“Steady on now,” said Professor Slocombe, raising a pale hand. “All can be reconciled.”

“The machine cannot be broken,” said Jim. “Be assured of it. We are doomed.”

“I can vouch for the fact that it cannot be destroyed from within the Swan,” said the Professor, “because I have already tried.”

“Come again?” said Pooley.

“Fair dos,” said Professor Slocombe. “You surely do not believe that I have been idle?” All present shook their heads vigorously. “My retainer, Gammon, despite his advanced years and decrepit appearance, is a master of disguise. Twice he has visited the Swan with a view to disabling the device. Firstly, he arrived in the guise of a brewery representative come to check the electrics. He assured me that the machine cannot be switched off in any manner whatever and also that Neville has no love whatever for brewery representatives. Later, he returned as an engineer come to service the device prior to switching it off. This time he received a three-course meal on the house, washed down with half a bottle of champagne, but still met with complete failure. Even a diamond-tipped drill could not penetrate the machine’s shell.”

“I told you we were doomed,” said Pooley. “I am for a Jack Palance mask and a dark suit, me.”

Norman shifted uneasily in his chair. “I really think I must be going,” he said. “I can’t do anything if I cannot get inside the machine. Feel free to contact me at any time, but for now, goodbye.”

“Not so fast,” said Professor Slocombe. “I have given the matter much thought, and feel that I have found the solution.”

“Can I go anyway?” Norman asked. “I do have to be up early in the morning.”

“Test-driving your Morris?” Omally asked. The shopkeeper slumped back into his chair.

“We are dealing,” said Professor Slocombe, “with beings who, although possessed of superior intelligence, are not altogether dissimilar to ourselves. They are of the opinion that we are a rising, but still inferior race. They might have your card marked, Pooley, but I doubt whether they have contemplated open sabotage. Certainly their machine is outwardly protected. But it might have its weakness if attacked from a different direction.”

“How so?” Pooley asked.

“From behind. The thing is faced against the wall of the Swan. My belief is that if we break through from behind we might find little resistance.”

“What, through the wall of Archie Karachi’s Curry Garden? I can’t see Kali’s Curry King giving us the go-ahead on that one.”

“But Archie Karachi is a member of the Swan’s darts team. I myself have seen the sign on his door, ‘Closed for Business All Day Thursday’.”

Pooley tweaked the end of a moustachio whose length would have brought a jealous glance from Salvador Dali himself. “With all the noise in the Swan,” said he, “nobody is going to pay much attention to a bit of banging next door.”

“My thoughts entirely. We will need a spy on the inside though, just to keep an eye out. Gammon will take care of that side of it. When we have broken through to the machine it will be down to you, Norman, to deal with it appropriately.”

“No problem there,” said the shopkeeper, blowing on his fingertips. “There is no machine built which I cannot get to grips with.”

“You might find a surprise or two when we open it.”

“Child’s play,” said Norman with sudden bravado. He was quite warming to the idea of all this. He had never liked Archie Karachi very much, and the thought of knocking down his kitchen wall held great appeal. Also, if this machine was everything the Professor seemed to think it was, it was bound to contain a few serviceable components. “Just lead me to it.”

Omally chuckled behind his whiskers. “Bravo, Norman,” said the Professor, smiling profusely. “Now, if you will pardon me, I suggest that we bring this meeting to a close, I have several loose ends still to tie up.”

The old man took a scrap of paper from his pocket and held it to each man in turn. “We will meet tomorrow, seven-thirty p.m. sharp at this address. Please do not speak it aloud.”

The three men committed the thing to memory. With the briefest of goodbyes and no hand-shaking, they took their leave.

Professor Slocombe closed the French windows behind them and bolted the shutters. “Now,” he said, turning upon the silent room, “will you make yourself known to me of your own accord, Mr Poe, or must I summon you into visibility?”

“I should prefer that we did it the easy way,” said Edgar Allan Poe. “We have much to speak of.”

Neville the part-time barman took up his mail from the mat and thrust it into his dressing-gown pocket. Amongst the bills and circulars were no less than three postcards sporting rooftop views of Brentford, but the barman did not give these even a cursory glance.

He had been up half the night trying to work out a deal with his pagan deity over his ill-considered blood oath, but was still far from certain that the matter would be allowed to rest. It was always a hairy business wheeling and dealing with the Elder Gods of Ancient Earth.

Neville drew the brass bolts and flung the door open to sniff the morning air. It smelt far from promising. He took a deep breath, scratched at his bony ribs, and gave the world a bit of first thing perusal. It had all the makings of a beautiful day but Neville could not find any joy to be had in the twinkling sunlight and precocious bird song.

Like others who had gone before him, Neville the part-time barman was a very worried man. The day he had been dreading had come to pass. All over Brentford, dartsmen were awakening, flexing their sensitive fingers, and preparing themselves for the biggest night of the year. The Swan’s team had been growing surlier by the day. Where was Norman? they asked. Why was he not practising with them? Neville’s excuses had been wearing thinner than the seat of his trousers. If Norman did not turn up for the tournament the consequences did not bear thinking about.

Neville looked thoughtfully up the road towards the corner shop. Perhaps he should just slip along now and smooth the matter over. Throw himself on Norman’s mercy if necessary, promise him anything. Omally had said that the shopkeeper would be present, but was he ever to be trusted?

Neville hovered upon his slippered toes. It would be but the work of a minute. Norman would be numbering up his papers, he could say he just called in for a box of matches, exchange a few niceties, then leave with a casual “Look forward to seeing you tonight.” Something like that.

Neville took a step forward. At that moment, in the distance, a figure appeared from the shop doorway. Neville’s heart rose; it was telepathy surely. The shopkeeper was coming to make his peace. All his troubles were over.

Nicholas Roger Raffles Rathbone hoisted his paperbag into the sunlight. Neville’s heart fell. “Bugger, bugger, bugger,” said the part-time barman, returning to the saloon-bar, and slamming the door behind him.

Parked close to the kerb in a side road opposite to the Swan, and lost for the most part in the shadow of one of the flatblocks, was a long sleek black automobile with high fins. In the front seat of this gleaming motor car sat a man of average height, with a slightly tanned complexion and high cheek-bones. He bore an uncanny resemblance to a young Jack Palance, as did his passenger, who lounged in a rear seat, smoking a green cheroot. The two watched the paperboy as he passed within a few feet of their highly polished front bumper and vanished into one of the flatblocks.

No words passed between these two individuals, but the driver glanced a moment into his rear-view mirror, and his passenger acknowledged the reflected eyes with a knowing nod.

The day passed in an agonizing fashion. Pooley and Omally took their lunchtime’s pleasure in a neutral drinking house at Kew, where they sat huddled in an anonymous corner, speaking in hushed tones, bitterly bewailing the exorbitant prices, and casting suspicious glances at every opening of the saloon-bar door.