ched and considered his hands。 'Gross；' he thought。 The wrists appeared massive； swelling from his pyjama sleeves to join great five…pound hams with pork sausages glued on to them。 Whatever was happening to him was doing it at an accelerated rate of knots。 'It's getting out of control；' said Neville； as to the acpaniment of groaning floorboards； he arose from his bed。 He would give up eating； he told himself； live exclusively on scotch； crispbread； and the occasional lime to stave off scurvy。
Neville staggered across the floor； pictures rattled upon the wall in time with his tread； and the entire upper storey of the pub seemed dangerously near to collapse。 Why would nobody admit to seeing the state he was in？ It had to be part of some enormous conspiracy aimed at ousting him from the Swan。 Neville pawed at his swollen skull with a preposterous forefinger。 Was that it？ Was it the brewery having a go？ That nest of vipers？ Most horrors which befell him were directly attributable to them。 Possibly they were bribing his patrons to ignore his plight？ Or possibly they were hypnotizing him while he slept？ Neville had read of slimming courses you got on cassettes and played while you were asleep。 He'd never quite figured out how you turned the tape recorder on if you were fast a…kip； but it was a thought。 He would search his apartments for hidden speakers as soon as he'd had his morning shower。
He struggled to squeeze himself through the bathroom doorway。 Whatever it was； he would have to suss it out pretty rapidly or the entire building was going to e down about his ears。
Old Pete ambled along the Haling Road； his tatty half…terrier； as ever； upon his heels。 He had just paid his weekly visit to each of Brentford's two sub…post offices； in order to cash the two pension cheques the post office's errant puter chose weekly to award him。 'God bless the GPO；' the old reprobate had been heard to utter upon more than one occasion。
The ancient shuffled cheerfully along； rattling his stick noisily across Mrs Naylor's front railings in a manner calculated to rudely awaken the insatiable lady librarian from her erotic dreams。 Young Chips chuckled to himself and gave the lampposts a bit of first…thing nasal perusal。 Norman's new paperboy bustled out of the corner…shop； the heavy bag upon his shoulders； and mounted his bike。 Chips momentarily bared his teeth； but it was early yet and he hardly felt up to making the effort。
Pete steered his way between the posts supporting Norman's shop…front and thrust open the temporary door。 'Morning Norman；' said he。 The shopkeeper tucked away the copy of Donkey Capers he had been ogling and turned to seek out Pete's weekly quota of tobacco。
'How's the bed； Pete？' he asked。 'To your satisfaction I trust？'
'Magic；' said Old Pete。
'I'm so glad。 Two ounces of Ships is it？'
'And a copy of the Mercury。' Old Pete pushed a crisp fiver across the counter。
'Ever had a credit card； Pete？' Norman rang up the sale on his cash register。
Old Pete shook his head。 'Don't think so。 I have a membership card for the British Legion； and a special doo…dad which lets me travel free on the buses； other than that。。。' Old Pete scratched his snow…capped head。 'Had a pack of nudie playing…cards I bought in Cairo during the last lot。 What does it do then？'
Norman did his best to explain。
'Oh no；' said Pete。 'Never had one of those。 Mind you； I've never had a bank account。 You selling them now； then？'
Norman shook his head。 'I was just reading this article。 It seems that they are now obsolete。 The Government are taking to stamping the numbers on people's heads。'
'Don't talk rubbish；' said Old Pete。 'Here now； what is this？' He pointed to his tin of tobacco。
'What is what？'
'This。' Old Pete indicated a series of little lines imprinted upon the lid。 'They weren't there last week。 What are they？'
Norman took the tin and examined it。 'That's the lads；' said he。 'puter bar coding； it's called。 That's what I was trying to explain。 All modities are now being printed with them。 They tell you the price and the date you purchased the item and all that sort of thing。 You pass a light…pen over them and it logs all the information straight into some master puter。 The Government are simply taking the process a logical step further。'
'I don't like the smell of that；' said Old Pete。 'After all； you know when you purchased it and how much it costs； what do you need the lines for？'
Norman shrugged。 'Progress；' he said。 'We must all move with the times you know。'
