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