THE TWILIGHT OF THE VILP

Paul Ableman 1969


	"EXCELLENT... Vital, taut, brilliantly imaginative..."--Anthony Burgess
	
	Vilp's hero, Clive Witt, is a novelist in search of a hero for his new novel; he advertises for suitable applicants. From 73 replies he selects three: Professor Guthrie Pidge, a zoologist; Pad Dee Murphy, an Irish-Burmese peasant; and Henry Glebe, the inventor of the renowned earth-borer.
	
	But his novel progresses slowly. His three heroes refuse to mix their very disparate elements into a harmonious whole. Eventually, Clive scraps it and harnesses his team of heroes to a new work, an exciting science fiction tale called The Silver Spores. In this, mankind meets - the Vilp! The novel ends with the 5,000 strong Vilp Galactic Council communing in space at an incredibly high telepathic level,
	
	This hilarious book demonstrates once again that Paul Ableman is one of the most versatile novelists writing in English today.





ONE

I had seventy-three replies to my advertisement. For two days, I didn't open a single one. I just sat in front of the television set watching a long programme called "What's Doing?". The children moved in and out of the room, putting things into my lap. Amongst other things, they put telephone books, apple cores, telephones, foul underwear, baby foxes, drumsticks and coal into my lap. My wife made no attempt to stop them. During the entire period that I watched "What's Doing?" my wife never came into the room. I had a faint impression that the seasons were changing outside. The foxes grew up in my lap, mated, had litters and finally left to look for lodgings in the cheaper suburbs. Still my wife stayed away. I had a feeling that she was boiling beef in the kitchen. Once, when "What's Doing?" had shown some rivers and some clocks, the combination had proved insufficiently piquant to hold my interest and I had glanced out of the window. There I had seen three lorries full of beef and a file of butchers in white aprons bearing haunches and half-carcasses in the direction of our kitchen. This had generated in my alert mind a suspicion that my wife must have involved herself in some way with a surplus of beef. Later the house had become very warm and begun to smell like a beef kitchen and I had inferred that my wife must be cooking bulk beef. Why?

We are a large family: myself, my wife, foxes, children, a television set, telephones--and we eat a lot of beef but I felt sure that my wife was cooking about fifty times as much beef as we could consume in a month. I felt like calling her and reasoning with her, reminding her of the fiasco with the bananas and the lemonade powder that blew off the attic roof.

I love my wife and I hate to upset her. So I did nothing. I thought up frilly, persuasive little endearments, embedded in which would be firm veins of protest against rotting beef, but "What's Doing?" was so genuinely gripping, so--so full of stuff, and the chair was so warm and the seasons were slipping by with such docility--that I did nothing.

As "What's Doing?" showed a pageant of certain historical figures: George Trinket, seventh Earl of Stagger, Timon of Dundee, Eggham the Cluck and Lady Vevy Greeze, the deaconess, combined with colour-pointed diagrams of the microstructure of a fruit fly's genes, I suddenly felt an incontrovertible certainty that we were heading for beef trouble which a few tactful words might obviate. A fortnight later, as the hired gangers shovelled the reeking mess out of the house, I felt shame suffuse me, for my little wife wept pitiably.

Now I want you to know that more art than will be apparent to the lay eye has been expended in bringing the narrative to this point, for I should like you to note the idea that has been brought into prominence. That idea is shame!

Yes shame! For shame must be regarded as the midwife, if not actually the mother, of the present botched work. It was because I didn't open those replies! Because I left them for two days unopened and during that time he got away!

Why did I leave them unopened? As I have said, the chair was too seductive and the ingenious producers of that charming, terrible, light-hearted and nightmarish review "What's Doing?" were too successful. They held me rooted to my chair while the foxes ripened in my lap, the seasons floated past the window and stewed beef incredibly accumulated in the kitchen. As, too, he got away, the right one!

Yes, the right one! The one I should have had! The answer to any novelist's dreams, the hero ideal, the anti-hero sublime, the protagonist to perfection! No, it's too late now. I won't redden old weals by dwelling on his superlative qualifications, for I lost him, lost him to --but why boost the competition?

And it was the first envelope that I did open when, with a nice affect of atoms and stripping girls, "What's Doing?" ceased quivering through the ether, the very first!

"Dear Sir,

In reply to yours of the --, requesting applications for the position of Hero or Chief Character in a prospective novel, I should like to offer my services. I am a young--"

Long before I had come to the end of that outline for an infallible, runaway best-seller, the telephone was in my hand. This required little in the way of physical exertion since the instrument had, as mentioned earlier, been deposited in my lap at some point during the absorbing progress of "What's Doing?". Now, as I fumbled epileptically at the dial, it occurred to me that while the phone was in my lap its connections were upstairs in my study. We were adrift! The wires had been cut! The other phone? The one that normally served in the hall? Also in my lap! Also severed. For a moment I debated the superior wisdom of hastening from the house to the nearest phone box or skipping upstairs and tossing a few children out of the window. Austerity won and, with a fierce wail of anguish, I leapt from my chair and flew out.

Oh ho! Oh no! Not in this world, Jack! Not in a competitive society, mister. When do you think you're living, boyo? In ancient Egypt or something? Really-- dreadfully sorry, but--I mean, after all, you had nearly half a week in which to reply. I mean, my services are rather--well, sought after. No, I can't really say when I'll be available. I gather my present employer in planning---actually--a whole cycle of novels! So sorry-- but--

Of the remaining replies, only three were of the slightest interest and it was slight indeed. So negligible, in fact, did I find it that for another week I took no further steps in the matter but devoted myself to my family. Amongst other things, I explained the nature of the prism to Sandra, who was studying herpetology.

"The prism," I informed her, "is a thing that has coloured light stored inside it. This coloured light is held in the form of tiny waves that may or may not turn into particles at some vital stage in the whole proceedings. The mechanism of the prism is closely related to

10

the nature of white light. White light is a very common substance and has a bland, pacific nature unless attacked. The origin of white light is the electric light bulb--"

"Did you know," Sandra interrupted me, "that mummy has cooked tons of beef?"

"Have you, my dear?" I asked casually, noticing that my wife was in the room and grateful to Sandra for having given me an opening.

"Yes, tons," admitted my wife.

"I fear it may go bad before we can eat it," I chuckled.

"That is a distinct possibility," she chuckled back.

For several more days I continued to devote myself to my family, outlining the life cycle of the corn flake for my son Richmond, who wanted to be a theatrical wig-master. I warned Richmond that few theatrical outfitters could afford a special wig-master and the accommodating lad immediately said:

"Then I shall do something else."

For a few more days, before the beef had putrified sufficiently to cast a foul aura over the house, I revelled in family life. I climbed on top of a chest of drawers and pretended to be a boulder about to roll down on Ambrose, Sylvia, Mona and Dick who were pretending to be nimble chamois. I grunted loudly, as a boulder might, and they leapt nimbly about the room. I jumped off the chest of drawers and then lay supine. The image of an unknown planet swam across the ceiling and I instantly devised a new cosmology which I expounded to all the children including Harriet who had, I knew, just devised a cosmology of her own. I called my cosmology "What's the Matter with Matter?" and I submitted it to Harriet for a critique which she supplied, demolishing its pretensions.

Once my wife, a short, healthy woman with the eyes of a dreamer, came into the room. She informed me that some Danes were battering at the kitchen door. I asked her if she thought they wanted asylum and she said she thought they probably did. Soon the Danes moved into the houses on either side of ours and bought a large number of automobiles. I sent one of my sons--I think his name was Egbert--round to offer them instant asylum if they ever wanted it and they tried to persuade him to be their chauffeur. Wilhelmina, a girl with a great deal of cunning and yet remarkably innocent, became infatuated with three of the Danes. At the same time she developed hostility towards them. If, for example, several of the Danes left their house, Wilhelmina would leave ours and move in the opposite direction. After that she would cross the road and then turn round and sneer at them. She studied Danish grammar but she made deliberate mistakes. She shouted things like "Help!" "Pig!" "Sexy boy!" and "Rotten Denmark!" at them in faulty Danish. They seemed to enjoy it.

