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“John?” said Jim.
    Omally looked up fearfully at the sounds of Jim’s approach. His right eye appeared to have a Victoria plum growing out of it. “Jim,” said John.
    “You have been in a fight.”
    “Astute as ever I see.”
    “Outnumbered? How many of them, three, four?”
    “Just the one.”
    “Not from around these parts then. Circus strongman was it? Sumo wrestler? Surely not…” Pooley crossed himself, “Count Dante himself?”
    “Close,” said Omally, feeling at his jaw, which had developed a most alarming click. “Corner-shopkeeper, actually.”
    Pooley hastily secreted the pickaxe head behind his back, turned over a handy bucket, and sat upon it. “Not Norman? You jest, surely?”
    “Look at my shirt-collar.” Omally waggled the frayed relic which now hung over his shoulder, college scarf fashion.
    “Aren’t they supposed to be sewn on all the way round?”
    “I will punish him severely for this.”
    “You fancy your chances at a rematch then?”
    Omally shook his head painfully and whistled. “Not I. Certainly the man has been personally schooled in the brutal, maiming, disfiguring art of Dimac by none other than that very Grand Master of the craft to whom you formerly alluded.”
    “Gosh,” said Jim.
    “I will have him down from a distance when he comes out to take in his milk tomorrow.”
    “The half-brick?”
    “Nothing less. I feel that we can forget all about ever-spinning wheels for the time being. Still all is not yet lost. How did you fare with the bed?” Omally peered over Jim’s shoulder. “Got it locked away somewhere safe then?”
    Pooley scraped his heels in the dust.
    “What have you done with the bed, Jim, and where are the sleeves of your jacket?”
    “Ah,” said Jim, “ah now.”

7
    Norman sat in his kitchenette, dismally regarding the slim brass wheel spinning once more upon its table-top mountings. Over in the corner alcove his other self sat lifeless and staring, a gaping hole in its chest. Norman swung his leg over the kitchen chair and leaned his arms upon its worm-eaten back. The first run had not been altogether a roaring success. If Omally’s bike had not chosen to intervene and trip the robot into the street, there seemed little doubt that it would have killed Omally there and then, merely to retrieve the tobacco from his pocket.
    Norman chewed upon his lip. It was a regular Frankenstein’s monster, that one. Not what he’d had in mind at all. Placid pseudo-shopkeeper he wanted, not psychotic android on the rampage. He would have to disconnect all the Dimac circuits and pep up the old goodwill-to-mankind modules. Possibly it was simply the case that the robot had been a little over-enthusiastic. After all, it had had his interests at heart. Norman shuddered. Omally had got away with the tobacco, and Hairy Dave had charged him fifty quid to shore up the front of the shop and screw a temporary door into the splintered frame. The robot had not been in service more than a couple of hours and it was already bankrupting him. Fifty quid for a half-ounce of Golden. And what if Omally decided to sue or, more likely, to exact revenge. It didn’t bear thinking of. He would have to go round to the Swan later and apologize, stand Omally a few pints of consolation. More expense. The harassed shopkeeper climbed from his chair and sought out a quart of home-made sprout wine from the bottle-rack beneath the sink.
     
    At length the Memorial Library clock chimed five-thirty p.m. in the distance, and upon the Swan’s doorstep stood two bedraggled figures who, like Norman, had the drowning of their sorrows very much to the forefronts of their respective minds. Neville the part-time barman drew the polished bolts and swung open the famous door.
    “By Magog!” said the pagan barkeep. “Whatever has happened to you two? Should I call an ambulance?”
    Pooley shook his head. “Merely draw the ales.”
    With many a backwards glance, Neville lumbered heavily away to the