“No doubt,” said Omally.

“The symbol upon this disc” – Soap held the glittering item aloft – “means literally what the Professor told you. ‘I am “C” the fifth of the ten.’ It is the insignia of the planet Ceres which was once the tenth planet in our solar system, fifth from the sun. Ceres was the home world to a most advanced race of beings who commuted between the planets much in the way that you or I might take a sixty-five up to Ealing Broadway. Their world was small and their population large. They needed another planet similar to theirs for colonization. Naturally enough their eyes turned towards Earth, a world at that time only sporting a primitive society which offered little opposition to such an advanced race. They sent out scout parties, who were pleased to discover that the simple Earthers hailed them as gods. No doubt the Cereans would be running the place even now had not their warlike natures got the best of them. A great war developed upon Ceres and whilst a considerable number of the lads were here arranging matters to their satisfaction their entire planet was totally destroyed, leaving them marooned.

“The cataclysm was, if you will pardon the expression, somewhat earth-shattering, and the shocks were felt here. A travelling asteroid, the Moon as we now know it, was blown into orbit around the Earth causing absolute devastation. Half of the world was flooded. Those Cereans who survived the holocaust did so by withdrawing here and sealing themselves in. Little remained to ever prove their existence but for legend.

“The Cerean survivors never lost hope, although they were few in number and the centuries which passed saw mankind’s development slowly approaching that of their own. Still they remained, waiting and plotting. For they had one thing to wait and plot for.

“Shortly before the planet’s destruction the men of Ceres had sent a great strike force out of this solar system to seek other stars and other worlds. The Cereans knew that they would some day return and, finding no Ceres, would put two and two together and revisit the Earth. Thus they have remained, waiting and waiting, preparing for this return. They are doing so still and their time has almost come. Even as I speak the Cerean strike force is streaking across the Cosmos bound for Earth. And they have only one thing upon their minds.”

Soap ceased his fantastic monologue, and Pooley and Omally stared at him dumb and slack-jawed. “If you don’t mind me saying so,” said John at length, “and please do not construe this as any criticism of yourself or your character, that is the most absurd piece of nonsense I have ever had the misfortune of listening to.”

“I have seen the film of it,” said Pooley, “dubbed from the original Japanese it was.”

“And the lights upon the allotment,” said Soap, “what would you take those to be?”

“The work of the council,” said Omally firmly, “another plot to confound honest golfers.”

Soap burst into a paroxysm of laughter. Tears rolled down his pale cheeks and he clutched at his stomach.

“Come now,” said Pooley, “it is no laughing matter, those lads have it in for us.”

“Have it in for you?” gasped Soap between convulsions. “You witness a test run of laser-operated gravitational landing beams, the product of a technology beyond comprehension, and you put it down to the work of Brentford Council?”

“If you will pardon me,” said Pooley, somewhat offended, “if it is the product of a technology beyond comprehension I hardly feel that we can be blamed for finding it so.”

“Quite,” said Omally.

“And your journey here through the solid concrete floor of an empty allotment shed?”

“I have been meaning to ask somebody about that,” said John.

“It was a hologram,” said Pooley, matter-of-factly.

“Oh, of course, one of those lads.”

“I must apologize for your rapid descent,” Soap explained. “I had a great deal of trouble in keeping the door open long enough for you both to enter. I was unable, however, to stop the Cereans bringing down the lift.”

“Come now,” said Pooley, who had always been fond of the phrase, “be fair Soap, all this is a little hard to swallow.”

“Nevertheless, it is true. As true as the fact that you are sitting here, a mile and a half beneath Penge, drinking one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old Rhine wine.”

“Penge?” Pooley shook his head once more. “Where the hell is Penge?”

“I’ve never been quite certain myself, but I’m told that it’s a very nice place.”

John and Jim finished their second bottles and sat in silence wondering what in the world they were to do next. Omally sat glowering into the carpet. Pooley took off his jacket, which was starting to steam at the shoulders. “All right,” he said at last, “say that we do believe you.”

“I don’t,” Omally interrupted.

“Yes, well, say that we did. What do you suppose we can do about it? How can we -” he indicated himself and his bedraggled companion “- how can we battle it out with an intergalactic strike force? I myself possess a barlow knife which is good for whittling and Omally has an air pistol. Could you perhaps chip in with a few Sam missiles and the odd thermonuclear device?”

“Sadly no,” said Soap. “But I am open to any suggestions at this time.”

“I have one to make,” said John Omally bitterly. Pooley covered his ears.

Small Dave lay in his hospital bed for some days before the doctors released him. He seemed sound enough physically, a little scorched about the extremities, but nothing more… It was his mental state which put the wind up the hospital staff. The constant talking to himself. Still, there was no law as yet against that sort of thing, and he wasn’t a private patient, was he? The doctors consequently turned the dwarf postman out on to the street and left him to fend for himself.

At length he returned to the boarded-up shell which had been his family seat for countless generations. As he stood peering up at the blackened brickwork there was little emotion to be found upon his elfin face. With a mere shrug, a brief display of hand-flapping, and a word or two to an invisible companion, he turned upon his heel and shambled away towards the Ealing Road.

Neville watched him pass from the Swan’s doorway. “Vindictive, grudge-bearing wee bastard,” was all the part-time barman had to say.

As the dwarf receded into the distance, Neville noted to his dismay that a bouncing, striding figure, sporting a lime-green coiffure and a natty line in bondage trousers, was rapidly approaching, his denim pockets bulging with coin of the realm and his trigger finger already a-twitch. It was, in fact, twitching at a rate exactly equivalent to that of the nervous tic the part-time barman had recently developed in his good eye.

“Damn,” said Neville, as Raffles Rathbone offered him a cheery wave. The bouncing boy squeezed past him into the saloon-bar and jogged up to the Captain Laser Alien Attack Machine. “Good morning to you,” he said, addressing the thing directly. “Ready for the off?”

With a single movement he tore aside the “Out of Order” sign Neville had Sellotaped over the video screen and cast it across the floor.

“Broken,” said the part-time barman, without turning from his position in the doorway. “Coin jammed in the mechanism, won’t work.”

Nick eyed the barman’s rear quarters with suspicion. “I’ll give it a try, to make sure,” he said slowly.

“Brewery say to leave it, might blow up if anyone tampers with it.”

“Can’t see any coin,” said the lad, squinting into the slot.

“I have my orders. Have to wait for the engineer.”

“Really?” Nick’s ill-matched eyes flickered between the barman’s back and the humming machine. A florin hovered in his hand and a look of indecision wrinkled his brow.

Neville turned suddenly. “Best leave it, eh?”