rr.eastofealing-第25章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　'Money　won't　do　it；'　said　Soap。　'Paper　currency　is　illegal。　All　assets　were　instantly　frozen　on　the　day　of　the　change。　Each　individual　had　to　hand　in　his　cash　to　the　bank　upon　his　turn　for　registration。　Those　who　refused　to　submit　to　the　change　found　every　door　closed　to　them。　They　could　not　travel　upon　buses　or　trains　or　buy　petrol　for　their　own　cars；　nor　milk　from　the　milkman；　nor　bread　from　the　bakers。　Their　friends　and　neighbours　rejected　them。　Even　members　of　their　own　families；　those　who　had　the　mark；　refused　them。　They　were　ostracized　totally　from　society。　Many　went　straight　to　the　banks　but　were　told　that　they　had　missed　their　opportunity　and　that　was　that。'
　'And　that　no　man　might　buy　or　sell；　save　he　that　had　the　mark　or　the　name　of　the　beast　or　the　number　of　his　name；'　said　Jim　Pooley　in　a　leaden　voice。
　'The　very　same。'
　'The　callous　bastards；'　said　John　Omally。　'So　what　happened　then？'
　'Exactly　what　you　might　expect。　Open　rebellion　on　the　part　of　the　unmarked。　What　they　could　no　longer　buy　they　took。　There　was　looting　and　burning　and　killing。　Much　killing。　Under　the　direction　of　the　Government's　master　puter　martial　law　was　imposed。　The　puter　issued　a　brief　edict：　all　those　who　do　not　bear　the　mark　to　be　shot　on　sight。'
　'Are　you　making　this　up；　Soap？'　Omally　leant　forward　in　his　seat　and　waggled　his　fist　threateningly　beneath　the　hollow　Earther's　all…but…transparent　nose。　'Jim　and　I　have　both　sussed　that　something　pretty　pony　is　going　on　here。　Although　we　are　trapped　by　a　seemingly　impenetrable　barrier；　the　shops　never　run　dry。　There　is　always　milk　and　fags；　bread　and　beer；　although　that　is　tasting　a　bit　odd　of　late。　It　must　all　be　ing　in　from　the　outside；　although　we　haven't　figured　out　exactly　how　as　yet。　Parachutes　in　the　dead　of　night　we　suspect。'
　'You're　on　a　wrong'n；'　said　Soap。　'Nothing　gets　in　or　out　except　me。　And　there's　no　food　going　begging　out　there　either。'
　'So　how　do　you　account　for　it　then？'
　'It　is　all　manufactured　right　here　in　the　parish。'
　'Oh　rot；'　said　Jim。　'Do　you　see　any　cows　grazing　in　the　Memorial　Park；　or　any　hop　fields　or　tobacco　plantations？　Talk　sense；　Soap；　please。　How　could　any　of　it　be　made　here？'
　'It　is　all　artificially　produced。　Every　last　little　thing；　it's　all　synthetic。　Including　your　manky　beer。'　Soap　pushed　his　glass　aside。　'I　can't　tell　you　how　it's　done　but　I　can　tell　you　who's　doing　it。'
　'Lateinos　and　bloody　Romiith；'　said　Omally　in　a　doom…laden　voice。
　'None　other。　What　do　you　think　the　walls　are　up　for　anyway？'
　'To　keep　us　in；'　Jim　said　gloomily。　'To　keep　me　in　and　stop　me　spending　my　money。'
　'Wrong；'　said　Soap。　'To　keep　the　others　out。　Those　walls　were　whipped　up　to　protect　the　master　puter　plex　in　Abaddon　Street。　It　is　the　centre　of　the　whole　operation。'
　'They　got　my　antique　bedstead；　the　bastards；'　snarled　Omally；　'and　now　my　beer　also。　Will　it　never　end？'
　'But　why　is　this　master　plex　in　Brentford？'　Jim　asked。　Td　always　pictured　Armageddon　getting　off　to　its　first　round　in　a　somewhat　more　Biblical　setting。　The　gasworks　and　the　flyover　just　don't　seem　to　fit。'
　'You'll　have　to　ask　the　Professor　about　that；'　said　Soap。　'Or　possibly　your　man　there。'　Soap　stretched　out　a　pale　hand　towards　the　tall；　gaunt　spectre　wearing　long　out…moded　tweeds　and　smoking　a　Turkish　cigarette　who　now　stood　majestically　framed　in　the　Swan's　famous　portal。
　'Gentlemen；'　said　Mr　Sherlock　Holmes；　gesturing　to　the　three　seated　figures；　two　of　which　were　now　cowering　away　and　seeking　invisibility；　'if　I　might　just　prevail　upon　your　aid　in　a　small　matter。'
　'And　there　was　I　utterly　convinced　that　things　could　get　no　worse；'　said　John　Omally。　'Oh　foolish　fellow　me。'
　
　18
　Sherlock　Holmes　strode　up　the　Baling　Road；　his　cigarette　billowing　smoke　about　his　angular　visage。　Pooley　and　Omally　plodded　behind；　and　had　they　chosen　to　pause　a　moment　and　look　around　they　might　just　have　caught　sight　of　the　manhole　cover　which　closed　upon　Soap's　retreating　form。
　'I　merely　wish　you　to　be　close　at　hand；'　said　Sherlock　Holmes　as　he　marched　along。　'Just　button　your　lips　and　hang　loose；　got　me？'