Finally I replied to my three applicants, as follows:

Letter no. 1 

Dear Professor Guthrie Pidge,

Please accept my warmest thanks for your exhaustive reply to my recent advertisement. Yes, I was most intrigued, intrigued and stimulated, by your suggestions. The experiences of an English University Professor lecturing in Literary Agronomy at a rural American college might indeed be the basis for a most successful novel (of which, as you are doubtless aware, I have turned out not a few in my day). A certain amount of reserve, however, and you will appreciate that if an association is to mature between us unlimited candour will have to govern our relationship, a certain amount of reserve then was my reaction to your admission that you have never, in fact, lectured in Literary Agronomy at a rural American college. Indeed, if I have--and we novelists are exceedingly skilled at so doing--correctly charted your adult history from your detailed letter, it would appear that you have not often left the city and university of Mushton. This fact need not be a categorical barrier to the proposed Novel but it would naturally affect the terms of our association in which the Inventive or Imaginative component would have to be unusually large. Professor Pidge, I ask you candidly, would you consider a collaboration? Admittedly the terms of my advertisement specified the "Sole or Unique" hero of a forthcoming novel, but various technical considerations have led me to speculate whether, in the present case, our joint interests might not be best served by distributing weight and responsibility in the projected work amongst no fewer than three heroes. While I remain flexible in my plans, a positive attitude by you in this regard would undoubtedly strengthen the possibility of an ultimate agreement being reached between us. I look forward to hearing from you in the matter and I am, sir,

Yours etc.

Clive Witt



Letter no. 2

Dear Pad Dee Murphy,

Hope yak better. Thank you for card. What do reading and writing matter? Plenty can do that. Your friend do it. Me, I do it. Write. Write much. You plough with yak. I write with pen. I like to hear more. Perhaps book not all Pad Dee Murphy, but two more goodmen too. How's that? You write, with friend, tell me. Perhaps I come. Much rice to you, Pad Dee! Greetings,

Clive Witt


Letter no. 3

Dear Mr. Glebe,

Your application would appear to rest on two major qualifications and I must say at the outset, quite frankly, that I feel grave doubts as to whether either of them, or both combined, would provide sufficient material for a major novel. Science fiction must still be regarded as a junior or ancillary department of literature incapable of providing a foundation for that delicate exploration of character and lofty moral edification which is the essence of the matter. Then again, what if your Earth Borer doesn't work? And even if it does work what can you do with it? Only bore a little. You can't go very deep because you might hit a sewer or a coal mine. I doubt if it would go very fast and it sounds dangerous as well. You would be restricted to boring around a little way under some field. This is not, you will appreciate, a very seductive proposition for a novelist. The other element you specify, the experiences of your son, a youth not yet in his third decade, hitch-hiking aimlessly around the country, would appear to be rather more promising. Nevertheless, you must permit my dependable and schooled judgement to conclude that we are not here in possession of a satisfactory formula. What I could suggest, if you would care to consider it, is that your son and your Borer be combined with certain other properties that I hope soon to have under my control for the purpose of attempting to produce a somewhat unorthodox perhaps but potentially very interesting work. Should this suggestion appeal to you, we can arrange a meeting in the near future to discuss the matter further. In the hope that your intelligence and savoir faire, as amply displayed in your letter, will dispose you towards this scheme, as well as mitigating your inevitable disappointment, I am, sir,

Yours etc.

Clive Witt

The next day a young man came to mend the telephones. Wilhelmina whispered to me that she was sure he had taken a dislike to me.

"Why?" I asked her.

"He thinks you're Danish."

I observed the young man and, in the lurid glare of his blowlamp, I realized that he was potentially dangerous. Young men of that type, full of crazed dreams of Danes and glory, generate a tension and this tension is often used for the manufacture of war and disorder. I therefore felt that it was my duty to reason with the youth.

"As a matter of fact," I informed him, "I'm not Danish but suppose I had been? You mustn't form preconceived notions but must examine every Dane with a fresh eye, just as if he were a broken telephone. Do you understand?"

"No," he replied, "I don't understand, but I'll tell you one thing: there's some nice girls in this house."

"Do you like them?"

"I do--I like them a lot. I'd like to play around with them some time, if that would meet with your approval?"

At this I had an inspiration. I am always alert for educational opportunities for my children and it occurred to me that if one of my sons, a fellow called Kew or Richmond or something similar, failed to become a barber on an airliner, which was his real ambition, he might become a healer of telephones. He could begin his studies immediately. Therefore I informed the young man that he was welcome to come and play around with some of my daughters if he would give my son a brief introduction to the principle and operation of the telephone. He agreed enthusiastically and I began to suspect that Wilhelmina had been wrong, that she had fathered her own obsession about Danes on to this unprejudiced young man. I therefore spoke the word "Dane" and the word "Denmark" several times in a provocative voice but was gratified to find that he did not react. Then I called my son and he came dutifully and gazed at the broken telephone.

"It's easy really," the young professional confided. "You just push the voice in here and it gets turned into electricity. There's a lot of sand and other stuff inside which plays a part in the whole wondrous process. You see this little coil? This jigs up and down. You see this other coil? It does the same. The more voice you push in at this end the higher the pressure and finally some of it gets squeezed right through and comes out at the other end. In the middle you have an operator who shunts the different voices about and this adds an element of mystery to what might otherwise seem just sordid mechanics. Is that clear?"

My son nodded, and then asked:

"What is your favourite part of the telephone?"

"The dial."

"Thank you."

I then took Richmond--I'm virtually certain his name was Richmond--aside and asked him what he thought of telephones and those who man them.

"It would be a fine career," he affirmed.

The young telephone man now asked me about my daughters and I assured him that I had a good selection. He told me that he loved girls and was delighted that he would now have a chance to mess about with some. He said he would visit us soon for this purpose. I noticed that, as he eased himself into his little van, he seemed to be in a dreamy and confused state and this perception was confirmed when he backed straight into my wife's new car, virtually wrecking it. He waved sadly and drove away.

Things were like that all week, dreamy and confused. The whole house, the whole world, became dreamy and confused. The Times, as always, was full of good things but they were poetic and indistinct, vague profiles of ministers that merged with dim portraits of agitators, fleeting, mysterious visits by nameless dignitaries, production schedules that formed romantic arabesques, brooding bishops, trains that crashed in the night--

In the house the telephone rang wanly. Car salesmen attempted, in hollow, prophetic tones, to sell my wife a new car and she bought seven. My publisher rang to say that his firm had branched out into property, had acquired my present house and would soon dispossess me. Then, with eerie and unearthly change of mood, he invited me to a cricket game and I heard myself wistfully refusing. Meals were reticent and embarrassed affairs at which we ate mutton but were conscious of the mighty presence of beef all around us.

I embarked on a few preliminary notes for my new novel.

Preliminary Notes

Professor Guthrie Pidge descended from the train at Tunbridge Falls, Nebraska and whistled nervously for a porter. Of timid and withdrawn temperament, Professor Pidge had been rendered uneasy by the many drastic events that had occurred on the long train ride from the coast. At the coast he had disembarked from the sub-liner "Swift Fin" at the great metropolis of New Byfleet, with its towering burlesque theatres and its queues of monks and speculators waiting for the soup kitchens to open. Before he had managed to fulfil his fleeting desire to penetrate deeper into this remarkable ambience, the entire secretariat of the Massed Universities of America had swept him away in an Earth-Borer and deposited him on the transcontinental express to Tunbridge Falls, where he was to lecture in Literary Agronomy to thirty-fourth year students. The journey had been a nightmare, or rather a marvel, a marvel and a wonder and yet containing elements of nightmare. The train had travelled on rails. There had been human beings inside it, of varying personality structure. Once a man had risen in apparent distress and said: "What?"

This word had continued to reverberate in the professor's mind. "What?" "What?" And then again: "What?" Sheep and steel. Pain and rail and--what! "What?" drummed in the professor's ears. But what sheep? What steel? What?

"What?" murmured the professor cautiously, and then boldly appended, "is it?"

This addition provided relief but no sooner had the disturbing, if trivial, irritant been thus successfully overcome than another appeared. A child turned and looked at him and then looked away. At the moment of impact of the child's glance, the professor had just settled his mind on a possible subject for a lecture, the relationship between the term "paddy", as applied to oriental rice plantations, and early border ballads. Several interesting parallels had presented themselves to the daring scholar when the child turned and instantly obliterated all thought of scholarship in his mind as a deep, ominous "what?" boomed once more through the corridors of his mind.

He was travelling on the "Sapphire Express". All the paintwork, the upholstery, the carpeting, every physical aspect of the interior was a radiant sapphire in hue. The lighting was also sapphire. The explanation is keenly interesting. The company psychologist, after exhaustive research, had ascertained that seals and penguins have the most equable temperaments. These live in a "sapphire" ambience. Therefore, to pacify the passengers as far as possible and minimize risks to company property from brawls and rowdiness, travellers were rendered seal-like and only fish was served in the dining car.

At the other end of the carriage, someone barked loudly and a flapping sound accompanied yet another of the cows as she waddled slowly down to the toilets. Once again the young cub turned and gazed briefly at the professor. Tapping his flipper irritably against the arm-rest, the latter turned to gaze out at the floes as the terrible word "What?" rasped once more down the glaciers of his mind.

And now, after the strange beguilements and metamorphoses of the journey, he stood on the platform at Banbury Wells, New Michigan, whistling cheerfully for a porter.

