rr.thebrentfordtriangle-第36部分

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　Clutching　his　purloined　microcircuit　to　his　bosom　he　had　braved　the　rain　of　fire　and　legged　it　back　to　his　shop　and　his　workroom。　Now；　as　the　explosions　came　thick　and　fast　from　all　points　of　the　pass；　he　fiddled　with　a　screwdriver　and　slotted　the　thing　into　place。
　'Power　inductor；'　he　said　to　himself；　'will　channel　all　the　power　from　miles　around　directly　into　the　apparatus。　Wonderful；　wonderful！'
　Norman　threw　the　much…loved　'we　belong　dead'　switch　and　his　equipment　sprang　into　life。
　In　the　Swan；　the　lights　momentarily　dimmed。　'Another　power　cut；'　groaned　Neville。　'All　I　bloody　need；　another　power　cut。　Typical　it　is；　bloody　typical。'
　Pooley　thundered　away　at　the　machine；　watched　by　the　Professor　and　John　Omally；　who　was　feeding　the　lad　with　scotch。
　'Go　to　it；　Jim；'　Omally　bashed　Pooley　repeatedly　upon　the　back。　'You've　got　them　on　the　run。　Here　you　missed　that　one；　pay　attention；　will　you？'
　Pooley　laboured　away　beneath　the　Irishman's　assault。　'Lay　off　me；　John；'　he　implored。　'They're　firing　back。　Look　at　that。'
　The　skyline　upon　the　screen　had　suddenly　been　translated　into　that　of　the　immediate　area。　The　silhouettes　of　the　flatblocks　and　the　gasometer　were　now　clearly　visible。　As　the　three　men　stared　in　wonder；　a　shower　of　sparks　descended　upon　the　screen　from　one　of　the　circling　craft　and　struck　the　silhouette。　Outside；　a　great　roar　signalled　the　demolition　of　one　of　the　flatblocks。
　'Get　them；　you　fool；　get　them。'
　Unnoticed；　Raffles　Rathbone　edged　towards　the　door　and　slipped　through　it；　having　it　hastily　away　upon　his　toes　towards　the　allotments。
　The　Swan's　lights　dimmed　once　more。
　In　Norman's　kitchenette；　lights　were　flashing；　and　a　haze　of　smoke　was　rising　from　many　a　dodgy　spot　weld。
　Norman　sat　at　his　console；　punching　coordinates　into　his　puter；　an　ever…increasing　hum　informing　him　that　the　equipment　was　warming　up　nicely。
　Clinging　to　the　controls　of　a　not　altogether　dissimilar　console　was　a　swarthy　clone　of　a　famous　film　star；　Lombard　Omega　had　taken　the　controls。
　'Treachery；'　he　spat；　from　between　his　gritted　and　expensively　capped　teeth。　Tucking　treachery！　Those　bastards　have　drawn　us　into　a　trap。　Bleeding　change　of　government；　I　shouldn't　wonder。　How　many　ships　lost；　Mr　Navigator？'
　The　navigator　shrank　low　over　his　guidance　systems。　'Four　now；　sir；'　he　said；　'no；　make　that　five。'
　'Take　us　out　of　autopilot　then；　I　shall　fly　this　frigging　ship　manually。'
　One　of　the　remaining　blips　vanished　from　the　video　screen　of　the　Captain　Laser　Alien　Attack　machine。
　'Oh　dear；'　said　the　Professor。　'It　had　occurred　to　me　that　they　might　just　twig　it。'
　'There's　still　another　two；'　said　Omally。　'Get　them；　get　them！'
　There　was　now　a　good　deal　of　Brentford　which　was　only　memory。　The　New　Inn　had　gone；　along　with　the　library；　and　one　of　the　gasometers　was　engulfed　in　flame。　A　falling　craft　had　cut　Uncle　Ted's　greengrocery　business　cleanly　out　of　the　Haling　Road；　which；　survivors　of　the　holocaust　were　later　to　remark；　was　about　the　only　good　thing　to　e　out　of　the　whole　affair。　There　had　miraculously　been　no　loss　of　life；　possibly　because　Brentford　boasts　more　well…stocked　Anderson　shelters　per　square　mile　than　any　other　district　in　London；　but　probably　because　this　is　not　that　kind　of　book。
　Pooley　was　faltering　in　his　attack。　'My　right　arm's　gone；'　moaned　he；　'and　my　bomb　release　button　finger's　got　the　cramp；　I　can　play　no　more。'
