Omally shook his head ferociously, his honour was at stake here. “Psychology,” he informed Neville.

“Oh, psychology is it, well silly old me, I could have sworn that he was enjoying himself.”

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 Bitow”

“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 combat 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, you’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.”

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 community 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.