The Sprouts of Wrath

Chapter the Last

A beaming face beamed out across the world. “This is the London Olympics.”

In the stadium flags flew, athletes marched and the cheering of a million voices rose towards the summer sky, like a prayer of thanks.

In the Professor’s study Jim popped the cork from a bottle of champagne. “Easy does it, Jim,” said the old man. “That’s a hundred-year-old vintage.”

“Put it on the slate,” the lad replied, distributing large libations. “In five minutes the games begin, in six John and I take a stroll down to Bob’s, in the company of the local constabulary. In an hour we shall be gloriously drunk.”

“I will drink to that,” said Omally. “A toast to the Brentford Olympics.”

“To the games,” said Jim. “Although not to their founder.”

“Hm.” John sipped champagne. “That blaggard, what was he, Professor, was he a man or a devil or what?”

“I am not certain even Kaleton knew that. He loathed mankind because he was not of man, thus he had to prove he was greater than man. His character, if indeed he possessed one in the true sense of the word, was one of constant turmoil, a torment of raw conflicts. He was ego, power, good and evil by degree. He denied all human emotion but he was subject to it nevertheless. Egoism, pride, monomania, he craved recognition for his own mad genius.”

“The stadium,” said John.

“Indeed yes, the stadium was to be his apotheosis. I believe that had the stadium taken life it would have been literally unstoppable.”

“Then why didn’t he set the thing off last night?”

“His super-ego would not allow it. He wanted the whole world watching when he demonstrated his power. I had to count on this ‘human’ weakness, it was all I had.”

“You took a bit of a chance then,” said Omally.

“I took a good many chances — that Norman’s car would work, that you would be in the right place at the right time with your suitcases.”

Pooley looked long and hard at the old man. “There has been something of a run on happy coincidence lately,” he observed.

Professor Slocombe winked. “I don’t happen to believe in it myself. Drink up, Jim, I’ll open another bottle.”

Pooley peered into his glass. “So Kaleton was not the Soul of the World then?” he asked in a tone which almost amounted to disappointment. Omally gazed at him strangely.

“No, Jim,” said the Professor, dusting off another antique bottle, “I refuse to believe that. Kaleton was composed of a chaos of organisms, you saw that for yourself. For him to maintain human form, or any other form for that matter, became more and more difficult for him. He knew his time was running out. I believe that Kaleton was somehow a product of the very pollution and decay he loathed so much. The product of many centuries’ festering evil made flesh.”

“I hate to say anything in his favour,” Pooley replied, “but there was a lot of truth in what he said. Great wrong has been done to the planet. Entropy is the order of the day. We’ve all been part of it, but we’ve never paid attention. Now no-one will know what he said, nor, I suspect, do anything about it if they did.”

“Good bloody riddance to him,” said Omally.

Pooley shook his head, “But someone should do something, John, the world is going down the plug-hole, I realize that now. My eyes have been well and truly opened. What if Kaleton was the first of a coming race? He’s been a warning. Men must change their ways or pay a high price.”

Professor Slocombe nodded. “A man of independent means might dedicate himself to such a cause,” he suggested.

“What do you say, Jim?”

Pooley smiled, patted his million-pound pocket and raised his glass for a refill. “I say yes, Professor. I have much to be thankful for, I say yes.”

“You are a good man, Jim. Perhaps the future will find you to be a great one, although.”

“Although what, Professor?”

“Well,” said the old man, thoughtfully, “I feel that somewhere there is a loose end. That somehow I have missed something obvious. There are still a lot of unanswered questions.”

“TEMPORA PATET OCCULTA VERITAS,” said John.

“Eh?”

“In time the hidden truth will out,” said Professor Slocombe.

“Perk up,” said Omally, sticking his head out through the french windows. “Sounds like they’re on the starting-blocks.”

High above Brentford the stadium was hushed, upon the rostrum the master of ceremonies raised his starting pistol to begin the first race. All over the world men drew closer to their television sets and held their breath.

“They’re under starter’s orders,” cried Jim. “I am rich!”

Abacus paperback ending:

The barrel of the gun pointed towards the summer sky, a finger pulled upon the trigger. It was a curious finger. And then a great shot rang out across the universe.

“Oh dear,” said Jim Pooley. “Watchamate God.”