rr.eastofealing- 第37部分

　The　'Professor'　stiffened；　slowly　his　head　revolved　a　hundred　and　eighty　degrees　upon　his　neck　and　stared　up　at　them；　sickeningly。　'Learn；　last　men；'　he　said；　clearing　his　throat　with　the　curiously　mechanical　coughing　sound　John　and　Jim　had　learned　to　fear。　'It　is　your　only　salvation。　Humble　yourselves　before　your　new　master。'
　'Oh　no。'　Omally　stumbled　back　and　drew　out　his　crucifix。　'Back；'　he　shouted；　holding　it　before　him　in　a　wildly　shaking　fist。　'Spawn　of　the　pit。'
　The　Professor's　body　turned　to　follow　the　direction　of　his　face。　His　eyes　had　lost　their　pupils　but　now　glowed　from　within；　two　miniature　terminal　screens；　tiny　figures　twinkling　across　them　in　hypnotic　succession。　'Behold　the　power；'　said　he。　'Know　you　the　number　of　the　beast；　for　it　is　the　number　of　a　man。'
　'By　the　Cross。'
　The　thing　which　dwelt　in　the　Professor's　image　thrust　a　hand　into　its　trouser　pocket　and　drew　out　a　small　black　box　with　two　slim　protruding　shafts。
　'Head　for　the　hills；'　yelled　Pooley；　as　the　clone　touched　the　nemesis　button　and　the　black　rods　sparkled　with　electric　fire。
　Omally　flattened　himself　to　the　wall　as　the　thing　lunged　towards　him。　A　great　explosion　tore　the　world　apart。　Shards　of　glass　and　splinters　of　burning　circuitry　spun　in　every　direction；　spattering　the　walls　and　the　two　cowering　men；　flame　and　smoke　engulfed　the　room。　The　Professor's　duplicate　stood　immovable；　his　synthetic　hair　ablaze　and　his　clothes　in　tatters。　Norman's　double　drew　a　smouldering　fist　from　the　shattered　terminal　screen。　He　leapt　forward；　grasping　the　Professor's　doppelganger　about　the　throat；　and　dragged　it　backwards。　'Out！'　he　shouted。　'Run　for　your　lives；　lads。'
　Pooley　and　Omally　bundled　out　of　the　door。　John　leapt　astride　Marchant　and　Pooley　clambered　on　to　the　handlebars。　At　very　much　the　hurry…up　they　took　to　the　retreat。
　In　absolutely　the　wrong　direction。
　Omally's　feet　flew　about　and　Marchant；　realizing　the　urgency　of　the　situation；　made　no　attempt　to　ditch　its　extra　rider。　With　its　bell　ringing　dramatically　it　cannoned　forward　up　the　corridor。　Figures　appeared　before　them；　dressed　in　grey　uniforms　and　carrying　fire…fighting　equipment。　Pooley　struck　aside　all　he　could　as　the　bike　ploughed　forward。　As　he　cleared　a　path　between　several　rather　sloppy　versions　of　himself；　a　thought　struck　him。　The　great　machine　for　all　its　dark　magic　certainly　lacked　something　in　the　old　imagination　department。　Obviously　when　idling　and　stuck　for　something　to　do；　it　just　kept　turning　out　the　same　old　thing。
　'Do　you　know　what　this　means？'　Omally　shouted　into　his　ear。　Pooley　shook　his　terrified　head　and　lashed　out　at　another　robot　duplicate　of　himself。　'It　means　that　I　am　the　last　Catholic　on　Earth。'　'Well；　some　good　came　out　of　it　all；　then。'　As　Omally's　hands　were　busily　engaged　at　the　handlebar　grips；　he　could　do　no　more　than　lean　forward　and　bite　Pooley's　ear。　'Jim；'　he　shouted；　'Jim；　as　the　last　Catholic；　I　am　Pope！　Jim。。。　I。。。　am　Pope。　I　am　Pope！'
　
　31
