of sufficient obscenity to make this knackered old van keep up with a Harley.”

“I do,” said Professor Slocombe. “Press on.”

And Professor Slocombe spoke Babylonian cusswords.

And Norman’s van went even faster.

And William Starling’s purloined Harley soared into the car park of the Consortium building. Smoke issued freely from the shattered windows on many levels Starling stepped from the motorcycle and gazed up at the conflagration. And words issued from his mouth. Words of no language spoken by man. Words of the language of the Great Old Ones.

The language of the Lord Cthulhu.

Starling reached into an inner pocket of his ruined jacket, drew out a pistol, tore the jacket from his shoulders and flung it aside. And then he stalked across the car park and entered the unholy building.

“Unholy bastards.” Terrence blasted away at darksters that rose up before him. And then gun barrels continued to spin, but nothing issued from them. “Sponge Boy,” shouted Terrence, “I’m out of ammunition.”

They were on the topmost floor, advancing along the black marble corridor that led to the terrible room.

“Hate to be the bringer of bad tidings,” said Sponge Boy, dropping his own mighty weapon to the floor, “but I’m also out.”

“Never fear.” The Campbell hewed and slashed, and dark shapes shredded before him. “We have reached our objective. I will set the charges.”

“Then do it speedily,” said Terrence, “and we might get back in time to see the end of the match.”

“You’re videoing it,” said Sponge Boy.

“Yeah, but it’s not the same as seeing it live.”

Something alive that wasn’t alive, that lived, yet did not live, stirred behind doors that were adorned with scenes of abominable horror. Great eyes rolled evilly, batlike wings rustled, tentacles curled and twisted. A fearsome inhuman intelligence sensed danger. Tentacles rolled, forced open the doors and spread hideously about the Eye of Utu, between the cabinets of fossils, towards the outer doors.

The Campbell unzipped his tartan holdall and took from it explosives. Affixed these to the doors. Did primings and pressing of buttons. Little red liquid-display figures began their countings down.

“How fast can you laddies run?” asked the Campbell.

“Quite fast,” said Terrence.

“Well, you have three minutes to flee from the building.”

“Very fast,” said Sponge Boy. “Let’s do it.”

“Do it,” said the Campbell. “Do it now.”

“Come on, then,” said Terrence.

The Campbell shook his head. “Not I,” said he. “I tire. I am done with being a man. It never suited me well.”

“Come on,” said Terrence. “Don’t mess about now. Come with us.”

“Two minutes and forty seconds,” said the Campbell. “Run fast, wee laddies, run fast.”

Terrence looked at Sponge Boy.

Sponge Boy looked at Terrence.

And then they both turned tail and ran.

Very fast.

Mahatma Campbell raised his claymore and faced the doors behind which lurked the horror.

“Come at me, if you will,” cried he. “I am ready for thee.”

“Come on,” said the professor.

“We’re there,” said John, swinging into the car park. “And there’s the motorcycle.”

“There is little time left, John. What must be done must be done, and Starling must not stop it.”

John and Jim aided the ancient scholar through the shattered rear exit door, along a corridor and into the ruined foyer. Smoke swirled. The lads fanned at their faces.

“This place really has gone downhill since the last time we were here,” said Jim.

“Needs a bit of a face-lift,” said John. “They should call in that Robert Llewellyn Jones.”

“Isn’t he the bloke out of Red Dwarf?” asked Jim.

“No, that’s Craig David.”

“Charles,” said Jim.

“Charles Atlas?” said John. “I thought he was a body-builder.”

“No, that’s—”

“Stop,” said Professor Slocombe. “This is neither the time nor the place.”

“Sorry,” said Jim. “Just trying to keep our spirits up, what with impending death seeming so high upon the agenda at present.”

“I understand that.” Professor Slocombe peered into the swirling smoke. “Light,” he commanded.

The swirling smoke parted.

“Impressive, that,” said John.

The swirling smoke parted to reveal …

Mr William Starling.

“Take not another step,” said he.

Professor Slocombe took another step.

“No,” said Starling and he raised his pistol.

“Put that aside,” said the professor. “Face me as a magician, one magician to another.”

“I think not, Professor. You cannot be trusted. You have wrought great harm upon my premises. Hardly playing by the rules, was it?”

“That you would relinquish your financial hold on the football ground if the team that won the Cup. I feel, Starling, that you might have reneged upon that particular deal.”

“Which is why you waited until this hour to attack my master. Cunning, Professor. Very cunning.”

“The game is up for you, Starling. You have lost. Even now, above—”

“Your Scottish creature seeks to wreak destruction. He will be gone in but a moment. But you first.”

William Starling cocked his pistol.

Behind him, coming down the stairs, were Terrence Jehovah Smithers and the Second Sponge Boy. They put fingers to their lips and did furtive creepings.

“Gentlemen,” called Starling without turning his head, “please don’t even think about trying to take me from behind. Walk slowly around, please, or I will shoot the professor in the face.”

Terrence and Sponge Boy slowly walked around. “Sorry, Professor,” said Terrence.

“Starling,” said Professor Slocombe, “there are only moments remaining. Deliver yourself now, willingly, into my hands and I will deliver you from the evil that lurks within you.”

William Starling laughed. “Oh no,” said he. “I have plans, great plans. All this world will be mine. I have been into the future, seen it for myself. And I will go there again. All is preordained – that you should be here, at this time, that you should deliver Mr Wells’ Time Machine to me. It is in the van in the car park, is it not? You cannot kill my master. That which does not live cannot die. Your time has been wasted. You have come here only to die, that I should be rid of further annoyance from you.”

From above there came a mighty rumble. But it was not that of an explosion, rather of a titanic force that splintered walls and tore doors from their hinges. The Campbell fell back as tentacles engulfed him. He fought with ferocity.