“Silence,” said Omally. “If it is here, I will have it.”

Jim sucked at his pint. “What are all those?” he asked, pointing to a network of squiggles.

“The drainage system of the borough.”

“Very good, and those?”

“All the houses that to my knowledge have recently fitted loft insulation.”

“You are nothing if not thorough. And the curlicues?”

“That is a personal matter, I have left nothing to chance.”

Pooley stifled a snigger. “You surely don’t believe that an alien strikeforce has plotted out the homes of your female conquests as a guideline to their invasion?”

“You can never tell with aliens.”

“Indeed.” Pooley watched the Irishman making crosses along a nearby side-road. “Might I venture to ask what you are plotting now?”

“Morris Minors,” said Omally.

Jim stroked his beard reflectively. “John,” he said, “I think that you are going about this in the wrong way. The Professor suggested that we look for some kind of landmarks, surely?”

“All right then.” Omally handed Jim his cherished pen. “You are obviously in tune with the Professor’s reasoning, you find it.”

Pooley pushed out his lip once more but rose to the challenge. “Right then,” he said, “landmarks it is. What do we have?”

“The War Memorial.” Pooley marked a cross. “The Public Library.” Pooley marked another.

Twenty minutes later the map had the appearance of a spot the ball contest form that had been filled in by a millionaire.

“I’ve run out,” said Omally.

“So has your pen,” said Jim, handing his friend the now ruined instrument. The two peered over the devastated map. “One bloody big mess,” said Jim. “I cannot make out a thing.”

“Certainly the crosses appear a little random.”

“I almost thought we had it with the subscribers to Angling Times though.”

“I could do with another drink.”

“We haven’t done those yet.”

Omally pressed his hands to his temples. “There is not enough ink in the country to plot every drinker in Brentford.”

“Go and get them in then.” Pooley handed John one of the Professor’s pound notes. “I’ll keep at it.”

Omally was a goodly time at the bar. Croughton the potbellied potman, finding himself under the sudden overwhelming strain of handling the bar single-handed while Neville sought divine guidance, had begun to crack and was panicking over the drinks. The Swan now swelled with customers and arguments were breaking out over cloudy beer and short change. Omally, seizing the kind of opportunity which comes only once in a lifetime, argued furiously that he had paid with a fiver; the flustered potman, being in no fit state to argue back, duly doled out the change without a whimper.

Omally pocketed the four well-won oncers, reasoning that the news of such an event might well unbalance the sensitive Pooley’s mind and put him at a disadvantage over the map plotting. When he returned to the table bearing the drinks he was somewhat surprised to find that the expression Jim Pooley now wore upon his face mirrored exactly that of Neville the part-time barman. “Jim?” asked John. “Jim, are you all right?”

Pooley nodded gently. “I’ve found it,” he said in a distant voice. Omally peered over the map. There being no ink left in the pen, Pooley had pierced the points of his speculation through with defunct matchsticks. A pattern stood out clearly and perfectly defined. It was immediately recognizable as the heavenly constellation of Ursa Major, better known to friend and foe alike as The Plough.

“What are they?” Omally asked, squinting at the crucified map.

“It’s the pubs,” said Pooley in a quavering voice. “Every house owned by this brewery.”

Omally marked them off. It was true. All seven of the brewery pubs lay in the positions of the septentriones: the New Inn, the Princess Royal, The Four Horsemen, and the rest. And yes, sure as sure, there it was, there could be no mistake: at the point which marked Polaris, the North Star in Ursa Minor – the Flying Swan. “God’s teeth,” said John Omally.

“Let the buggers land then,” said Jim. “I am not for destroying every decent drinking-house in Brentford.”

“I am behind you there, friend,” said John, “but what can it mean? The Swan at the very hub, what can it mean?”

“I shudder to think.”

“Roll the map up,” said John, “we must tell the Professor at once.”

Pooley, who still had upon his person the price of several more pints, was reticent and suggested that perhaps there was no immediate rush. The Professor could hardly have expected them to solve the thing so swiftly. Perhaps a celebration pint or two was called for.

“A sound idea,” said Omally heartily. “In fact, as you have done so well, I suggest that we dispense with pints and go immediately on to shorts!”

“A fine idea,” said Jim, “I will get a couple of gold ones in.” Thus saying he rose from his seat and made for the bar. Quite a crush had now developed, and even Pooley’s practised elbows were hard put to it to gain him a favourable position. As he stood, waggling his pound note and trying to make himself heard, Jim suddenly felt a most unpleasant chill running up his spine. Pooley, taking this to be some after-effect of his discovery, shuddered briefly and tried to make himself heard. He found to his horror that his voice had suddenly deserted him. And it was then that he noticed for the first time that there was a strong smell of creosote in the air. Pooley clutched at his throat and gagged violently. As he did so a firm and unyielding hand caught his elbow, and held it in a vicelike grip.

Jim turned towards his tormentor and found himself staring into a face which only a mother could love. There was more than a touch of the Orient about it, slightly tanned, the cheekbones high and prominent, and the eyes slightly luminescent. It was a face in fact which bore an uncanny resemblance to a young Jack Palance. The figure was dressed in an immaculate black suit and had about him the feeling of impossible cleanliness.

These details Pooley’s brain took in, but it was somewhat later before he was actually able to relate them verbally. For the present the awful clone of the legendary Hollywood star was steering the muted Jim through the crowd and towards the Swan’s door.

Pooley, realizing that the fate which lay in store for him, if not actually worse than death itself, was probably none other than the very same thing, began to struggle for all he was worth. He swung around upon his kidnapper and with deadly accuracy kneed him in the groin. Had he known anything whatever about Cerean anatomy, however, he would have gone immediately for the left armpit. As it was, his blow did little other than damage one of the Cerean’s sinuses.

Pooley was nearing the end of the bar counter by now and the Swan’s doorway was perilously close. His mouth opened and closed, paying silent tribute to Edvard Munch’s most famous painting. The patrons of the Swan, it appeared, cared little for Pooley’s plight and paid him not the slightest heed.

At the end of the bar stood Neville, staring into space. Pooley made one single-handed and desperate grab towards his bar apron. Even in a blind panic he knew better than to go for the tie. That being the first thing a drunk ever goes for, and Neville being the professional he was, the part-time barman always wore a clip-on. Pooley caught the apron and the outcome was not a pleasant thing to behold.

Neville’s genitalia, which were correctly placed for a man of Earth, were suddenly drawn into violent and painful contact with the tap spout of one of the Swan’s finest traditional hand-drawn ales.

“AAAAAAAAAGH!” went Neville the part-time barman, the searing agony suddenly reviving him from his vertical catalepsy.

The sound reverberated about the bar, silencing every conversation and turning every head. Omally, startled by the cry, leapt from his seat, and glimpsed Pooley’s dire predicament.