　Some　distance　beneath　the　pedalling　pontiff　a　great　cry　broke　the　silence。　'Fe。。。　fi。。。　fo。。。　fum。'　Neville　the　barbarian　barman　had　finally　reached　a　wall。　And　at　long　last　he　had　found　something　he　could　thump。　The　thrill　of　the　prospect　sent　a　small　shiver　up　his　back　which　finally　lost　itself　amid　acres　of　straining　muscle　fibre。　Neville　ran　his　hand　across　the　barrier　blocking　his　way；　hard　and　cold　as　glass。　An　outside　wall　surely？　The　barman　pressed　his　eye　to　the　jet　crystal　surface　and　did　a　bit　of　squinting。　Something　vague　was　moving　about　on　the　other　side。　People　in　the　street？　Neville　drew　back　for　a　shoulder　charge；　and　he　would　have　gone　through　with　it　had　not　a　sensible　thought　unexpectedly　entered　his　head。　He　wasn't　exactly　sure　which　floor；　or　wherever；　he　was　on。　With　his　track　record　the　movements　were　likely　to　be　those　of　roosting　rooftop　pigeons。　It　could　be　a　long　hard　fall　to　earth。　Neville　pressed　his　ear　to　the　wall　of　black　glass。　He　couldn't　hear　a　damn　thing。
　Bash　out　a　couple　of　bore　holes　to　see　out　through；　that　would　be　your　man。　The　barman　drew　back　a　fist　of　fury　and　hurled　it　forward　at　something　approaching　twice　the　speed　of　sound。　With　a　sickening　report　it　struck　home。　His　knotted　fist　passed　clean　through　the　wall；　cleaving　out　a　hole　the　size　of　a　dustbin…lid。　'Gog　a　Magog！'　Neville　took　an　involuntary　step　backwards。　An　icy　hurricane　of　fetid　wind　tore　out　at　him　shredding　away　the　last　vestiges　of　his　surgical　smock　and　leaving　him　only　his　Y…fronts。　Neville　stood　his　ground；　a　great　arm　drawn　over　his　face　to　shield　his　sensitive　nostrils　from　the　vile　onslaught　he　had　unwittingly　unleashed。　'Great　mother。'　Tears　flew　from　his　eyes　as　he　forced　himself　onward。　With　his　free　hand　he　tore　out　a　great　section　of　the　wall；　which　cartwheeled　away　in　the　stinking　gale。　With　heroic　effort　he　charged　forward　into　the　not…so…great　beyond。
　The　wind　suddenly　ceased　and　he　found　himself　standing　in　absolute　silence　and　near…darkness。　It　was　very　very　cold　indeed。　'Brr；'　said　Neville。　'Brass　monkey　weather。'　To　the　lover　of　Greek　mythology；　what　next　occurred　would　have　been　of　particular　interest。　But　to　a　Brentford　barman　in　his　present　state　of　undress；　the　sudden　arrival　of　Cerberus；　the　multi…headed　canine　guardian　of　the　underworld；　was　anything　but　a　fort。
　'Woof；　woof；　and　growl；'　went　Cerberus；　in　the　plural。
　'Nice　doggy；'　said　Neville；　covering　his　privy　parts。　'Good　boy；　there。'
　The　creature　tore　at　the　barman；　a　blur　of　slavering　mouths　and　blazing　red　eyes。
　Neville　sprang　aside　and　ducked　away　beneath　it　as　it　leapt　towards　his　throat。　'Heel；'　he　said。　'Sit。'
　The　thing　turned　and　stood　pawing　the　ground；　glowing　faintly；　its　scorpion　tail　flicking；　low　growls　ing　from　a　multiplicity　of　throats。　By　all　accounts　it　made　Holmes'　Baskerville　growler　seem　pretty　silly。
　'Grrrrrrrrrrs；'　went　Cerberus；　squaring　up　for　the　kill。