'You must。' Old Pete snatched back his tobacco。 'For myself； I say a pox on the times。 Now don't get me wrong； I have nothing against puters； one in particular there is which I hold in the highest esteem。 But for progress in general。。。' Old Pete made the appropriate two…fingered gesture； snatched up his paper； which unbeknown to him bore a not dissimilar set of lines upon it； and shuffled from the shop。
'Daft old fogey；' said Norman to himself； but squinting around it did occur to him that every item he had ordered during the last few weeks possessed similar markings。 No doubt it was all for the mon good。 There could not possibly be anything sinister at the back of it； surely？ No； it was all part of a great masterplan to free society of crime and bring prosperity to all。 Norman went off about his business； whistling； 'The Rock Island line is a mighty fine line'。
Jim Pooley was already upon his favourite bench。 He had accosted Norman's paperboy and wrung from his clammy grip a copy of the Sporting Life。 Yesterday had been a total disaster。 His life savings； in the biscuit tin on the mantelpiece； were sadly depleted。 In the dubious excitement of the night before； he and Omally had actually forgotten to ask Soap for the thirty quid。 Such events were Wont to dash any hopes Jim had for the future。 He would simply have to pull off The Big One today and that was that。
Pooley scanned the pages in search of inspiration。 Almost at once he spied out a little series of lines printed on the lower left…hand corner of the sixth page。 'Aha；' said Jim； 'a code； possibly masonic。' He recalled a discussion he had recently had with Professor Slobe about what the ancient termed The Science of Numerology。 The scholar was convinced that the answer to most if not all of existence could be divined by the study of numerical equivalents。 It was all down to breaking the code。 The Professor had； of course； said a great deal more at the time； but that was the general gist which Jim managed to take in。 No knowledge was ever wasted upon the lad； for as his father； like Omally's； had told him somewhat obscurely when he was a lad； 'a dead bird never falls out of the nest。'
So here was a little offering； possibly a secret code； printed for the benefit of that dark order； The Bookie Brotherhood； who； as any good punter knows； are always tipped the wink in advance。 Pooley turned quickly to the front page and his heart jumped for joy。 It was true。 He had Bob the bookie's Sporting Life。 Oh； happy day。
'I've cracked it；' said Jim Pooley to the assortment of Brentford wildlife which watched him from the surrounding trees。 The squirrels shook their heads and nudged one another。 The pigeons turned their beaked faces aside and tittered into their wings。 They had seen all this many times before。 'Eighteen lines；' Jim began； 'three groups of six； thick ones and thin ones； now how exactly does this work？ Six six six； what might it mean？'
Pooley ran his Biro down the list of runners for the first race； six horses。 The first thick line in the first group was number four。 It was an outsider； the odds were enormous。 Still it was worth a try。 If he got it wrong today he could always steal Bob's paper again on the morrow。 Jim scribbled the horse's name on to a betting…slip and applied himself to the next race。 For the fourth； fifth； and sixth races； he returned to the three groups of lines and selected the second thick bar in each sequence。 Satisfied that； even if he was incorrect； he had at least performed this daily task with speed and alacrity； Jim took out his exercise book and made an attempt to calculate his potential winnings。 The eventual figure was so large that the last row of noughts flowed off the edge of the page。 Pooley folded his betting…slip into his breastpocket and tucked away his exercise book。 'That will do nicely thank you；' he said； leaning back upon the bench to enjoy the air。
Professor Slobe sat taking a late breakfast with his Victorian guest。 Mr Sherlock Holmes ate sparingly as he studied the day's newspaper。 'I see；' he said at length； as he pushed the tabloid aside； 'that very little has changed since my day。'
'e now； Holmes；' said the Professor。 'More strides forward have been taken this century than during the previous five。'
'I think not。'
'And what of technological advancement； telemunications； space travel？ We possess sciences now that in your day were undreamed of。'
'And what of poverty； squalor； and cruelty？ What of injustice； intolerance； and greed？ Has your age of wonder succeeded in abolishing those？'
Professor Slobe shook his head。 'Sadly； no；' said he。
'Then little has changed。 If anything； these horrors have been intensifie