rr.eastofealing-第19章

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s　clasped　about　his　ears；　nodding　his　head　and　popping　his　fingers。
　And　as　for　this；　Pooley　held　up　his　right　hand　and　examined　the　palm。　The　bank　had　refused　to　give　him　either　a　receipt　or　a　cheque…book。　With　unveiled　condescension　they　had　explained　that　such　methods　of　personal　finance　were　now　obsolete　and　that　for　security's　sake　they　must　insist　upon　the　new　personalized　identification　system。　They　had　then　stamped　his　right　palm　with　a　pattern　of　eighteen　little　puter　lines　in　three　rows　of　six。　Six　six　six。　Pooley　spat　on　to　his　palm　and　rubbed　away　at　the　marking；　it　would　not　budge。　He　eased　up　on　the　moaning　and　groaning　and　took　to　a　bit　of　soulful　sighing。　He　had　bee　involved　in　something　which　was　very　much　bigger　than　he　was。　He　really　should　have　listened　to　Professor　Slobe　and　torn　up　the　slip。
　A　sudden　screeching　of　white…walled　tyres　upon　tarmac　announced　the　arrival　of　Antoine　with　Pooley's　new　car。　Jim　distantly　recalled　a　deal　he　had　struck　the　night　before。
　'Your　carriage　awaits；'　said　the　chauffeur　of　fortune；　springing　from　the　automobile　and　holding　open　the　door。
　Jim　was　entranced。　The　car；　a　silver…grey　Morris　Minor；　although　of　a　model　some　fifteen　years　out　of　date；　had　all　the　makings　of　one　fresh　from　the　showroom。　'Where　did　you　get　it？'　he　asked；　rising　from　his　gloom　and　strolling　over　to　the　automotive　gem。
　'Purchased　with　the　money　you　advanced；　sir；'　Antoine　replied　politely。　'Has　a　few　tricks　under　the　hood。'
　Pooley　circled　the　car　approvingly　and　ran　his　unsoiled　hand　along　the　spanking　paintwork。　'Big　Boda；'　said　he。　'It's　a　corker。'
　'And　what　about　the　number　plates？'　Antoine　indicated　the　same；　JP　1。
　'Double　Boda；'　said　Jim　Pooley。
　'Would　sir　care　to　be　taken　for　a　spin？'
　'Absolutely。'　Jim　clapped　his　hands　together　and　chuckled。　Maybe　this　being　wealthy　did　have　its　pensations　after　all。　Antoine　swung　forward　the　driver's　seat　and　Jim　clambered　aboard。　The　chauffeur　sat　himself　down　before　the　wheel　and　closed　the　door。　'What　is　all　that？'　Pooley　asked；　spying　out　the　Morris'　dashboard；　it　was　far　from　conventional。
　'Customized；'　said　Antoine。　'By　Lateinos　and　Romiith；　who　bought　out　the　old　Morris　patent。　This　car　will　do　nought　to　sixty　in　three　point　four　seconds。　It　has　weather…eye　air…conditioning；　fuel　consumption　down　to　near　zero　by　merit　of　its　improved　plasma…drive　system。　Are　you　acquainted　with　quantum　mechanics？'
　'I　get　by；'　said　Jim。
　'Solar　pod　power…retention　headlights；　underpinned　macro…pleasure　full…glide　suspension。　Sub…lift　non…drift　gravitational　thrust　plates。。。'
　'Drive　please；'　said　Jim；　'I　will　tell　you　when　to　stop。'
　'Where　to；　sir？'　Antoine　put　the　preposterous　vehicle　into　instant　overdrive　and　tore　it　away　at　Mach　ten。
　Pooley　slewed　back　in　his　seat；　cheeks　drawn　up　towards　his　ears；　his　face　suddenly　resembling　the　now　legendary　Gwynplaine；　of　Victor　Hugo's　Man　who　Laughs。　'Steady　on；'　winced　Jim。
　'Gravitational　acclimatization　auxiliary　forward　modifications　engaged。'　Antoine　touched　a　lighted　sensor　on　the　dash　and　Pooley　slumped　forward。　'A　quick　tour　of　the　parish；　taking　in　the　more　desirable　residences　on　the　〃For　Sale〃　list；　would　it　be；　sir？'
　'e　again？'
　'My　previous　employers　always　liked　the　grand　tour。'
　'I　thought　you　worked　for　Bob？'
　'Only　at　lunch　times；　I　am　a　freelance。'
　'Very　mendable。'
　The　car　screamed　into　Mafeking　Avenue　on　two　wheels；　narrowly　avoiding　Old　Pete；　who　raised　two　eloquent　fingers　towards　its　receding　rear　end。
　'How　many　clients　have　you　then？'
　'Only　you；'　said　Antoine。　'I　have　attended　to　all　those　who　came　by　the　big　payouts。　One　after　another。'
　The　Morris　roared　past　the　Memorial　Park；　gathering　speed。
　'One　after　another。　How　many　have　e　up　recently　then？'
　'Twenty…five；　although　they　were　never　in　your　league。'　The　chauffeur　cleared　his　throat　with　a　curiously　mechanical　coughing　sound。
　Pooley　scratched　at　his　head。　He　had　heard　of　no　recent　big　winners　hereabouts。　Jim　suddenly　smelt　the　great…grandaddy　of　all　big　rats。　'Stop　the　car；'　he　demanded。
