East of Ealing Read Online Free PDF Page A

power supply, having previously nothing to hand save clumsy mains cables which, even when disguised by poking from trouser bottoms, left his progeny little scope for locomotion. This compact unit would do the job absolutely.
    Norman crossed to the table, and with a set of specially fashioned tongs carefully lifted the spinning wheel upon its polished axle-rod. It turned through space gyroscopically, if nothing else it would certainly keep the robot standing upright. With a satisfying click the wheel fell into place, and Norman closed the chest cavity and rebuttoned the shirt, straightening the tie and workcoat lapels. The shopkeeper stepped back to view his mirror image. Perfection. There was a gentle flutter of movement about the chest region, a sudden blinking of eyelids and focusing of eyes, a yawn, a stretch. Clearing its throat with a curiously mechanical coughing sound, the creature spoke.
    “Good afternoon, sir,” it said.
    Norman clapped his hands together and danced one of his favourite silly dances. “Wonderful,” he said with glee. “Wonderful.”
    The robot smiled crookedly. “I am happy that you find all to your satisfaction,” said he.
    “Oh, indeed, indeed. How are you then, Norman? Are you well?”
    “A bit stiff, sir, as it happens, but I expect that I will wear in. Is there anything in particular you would like doing?”
    Norman clapping his hands, “How about a cup of tea, what do you think?”
    “Certainly, sir.” The robot rose unsteadily to its feet, stretched himself again and waggled each foot in turn.
    Norman watched in sheer exaltation as his other self performed its first task. The tea was exactly as he would have made it himself. “You will pardon me if I don’t join you, sir,” said the pseudo-shopkeeper, “but I do not feel at all thirsty.”
     
    At a little after three p.m., Pooley and Omally left the Flying Swan. As the two friends strode off down the Ealing Road, Neville the part-time barman shot home the brass bolts and padded away to his quarters. The floor boards groaned suspiciously beneath his tread but Neville, now buoyed up with a half-bottle of Bells, closed his ears to them.
    “Right then,” said Omally, “to business, it is yet three p.m. and we have not earned a penny.”
    “I have missed the bookies,” said Jim. “I am a hundred thousand pounds down already.”
    “The day may yet be saved, positive thinking is your man. To work then.”
    Pooley shook his head and departed gloomily down Albany Road, en route for the allotment. Omally squared up his shoulders and entered Norman’s corner shop. Behind the counter stood Norman, idly thumbing through a copy of
Wet Girls In The Raw
. Beneath the counter crouched another Norman, chuckling silently into his hands.
    “Afternoon, Norman,” said Omally. “Packet of reds if you please, and a half-ounce of Golden.”
    The mechanical confectioner cleared his throat with a curiously mechanical coughing sound. “Certainly, sir,” said he, turning away to seek out these articles from their niches. Below the counter Norman clicked his tongue in silent displeasure. Above the counter Omally’s hand had snaked into the peppermint rack and drew a packet away to his trouser pocket. Norman would have to chalk that one up to experience and punch a few more defence mechanisms into the machine’s computer banks. He scribbled a hurried note on to a discarded ice-cream wrapper and awaited developments. He did not have to wait long.
    “Stick them on my slate please, Norm,” said Omally.
    “Pardon me, sir?”
    “On my slate, I’ll settle up with you later.”
    “I regret, sir, that I cannot allow you to leave the premises without having first paid for the goods. Such is the way with commerce, you understand.” Below the counter, Norman chewed upon his knuckles. This was much better. He patted his creation upon the trouser knee and gave it the old thumbs up. “Please do not ask for credit, sir,” said the robot, “as a