　Omally　struck　his　panion　the　now　legendary　blow　to　the　skull。
　'That　does　it！'　Pooley　turned　upon　Omally。　'When　trouble　threatens；　strike　Jim　Pooley。　I　will　have　no　more。'
　Pooley　threw　a　suddenly　uncramped　fist　towards　Omally's　chin。　By　virtue　of　its　unexpected　nature　and　unerring　accuracy；　he　floored　the　Irishman　for　a　good　deal　more　than　the　count　of　ten。
　Professor　Slobe　looked　down　at　the　unconscious　figure　beneath　the　beard。　'If　that　score　is　settled；　I　would　appreciate　it　if　you　would　apply　yourself　once　more　to　the　machine　before　the　other　two　craft　catch　wind　of　what　is　going　on　and　switch　to　manual　override。'
　'Quite　so；'　said　Pooley；　spitting　upon　his　palms　and　stepping　once　more　to　the　video　screen。
　Small　Dave　backed　away　from　Edgar　Allan　Poe；　his　tiny　hands　a　flapping　blur。　'What　is　all　this？'　he　demanded。　'I　don't　like　the　look　of　you　one　bit。'
　The　Victorian　author　approached　upon　silent；　transparent　feet。　'You　conjured　me　here；'　he　said；　'and　I　came　willingly；　thinking　you　to　be　a　disciple。　But　now　I　find　that　I　am　drawn　into　a　position　from　which　I　am　unable　to　extricate　myself。　That　I　must　serve　you。　That　cannot　be！'
　'So　leave　it　then；'　whined　Small　Dave。　'I　meant　no　offence　to　you；　I　only　wanted　a　little　assistance。'
　'You　realize　who　I　am？　I　am　Poe；　the　master　of　terror。　The　greatest　novelist　ever　to　live。　Poe；　the　creator　of　Dupin；　the　world's　original　consulting　detective。　Dupin　who　was　not；　I　repeat　not；　a　dwarf。　You　mess　me　about　with　your　trivial　vendettas。　I　have　spoken　with　Professor　Slobe；　there　is　only　one　way　I　can　find　release。　You　vindictive　grudge…bearing　wee　bastard！'
　Small　Dave　backed　towards　the　floating　camel。　Simon　was　floundering　amongst　the　rafters；　bawling　now　at　the　top　of　his　voice；　loosening　slates　and　splintering　woodwork。
　'Stay　away　from　me；'　shrieked　Small　Dave。
　'Stay　away　from　me！'　shrieked　Simon　influent　dromedary。
　Edgar　Allan　Poe　stalked　onwards；　his　patent　leather　pumps　raising　dust　upon　another　plane；　but　leaving　no　footprint　upon　the　Earth。
　'Stay　away　from　me！'
　Simon　gave　a　great　lurch　and　burst　out　of　the　rafters　of　the　lock…up　garage。　As　he　rose　through　the　shattered　opening　towards　the　stars；　Edgar　Allan　Poe　lunged　forward　and；　in　a　single　movement；　bound　the　trailing　halter　line　firmly　about　Small　Dave's　wrist。
　'Oh　no！'　wailed　the　dwarf　as　he　was　dragged　from　his　feet　to　follow　the　wayward　camel　through　the　open　roof。
　Edgar　Allan　Poe　watched　them　go。　'I　will　be　off　now；'　he　said；　and；　like　Small　Dave；　he　was。
　In　Norman's　kitchenette　all　sorts　of　exciting　things　were　happening。　Dials　were　registering　overload　to　all　points　of　the　pass；　lights　were　flashing；　and　buzzers　buzzing。
　The　great　brain…hammering　hum　had　reached　deafening　point　and　a　hideous　pressure　filled　the　room；　driving　Norman's　head　down　between　his　shoulder　blades　and　bursting　every　Corona　bottle　upon　his　shop　shelves。　With　superhuman　effort　he　thumped　down　another　fist　full　of　switches；　clasped　his　hands　across　his　ears；　and　sank　to　the　floor。
　Every　light　in　Brentford；　Chiswick；　Hounslow；　Baling；　Hanwell；　Kew；　and；　for　some　reason；　Penge　went　out。
　Lombard　Omega　squinted　through　a　porthole。　'Blackout！'　he　growled。　'Fucking　blackout；　the　wily　sods。　Mr　Navigator；　how　many　of　us　left？'
　The　navigator　looked　up　from　his　controls。　'We　are　it；'　he　said。
