‘What?’ went he, Count Otto Black. ‘What do we have here?’

And I hovered there above him. There in the pale moonlight.

‘I am Captain Brentford,’ I called out. ‘And you are dead, mother-f ***er.’ Which was not perhaps the most appropriate thing to call out, given the period and suchlike, but I was a bit overexcited and it just popped out, so to speak.

‘Captain what?’ And Count Otto laughed once more. He laughed once more, then he stopped.

‘So how exactly are you hanging up there?’ he asked. And he raised himself from the seat of his hovering motorcycle and tried to reach up to my feet.

I angled up the Gravitite disc and swung away out of reach.

‘A rather natty device,’ said the count, ‘and one, I think, that would certainly further the ends of the Fatherland. What say I offer you one million pounds in exchange for your metallic ride?’

‘A million pounds?’ I said. And certain thoughts ran through my head.

‘A million pounds. Here, I have a pouch of diamonds in my pocket, kept for such an occasion.’

‘A million pounds?’ I said again. And I gazed down at the gaunt figure below me, astride the hovering motorcycle combination. His pinched features were lit by the fires beneath, blazing upon the St Mary’s allotments. Above, the moon and stars; below, this man. This evil man.

‘A million pounds,’ he said once more. ‘Down just a bit and it’s yours.’

And I leaned forwards and dropped down a tad, oh so near to those long, thin fingers.

‘Here,’ cried Count Otto Black. ‘See the diamonds. They are for you.’ And he dug into his jacket and then he pulled out-

A gun.

And I cried, ‘No, this is for you.’ And I flung down a certain something.

Mr Rune confessed to me later that he genuinely feared for my life at that moment. He confessed that he had never tested a piece of Gravitite to see whether it could withstand an onslaught of bullets.

Happily the piece I rode upon could and the bullets fired by the count ricocheted down and bounced about his motorbike causing certain damage.

But the cry of horror that rose from his thin-lipped mouth, hidden somewhere beneath the great black beard, came not because of ricocheting bullets. It came because of the fact that the motorcycle engine, the inexplicable antigravitational engine, suddenly coughed rather loudly, then faltered, then died, which caused his mount to plummet.

There were clickings and whooshings and fallings and down went Count Otto Black. His descent arched over the allotments, and over the football ground and over The Purple Princess. And when he finally met terra firma, it was in the Thames.

We took an evening drink in Fangio’s bar.

‘And what in the name of all that slips out of a rear entrance when officials’ backs are turned are you supposed to be?’ he asked me, as Mr Rune and I approached the counter.

‘I am Captain Brentford,’ I said. ‘Oh damn, there goes my secret identity.’

‘Two pints of Helvetica Narrow please,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘And double whisky chasers – Captain Brentford here just struck a mighty blow for freedom.’

‘Did too,’ I said. ‘Shot down that mother**-’

‘Rizla!’ said Hugo Rune.

‘Oh, it’s Rizla, is it?’ said Fangio. ‘I didn’t recognise you. I thought you were a superhero. And we don’t get many of those in this bar. There’s only Rat Boy over there in the corner, gnawing cheese, and Bad Advice Man, who personally advised me to avail myself of a load of boxes of gremlins from Norman at the corner shop. One of which I did notice you slipping into your coat earlier in the day, Mr Rune. And you’re quite welcome to it too, I might say.’

And I looked at Hugo Rune.

He looked at me.

And Hugo Rune said, ‘This very gremlin was indeed that “certain something” that you, Captain Brentford, emptied from its box onto the flying motorcycle’s engine, and it had the desired effect – do you not agree?’

‘Oh, I do,’ I agreed. ‘It certainly put paid to his flying chariot.’

‘Hey, hold on now for a minute,’ said Fangio. ‘How come that manhole-cover affair that you’ve brought in with you is hovering right there in the air?’

‘It isn’t,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘It is an optical illusion. Now two more beers and chasers please, and two packets of those new potato-flavoured crisps. The ones with added Kryptonite.’

THE HIGH PRIESTESS

‘But is he dead?’ I asked of Hugo Rune.

‘Of course he isn’t,’ Hugo Rune replied. ‘He noodled about on that sky-bike of his merely to taunt me. And flaunt the superior technology of his fascist cronies. But you put a spanner in his works.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘And I have been thinking about that. I reckon Captain Brentford should take to the skies on a regular basis. Knock those German Blitz-planes for six. Save the day generally and indeed things of that nature. What do you think?’

‘I think that you have been drinking,’ said the Perfect Master. ‘I know that I have and I am beginning to feel the benefit.’

For indeed we had been drinking at The Purple Princess. It was another Sunday afternoon and this one in June, as it happened, and we were celebrating something or other, which, in the midst of all the celebrating, had somehow, now, been forgotten.

‘So what do you think?’ I said to Mr Rune. ‘Should Captain Brentford take to the skies once more?’

‘Not at present, Rizla. I think our next case will be strictly ground-level. ’

‘Oh,’ went I. ‘We have a new case, do we? This is new, as it were.’

‘I am weighing up the pros and cons,’ said Mr Rune, ‘in order to see whether I can fit it in.’

And I made laughter at this. ‘We have not done anything for the last three weeks,’ I said, laughing still as I said it.

‘You have done nothing,’ quoth the mage, ‘but Rune’s mind never sleeps. I cogitate, Rizla. I tread the interdimensional landscapes of the id.’

‘And you dine,’ I added. ‘And smoke cigars and drink the finest wines. Not bad during a period of national austerity and rationing.’

‘You wish me to starve like an anchorite?’

‘Certainly not,’ I said. ‘I love the dining out. But tell me about this possible case that you are weighing up the pros and cons of.’

‘Do you recall our first case? Regarding the tragic demise of Professor Campbell?’

‘I doubt I will ever forget it,’ I said. ‘I had nightmares for weeks.’

‘Well, I have received yet another telegram from the egregious Mr McMurdo at the Ministry of Serendipity. More problems with their boffins, it appears.’ And Mr Rune tugged a crumpled telegram from his waistcoat pocket and flung it in my direction.

I lowered my pint of Times Roman and took up the telegram from where it had fallen into the leavings of my bread and butter pudding. I viewed this missive and read from it aloud.

EMERGENCY STOP COME TO MINISTRY AT ONCE STOP PROJECT BBT IN DANGER STOP NEED YOUR HELP NOW STOP

‘Golly and gosh,’ I said to Mr Rune. ‘This does sound a bit urgent. Did this arrive today?’ And I examined the crumpled paper.

‘Last week, actually.’ The Magus yawned. ‘But it’s all such a fag. Project BBT is always in danger. And always on the verge of a breakthrough. But never actually makes a breakthrough. I tire of it, truly, Rizla, I do.’

‘Might I ask what Project BBT is?’ I enquired.

‘You might,’ Himself replied.

‘And would there be any likelihood of you telling me, do you think?’

Hugo Rune made louder yawns. ‘Get the drinks in, then, and I will,’ he said.

‘I have no money,’ I replied. ‘You never pay me any money at all.’

‘I said get the drinks in, Rizla. I do not recall telling you to pay for them.’

‘Quite so,’ I said and I toddled off to the bar.