The porter soon arrived. As is customary in the United States, he was a Negro, wearing the ceremonial leopard skin and carrying a razor-sharp spear. With a courteous:

"Good evening, sah."

He plunged his spear into the professor's plasto-pig suitcase and slung it over his shoulder. Brooding a trifle anxiously on his expensive collection of methodist micro-chants, which were in the suitcase, the professor followed the porter and, padding lightly, they slunk out of the station into the surrounding jungle....

And now, after the diverting and agreeable transcontinental journey, the professor stood nervously on the platform at Banbury Falls, New Texas, signalling

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myopically for a porter. The porter soon arrived. As is generally the case in the United States, the porter was a Negro, wearing a grey, glistening suit that shone like matutinal rime in Connemara. Thrusting the plasto-pig suitcase into the professor's arms, with the chuckling admission that he had recently sprained several ligaments at tennis, the porter at once engaged the professor in serious literary discussion. Urging the feeble and overburdened professor up the platform with hearty, good-humoured blows from his allegedly damaged arm, the porter discussed the relevance of Anglo-Saxon alliterative verse to the falling demand for phosphates in certain Latin-American countries. Soon they reached a trim little earth-borer, in which there proved to be barely room for the professor, the porter and the great plasto-pig-

"Hold tight!" yelled the porter gaily. Then he engaged the gear and, grinding horribly, the machine disappeared beneath the surface of the earth. ...

The Sapphire Express eased silently to a halt in the little academic township of New Sorbonne, Minibraska. Ben Tupp, the old Negro porter, glanced anxiously along the platform. There were never many passengers for New Sorbonne and those that there were could usually be divided into two categories: men and women....

Few passengers ever descended at New Sorbonne for the simple reason that few passengers wanted to descend there. The descendants of the first few passengers to descend at New Sorbonne were still there and had embraced the Methodist faith. Fortunately, the sapphire mines' provided them with a livelihood and thus they managed to safeguard their autonomy. Who then was this evil-looking professor descending from the great earth-borer?

Ben Tupp frowned and thought to himself:

"Lear has much to offer poultry farmers."

And then, with a resolute shrug, he approached the myopic man who stood, frowning impatiently, beside a huge, plasto-pig trunk.

"Sah-viss, bass?" he inquired winningly.

"It's good of you," sighed the professor. "Affectingly good of you. I've had a strange trip, something of an exhausting journey, full of original elements. Not previously, never before, had I quitted my own dear land, a little angle of the world, surrounded by sounding seas in the Far East, er--east of here, that is. There was the crossing--I elected to travel by sea as a recuperative measure after an exhausting term at my last appointment in my own dear Angle. We crossed on a strange new vessel, a veritable sea-borer that shot like a shark beneath the waves. Through crystal ports we inspected swathes of seaweed but little else. We dined on sherry and pork but the craft was stable. Then--the overpowering first impression of New Bangor, your greatest metropolis, its towering burlesque theatres threatening to ravish the sky with their mighty neon girlies. Before I had even begun to acclimatize myself, however, a delegation from the Corporate Brains of America whisked me off to the station and embarked me on the splendid locomotive agent from which I have just descended. Signs of fatigue, indications of exhaustion, are not, I think, inappropriate under such dynamic circumstances."

Ben Tupp nodded sagely. This man was a good man. At first Ben had thought he was a bad man because his myopically narrowed eyes presented a superficially sinister impression. But now Ben saw for sure that he was a good man.

"You sure is for sure a good man, bass!" he murmured reverently.

And thus, on the empty platform of the little university town of Great Pogo, Georgeasota, a strange bond was forged between these two, the kindly, unlettered Negro porter and the famous English scholar. ...

In the "Jolly Buddha", a country inn in Connemara, Pad Dee Murphy stood in the centre of the packed earth floor, listening. From behind the bar, Lucian Neath, the landlord, observed him warily. Was it the day for Pad Dee to sing? Was it the day for him to fight? Was it the day for him to talk? Upon the answer to this plural query depended the immediate prospects for Lucian, his bar and the four or five other observant loungers in the room.

"Will you be giving us a song, Pad Dee Murphy?" called one of them, a scrawny mahout called Spike.

With a shattering roar the snout of a huge earth-borer thrust up through the rude, earth floor, causing the little tavern to collapse and bury its occupants. ...

Pad Dee Murphy paused beside the bamboo thicket on the edge of the lagoon and gazed appreciatively around through the Connemara dusk. Inside the thicket two gorillas were planning a cocktail party.

Pad Dee listened contentedly to the sounds of his beloved native land. Not far away, across the lagoon, a priest was saying mass and just behind him the heaving bulk of two copulating elephants jarred the lingering twilight. Just then Pad Dee stiffened. One of the two bull gorillas had emerged from the thicket and seen him. Fierce white teeth emerged as the enormous lips drew back into a snarl, and then the beast raised a hand like a boulder and brought it booming down on his own chest. Suddenly, in Pad Dee's mind, flamed the words of his dead crofter father: "They're always dangerous during the cocktail season."

Pad Dee turned stealthily and then fear gripped him. The beauty of the twilight had lured him further than he had realized and, a shining mote of security, the little earth-borer lay nearly two hundred yards away....

I was pleased with these notes and mentally compared my creative powers to the song of the whale or the effortless dance of the telephone. It was a fine thing to be an artist but should I be quite so much of a father? Children roamed everywhere. A few young girls were frolicking indecently with a telephone rectifier in the next room. I decided to speak to my wife about it and located her in the garden, crouched over some nettles. I was about to address her when I noticed a man equipped with various instruments inspecting our house.

"Who is that, Madeleine?" I asked, using a name I often use when speaking to my wife.

"That man?" she queried cheerfully, planting a thistle. "He's a Danish publisher."

"Is he?"

I contemplated the intruder and soon noticed that it was, in fact, a man called Arthur Polk who was not a Danish publisher but my publisher. I immediately waved to Arthur and shouted:

"Hello, Arthur!"

He called back at once.

"Hello, Clive!"

"What are you doing?"

"Surveying your house, old chap. With this astrolabe. I've also got a plumb bob here which will be useful for determining the verticals."

"What's all this for, Arthur?"

"Can't tell yet. Possibly flats--skyscraper block with a park surround and a gilt spine. We haven't finally decided. You missed some gripping cricket."

I felt uneasy. Arthur moved slowly round the house. Watching him I noticed that the hawthorn had come out but that the blackthorn had stayed in. The larkspur was not yet on the wing but the brushwood sheaf around the elm-tree bole was climbing all over the ornamental trellis. I mentioned these things to my wife.

"Possibly it's spring," she suggested. Then she smiled. I noticed how girlish she looked, a thing I hadn't noticed for several decades, and this reminded me of the population issue. I asked her candidly:

"Irene--Madeleine, that is, how many children do we have?"

My wife smiled rather more intensely. She began to look wild and shameless. She was wearing a green dress with holes for her arms and she now exploited this arrangement by entwining her arms around my neck. She smiled suggestively and began to murmur drowsily:

"Well, there's Wilma and Geoffrey and Boris and Oscar and Joan and Leah and Elmer and Peter and Rachel and Peggy and Susan and--"

It was not long before I realized that my wife was just making up names since none of these, as far as I could recollect, belonged to any children that I had seen about the house. My wife now stroked my neck in an agreeable way and effected close contact between our two bodies. She then began to move her own body in a manner deriving ultimately from ancient gardening techniques designed to encourage grain to grow. Her arms were very lithe and her face was memorably girlish. It shone before me, framed in a tangle of bushes and shrubs that flourish in that secluded corner of our garden. I now felt something stir within me, or rather just outside me.

The hawthorn was waving sinuously above us. Its great clusters of purple blossom writhed meaningfully towards the blackthorn. The blackthorn responded shyly, putting forth now a creeper and now a feeler which just brushed the hawthorn's cheeks before withdrawing behind shuttered windows. Meanwhile the whitethorn languished, pale and tearful, a puritanical thorn consumed with secret lust and trying to sublimate it into scholarship. Failing, the whitethorn scribbled malicious little notes to the neighbours while the blackthorn, aroused and radiant, burst from its luxury flat in a gold-trimmed caftan suit. The hawthorn, overwhelmed by its easy victory, led it to a seedy little hotel near the Arab quarter while the whitethorn, using powerful binoculars, watched them through cracks in its curtained windows. Then, biting its lip, the whitethorn retired to its desk where it sat trembling over Etruscan texts. Meanwhile the brushwood sheaf crept softly all over the trellis, which gasped at intervals as if cold water were being dashed upon it and the larkspur smiled an oily, predatory smile as it covertly scrutinized them.

