When they arrived at 4, Rutherford Close, the woman with the goat used the short end of her stick to ring the bell, the stick having been used, disappeared from the story. The goat wondered if it would be next. Sheba, The Sphinx and the woman with the goat waited patiently on the path from the gate to the front door which was lined with slightly straggly rose bushes.
After a pause, the door opened and a small man with short grey looked.
Can I? he said in a question rising tone. You seem a most interested group to visit that I have long time. Would you enter? I don’t see the Sphinx of you entering as a scale problem exists. Perchance Miss Sphinx might visit through the window if I am opening.
They entered not Sphinx. Sit, he, they sat.
Well, began Sheba, we would like a change all machine for bad war machines if you can, thank you.
Yes, me too, he, well I have invented a car that grinds coffee and a spoon that can stand on its head, but that isn’t, is it?
No.
So, if I can parameter all detail, I shall go in the lab and work, do or did Trojans work particularly hard? So detail me.
I want, I want, I want, said Sheba, struggling to articulate all the wishes for a better world that she held in her heart, I want to make it all better starting with this war thing.
OK, OK, him said, tricky but of interest. Perhaps, start point, all guns turn to made of chocolate if the people near say Fire! And hurt! And Kill it. Would that, maybe?
Might just work, said Sheba, looking up.
Going, he went to his place of thought and make work disappeared into away anyway.
Sheba slept under the table and the Sphinx deadheaded the roses to promote further flowering and wondered if there might be some plant food near at hand. Watered anyway. The woman with the goat cooked a vegetarian lasagne in case anyone got.
Sheba dreamt with her eyes part open.
Derek Sandhurst came, in a long time coming he came. I think it’s done, but I haven’t pushed the on yet. Shall we.
They all stood on a high place where if they threw the angels would bear them up.
You do it, no you, ok. Button pushed.
All guns near ill intention turned to a chocolate substance reminiscent of a dark 70 per cent cocoa choc. The angels bore them up and away.
The Guardians of the Cave 