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rapped。'
Professor Slobe scratched at his head。 'That might present some problems；' said he。 'Although there is always the thought that your visitors are already in the far future discovering your loss and even now are setting back to search for you。'
'Such is； of course； the case； but they might search for a century and not find me。'
'What a load of old rubbish；' said Omally suddenly rising from his seat。 'e； Jim； let us away to our beds。'
Pooley climbed to his feet。 'Be fair； Professor；' said he。 'This is all a bit too much over the top。 I know that the world is always ready and waiting for one more Sherlock Holmes story； but this is pushing credibility to the very limit。'
'Do you doubt who I am？' Holmes rose to his full height and stood glaring at the deuce of Thomases。
'Be fair；' said Pooley； 'this is very far…fetched。 You are at the very least extremely fictional in nature。'
'I am as fictional as you；' said Sherlock Holmes。
'Ha；' said Pooley。 'If you are the legendary doyen of detectives； answer me some questions。'
'Proceed。'
'All right then； what are the thirty…nine steps？'
'Wrong story；' said John Omally。
'Ah； well。。。 In The Red…Headed League how did you know Vincent Spaulding was actually John Clay the murderer； thief； forger； and smasher？'
'By the white splash of acid on his forehead and his pierced ears。'
'Who lost his hat and his goose in The Blue Carbunkle？'
'Henry Baker。'
'What was the Musgrave Ritual？'
'Who was it？ He who is gone。 Who shall have it？ He who will e。 What is the month？ Sixth from the first。 Where is the sun？ Over the oak。 What was the shadow？。。。'
'Right； right； under the elm； we know。'
'Who was the Norwood Builder？' Jim asked。
'JonasOldacre。'
'And the Three Students？'
'Gilchrist； Danlat Ras and Miles McLaren。'
'And the plumber engaged to Charles Augustus Milverton's housemaid？'
'Myself；' said Holmes。
'Well you could have read them。 I always believed that Holmes really did go over the Riechenbach Falls with Professor Moriarty。 Those later stories were the work of a stand…in； I thought。'
'Bravo；' said Holmes。 'You are； of course； correct。 You must understand that a certain amount of subterfuge was necessary to cover my disappearance。 My exploits were chronicled by Doctor Watson； through an arrangement we had with a Mr Conan Doyle。 I left it to him to continue with the stories after my supposed death。'
'Hang on；' said Pooley。 'Not that I can make any sense at all out of this； but if you went below under the pretence of dying in the Riechenbach Falls how could you possibly know about the Norwood Builder and the Three Students。 That was four years later in The Return of Sherlock Holmes。'
'Ah；' said that man。
'Ah； indeed；' said Professor Slobe。 'And Mil…verton's plumber？'
'Detective's license？' Holmes suggested。
'I give up；' said John Omally。
'Me also；' said Jim。
10
An inexpensive veneer of sunlight was thinly varnishing the rooftops of Brentford as Norman Hartnell took up the bundle of daily papers from his doorstep and hefted them on to his counter。
The early morning was always Norman's favourite time of the day。 The nights were hell； for whilst his body slept upon its Hartnell Mark II Hydrocosipit； his brain went on the rampage； plotting； planning； and formulating； driving him on and on towards more preposterous and unattainable goals。 But in the early mornings he could find just a little peace。 He could peruse the daily papers as he numbered them up for delivery。 He was in the privileged position of ever being the first in the parish to know the news。
On this particular morning； after a very rough night with his capricious cerebellum； Norman sliced away the twine bindings of the paper bundle with his reproduction Sword of Boda paper knife； eager to see what the rest of the world had been up to。 As he tore the brown paper covering aside and delved into the top copy a singularly interesting piece met his eye； almost as if it had been simply waiting there to do so：
GOVERNMENT GIVES RIGHT…HAND PLAN THE THUMBS UP； he read。
An all…party…sitting last night gave the Lateinos and Romiith scheme for personalized account enumeration the go…ahead。 This scheme will eventually make all previous systems of monetary exchange obsolete。 Through laser implantation of a personal intromagnetic puter bar code； upon either the forehead or right hand of each individual member of society； it is thought that all crimes involving monetary theft will henceforth be made impossible。 Also the need for passports or any other form of identity paper will be eliminated。
Linked with Lateinos and Romiith's master puter now currently in production； the system is expected to be instituted nationally within the next six months。
Norman whistled as he weighed up the concept。 It was certainly ingenious： no…one could steal your money if you never carried any； or use your banker's card if they found your wallet in the street。 With your own personal number printed on your forehead they'd have to cut your head off and pass it across the bank counter to get at your wealth。 And with no money there would be no paperwork。 No more monthly accounts； the money would pass invisibly； simply at the wave of a light…pen。 The more Norman thought about it the more impressed he became。 And the more miffed that he hadn't thought of it first。
He scribbled '15 Balfour' on to the first paper and turned it aside without giving the rest of the news even a cursory once…over。 As it happened； there was little else but for wars and rumours of wars and a continuance of the black fly plague； so he certainly hadn't missed much。
In the curtained alcove in the kitchenette his duplicate sat staring into space and thinking absolutely nothing whatsoever。
Neville the part…time barman stirred in his pit。 He blinked open his good eye and stared up at the ceiling； which unaccountably appeared to have lowered itself by a couple of inches during the night。 Drawing back his continental quilt； he set a monumental foot upon the worn Axminster。 He yawned； stretched 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？ Nevill