My wife and I emerged from the shrubbery and then, at my suggestion, retired into it again while I performed certain adjustments to her attire. We emerged once more to find the garden tranquil, the house in its customary place and my publisher gone. I felt that the moment was an equivocal one for complaining about over-population in the house and I repaired once more to my study, leaving my wife to hoe up some nasturtiums. I wrote some more preliminary notes but they were unsatisfactory and I have not retained them.

In this way time passed. My publisher often visited us to continue surveying the house. He became tolerably friendly with the young telephone repair-man and they often played dubious games with my daughters in one of the bedrooms. The Danes resumed battering on the kitchen door but we rather deflated them one evening by inviting them in. Wilhelmina was delighted but also embarrassed. She whispered to me:

"I'm engaged to five of them."

However, I personally derived much pleasure from their society. They talked about cars and the difficulties of finding a chauffeur. They now owned seventeen cars. Only three could drive and one of these three had taken a solemn vow that he never would. The other two drove incessantly, racing up to the house in one car, transferring to another and racing off again but they all agreed that they were still not getting full value from the vehicles.

Wilhelmina, a very pleasant girl of about seventeen, moved amongst the Danes making arrangements for the weddings. Later my publisher and the telephone youth joined us but they contributed little to the evening. Whenever I glanced at one of them I observed that he was glancing narrowly at the other.

I came to admire those Danes and I was proud to think that my daughter was going to marry five of them, They told me many interesting things about their own country. It is not, I think, widely known that very few people in Denmark own more than seventy automobiles. The Danes, I learned, are fond of bread and it is common for them to eat this substance. I tactfully inquired wh\ they had left their own delightful land. Wilhelmina immediately cried:

"They left Denmark to make love to me but I won't let them!"

At this the Danes burst into a ribald Danish song and my publisher purchased the English rights.

We had many such jolly evenings.

The seasons changed. Men with shovels came and purged the house of rotting beef. I received favourable replies to my three letters. Before I left to visit my three prospective heroes in their homes, there were a number of things to be settled. I called on my publisher and asked him, in view of our long association, not to dispossess me. He led me solicitously into an adjoining room. There, amongst the normal paraphernalia of a busy publisher's office, was a model of a bright new architectural development with skyscrapers, paved walks, garages, theatres, night-clubs, a shopping district --a great community planned down to the last tiny detail, which was a scrawl on one of the walls reading "Dane--go home!"

"Magnificent, Arthur!" I enthused.

"Redevelopment," he affirmed crisply. "Your home."

"But will it all fit?"

"We haven't finally decided the scale."

I saw that if his plans had matured to this extent there was little chance of a reprieve for us.

"It looks like we'll have to find another home," I murmured, a trifle sadly.

"What?" cried Arthur, genuinely disturbed. Leave no. 44 Cob Lane? Where your children were born? Where you took your young bride? What are you saying?" "

"Well it looks like we'll have to."

But why? Why, man? Why do you say that?"

"Because you're going to turn it into a huge urban housing estate. Personally I doubt whether it will all fit but that's what you intend, isn't it?"

Arthur looked haggard. He barked something at a typist and she barked back at him. Then he absently picked up a manuscript and read a few lines:

"During the war my grandmother commanded a submarine--" then he dashed the manuscript to the desk once more. "Dash it, you can't just--just sever your roots like this. Clive, I'll never forgive you if you do this to Erica."

"Mona," I corrected him. "No, Madeleine really." "What does Madeleine say about this insane scheme of yours?" "I haven't told her yet."

"I should hope not! Now, Clive, just you drink this camphorated whisky and then go straight home and forget all about it."

I gulped the fluid which the barking typist now handed me. It had a vile, searing taste suggestive of deadly poison and, in fact, it turned out that it was deadly poison but my strong constitution enabled me to survive it, as my doctor subsequently explained. Arthur now draped his arm affectionately over my shoulder and escorted me to the door, murmuring to his secretary, sotto voce, before we reached it:

"Rush plans for converting 44 Cob Lane."

Then he gripped my hand with a firm, gentle pressure that expressed his enduring sympathy and regard. I returned home feeling vaguely uneasy, both at the nature of our conversation and at the gripping pains in my stomach which soon became so severe that my wife had to phone for an ambulance and I spent some time in hospital.

I did not, in fact, regret the interlude. For the first time in years I had a chance to do some hard brooding. At home there were so many demands upon me: children to be classified, my wife to be greeted, my work, the garden, Danes and telephones--now, for a brief period, there were no overloads on the giddy circuits of my brain.

I took stock of things. Here I was, rich, world-famous, poisoned--and what did it all amount to? When we are most secure, publishers turn our homes into giant communities. Why? Who? Was it real? Europe, Cob Lane, the solar system? Or merely a figment of a titanic dream? And who was the dreamer? Was he healthily asleep or in a stupor? Might he be drunk? And what

30

was his dream? Was it history? The Roman Empire, the British Empire, the Kilburn Empire? Was this all? Was it perhaps too much? Could it. be just the right amount? I could reach no final answer to these questions and the knowledge irked me.

"What do you think of it all?" I asked a nurse who was occupied with a nozzle behind me.

"It's a job," she replied glumly. "It's got to be done."

Perhaps that was the key. A job! A job that has to be done. Nations, wars, school fees--yes, but who was the employer? And might it not, at this stage, be a good idea to strike? Once again my thoughts recoiled back upon themselves and then slumped into a coma like gorged serpents.

Upon discharge from hospital I realized that I had not, in fact, solved any of the ultimate riddles of the universe and I regretted this.

The day of my departure to visit my prospective heroes arrived. There were numerous telegrams wishing me "Bon Voyage". One from an admirer in Liverpool asserted, with a crisp simplicity that I found most affecting : "You are greater than Ruben Bismuth." There was no mention of Ruben Bismuth in any volume of my reference library but I did not allow this to mitigate in the slightest my pleasure in the assurance. My publisher sent a brief note, enclosing elevations of the municipal sports stadium that would one day tower where our kitchen now stood. I took a last turn in the garden with my wife. Two of my daughters flitted out of the shrubbery as we approached and, shortly afterwards, a young man carrying a coil of wire. When he saw me, he muttered: "I'm tired of girls," and gazed at me with a hard reproachful stare. I recognized him as a young man called Elvin Beale.

"Why is that, Elvin?" I asked.

But it seemed that I had made a mistake. He was not Elvin Beale but merely a telephone repairman and I could not refrain from chiding my wife for allowing our gentle girls to consort with a low-born technician. I ordered the fellow off the premises and he shrugged and departed, leaving, I subsequently discovered, two of my daughters pregnant.

"Well, my dear," I sighed, slipping my arm around my wife's waist. "I am afraid once more I must leave you. How many children have we got?"

"Quite a few. Where are you going?"

"Up North I think--possibly South--I haven't worked it out yet. Have we got nine children?"

"Easily. What are you going to do, sell pots and pans?"

"Incidentally, don't be surprised if they start converting the place into a garden city. Have we got as many as twelve children?"

"Yes, I think we have. I think we've got at least twelve. But Roger--Clive, that is, the market for pots and pans is bad these days."

"Well, don't you worry, I won't sell any pots and pans. Twelve, eh?"

"Twelve what?"

"Twelve--twelve what?--"

I had been allowing my thoughts to flow on ahead and they had run into some rather bad territory. While I had been trying to clear a passage for them, shifting obstacles and dredging a channel, she had suddenly uttered a numeral. I now looked at her fair hair, fair and flowing, like strands of sunlight, waves and particles, with no corpuscles to interrupt the flow, and felt beneath my hand her body, her flesh and underneath her flesh her fat and her viscera and her bones and beneath the flowing hair the brains of my wife--and I felt confused and yet touched.

"Irma!" I sighed, drawing her towards me.

"Good-bye, Raoul," she sighed back.

TWO

Professor Pidge proved to be a short, distinguished-looking man with tight black curls seething on his head. He gestured with lazy elegance, emphasizing some quaint point. His audience of alert young citizens-- females, males, both varieties--watched with amazed delight the intricate and yet bold whirl of his arms as they rose, looped and fell again.

I stood at the back of the lecture room, with its zinc sink and velvet curtains, with its wooden chairs and its faint, distinctive smell of dihydrohiccupic acid, that curious acid that has three bongo radicals in the tertiary chain, and listened with attention.

"Zoology," the professor was explaining, "can best be regarded as a focal point for the study of the zoological sciences. We are all acquainted with animals and these may take the form of little dogs, large dogs, spotted dogs, Mexican hairless dogs and even mutant varieties that have long, elegant curls and distasteful eyelashes. In addition to dogs, we may adduce monkeys, pigs and giraffes which constitute significant additions to our understanding of nature. Brinsley of Oatmeal disputes this point but I fancy I rather worsted him the other day with my article in The Giraffe--some of you have probably seen it--where I described in detail the disgraceful ontology of the poodle. Anyway, I don't want to say any more on this subject--you may well have dogs and ideas of your own. Suppose you all do me an essay on 'The Cod as a Cuddly Pet'."