　What　Lombard　Omega　had　to　say　about　that　cannot　possibly　be　recorded。　It　must；　however；　be　clearly　stated　in　his　defence　that　it　was　one　of　his　ancestors　who　had　invented　the　Anglo…Saxon　tongue。
　'Take　us　in　low；'　he　said。　'We　will　strafe　out　the　entire　area。　Stand　by　at　the　neutron　bomb　bays　and　make　ready　the　Gamma　weapon。'
　'Not　the　Gamma　weapon？'　said　all　those　present。
　'The　Gamma　weapon！'　'Fuck　me；'　said　the　navigator。
　Pooley；　Neville；　and　Professor　Slobe　peered　around　in　the　darkness。　The　only　light　available　flickered　through　the　Swan's　front　windows　from　a　roaring　inferno　which　had　once　been　much　of　Brentford。
　'What　now？'　Pooley　asked。　The　Professor　shook　his　head。
　'You've　done　it；　you've　done　it！　Crack　the　champagne。'　Neville　performed　a　high…stepping　dance　before　the　now　darkened　and　obviously　defunct　Captain　Laser　Alien　Attack　machine。
　'Free　beer　for　a　year；'　moaned　a　voice　from　the　deck。
　'For　a　century；'　sang　Neville。　'Oh　bliss；　oh　heaven；　oh　no！'
　From　the　distance　came　a　faint　whine　of　unearthly　engines。　Something　large　and　deadly　was　approaching；　and　all　means　of　confounding　its　destructive　intent　had　vanished　away。
　'Oh　dear；'　said　Professor　Slobe；　'anybody　want　the　last　rites？'
　'Prepare　the　Gamma　weapon；'　ordered　Lombard　Omega。
　'Gamma　weapon　prepared；　sir。'
　'Take　out　the　entire　quadrant；　spare　not　an　inch。'
　'Not　an　inch；　sir。'
　'Fire　the　Gamma　weapon。'
　The　navigator　flinched　and　touched　a　lighted　panel　upon　the　master　console。　A　broad　beam　of　red　raw　energy　leapt　down　from　beneath　the　ship　and　struck　home　upon　the　Kew　side　of　the　river　Thames。
　The　five…hundred…year…old　oaks　of　the　Royal　Botanic　Gardens　took　fire　and　half　a　millennium　of　history　melted　away　in　a　single　moment。　The　beam　extended　over　a　wider　area　and　tore　into　the　river。　The　waters　thrashed　and　boiled；　like　a　witches'　cauldron；　hissed　and　frothed　beneath　the　unstoppable　power　of　the　deadly　Gamma　weapon。
　And　the　beam　moved　forward。
　The　mother　ship　ground　on　over　the　river；　a　vast　chromium　blimp　filling　a　quarter　of　the　sky。　Along　the　length　of　its　mirrored　sides；　lights　glittered　and　twinkled　like　oil　beads。　Above　it；　great　dorsal　spines　rose　shark…like　and　menacing。
　The　hideous　beam　moved　up　from　the　churning　waters　and　ripped　into　the　river　bank；　hewing　out　a　broad　and　ragged　channel　into　which　the　old　Thames　gushed　in　a　billowing　flood　tide。
　Ahead　lay　the　Brentford　Quadrant；　the　Baling　Road；　and　the　Flying　Swan。
　Brentonians　fled　from　their　shelters　out　into　the　streets。　They　shielded　their　faces　against　the　all…consuming　heat　and　took　to　their　heels。　The　world　was　ing　to　an　end　and　now　was　not　the　time　to　take　the　old　Lot's　wife　backward　glance。
　In　the　Swan　the　lads　cowered　in　terror　as　the　ghastly　rumble　of　falling　masonry　and　the　death…cry　of　splintering　glass　drew　ever　nearer。
　Outside；　the　Baling　Road；　crammed　with　screaming　humanity；　pouring　and　tumbling　in　a　mad　lemming　dash　away　from　the　approaching　holocaust。　Behind　them　the　blinding　red　wall　of　fire　pressed　on；　destroying　everything　which　lay　in　its　path。
　Omally　was　upon　his　knees。　'Stop　it！'　he　screamed　at　Professor　Slobe。　'Do　something；　in　the　name　of　our　God。　Only　you　can。'
　The　Professor　stood　immobile。　The　cries　of　terror　rang　in　his　ears　and　stung　at　his　soul。　The　town　he　had　for　so　very　long　cared　for　and　protected　was　being　razed　to　ashes　and　he　was　powerless　to　stop　it。　He　turned　a　passionate　face　towards　the　Irishman　and