'That may not be so easy as you might believe。'
The Cerean turned up the palms of his hands。 'You are old and decrepit。 A single blow will cut the frail cord of your existence。'
'Appearances can sometimes be deceptive；' said the Professor。 'I for example happen to be a master of Dimac； the deadliest form of martial art known to mankind。 My hands and feet are registered with the local constabulary as deadly weapons。 They can。。。 '
'Rip； maim； mutilate； disfigure and kill with little more than the application of a fingertip's pressure；' said the Cerean。 'I know。 Who do you think invented Dimac in the first place？'
'I find your conversation tending towards the repetitious。 Kindly take your leave now； I have much to do。'
'Such as plotting the downfall of the Cerean Empire？'
'Amongst other things … I do have more important business。'
The man from Ceres laughed hollowly。 'You have great courage； old man；' said he。 'We of Ceres hold courage and bravery above all other things。'
'I understand that you like a good fight； yes；' said the Professor。 'Although you do not always win。 How's the armpit？'
The Cerean clutched at his tender parts。 'Shortly；' he snarled； 'your race will again know the might of Ceres。 They will feel the jackboot upon their necks。 You； however； will not be here to witness it。'
'I am expecting to enjoy a long and happy retirement；' said Professor Slobe； noting to his satisfaction and relief that Gammon had now entered the French windows； wielding an antique warming…pan。 'I worry for you； though。'
'Do not waste your concern。 When the battle fleet arrives and the true masters of Earth once more set foot upon the planet； they will have none to spare for your puny race。'
'Brave talk。 When might we expect this happy event？'
'Two days from now。 It is a pity you will miss it。'
'Oh； I won't miss it。 I have a table booked at the Swan upon that evening。 It is the darts tournament。 We hold the challenge shield； you know。'
'Of course I know。 Who do you think invented darts？'
'Are all your race such blatant liars？'
'Enough talk！' The Cerean pushed past the Professor's desk and crossed the room； to stand glaring； eye to eye with the old man。 'I know not who or what you are；' he said。 'Certainly you are unlike any human I have encountered hereabouts； although long ago I feel that I have met such men as you。 But for the present know only this： as a race； you humans fear death； and you are staring yours in the face。'
Professor Slobe met the Cerean's blazing glare with a cold； unblinking stare。 'I like you not；' he said mildly。 'It was my firm conviction that some promise might have been reached between our peoples。 I strongly disapprove of needless bloodshed； be the blood flowing from human veins or otherwise。 There is yet time； if only you could persuade your race to reconsider。 Be assured that if you go ahead with your plans you will meet with certain defeat。 It is folly to attack Earth。 We have been awaiting you for years and we are well prepared。'
'With the corner up； you have；' sneered the Cerean。 'You cannot stand against our battle fleet。 We will crush you into submission。 Slaves you were and slaves you shall yet bee。'
'Is there no passion then； no spark of what we call humanity？'
The Cerean curled his lip。 'None；' he said。
'Then at least it makes my task a little easier。'
'Prepare for death；' said the man from Ceres。
'Strike the blighter down；' said Professor Slobe。
Gammon swung the antique warming…pan with a will and struck the Cerean a mighty blow to the back of the head。 A sharp metallic clang announced the departure of a Cerean soul； bound for wherever those lads go to once parted from their unearthly bodies。
'He was surely lying about the darts； wasn't he； sir？' Gammon asked。
'I sincerely hope so；' the Professor replied。 'They might have got a team up。'
20
The editor of the Brentford Mercury screwed the cap back on to his fountain pen and wedged the thing behind his right ear。 He leant back in his pockmarked swivel chair and gazed up at the fly…specked yellow ceiling of his grimy office。 Before him； upon the overloaded desk； was a mountain of reports which； although being the very bread of life to the Fortean Society； could hardly be considered even food for thought to the simple folk of Brentford。
Certainly mystery and intrigue had been known to sell a few papers； but this stuff was silly season sensationalism and it wasn't the silly season for another month or more。 The editor reached into his drawer for his bottle of Fleet Street fort。 Tipping the pencils from a paper cup； he filled it to the brim。
It all seemed to have started with that riot in the Haling Road。 He had been receiving odd little reports prior to this； but they had been mainly of the lights in the sky and rumblings in the earth variety； and merited little consideration。 The riot； strange enough in itself in peace…loving Brentford； had turned up the first of a flock of really weird ones； and this verified by the Brentford constabulary。
There was the long black limousine of American manufacture which had roared away from the scene of the crime pursued by two squad cars； and then simply vanished in a most improbable fashion up a cul…de…sac。 The boys in blue had made a full…scale search of the area； which backed on to the allotment； but had e up with nothing。 The car had simply ceased to exist。
There was this continuing sequence of power cuts the area had been experiencing。 The local sub…station had denied any responsibility and their only ment had been that during their duration the entire power supply seemed literally to drain away； as if down a plughole。
If the disappearance of Brentford's electricity was weird； then the sudden appearance last week of a one…inch layer of sand pletely blanketing Brentford's football ground was weirder still。 The groundsman's claim that it was sabotage upon the part of a rival team seemed unlikely。
And then； of course； there was this lunatic craze for Jack Palance impersonation which was sweeping the borough。 It seemed a localized vogue； as he had had no reports of it ing in from outside the area。 But there they were in Brentford； lounging on corners or skulking about up alleyways。 Nobody knew who they were； what they were up to； or why they did it； but all agreed that； whyever it was； they did it very well。
The editor sighed。 What exactly was going on in Brentford？ And whatever it was； was it news？ He drained his cup and stared for a moment into its murky bottom for inspiration。 He would adjourn to the Swan for a couple of pints of liquid lunch； that was the best thing。 Get all this ludicrous stuff out of his mind。 He flicked through the pages of his appointments diary； which were as ever blank。 All except for tomorrow's date and this； surprisingly； was encircled thickly in red ink。
Now what might that be for？ The editor drew his pen from behind his ear and scratched at his head with it。
Of course； how could he have forgotten？ Tomorrow night was the most important night of Brentford's social calendar。 The night which Brentford annually awaited with eagerness and anticipation。 Tomorrow night was darts night at the Flying Swan。 And it promised to be a night that all present would long remember。
21
Professor Slobe drew together the great curtains and turned to address the small conclave gathered in his study。
The group； three in number； watched the old man warily。 The first； Jim Pooley by name； leant against the marble mantelshelf； fingering the magnificent pair of moustachios he had chosen to cultivate。 The second； a man of Irish extraction who had recently sold his razor at a handsome profit； lounged in a fireside chair almost unseen behind a forest of curly black beard。 The third； a shopkeeper and a victim of circumstance； toyed nervously with his whisky tumbler and prayed desperately for an opportunity to slip away and feed his camel。
There was one last entity present at this gathering； but he was of ethereal stock and invisible to the naked eye。 Edgar Allan Poe was maintaining the lowest of all low profiles。
'I have called you here； gentlemen；' said Professor Slobe； 'because we have almost ru