"Just one thing, sir?" a young female student asked.

"Yes, Miss Pholp?"

"Is it true that spores are tiny little floating things?"

"Yes, that's quite true. Spores love to float--it's one of the most characteristic things about them. Mark you, they're not good swimmers and they hate it when its rough but on the average fine day around Clacton or Ufracombe you'll find plenty of spores floating."

"Thank you."

The students wandered out and Professor Pidge approached me: "Clive Witt?"

"Yes. You're Professor Pidge."

"Indeed I am. Hope I didn't bore you too horribly?"

"Not for a moment. I take a keen interest in the natural sciences. As a matter of fact I have an idea I took a degree here in the natural sciences years ago."

"You were a student here in Mushton?"

"I believe I was. I seem to remember retorts and things. I believe we dissected magnets--isn't there something called Stirrup's Principle?"

"Possibly. May have something to do with Physics or Chemistry or Upholstery--closed book to me. I'm a specialist."

I was surprised at this for I would have expected a senior lecturer to have had a firm grounding in all the sciences as well as a leering acquaintance with the fine arts. I think Pidge was being too modest for, as I came to know him better, I realized that, in fact, he had a fine and richly-stocked brain.

"Would you care," he suggested, "to glance round the lab?"

"I'd love to."

We went into the adjoining laboratory. The first thing we saw there was a young girl sitting on one of the benches with her skirt drawn up. She glanced absently in our direction but, I was gratified to notice, made no move to adjust her skirt.

"This is the lab," remarked Pidge. "That girl there is Sonya, an exchange student. I've forgotten what we exchanged her for but I'm convinced we got the best of it. She's not a good scholar--can't tell an ant-eater from an umbrella--but she's always pulling up her skirt and letting us see her legs. Pull your skirt a bit higher, Sonya," he crisply addressed the girl, but she failed to respond. "I say, pull your skirt a bit higher."

"Why?" the girl asked, with a slight foreign accent.

"So that we can see more of your legs. This is Clive Witt, the novelist."

"No, it isn't," muttered the girl. "It's a bull pelican."

"Anyway, pull your skirt higher."

"I don't want to. I like it just the way it is."

"Let's glance round the lab," Pidge suggested. "She'll probably slide it higher of her own accord if we pretend we're not watching. Now--have you ever seen one of these before?"

I considered the intricate piece of apparatus he had indicated. It consisted of a jumble of glass and wires. I noticed at once that it was not ticking and I assumed that this was due to the absence of an oscillator. Green fluid was prancing about inside it. On the intricate control panel someone had pasted a detailed diagram of a naked girl swimming about in a fish tank.

"I see that it has a rheostat linked in staggered series to a diaphragm-siphon," I murmured thoughtfully. "Could it be a Canning Diffuser ?"

Pidge glanced at me with involuntary respect.

"It's nothing of the kind, of course," he replied crisply, "but you certainly speak the language."

"What is it then?"

"Eh?"

Pidge gazed thoughtfully at the apparatus. Some of the green fluid swerved giddily up a glass spiral and spurted on to the floor. Pidge stooped, moistened his finger with the fluid and then sniffed: "Smells like Soya sauce. Stuff you put on chop suey."

"You think it's Soya sauce?"

"I said it smells like it. Soya sauce is normally brown. Sonya," he snapped, turning smartly, "kindly pull up your skirt."

"Immoral old dog," the girl grumbled, but she did raise her skirt an inch or two more. Then she addressed me: "He's forgotten what that thing is."

"Possibly I have," conceded Pidge, "but it's only one of dozens of important experiments that I'm simultaneously conducting. I leave the routine to my senior students. Here," he plucked me courteously by the sleeve. "Come and look at this experiment over here. All these little pots have some kind of culture in them."

We continued on round the laboratory, inspecting numerous subtle and ingenious experiments designed to further man's knowledge of the natural world. We were standing over a superficially dull experiment, merely a little cup with fluid in it, and Pidge was explaining that, in reality, this was the first really promising attempt to use antibodies from the serum of an athletic eel to immunize sharks, when Sonya laughed coarsely and said:

"Here, take a look at this, boys."

We turned and found that she had drawn her skirt back almost as far as her thighs.

"This beats antibodies," muttered Pidge. "Come on, let's look at her legs."

We crossed the laboratory and stood in front of Sonya, looking with attention at her legs. She asked me:

"Why are you just a bull pelican?"

"I'm not."

"You give me that impression. Oh, I know the truth. I am a bad student. I should go back home and marry someone. That would be best."

"Not at all," urged Professor Pidge. "Come with us, Sonya. Have dinner with us this evening. You're agreeable, Witt?"

"Certainly."

We abandoned our tour of the laboratory and left together. We were silent as we walked through the quiet streets of Mushton. It was a pleasant evening and yet there was a distinct sense of conspiracy. I could discern no direct evidence that anyone was conspiring and yet I could not shed the idea. I wondered if the others had noticed it.

"What," I asked gaily, "the hell is going on?" "Conspiracy," murmured Sonya. "There is real conspiracy."

"So I wasn't imagining it. But what sort of conspiracy?"

"It is conspiracy to cause a fire."

"Nonsense," urged Pidge stoutly, but I noticed that he shivered slightly in spite of the warm summer air.

We entered a small restaurant and ordered duck. Both my companions were silent as we ate. Sonya was particularly silent. I surmised that she might be brooding on the shame of displaying her legs to professors, visiting novelists and possibly others. We finished the duck and ordered pancakes and vodka but the silence remained virtually unbroken until, a little later, Pidge and I stood side by side in a secluded part of the restaurant. Then:

"Do you know what I've done?" he asked passionately. "Do you know what's happened to me?"

"No I don't."

"That girl's got into my mind, that one with the legs?" "Sonya?"

"God, isn't she glorious?" "She is rather glorious."

"She's moved into my mind, legs and all! Witt, I don't want her there! I'm dedicated to research." "She's moved into my mind too."

"Really, Witt?"

"She's having a row there with my wife. I've got a wife back in London, in Cob Lane where our little house is either that or a vast new housing estate. I've got a fine range of children back there too."

"Witt, what about this novel of yours?"

"What about it?"

"Isn't it going to damage the thing if the hero and author are rivals for the same girl?"

"It may damage it horribly. But that always happens. It never goes smoothly."

"God, I'd hate to ruin that book."

"Incidentally, you have grasped that there are going to be two other heroes as well, haven't you?"

"You said something about it in your letter--which, I must confess, I felt was a trifle pedantic--but just what's the joke?"

"It's not a joke. It's just that--well, I'm trying something new, just as you do when you vaccinate a shark. You may wind up with an immune shark or you may get your nose bitten off."

"Who are the others?"

"There's a peasant, half-Irish and half-Burmese, who lives in Connemara and cultivates paddy--"

"There's no paddy in Connemara."

"This is a novel, Pidge."

"But--well, who is the other?"

"A man called Glebe who lives in Bangor. He has a hitch-hiking son and an earth-borer."

"What's that?"

"I haven't seen it yet."

"And you seriously think you can combine all these clashing elements into a successful work?"

"I think it may well prove to be utterly impossible. But it's a challenge which excites me."

"Well," sighed Pidge, his fingers lightly testing the secure closure of an element of his apparel. "I'll go along with you, Witt, but it's not science, I can tell you that."

We returned to Sonya. Pidge seemed temporarily to have forgotten his infatuation. He absently sipped a liqueur and gazed out at seven young conspirators setting fire to a steeple across the road.

I paid the bill. Pidge invited us to return with him to his flat where he and I could continue discussing our prospective collaboration and Sonya could get drunk. In fact, when we got there, Sonya barely touched a drop of Pidge's excellent armagnac but stood attentively at the window watching a steeple burn. From time to time she interrupted our discussion to comment on what was taking place. She said once: "There is a burning that I can see," and another time: "Someone has set up many flames in this town."

"Quiet, Sonya," snapped Pidge irritably.

"There is definitely fire."

"Don't fuss, girl. It's only arson."

On Pidge's mantelpiece was an ivory model of a boxing ring with two magnetic boxers inside it. When she wearied of the fire, Sonya played with this elegant toy, causing one magnetic boxer repeatedly to fell the other. But after a while, she admitted:

"I have small taste for English sport."

And she returned to the window. I now asked Pidge why he had suggested that he should figure in the prospective novel as a lecturer in Literary Agronomy at an 1 American rural college and he explained that he considered the theme rich in dramatic possibility.

