rr.thebrentfordtriangle-第40部分

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Being　responsive　only　to　the　finer　points　of　the　game　and　ever　alert　to　such　blatant　skulduggery；　they　viewed　this　degrading　spectacle　with　outrage　and　turned　their　backs　upon　the　board。
　Young　Jack　could　not　have　cared　less。　The　Four　Horsemen　needed　but　a　double　thirteen　to　take　the　match　and　the　Albany　had　yet　to　get　away。　The　present…day　Faust　smirked　over　towards　the　Professor　and　made　an　obscene　gesture。
　Professor　Slobe　shook　his　head　and　made　clicking　noises　with　his　tongue。　'Most　unsporting；'　said　he。　'I　shall　see　to　it　that　none　of　this　occurs　in　the　final。'
　Without　waiting　to　watch　the　inevitable　oute　of　the　game；　he　rose　from　his　chair　and　took　himself　off　to　where　the　Swan's　team　stood　in　a　noisy　scrum；　ignoring　the　play。
　'He　has　gone　to　bless　the　darts；　I　suspect；'　said　Omally。　'In　his　yearly　battle　of　wits　with　Young　Jack；　the　Professor　leaves　nothing　to　chance。'
　'Do　you　believe　it　possible？'　Pooley　asked　wistfully。　'That　somewhere　in　this　green　and　pleasant　land　of　ours；　this　sceptred　isle；　this　jewel　set　in　a　silver　sea　and　whatever；　that　there　might　somewhere　be　a　little　darts　team；　based　possibly　in　some　obscure　half…timbered　country　pub　out　in　the　sticks；　which　actually　plays　the　game　for　the　love　of　it　alone；　and　without　having　recourse　to　some　underhand　jiggery…pokery？'
　'Are　you　mad？'　enquired　Omally。　'Or　merely　drunk？'
　Jim　shook　his　head。　'I　just　wondered　how　such　a　game　might　look。　If　played　by　skill　alone；　I　mean。'
　'Jolly　dull；　I　should　think。　Here；　take　this　one…pound　note；　which　you　can　owe　to　me；　and　get　in　another　round。'
　Jim　watched　a　moment　as　Young　Jack's　hellish　black　dart　cleaved　the　air；　leaving　a　yellow　vapour　trail；　and　thrust　its　oily　nose　into　the　double　thirteen。　'I　should　still　like　to　see　it；'　he　said。　'Just　the　once。'
　'Naive　boy；'　sighed　Omally；　running　his　pencil　down　endless　columns　of　figures；　and　wondering　by　how　many　thousands　of　pounds　he　was　up　this　particular　evening。
　Professor　Slobe　finished　muttering　a　Latin　text　over　the　table　of　laid…out　darts　and　gave　the　benediction。　'This　will　not　of　course　enable　you　to　play　any　better；'　he　explained；　'but　it　will　protect　your　darts　from　any　mysterious　deflections　which　might　occur。'
　The　Swan's　team　nodded。　They　had　defeated　the　Four　Horsemen　in　the　final　five　years　on　the　trot　now；　which　was；　by　way　of　coincidence；　exactly　the　length　of　time　that　the　Professor　had　been　acting　as　honorary　President。　They　took　the　old　man's　words　strictly　at　their　face　value。　None　of　the　accidents　which　marred　the　play　of　the　Horsemen's　other　opponents　ever　befell　them；　and　although　few　of　the　team　knew　anything　whatever　about　the　occult；　each　blessed　the　day　that　Norman　had　suggested　the　elderly　scholar's　nomination。
　'Be　warned　now；'　Professor　Slobe　continued；　'he　does　appear　to　be　on　superb　form　tonight。　Look　wherever　you　like；　but　avoid　his　eyes。'
　Neville　appeared　through　the　crowd　bearing　a　silver　tray。　On　this　rested　a　dozen　twinkling　champagne　saucers　and　a　Georgian　silver　wine　cooler　containing　a　chilled　and　vintage　bottle　of　Pol　Roger。
　This　little　morale…booster　was　another　of　the　Professor's　inspirations。
　'Good　luck　to　you　all；'　said　the　part…time　barman；　patting　Norman　gingerly　upon　the　shoulder。　'Good　luck。'
　A　warlike　conclave　had　formed　at　the　other　end　of　the　bar。　Young　Jack　and　his　demonic　cohorts　were　clustered　about　Old　Jack's　wheelchair；　speaking　in　hushed；　if　heated；　tones。　Neville　sensed　that　above　the　smell　of　creosote；　which　so　strongly　assailed　his　sensitive　nostrils；　there　was　a　definite　whiff　of　brimstone　emanating　from　the　satanic　conspirators。　The　part…time　barman　shuddered。　Why　did　things　always　have　to　be　so　plicated？
　The　Swan　now　swelled　with　crowds　literally　to　bursting　point。　It　was　almost　impossible　to　move　amongst　the　throng；　and　trayloads　of　drinks　were　being　passed　from　the　bar　counter　over　the　heads　of　patrons；　generally　to　arrive　at　their　destinations　somewhat　lighter　of　load。　It　was　rapidly　reaching　the　'every　man　for　himself　stage。　The　atmosphere　was　electric　with　anticipation　and　unbreathable　with　cigar　smoke。　The　noise　was　deafening　and　even　the　Captain　Laser　Alien　Attack　machine　rattled　mutely；　lost　amidst　the　din。　Croughton　the　pot…bellied　potman　had　e　down　with　a　severe　attack　of　no　bottle　and　had　taken　himself　off　to　the　rear　yard　for　a　quiet　fag。
