Professor Hughes stood on top of the School of Metallurgy and Materials Science and gazed up at the starry heavens. It was a perfect night. The moon was full, the winds were still and the night sky was clear.
A long time he’d been waiting for this night.
A very, very long time indeed.
His disciples gathered around him. Fellow Whirlpool pulled his cowl as far over his head as it would go and let the sleeves of his robes fall down over his hands to keep the cold out. He stood absolutely still, absolutely silent. A large silver pentagram sprawled in front of him, the shastic scriptures around its edge glinting in the moonlight. His fellow Fellows, with their identical black robes, were all but invisible in the gloom of the night.
They watched the Professor step respectfully into the centre of the pentagram and wait. He let the moment wash over him; he felt the calm of the surroundings; he felt the tension amongst his followers; he felt the restlessness in the other dimensions. Finally, when the moment was over, he raised his head and took two deep breaths.
Prepared, he was.
He held his hands aloft and uttered an ancient homily to the powers of darkness.
As he spoke, a gentle wind whipped up, scattering particles of dust and small bits of paper across the roof of the building. The all black minions of the Professor looked around, apprehensive. A primal chill penetrated their robes.
‘It’s cold,’ whispered Fellow Whirlpool.
Fellow Milky Way stared at him. ‘Well it is winter,’ he pointed out. ‘And you’re wearing what’s basically a dress.’
‘I know, but it’s… extra cold. If you get me.’
‘Whirly, I will never get you.’
Fellow M42 glared at them. ‘Shush, you two! He demanded silence!’
The Fellows of the House of the Galaxies in Perpetui resumed their respectful silence as their leader stood silhouetted against the vastness of the Universe. The beautiful swirling structures of space enveloped the Professor’s form like the habit of a celestial priest. He continued his speech; strange ancient syllables echoing around the rooftop arena; words of provenance and heritage and power. And with these words the weather began to change - hazy clouds drawing a faint veil across the glory of the starry night.
Fellow Whirlpool gulped. He suddenly wasn’t sure he wanted to be part of this any more. He saw out of the corner of his eye Fellow Andromeda begin to back away from the pentagram. He started to do likewise, and as he did so he glanced up towards the sky…
…and saw, second by second, the bright stars dimming ever further, their light struggling to penetrate the rapidly intensifying weather above. Professor Hughes continued praying, oblivious to the turbulence in the sky, staring vacantly ahead with absolute concentration. He took no notice of the storm relentlessly accumulating far over him; ignored the probing winds that had reared their heads; failed to spot the splashes of rain that began to patter rhythmically on the roof below.
‘This can’t be good,’ said Fellow Andromeda to himself.
The clouds grew thicker and darker still with each passing moment. The spitting rain became a downpour; the worshippers drenched; the roof flooded. A gale whipped up out of nowhere. Spits of lightning skirted the top of the building generating sparks that flashed through the oppressive air like miniature firecrackers.
The Fellows edged further away from the pentagram as the Professor ended his speech. He slowly swivelled round and glared at them, a devilish smile on his face, a faint aura of triumph about his body, a billowing cloak sweeping out behind.
‘It begins!’ he announced.
With this, the lightning exploded in intensity, the bolts searing downwards like scythes of blue fire ripping through the black velour of the night. They struck the roof of the building with violence; small explosions besieged the Fellows, who ran around in panic, but in reality had nowhere to run. One or two contemplated leaping over the edge, but weren’t that brave, so they backed as far away from the Professor as they physically could.
‘What’s happening?’ shouted Fellow M42. ‘What is this?’ But he could barely be heard above the howling of the storm.
Professor Hughes suddenly turned his attention away from them and raised his arms up high. The clouds to which he beckoned had begun to accrete into a vast tumultuous maelstrom, spinning round and round in a theatrical display of concentric supernatural fury.
And then, far, far above, the Professor witnessed a number of small lightning forks converge. He saw with glinting eyes the product of this merger. And he watched it hurtle towards them - terrawatts of absolute power with nowhere to go but down.
The Fellows watched in terror as Professor Hughes lowered his arms in submission. More and more electric-blue tributaries combined with the leviathan trunk of lightning, until the entire unimaginable power of the storm focused itself with pin-point accuracy on the exact centre of the building and vaporised the whole lot immediately and with rather a loud bang.