"There is also," he elaborated, "the cultural aspect-- most rural communities are lacking in this and we could provide it. As regards adventure, I might save the town from a blight caused by some diabolical virus (there are plenty to choose from) which is threatening the bean crop--"

"How do you visualize yourself in this book?" "Much as I am: cool, efficient, and with a trained scientific intellect." "Romantic interest?"

"We should have girls for that. I could train one of them to combat the blight. She could be the daughter of an emigre aristocrat who learns to repudiate a load of musty old values in order to dedicate herself to science. We could spray the beans together, from an aeroplane."

"What would you spray them with?"

"That could be the suspense angle. We would have to spend days and nights in the lab testing thousands of different compounds. During this spell of enforced intimacy, the countess--she could be a countess--and I become very close, almost without realizing it. The breathtaking climax is when the townsfolk, their patience understandably frayed to breaking point by the threat to their beans, get up a lynching party, and the angry hum of its approach interrupts our first, almost casual embrace. I glance up with a puzzled frown and then cry: 'Behold! Look there!' The duchess follows my glance and her eyes widen in amazed thanksgiving as she sees a Petri dish full of withered blight into which, the day before, I had accidentally dropped some local homebrew which proves to be death to the blight. The crop is saved!"

"You mean you then go and spray homebrew on the local beans?"

"Exactly! From an aeroplane! And the blight peels off them like paint from an old door. There's naturally tremendous rejoicing."

"And that's the end of the novel?"

"Not necessarily. After that we could have various other adventures--the princess and I, you understand-- and by the end of the book I could be well on the way to being president."

"Of the United States?"

"No--at least, what I had in mind was president of the college--but you're the author, Witt.''

I nodded thoughtfully. It was pleasant in Pidge's flat There was an atmosphere of tasteful comfort, as exemplified by the magnetic boxing ring, a small trapeze dangling from the ceiling and supporting a replica of an inebriated student, caricatures of more students, all hideous and many inebriated, squatting on the mantelpiece and a large whitecoated model of a scientist tendering--the symbolism was obvious--a soft cushion for mankind's weary backside. I tried to dismiss from my mind the notion that Pidge's outline was drivel and, in order to generate sympathy for him, I imagined that some publisher was scheming to convert his flat into a block of offices. I now remembered the fire and asked Sonya how it was going.

"The fire?" she asked dreamily. "It has emigrated to where I belong, to Sardinia."

"You're Sardinian!" cried Pidge. "I suspected it! Kindly undress now, Sonya."

"I will undress," promised Sonya, "but not here, not in Sardinia."

"God, Witt!" sighed Pidge. "She thinks this is Sardinia. What'll we do?"

"Boys!" cried Sonya gleefully. "I am not Sardinian. It was just something I said. You see what this means?"

"What?" asked Pidge.

"No one knows me here."

Pidge frowned and made an impatient gesture. I felt that he was probing Sonya's logic for flaws and being disagreeably surprised at failing to locate any. I decided to help him.

"The point," I clarified, "is that we have a permissive society here in Sardinia."

"Of course, Witt!" agreed Pidge gratefully. "So you can strip without hesitation, Sonya."

"Really?" asked the girl eagerly, her fingers already fumbling at the buttons of her blouse. "No one will mind? If I undress? If I remove all my clothes?"

We assured her that no one would object. At this point a twinge of guilt assailed me for I suddenly realized that I had erred. We were not in Sardinia at all but in England. Was it incumbent upon me, as a writer un-deviating in his quest for truth, to admit this error and try to get Sonya to strip some other way?

"Of course," I qualified cautiously, "people don't only strip in Sardinia, you know, Sonya."

"You are such a clever man, pelican," the girl applauded me, gazing gravely into my face. For a while I gazed gravely back into hers but was disconcerted by a tendency of my glance to descend to where gleams of flesh showed through gaps in her partially unbuttoned blouse. Pidge suddenly beat both his magnetic boxers down with a sharp blow and cried:

"Get on with it, Sonya. Take your clothes off!"

"I would like to do that," rejoined Sonya sadly, "but if I do, you know what the result will be?"

"What?" asked Pidge.

"I will be naked. You and Henry will see all my body."

"But," expostulated Pidge, "that's the whole idea. Anyway, who is Henry?"

"Henry is my cousin in Sardinia." "But he's not here!"

"Only because they would not give him visa!" Sonya protested.

"God, Witt, what are we to do?" Pidge asked unhappily. He picked up a book called Miniature Pumps but deposited it again without a glance.

"Sonya, my dear," I volunteered, "let me try to explain. Professor Pidge and myself are anxious for you to undress. You are perfectly right in supposing that one consequence of this will be that we shall see your unclad body but I think I can assure you that neither the professor nor myself regard this as in any way a drawback."

"I am glad you have explained this," nodded Sonya gravely. "It makes everything much simpler."

"I hoped it would, Sonya," I approved. "Now perhaps you'd come to bed with us?"

As I had anticipated, my little clarification achieved the desired result. Sonya undressed and accompanied us to bed. There we all passed a most instructive night discussing different topics of general interest and practising a popular technique for the relief of nervous tension.

The next day I left Mushton by the mid-morning train and within a few hours I was in Bangor where I intended to make the acquaintance of Mr. Henry Glebe, his earth-borer and his son.

Glebe proved to be a decrepit man who lived in a picturesque thatched cottage. His family had, he informed me, inhabited this very cottage for nearly twenty generations. I asked him if there had previously been any inventors in the family and Glebe told me there had been dozens.

"However," he bragged. "I'm the first to think of an earth-borer."

The borer was taking shape in an old garden shed. It had not as yet taken much shape and most conspicuous amongst the articles strewn about the shed was a very large number of springs. I commented on this to Mr. Glebe and he explained that an earth-borer needed numerous springs.

"I hope to work in at least a thousand."

I congratulated Mr. Glebe on his mechanical cunning. He thereupon coughed paroxysmally but did not respond in any other way.

"I had hoped to meet your son," I remarked hopefully as the time for my departure approached.

At this a slight furrow of anxiety manifested itself on Glebe's face.

"I daresay he's off hitch-hiking, eh?" I probed humorously.

"That's right," Glebe assented dully. "He may be anywhere in the world: hitch-hiking. He may be in Coventry or he may be in Tokyo: hitch-hiking."

I had to leave Bangor without meeting this important character.

I flew next to Ireland to meet Pad Dee Murphy. This was the prospective hero for whom I felt most instinctive sympathy. The other two were--oh, valuable productive citizens but I, like all men of the highest intellect, have always felt a deep nostalgia for the soil.

I spent weeks with Pad Dee, weeks of fierce labour under the broiling Connemara sun, weeks of squelching through reeking paddy fields, clutching some green shoots in my fist and occasionally plunging into oily water to fasten a nursling securely into some mulch. I spared myself nothing, determined to soak myself in peasant ways. In the mornings it was I who leaped first from my rude pallet (across which, throughout the night, barely rippling my slumber, cobras and venomous spiders had scuttled). Yes, I disciplined myself to rise first and then, approaching the couch where Pad Dee and his gracious lady lay, prostrate myself ceremonially before them and beg for permission to perform the early chores.

"Is it good," I would inquire in a sing-song hit which I had readily acquired, "is it good for thy servant, Clive Witt, fool of a scribbler, to harness the yak, this sunrise, oh Pad Dee?"

The yak was not, I confess, the aspect of paddy life that appealed to me most. It was a large beast and it made a curious sound as if it secretly yearned to be a trombone player. Moreover, it reeked rather offensively, reminding me of the ill-kept doss-house I had used in an early novel. Still, I fancy that, after a few weeks, as I stumbled along at the back of the wooden plough, I was barely distinguishable from any veteran yak-hand.

I learned the simple, pregnant ways of the countryside, how to tipple poteen, how to prostrate myself to Krishna, with a low, musical chant, as the wild call of the muezzin gurgled down from the parish church.

In the evenings, after our simple meal of fish eyes and jute, we would discuss the events of the neighbourhood, how this farmer had sold his daughter in marriage to a tractor salesman, how the other had got stoned on Guinness and drowned in the lower meadow. Better that this idle gossip, however, were those evenings when Pad Dee gratified us with a story, such as only he could tell, rich in local lore, uniting the simple piety of his ancestors with a shrewd assessment of contemporary events. The story I remember best is one that I always think of as "The Buddha and the Beehive".

"One day," it goes, "the Buddha was out driving in his new Jaguar when he came to a site where a factory was being built. He paused to observe the lively scene and a policeman approached and informed him that he was not at liberty to park there. The Buddha smiled warmly at the officer of the law and, pointing delicately with the middle finger of his left hand, indicated a beehive which had not yet been displaced by the bulldozers and earth-moving machines which were clattering about.

" 'And what,' he asked sweetly, 'of those bees? Are they at liberty to park there ?'