　Pooley；　who　had　recently　purchased　for　the　detective　an　advanced　video　recorder　and　the　plete　series　of　Basil　Rathbone　cassettes；　thought　to　detect　the　hint　of　an　American　accent　creeping　into　the　Victorian　voice。　'Oh；　gotcha；'　he　said。
　Outside　Norman's　corner…shop　Holmes　drew　to　a　sudden　halt。　His　two　followers　did　likewise　and　peered　without　enthusiasm　through　the　spotless　Plexiglas　of　the　new　aluminium…framed　door　to　where　Norman　stood　behind　his　shining　counter。　The　true　shopkeeper　was　busy　in　his　kitchenette；　bent　low　over　a　set　of　indecipherable　plans　scrawled　on　to　the　innards　of　a　cornflake　packet。　He　scarcely　heard　the　shopdoor…bell　chime　out　an　electronic　fanfare。　His　double　peered　up　from　the　countertop　puter　terminal　and　surveyed　his　three　potential　customers。　The　Irish　one；　cowering　to　the　rear；　owed；　he　recalled。　Clearing　his　throat　with　a　curiously　mechanical　coughing　sound；　he　asked；　'How　might　we　serve　you；　gentlemen？'
　'We？'　queried　Sherlock　Holmes。
　'The　plurality　is　used　in　a　purely　business　sense；'　the　robot　replied。　'We；　the　interest；　which　is　Norman　Hartnell；　corner　shop；　as　a　small　concern；　realize　the　need　to　extend　a　personal　wele　to　the　prospective　client　in　these　petitive　times。'
　'Very　precise；'　said　Sherlock　Holmes。　'An　ounce　of　Ships；　if　you　please。'
　'Certainly；　sir。'　The　robot　slipped　his　hand　behind　his　back　and　drew　out　the　packet。　Omally　considered　that　to　be　a　pretty　sneaky　move　by　any　reckoning。
　'You　have　redecorated　your　premises；　I　see；'　said　Holmes。
　Considering　this　to　be　a　simple　statement　of　fact　which　required　no　reply；　the　robot　offered　none。
　'And　all　achieved　with　the　left　hand。'
　The　creation　stiffened　ever　so　slightly　but　retained　its　posure；　although　a　fleeting　look　of　suspicion　crossed　its　face。　Pooley　and　Omally　both　stepped　back　unconsciously。
　'I　was　always　given　to　understand　that　you　were　right…handed；'　Holmes　continued。
　'That　will　be　eighteen　shillings　and　sixpence；　please；　sir。'　The　robot　stretched　forward　both　hands；　that　he　might　exhibit　no　personal　preference。
　'Put　it　on　my　slate；　please；'　said　Sherlock　Holmes。
　Beneath　his　breath　John　Omally　began　to　recite　the　rosary。
　Holmes'　deadly　phrase　clanged　amongst　the　robot's　network　of　inner　circuitry　and　fed　out　the　word　'Dimac'　in　any　one　of　a　dozen　known　languages。　'Eighteen　shillings　and　sixpence；　please；'　he　said。　'The　management　regret　that。。。'
　'So　I　have　been　given　to　understand；'　said　Holmes。　'If　it　is　not　inconvenient；　I　should　like　a　word　or　two　with　the　management。'
　'I　am　it。'　The　robot　pressed　his　hands　to　the　countertop　and　prepared　to　spring　over。　'Kindly　hand　me　the　eighteen　shillings　and　sixpence。'
　'I　think　not；'　said　Sherlock　Holmes。　'Let　us　not　bandy　words；　please。　If　the　real　Norman　Hartnell　still　draws　breath　then　I　wish　to　speak　with　him。　If　not；　then　I　am　making　a　citizen's　arrest。'
　The　robot　lunged　forward　across　the　counter　and　made　a　grab　at　the　detective's　throat。　Holmes　stepped　nimbly　beyond　range　and　drew　out　his　revolver。　He　pointed　it　at　the　space　between　the　robot's　eyes；　his　aim　was　steady　and　unshaking。　'Hurry　now；'　he　said；　'my　time　is　valuable。'
　The　robot　stared　at　the　great　detective。　Its　lips　were　drawn　back　from　its　plasticized　teeth　which　glowed　an　evil　yellow。　Its　eyes　blazed　hatred　and　its　hands　crooked　into　cruel　claws。
　'Hold　hard　or　I　fire。'
　The　pseudo…shopkeeper　crouched　low　upon　his　knees　and　suddenly　leapt　upwards。　Holmes'　finger　closed　about　the　trigger；　but　the　inhuman　reactions　of　the　creation　far　outmatched　his　own。　The　thing　leapt　upwards；　passing　clean　through　the　ceiling　of　the　shop；　bringing　down　an　avalanche　of　lathe　and　plaster　and　tumbling　timber…work。　Holmes　staggered　backwards；　shielding　his　face　from　the　falling　debris。　Pooley　and　Omally　adopted　the　now　legendary　foetal　position。　A　series　of　further　crashes　signalled　the　departure　of　the　robot　through　the　walls　of　Norman's　back　bedroom。
　Startled　by　the　sounds　of　destruction；　the　shopkeeper　burst　through　his　kitchenette　door　into　the　now　thoroughly　ventilated　shop。　He　gazed　up　at　the　crude　hole　yawnin