Robert Rankin - East of Ealing

“No more,” gulped Jim, when the two had shinned with difficulty over a high wall and dropped down into no safety whatsoever on the other side. “I am finished.”

The sweat ran freely into Omally’s eyes as he tore off his jacket and flung it aside. “Not me,” said he. “I’m not giving in to some clockwork copy, not while I still draw breath.”

With a great rending of brick and mortar, a section of the wall collapsed about them as the two duplicates applied their combined force.

“Run, Jim.”

“I’ll race you.”

Along the cobbled way towards Old Brentford Docks staggered John and Jim, their last reserves of stamina all but drained away. Their hobnails sparked and clattered upon the cobbles and behind them in perfect unison their soulless pursuers were to be heard click-clacking at an easy pace. John pulled Jim into one of the disused warehouses. As he did so, their infra-red images unaccountably vanished from the screen of the Lateinos and Romiith computer. They ducked away behind a stack of abandoned loading pallets and shrank into the darkness, hearts pounding. From without, the sound of approaching footsteps drew nearer, then suddenly ceased. “Quiet now,” whispered Omally, ramming his hands over Pooley’s convulsing cherry-red face. Jim gasped for breath and sank down on to his bum with a dull thud. Omally ssshed him into silence, his finger upon his lips. The sound of slow, steady footfalls reached their ears. “Stay quiet.”

The duplicates moved about the building, uncertain of which way to go; they tested the air with their sophisticated nasal sensory apparatus, in the hope of catching the scent of their quarries, but the ozone of the old dock drew the kipper over their tracks. Jim Pooley drew a fistful of sweat from his brow and spattered it on to the dusty floor of the old warehouse. He looked towards John, who shrugged in the darkness. Long, painful minutes passed. Jim folded his jacket across his chest to muffle the sound of his deafening heartbeat. Omally slunk to and fro seeking an exit or a reason or an anything. Outside, the duplicates stealthily encircled the building, sniffing and peering. The Omally gestured to the yawning doorway. The Pooley nodded. The duplicates entered the warehouse. Omally saw their shadows spread across the floor and flattened himself on to the deck. The two came slowly forward, scanning the way before them. Circuits meshed and weaved in their mechanized brains, drawing in the data, and processing it in the twinkling of a plastic eyelid.

From behind the stack of pallets a very foolish voice indeed said suddenly, “Well, I think we’ve outrun them, John. Care for a tailor-made?”

Omally’s eyes widened in horror as he watched the two heads, one his own and the other that of his dearest friend, swivel upon their frictionless bearings, and swing in the direction of the sound. He gestured towards Jim, whose face could just be seen grinning from behind the stack of pallets. “Come, come.”

The robot Pooley leapt forward and grasped the obstruction barring his way. He tore the stack apart with a single movement, sending them smashing to all sides.

Jim looked up white and trembling and saw death staring him right between the eyes. “Help, John,” he squealed, cowering back against the wall. “Do something.”

Grinning like a gargoyle, the robot slowly withdrew from the pocket of his brand new suit, a small wicked-looking black instrument with two extendable electrodes. With a flick of the thumb he armed the mechanism and sent sparks crackling about the tips of the rods.

Omally floundered about seeking a suitable weapon, his hand closed over a length of iron conduit. “Up the rebels,” he cried as he flung himself towards Jim’s attacker. His own double turned upon him to stand glaring, eye to eye. “You bastard,” spat Omally, “come and try your luck.” He swung his cudgel with terrific force but the robot shot out a hand and grasped it, tearing it from his grip and flinging it the length of the warehouse. Omally ducked back as his double delved into its pocket. The smile widened upon its lips as the small black box appeared.

“Hold hard,” a voice echoed about the warehouse. Four pairs of eyes shot in the direction of the sound. A tall, gaunt figure stood crouched in the doorway, silhouetted against the light, legs spread widely apart and hands held forward. “This is a Magnum Forty-four,” he shouted, “biggest handgun in the world and can blow your heads clean off your shoulders. What do you say, punks?”

The robot duplicates looked towards their respective quarries, one cowering and covering his nuts, the other standing defiant, thirty-four-function barlow knife now in hand. They turned in unison towards the source of their annoyance.

“Hold hard or I fire,” cried Sherlock Holmes.

The robots stole forward upon synthetic heels.

“Right on.” Holmes’ trigger finger tightened. Two shots rang out in rapid succession. The robot Pooley span from his feet in a hazy blur, his head a mass of trailing ribbons and sparking wires. The Omally sank to its knees, foul yellow slime spurting from two over-large holes front and back of its plastic skull. He rose to stumble forward, cruel claws scratching at the air, jerked upright, then slumped to the deck, a rag doll flung carelessly aside. Holmes blew into the barrel of his Forty-four, spun it upon his forefinger, and tucked it away into his shoulder holster. “Gotcha,” he said.

Omally clicked back the blade of his barlow knife and thrust the thing into his breast pocket. He stepped over to console the gibbering Pooley. “Thanks yet again,” he said to Sherlock Holmes. “It seems that we are once more in your debt.”

“No sweat,” the great detective replied. He stooped over the twisted “corpse” of the false and fallen Pooley and began to turn out its pockets. Jim crept forward and watched in horror as Holmes examined the contents before tossing them aside. A besmutted handkerchief, a leaky ballpoint pen, an initialled gold Cartier lighter, and a packet of Passing Cloud cigarettes.

Pooley patted frantically at his pockets; they’d been picked obviously. To his further horror his patting disclosed an identically besmutted handkerchief, a leaky ballpoint pen, and the same Cartier lighter, which he had not as yet learned how to fill; even the packet of fags. Pooley held out his hands to Sherlock Holmes. The detective took the cigarette packet and shook it open: seventeen cigarettes. He picked up the robot’s packet: three gone from the packet of twenty.

“Very thorough. Every last detail absolutely correct,” said Holmes. “I would hazard a guess that, should we analyse the fluff in your trouser pockets and that of this demon-spawn here, they would match exactly.” Jim shuddered. Holmes completed his search and satisfied himself that he had taken all relevant matters into account. He rose to leave. “I must away now,” he said. “The game is afoot.”

“It’s costing us an arm and a leg,” said Omally. “Well, good luck to you at the very least.”

“Your sentiment is appreciated, John, but luck plays no part whatsoever in my investigations.” Holmes tapped at his right temple. “It all comes from here. The science of deduction, made art.”

“Yes,” said Omally doubtfully. “Well, be that as it may. My best wishes to you for the success of your mission.”

“Ten-four,” said the detective. “Up and away.” With these few words he leapt out through the warehouse door and was presently lost from view.

“I still say he’s a nutter.” Omally brushed the dust and grime away from the numb and shattered Jim Pooley.

The two electronic cadavers lay spread across the warehouse floor, and it was no pleasant thing to behold your own corpse lying at your very feet. Pocket fluff and all. Omally turned Jim’s head away. “Come on, mate,” said he softly. “We’ve had a good innings here, let’s not spoil it.”