"The policeman scowled momentarily and then replied:

"I know of no regulations covering bees, sir.'

"The Buddha then spread out his hands to indicate the busy activity all around and asked rhetorically:

" 'Are not these men too like bees, erecting a new hive for members of their little race to toil within?'

" 'Candidly, sir,' replied the policeman, T don't see what you're driving at. However, I must inform you that this is the site of a diabolically secret new defence ministry plant and if you don't shove off immediately you will be subject to arrest.'

" 'But I am the Buddha,' explained the Buddha, 'from whom all things flow.'

"Whereupon the policeman arrested him and the Buddha got seven years for spying."

I was delighted at the forceful simplicity of this little tale, only one of many that testified to the deep wisdom Pad Dee had imbibed from his environment.

Finally, I had to take leave of Connemara and make my way back to London. I was eager to see my wife and children, and anticipated a touching reunion.

The first thing I noticed, as I marched up the drive, was a large hole in the front wall of the house. This surprised me since I could think of no useful purpose for such a hole. True, it provided an alternative entrance but I felt that this trifling advantage was not offset by its unsightly quality. I walked through the hole into our living room and found my wife there, contemplating several large packing cases marked: "cinnamon". As soon as she saw me a cry of mingled joy and surprise issued from her lips and for some moments we were too busy embracing to discuss the hole.

Then I asked her about the hole and she said that it was exceedingly offensive and she hoped I would arrange to have it closed up.

"But how did it get there, Muriel--er--"

"That publisher of yours--at least, I'm virtually certain he was behind it."

She then explained that one day, shortly after my departure, a short, bearded man, who claimed to be a philologist, had driven up on a powerful bulldozer. He had been unskilled in the operation of the machine and, after bucking about the garden for some time, had driven it straight through the wall into our living room. He had then backed out, apologized profusely in classical Rumanian, and driven away. Naturally I made a mental note to investigate this curious development further, and then I asked my wife if the children, or at least the bulk of them, were well.

"The children?" she asked, somewhat blankly I felt.

"Well yes--all those children--you know, the ones we've had over the years."

My wife confessed that she hadn't seen any about for some time and I too noticed that the house seemed remarkably quiet. However, I was not sorry about this since I felt a period of creative activity approaching. I retired to my study and, armed with the detailed information I had garnered on my travels, sat down to compose the first chapter of my new novel which, with a flash of inspiration, I decided to call:




THE MIXTURE AND THE BAG Chapter 1

Bill Glebe turned from the window of the little cottage in Bangor. His library book Miniature Pumps lay open where he had left it. Bill had learnt from that book a great deal that he had not known before about miniature pumps. But now, suddenly, restlessness seized him. He walked over to his drug chest where he kept a large assortment of narcotic drugs and contemplated the various pills, shreds, pastes, roots and other substances. Next he spent a little while searching for a suitable vein and finally located one nestling in the left lip of his navel. Delicately inserting the needle, he drew out a small flower of blood, rather like a fuschia, and replaced it with a hefty charge of mixed drugs. He then gave a noiseless whoop and leapt out of the window into his earth-borer...




THE MIXTURE AND THE BAG

Chapter 1

Bill Glebe stood at the roadside, hailing passing cars. Where was he? He had reached England again only the night before. He had obtained a lift on a lorry and he hoped that, before exhaustion claimed him, he had murmured the word "Bangor". But had he? All he knew was that he had slept through the night until the driver had shaken him and said:

"This is where you descend, sir."

Slowly images clarified in his mind. The first image was like a yak but much smaller, about the size of a miniature pump. It spoke to him in a girl's voice, Sonya's voice, saying:

"Drugs are being served on the promenade deck, sir. Passengers will be interested to know that the ship has just struck a submerged yak. Water is pouring in through a vein above the navel and the miniature pumps are pounding."

"Do we founder?" asked Bill coolly.

"Every day of our lives," replied Sonya, drawing his wan face down towards her navel.

What had that man Pidge said? The one who had given him a lift in the Stony Mountains?

"The blight is getting worse, lad."

That's what he'd said. Then he'd pulled a Canning Diffuser from the dash of the borer and offered Bill a fix.

"Only homebrew, lad," he'd apologized.

Bill had spent months with Pidge, in the palatial laboratory amongst the beanfields. He'd been happy there, watching the peasants ploughing with their yaks. Then one day Princess Sonya Guildenkrantz, Pidge's lab assistant, had entered his room, naked from the waist down and asked him if he'd taken her copy of Miniature Pumps.

"Is that really what you came for?" Bill asked her, as he slowly laid aside the mortar in which he'd been pounding down some fresh drug...




THE MIXTURE AND THE BAG Chapter 1

Professor Guthrie Pidge tested the seven hundred and twenty-sixth compound. With the delicate precision of the trained scientist he poured a single drop of NX-12 or tri-metro-polyasterisk into the Petri dish and observed the results closely. There was no immediate reaction and, while waiting for one, Pidge allowed his thoughts to wander.

Sonya was doing well. She already knew the difference between a Canning Diffuser and a miniature pump. True, he sometimes caught a wistful expression on her face, when she was tuning a rheostat or performing some other chore, and then he knew that visions of lost splendour were floating before her. He knew all about those visions. In the early days she had talked of little else, the great schloss above the loch, full of liveried flunkeys, Monte Carlo in the spring, Naples later in the spring, a swift hop on some aristocrat's luxury yacht across to Oran or Casablanca, Oslo in the early summer, the flash of skis under the shining peaks, a swift hop in some aristocrat's private train to Saint Petersburg (as she would always think of it) for the season, with the yash-niks crooning throughout the summer night and the grumbling but tender-hearted chef preparing her special favourites, bluish, delicious little notchkis which she washed down with Siberian champagne.

Professor Pidge stiffened. Activity in the Petri dish! With fingers which he disciplined not to tremble he swiftly prepared a slide and poked it carefully into the great, humming nuclear microscope. He touched a button and a screen was flooded with light. In brilliant detail, Professor Pidge could observe the results of his latest test. The blight was thriving! Even as he shuddered, it shot out huge, groping tentacles which churned angrily about, seeking beans. Making a mental note that NX-12 might have military applications, Pidge emptied the Petri dish cautiously down the sink and poured a gallon of foaming cleanser after it. He then prepared to test the seven hundred and twenty-seventh compound.

Some time later, as he began to pour a single drop of compound seven hundred and thirty-two into a Petri dish, his alert senses became aware that someone had entered the laboratory. Much too devoted a scientist to allow his concentration to be deflected, Pidge nevertheless registered, in the brief glance which he was able to spare, three interesting facts. The first was that it had been Sonya who had entered the lab, the second that she had not been alone and the third that she was naked from the waist down.

"Kindly put your skirt on, Sonya," growled Professor Pidge, as he allowed the trembling drop to plop down into the sinister blight.

"Skirt?" echoed Sonya in astonishment and then, glancing down at her white, exposed limbs and impudent navel, she groaned, "Liveried flunkeys! Now you'll know I've deceived you." She turned angrily on the young man with her, "Peasant dolt! Why didn't you remind me to put on my skirt?"

The young man contemplated her, expressionlessly. "I must have had too much drug," he apologized. "It makes me slack about details."

"Exactly who is your companion, Sonya?" asked Pidge, able, now that the latent phase of the experiment had been reached, to devote more attention to the others.

"He's a hitch-hiker. I picked him up on the way back from town. You remember, you sent me to buy another gross of Petri dishes. He made love to me amongst the blighted beans. Are you very angry, darling?"

"To my own astonishment," returned Pidge, analysing his feelings with a great objectivity. "I am intensely angry. I have always regarded the physical act of sex, mere copulation, as a factor of negligible importance in serious human relationships. Nevertheless, at the moment I feel I'd like to feed you both through a Canning Diffuser." He glared at the youth. "Who the devil are you, sir?"

The boy, somewhat recovered from the drug, told the scientist his name and, as he heard it, an expression of awe mingled with astonishment replaced the anger on Pidge's face.

"Glebe? Not--not the great Henry Glebe of Bangor?"

"No--but he's my dad."

"The genius that gave us the earth-borer?"

"You mean he finished it then? I wouldn't know-- been hitch-hiking about for years____"

I was not entirely satisfied with these drafts, but nevertheless I felt a keen glow of satisfaction. This was the work I loved, the work that had already won for me enduring fame. I now remembered my children and went to ask Helen, my wife, what had become of them. She agreed that their absence was strange but could offer no explanation for it. I urged her to rack her brains for clues and she willingly obliged. Quite a short spell of racking produced three clues which I immediately investigated. Two of them proved fruitless but the third led me to a house on the other side of our street where I found a daughter of mine. I observed that she was a large girl, quite of marriageable age and I told her of my observation. She was delighted.

"What's more," she chortled, "my husbands will be too."

