taking on the world’s finest athletes, however, did not seem to gel.
“You are in training, then?” John asked.
Norman grinned wolfishly. “It’s all on paper,” said he.
“Ah!” Omally joined Norman in an enlightened smile. “You are designing your own javelin then?” A look passed between the two men which was of that rare sort that can only pass between old and trusted friends, or at least between those who know what each other are up to. “Then bravo,” said John. “I will have Jim put a pound or two on the home team.”
“Best I do it,” said Norman. “The jungle drums tell me that Pooley’s face does not exactly fit in Bob’s establishment at the present time.”
“Good man.” Omally called out for two refills. “Has Jim been in?” he asked Neville.
“Haven’t seen him tonight. Did you want anything to eat with those?”
“No,” said Omally, “I do not, I wonder what might have happened to Jim.”
“Surely he is still enjoying his free meal on the council,” said the barman, taking up a glass to polish. “No doubt you have just done the same.”
“I have not.”
“Then you must be famished, have an Olympic Toasty.”
“Neville,” said John, “the events of this lunchtime were not of my doing.”
“Events?”
“I am thinking of your sudden loss of clientèle which resulted in the surfeit of salmon sandwiches you are now attempting to pass off as Olympic Toasties.”
Neville took himself off in a huff to serve an impatient customer. “Bar snacks, anyone?” he was heard to enquire.
“Tell me, Norman,” said Omally as he passed the shopkeeper his pint. “As a man of science, what do you make of this stadium business?”
“In what way, John?”
“Well, is it feasible? You know, solar panels? Gravitite, all that stuff?”
“It is feasible,” said Norman, a trace of bitterness entering his voice, “although I cannot as yet say how it is to be done.”
Omally nodded thoughtfully. “It is all a bit sudden though.”
“Sudden is not the word. The news hits us today and construction appears scheduled to begin come Monday. That is speed beyond human capability. No, Gravitite alone must have taken years to develop. There is a good deal more to all this than meets the eye.”
“So what do you think?”
“Computers,” said Norman. “Computers and a single brain. And one more fearsome than that of the legendary Albert E. himself.”
“So who is your man?”
“The Lord alone knows. A scientific genius and one of considerable wealth. The paper says, ‘an anonymous philanthropist who desires anonymity’, and if that is his desire then no doubt such a man is quite capable of realizing same. But why do you ask, John? We shall all make something out of this. The stadium will come, the stadium will go. Life will continue. Let us enjoy it as we will.”
Omally finished his latest pint. “You are no doubt right,” he agreed. “So whose round is it?”
18
Jim Pooley lazed in the Le Corbusier. Dom Perignon lazed in Jim Pooley. It is a curious thing how the simple transfer of a body of liquid from one location to another can alter so many things. Or at least appear to. The furtive, worried Pooley of the hour past had now vanished, to be replaced by a mellow, crisis-what-crisis?-God-is-in-His-Heaven-and-all’s-right-with-the-world kind of body.
Jim tinkered with the remote controller and the twenty-five inch screen of a “re-routed” television set filled with Sergio Leone’s classic western,
For a Few Dollars More
. Jim greatly preferred the video (which he had viewed on many previous occasions) with the sound on, but he had never achieved full mastery of the controller and did not feel up to making the stroll over for a manual turn-up.
“It’s not a bad old life.” Jim shifted his roll-up to the corner of his mouth. “I really cannot see what all the fuss is about,” he informed the silent set, as the “Man With No Name” drew upon Red “Baby”
“You are in training, then?” John asked.
Norman grinned wolfishly. “It’s all on paper,” said he.
“Ah!” Omally joined Norman in an enlightened smile. “You are designing your own javelin then?” A look passed between the two men which was of that rare sort that can only pass between old and trusted friends, or at least between those who know what each other are up to. “Then bravo,” said John. “I will have Jim put a pound or two on the home team.”
“Best I do it,” said Norman. “The jungle drums tell me that Pooley’s face does not exactly fit in Bob’s establishment at the present time.”
“Good man.” Omally called out for two refills. “Has Jim been in?” he asked Neville.
“Haven’t seen him tonight. Did you want anything to eat with those?”
“No,” said Omally, “I do not, I wonder what might have happened to Jim.”
“Surely he is still enjoying his free meal on the council,” said the barman, taking up a glass to polish. “No doubt you have just done the same.”
“I have not.”
“Then you must be famished, have an Olympic Toasty.”
“Neville,” said John, “the events of this lunchtime were not of my doing.”
“Events?”
“I am thinking of your sudden loss of clientèle which resulted in the surfeit of salmon sandwiches you are now attempting to pass off as Olympic Toasties.”
Neville took himself off in a huff to serve an impatient customer. “Bar snacks, anyone?” he was heard to enquire.
“Tell me, Norman,” said Omally as he passed the shopkeeper his pint. “As a man of science, what do you make of this stadium business?”
“In what way, John?”
“Well, is it feasible? You know, solar panels? Gravitite, all that stuff?”
“It is feasible,” said Norman, a trace of bitterness entering his voice, “although I cannot as yet say how it is to be done.”
Omally nodded thoughtfully. “It is all a bit sudden though.”
“Sudden is not the word. The news hits us today and construction appears scheduled to begin come Monday. That is speed beyond human capability. No, Gravitite alone must have taken years to develop. There is a good deal more to all this than meets the eye.”
“So what do you think?”
“Computers,” said Norman. “Computers and a single brain. And one more fearsome than that of the legendary Albert E. himself.”
“So who is your man?”
“The Lord alone knows. A scientific genius and one of considerable wealth. The paper says, ‘an anonymous philanthropist who desires anonymity’, and if that is his desire then no doubt such a man is quite capable of realizing same. But why do you ask, John? We shall all make something out of this. The stadium will come, the stadium will go. Life will continue. Let us enjoy it as we will.”
Omally finished his latest pint. “You are no doubt right,” he agreed. “So whose round is it?”
18
Jim Pooley lazed in the Le Corbusier. Dom Perignon lazed in Jim Pooley. It is a curious thing how the simple transfer of a body of liquid from one location to another can alter so many things. Or at least appear to. The furtive, worried Pooley of the hour past had now vanished, to be replaced by a mellow, crisis-what-crisis?-God-is-in-His-Heaven-and-all’s-right-with-the-world kind of body.
Jim tinkered with the remote controller and the twenty-five inch screen of a “re-routed” television set filled with Sergio Leone’s classic western,
For a Few Dollars More
. Jim greatly preferred the video (which he had viewed on many previous occasions) with the sound on, but he had never achieved full mastery of the controller and did not feel up to making the stroll over for a manual turn-up.
“It’s not a bad old life.” Jim shifted his roll-up to the corner of his mouth. “I really cannot see what all the fuss is about,” he informed the silent set, as the “Man With No Name” drew upon Red “Baby”
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