　Antoine　crouched　low　over　the　puterized　controls；　his　toe　edged　nearer　to　the　floor；　and　the　modified　family　saloon　performed　another　impossible　feat　of　acceleration。
　'Stop　this　car！'　shouted　Jim。　'There　is　a　stitch…up　here　and　I'll　have　no　part　of　it。'
　'Stitch…up？'　leered　Antoine。　Pooley　could　just　make　out　his　face　reflected　in　the　driving　mirror。　It　was　not　a　face　Jim　would　wish　to　recall　in　his　dreams。　The　chauffeur's　normally　amiable　visage　had　bee　contorted　into　a　death…mask　of　inhuman　cruelty。　The　eyes　glowed　between　hooded　slits；　the　mouth　was　drawn　down；　exposing　a　row　of　wicked　metallic…looking　teeth。　The　face　was　no　longer　human；　it　was　atavistic；　something　beyond　and　before　humanity；　pelling　and　vibrant　with　dark　evil　power。　The　flying　Morris　cannoned　through　the　short　cobbled　alleyway　between　the　Police　Station　and　the　Beehive　and　swerved　right　through　the　red　lights　and　out　into　the　High　Road。　It　should　surely　have　been　forced　to　a　standstill　amidst　the　hubbub　of　mid…morning　traffic；　but　to　Pooley's　increasing　horror　the　High　Street　was　empty；　the　pavements　deserted。
　'Stop；　I　say！'　screamed　Jim。　'I　will　pay　you　anything　you　want；　name　the　sum。'　Antoine　laughed　hideously；　the　sounds　issuing　from　his　throat　being　those　of　sharp　stones　rattled　in　a　tin　can。　Pooley　shook　his　brain　into　gear；　'knobble　the　mad　driver'；　it　told　him。　Climbing　forward；　Jim　lashed　out　towards　the　driver's　neck。　'AAAAAGH！'　went　Pooley；　as　his　lunging　fingers　piled　into　a　barrier　of　empty　air；　splintering　nails；　and　dislocating　thumbs。
　'Safety…shield　anti…whiplash　modification；'　sneered　the　demonic　driver　as　Pooley　sank　back　into　his　seat；　his　wounded　hands　jammed　beneath　his　armpits。　The　car　swung　into　a　side…road　Jim　did　not　clearly　remember　and　thundered　on　towards。。。　Jim　suddenly　stiffened　in　his　seat。。。　towards　the　rim　of　the　old　quarry。　Jim　recalled　that　place　well　enough；　he　used　to　go　ferreting　there　when　a　lad。　The　walls　were　fifty…foot　sheer　to　a　man。　He　was　heading　for　an　appointment　with　none　other　than　good　old　Nemesis　himself。　Now　was　the　time　to　do　some　pretty　nifty　fast　thinking。　Pooley　thrust　his　brain　into　overdrive。　Accelerating　Morris；　mad　driver；　two　doors　only；　invisible　force…field　before。　No　sun…roof　and　Nemesis　five　hundred　yards　distant。　Jim　chewed　upon　his　lip；　worry　beads　of　perspiration　upon　his　brow。　No　way　out　before；　above；　but　possibly。。。
　The　mighty　Morris　has　to　its　credit　many　an　endearing　feature。　Ask　any　driver　and　he　will　mention　such　things　as　fort；　luxury；　fuel　economy；　or　the　obvious　prestige　of　ownership。　But　stand　that　man　in　front　of　his　locked　car　to　view　the　spectacle　of　his　ignition　keys　dangling　in　the　steering　column　and　he　will　then　address　his　praise　towards　the　inevitably　faulty　boot…lock　and　the　detachable　rear　seat。　Pooley　had　crawled　into　more　than　a　few　Morrises　on　drunken　evenings　past　when　further　staggering　home　looked　out　of　the　question。　Now　he　was　hardly　backward　in　going　that　very　direction。
　Nemesis　was　yet　two　hundred　and　fifty　yards　to　the　fore。　As　the　car　ploughed　on　relentlessly　towards　the　yawning　chasm　ahead；　Jim　clawed　at　the　rear　seat　with　his　maimed　fingers。　With　the　kind　of　superhuman　effort　which　would　have　done　credit　to　any　one　of　a　dozen　Boy's　Own　Paper　heroes；　he　plunged　into　the　boot　and　fought　it　open。
　With　one　bound　he　was　free。
　As　the　car　breasted　the　rim　of　the　chasm　and　dashed　itself　down　towards　oblivion；　Jim　tumbled　out　into　the　roadway；　bowling　over　and　over　like　a　rag　doll；　to　the　acpaniment　of　many　a　sickening；　bone…shattering　report。　He　came　to　a　final　dislocated　standstill　a　few　short　yards　from　doom。　A　loud　explosion　beneath；　a　column　of　flame；　and　a　rising　black　mushroom　cloud　of　oily　smoke　signalled　the　sorry　end　of　a　fine　car。　Pooley　made　a　feeble　attempt　to　rise；　but　to　no　avail。　Every　bone　in　his　body　seemed　broken　several　times　over。　His　head　was　pointing　the　wrong　way　round　for　a　start。　A　flood　tide　of　darkness　engulfed　the　fallen　hero　and　Jim　lapsed　away　into　a　dark　oblivion　of　unconsciousness。
　
　14
　John　Omally　pressed　his　way　through　Professor　Slobe's　ever…open　French　windows。　Th