　'Grrrrrrrr；'　went　Neville；　who　now　considered　that　thumping　a　multi…headed　dog　was　as　good　as　thumping　anything。　'e　and　get　your　Bob　Martins。'　With　a　single　great　bound　it　was　upon　him；　heads　whipping　and　snapping。　Neville　caught　it　at　chest　height　and　pummelled　it　down　with　flailing　fists。　It　leapt　up　again　and　he　caught　at　a　scaled　throat；　crushing　his　hands　about　it　until　the　thumbs　met。　The　hell…hound　screamed　with　pain　as　Neville　dragged　it　from　its　clawed　feet　and　dashed　it　to　the　ground。　Roll　on　chucking…out　time；　thought　the　part…time　barman。　With　one　head　hanging　limply　but　others　still　on　the　snap；　the　fiend　was　on　him　once　more；　ripping　and　tearing；　its　foul　mouths　snapping；　brimstone　vapour　snorting　from　its　nostrils。
　The　two　bowled　over　again　and　again；　mighty　figures　locked　in　titanic　conflict。　The　nightmare　creature　and　the　all…but…naked　barman。　The　screams　and　cries　echoed　about　the　void；　the　echoes　doubling　and　redoubling；　adding　further　horror　to　a　scene　which　was　already　fearsome。
　Roll　over　and　die　for　your　country　Rover；　was　not　in　there。
　'I'm　not　doing　it；　John；　and　that's　the　end　of　the　matter。'　Pooley　clung　precariously　to　his　handlebar　perch　as　Pope　John　the　Umpteenth　freewheeled　down　a　deserted　corridor。　'I　am　not　a　Catholic　and　I　utterly　refuse　to　kiss　your　bloody　ring。　The　thing　came　out　of　a　Jamboree　bag　for　God's　sake。'
　'Let　me　convert　you；　Jim；　e　to　the　Mother　Church　before　it's　too　late。'
　'Let　me　down　from　here；　I　want　a　drink。'
　'Drink？'　Omally　tugged　on　the　brakes　and　sent　Jim　sprawling。　'Drink　did　I　hear　you　say；　my　son？'
　Pooley　looked　up　bitterly　from　the　deck。　Topes　don't　drink；'　he　said。　'Such　is　well…known。'
　'A　new　Papal　bull；'　his　Holiness　replied。
　'All　right　then；　but　no　ring…kissing；　it's　positively　indecent。'　Pooley　unearthed　the　hip…flask　and　the　two　plodded　on；　sharing　it　turn　and　turn　about。
　'It's　getting　bloody　cold；'　Pooley　observed；　patting　at　his　shirt…sleeves。　'And　the　pong's　getting　a　lot　stronger。'
　'What　do　you　expect？'　Omally　passed　him　back　the　hip…flask。　'Roses　round　the　door？'
　'Are　you　sure　we're　going　the　right　way？'
　'The　passage　is　going　down；　isn't　it？　Would　the　Pope　put　you　on　a　wrong　'n？'
　'Listen；　John；　I'm　not　too　sure　about　this　Pope　business。　I　thought　you　lads　had　to　be　elected。　White　smoke　up　the　chimney　or　the　like？'
　'As　last　Catholic；　I　have　the　casting　vote。　Please　don't　argue　about　religious　matters　with　me；　Jim。　If　you　let　me　convert　you　I'll　make　you　a　cardinal。'
　'Thanks；　but　no　thanks。　God；　it　stinks　down　here。　Couldn't　you　issue　another　Papal　bull　or　something？'
　Omally　halted　the　infidel　in　mid…step。　'Would　you　look　at　that？'　he　said；　pointing　forward。
　Ahead　of　them　loomed　a　great　door。　It　seemed　totally　out　of　context　with　all　they　had　yet　seen。　At　odds　with　the　bland　modernistic　corridors　they　had　passed　down　on　their　abortive　journey　of　escape。　It　rose　like　a　dark　hymn　in　praise　of　evil　pleasure；　and　hung　in　a　heavily…carved　portico　wrought　with　frescoed　reliefs。
　Omally　parked　his　bike；　and　the　two　men　tiptoed　forward。　The　hugeness　and　richness　of　the　thing　filled　all　vision。　It　was　a　work　of　titanic　splendour；　the　reliefs　exquisite；　carved　into　dark　pure　wood　of　extreme　age。
　'Fuck　me；'　said　John　Omally；　which　was　quite　unbeing　of　a　Pope。　'Would　you　look　at　that　holy