　'Ladies　and　gentlemen；'　bellowed　the　adjudicator　at　the　top　of　his　voice；　'it　is　my　pleasure　to　announce　the　final　and　deciding　contest　of　the　evening。　The　very　climax　of　this　evening's　sport。'　Omally　noted　that　the　word　'sport'　appeared　to　stick　slightly　in　the　adjudicator's　throat。　The　final　for　the　much　coveted　Brentford　District　Darts　Challenge　Trophy　Shield。'
　Neville；　who　had　taken　this　cherished　item　down　from　its　cobwebby　perch　above　the　bar　and　had　carefully　polished　its　tarnished　surface　before　secreting　it　away　in　a　place　known　only　to　himself；　held　it　aloft　in　both　hands。　A　great　cheer　rang　through　the　Swan。
　'Between　the　present　holders；　five　years'　champions；　the　home　team；　the　Flying　Swan。'　Another　deafening　cheer。　'And　their　challengers　from　the　Four　Horsemen。'
　Absolute　silence；　but　for　the　occasional　bitow　in　the　background。
　'Gentlemen；　let　battle　mence。'
　The　home　team；　as　reigning　champions；　had　call　of　the　toss。　As　the　adjudicator　flipped　a　copper　coin　high　into　the　unwholesome　smoke…filled　air；　Professor　Slobe；　who　had　taken　up　station　slightly　to　the　rear　of　Young　Jack；　whispered；　'The　same　coin　had　better　e　down　and　it　had　better　not　land　upon　its　edge。'
　Young　Jack　leered　around　at　his　adversary。　'As　honorary　President；'　he　said；　'I　shall　look　forward　to　you　personally　handing　me　the　shield　upon　your　team's　crushing　defeat。'
　Whether　through　the　action　of　that　fickle　thing　called　fate；　or　through　the　influence　of　some　force　which　the　Professor　had　neglected　to　make　allowance　for；　unlikely　though　that　might　seem；　the　coin　fell　tailside　up　and　the　Four　Horsemen　were　first　upon　the　oche。
　Through　merit　of　his　advanced　years　and　the　ever…present　possibility　that　he　would　not　survive　another　championship　game　through　to　the　end；　Old　Jack　threw　first。
　Professor　Slobe　did　not　trouble　to　watch　the　ancient　as　he　struggled　from　his　wheelchair；　assisted　by　his　two　aides；　and　flung　his　darts。　His　eyes　were　glued　to　the　hands　of　Young　Jack；　awaiting　the　slightest　movement　amongst　the　dark　captain's　metaphysical　digits。
　It　was　five　hundred　and　one　up　and　a　five…game　decision　and　each　man　playing　was　determined　to　give　of　his　all　or　die　in　the　giving。　Old　Jack　gave　a　fair　account　of　himself　with　an　ample　ton。
　Norman　took　the　mat。　As　he　did　so；　both　Pooley　and　Omally　found　their　eyes　wandering　involuntarily　over　the　heads　of　the　crowd　towards　the　electric　Guinness　clock。
　Three　times　Norman　threw　and　three　times　did　those　two　pairs　of　eyes　observe　the　fluctuation　in　the　clock's　hand。
　'He　cheats；　you　know；'　whispered　Pooley。
　'I've　heard　it　rumoured；'　Omally　replied。
　'One　hundred　and　eighty；'　boomed　the　man　in　the　rented　tux。
　On　the　outer　rim　of　the　solar　system；　where　the　planets　roll；　lax；　dark　and　lifeless；　appeared　nine　small　white　points　of　light　which　were　definitely　not　registered　upon　any　directory　of　the　heavens。　They　moved　upon　a　level　trajectory　and　travelled　at　what　appeared　to　be　an　even　and　leisurely　pace。　Given　the　vast　distances　which　they　were　covering　during　the　course　of　each　single　second；　however；　this　was　obviously　far　from　being　the　case。
　Upon　the　flight　deck　of　the　leading　Cerean　man　o'　war；　the　Starship　Sandra；　stood　the　Captain。　One　Lombard　Omega　by　name；　known　to　some　as　Lord　of　a　Thousand　Suns；　Viceroy　of　the　Galactic　Empire　and　Crown　Prince　of　Sirius；　he　was　a　man　of　average　height　with　high　cheekbones　and　a　slightly　tanned　plexion。　He　bore　an　uncanny　resemblance　to　a　young　Jack　Palance　and；　even　when　travelling　through　the　outer　reaches　of　the　cosmic　infinite；　smelt　strongly　of　creosote。
　'Set　a　course　for　home；'　he　said；　affecting　a　noble　stance　and　pointing　proudly　into　space。　'We　have　conquered　the　galaxy　and　now　return　in　triumph　to　our　home　world。　Ceres；　here　we　e。'
　The　navigator；　who　bore　a　striking　resemblance　to　his　Captain；　but