"Husbands?"

"Those Danes. I married them all in the end." 

Naturally I congratulated her and asked her if she was happy living with a large number of Danes as men and wife. She told me that she was exceptionally happy and had advised all her sisters to marry as many Danes as they could get hold of. I asked her in what way precisely--I am very keen on my children developing their powers of analysis--Danes were superior to other men. She explained that they were economical with cattle feed.

"If we ever get any cattle," she pointed out, "this would be an inestimable blessing."

We spent a long afternoon together. I quizzed my daughter closely as to her plans for her cattle and she gave me intelligent and interesting answers. For example, she proved well-aware of the advantages of short-horn cattle, for when I asked her in what way she considered them better than long-horn cattle, she replied immediately:

"They have shorter horns."

"And where will you store these short-horn cattle?" "In the left-luggage office of the nearest station." "You realize they must be fed?" "Oh yes, I realize that."

There was no doubt that this girl--I think her name was Melissa--was admirably suited to rearing shorthorn cattle.

Soon after this several of Melissa's husbands came home but they were reserved to the point of unfriendliness. I mentioned this to Melissa and she explained that one of them, who was called Sven, had a famous collection of model fjords. She admitted that his seemed an inadequate reason for being unfriendly to one's father-in-law and she called her husband and remonstrated with him. Reluctant to intrude on their mutual remonstrances, I stole away leaving my daughter, I felt convinced, in capable hands.

The next day was an exceedingly busy one for me. I contacted the nearest cattle breeders' society and ordered a small herd of short-horn cattle for my daughter. I wrote to my solicitor asking him to contact my publisher and, in the strongest terms, demand compensation for the damage to my living room, pointing out that not only was the room now disagreeably cool in the evenings but that numerous small animals and insects, which we are normally glad to accommodate in our spacious garden, had developed the habit of using our living room as their own. I telephoned a reputable firm of private detectives and asked them to institute an immediate search for a large number of missing children, normally resident at 44 Cob Lane. The youth to whom I spoke sounded familiar and, after a while, suddenly asked:

"Is that you, dad?"

The form of address made me suspect that it might be a son and a moment later he identified himself as Rupert, not a name that struck an immediate chord although I accepted his earnest insistence that he was one of my progeny. Naturally it was a bit of a shock to hear his voice rushing at me from the office of a firm of private detectives. I asked him what he was doing there and he told me that he was trying to steal something.

"Why do you wish to do that, Desmond?"

"Rupert."

"Precisely. Why, Rupert?"

"To see if I have an aptitude for crime. I thought if I could filch a gun or handcuffs or something from detectives it would prove I had."

. "And you no longer want to mend telephones?" "Father, I never did."

Much as I admired my son's enterprise in devising this test of his potential criminal talents, I still felt that telephones were his true future. A little persuasion sufficed to convince him of this and he promised to return home immediately, first leaving a note requesting the detectives to locate his brothers and sisters.

My wife and I had a quiet lunch together. During the meal one of the smaller children appeared. I asked him his name and where he'd been and he replied without hesitation:  •

"Michael. Lisbon."

I then invited him to lunch with us and he accepted with pleasure. In the afternoon my wife and I went for a stroll in the garden. We had not strolled far before I heard an appalling noise and, glancing along the street, saw that it was my publisher approaching on a bulldozer. He clattered slowly towards us, cheerfully waving his umbrella, and pulled up outside the house. He switched off his engine so that we could talk but, while raising his bowler courteously to my wife, remained seated on the vehicle.

"Hello, Clive," he saluted me.

"Hello."

I sensed a certain diffidence between us and contrasted it sadly with the eager, warm collaboration of earlier days. I asked him why he'd come, and he replied: "I thought I might drive this bulldozer through another wall of your house."

"Why do you want to do that, Geoffrey?"

He was clearly embarrassed but he attempted to find cogent reasons.

"After all, old chap," he concluded, "we must get on with our redevelopment sometime, you know."

At this, I was exceedingly annoyed. I advised him that I was consulting my solicitors, that proper, formal redevelopment was one thing but this piecemeal demolition was quite another. I invited him to step into the living room to meet several frogs, fieldmice and a family of slowworms that were currently in residence there. As I talked, I could sense that my words were driving home. My publisher fiddled with his umbrella, gazed vacantly across our garden, frowned thoughtfully at the back of his hand but found nothing to urge in reply.

"God, Clive," he murmured, when I came to a pause in my reproach, "you make me feel small."

At this, of course, remorse overwhelmed me. After all this was my old friend and publisher whom I had known for years. Between us there had always been a large amount of mutual respect. Could I allow this valuable substance to drain away simply because Geoffrey had, perfectly legitimately, become professionally concerned with my house? I drew my wife aside and asked her whether she thought that we might, since he had come all this way, just let him bump our house once or twice with his bulldozer. She, with her woman's instinctive tenderness, agreed that we should. I went and told my publisher but he shook his head firmly.

"No, Clive, you've made me see that I've been going about this the wrong way. I'm not going to bump your house now. I'm going to re-examine the whole question thoroughly. And, Clive, I want to thank you, old man, for setting me straight about things again."

His face registering acute emotion, my publisher started his engine and, with a farewell glance of amity, rumbled away down the street.

Over the course of the next few weeks, my children trickled back. They came individually and in little groups and they all had interesting explanations for their long absence. By the end of the month the house was full of them again. Indeed, it was fuller than ever before since the detective agency, while failing to locate any of our actual offspring, sent us a number of possibles and these became absorbed into the household. We attempted to weed them out but I suspect that one or two of the present lot, not the least promising either, are actually attributable to the efforts of that diligent firm. They were very reasonable too, charging us, as I recall, only a fiver per child.

After this a golden period ensued for the entire family. It was high summer. The garden was in spectacular bloom. In whichever direction one looked there was an avenue of glowing petunias or pawpaws or stately cinnamon trees. Along these walks, loud with the chatter of parakeets and monkeys, dancing with Thomson's gazelle and hartebeests, which bounded across the beds of iceland moss, strolled my pregnant daughters.

Only one thing marred the bliss of that fine summer. Someone had taken to grazing a herd of short-horn cattle in our garden and the animals played havoc with our whordeberries. We were all fond of whortleberries and we naturally resented the greedy intrusion of these short-horn cattle. The beasts were never there at night and for a long time I could not ascertain where they came from. Then, one day, we received an invitation to cocktails from a colony of Danish motoring refugees who lived in a large house across the street. No sooner had we entered the living room than the mystery was solved. It was full of short-horn cattle and, in one corner, a peasant girl sat wearily milking one into a Tang vase. I tackled her indignantly but was amazed to discover, beneath the colourful dress of a typical peasant girl from some colourful region, a familiar daughter of mine.

"Gertrude!" I exclaimed. "So it's you that's been ruining our whortleberries!"

"No," she protested, "I haven't touched your whortleberries."

At this the child burst into tears, proclaiming that I was a horrid, inconsiderate father and that it was my own fault since I had presented her with those nasty cattle which made the house atrocious and were alienating several of her husbands. Now, of course, a twinge of guilt assailed me since I remembered that I had, with the most benign intentions, given her the herd as a wedding present.

"But, Gertrude," I expostulated, "you said you were going to store them in the left-luggage office of a railway station."

"Well, I tried to but they said they'd only take them if they were in suitcases and I couldn't find any big enough. I was nearly desperate and in the end I did graze them on your whortleberries, but only for a few hours a day."

60

I took the unhappy girl in my arms and comforted her.

"Don't cry any more, my dear," I urged her, "and I'll get you that oscilloscope you wanted."

At this Gertrude smiled gratefully at me through her tears and then hurried off to put on a cocktail dress. As soon as she had gone, I rallied several Danish husbands and, with ringing oaths, we chased the short-horn cattle far down the street. Then Gertrude joined us again and we passed an agreeable evening smoking cod's roe.

During that happy summer, I once more tackled the problem of the first chapter of my novel and, confident and overflowing with ideas: wrote:



THE MIXTURE AND THE BAG

Chapter 1

Bangor! At last! It was nearly seven years since Bill Glebe had left his native town. As he stepped lightly down the main street, his Siamese "booskaws" (sandals of yak leather tanned in the urine of bull pelicans) made a curious plik-plikking sound on the pavement. Of the various citizens whose attention was attracted by this plik-plikking to the tall young man with his mandarin beard, yen staff and Tao robe, striding confidently down the main street, were some who had known him in former years. So transforming, however, had been the effects of conversion to twelve different oriental religions, in addition to the beard, deep tan and exotic costume (which included a Singhalese fetish mask which reached to his navel) that not one recognized him. So he just went plik-plikking along until he reached the cottage. He still had his key, now dangling from a Tibetan prayer string he wore around his neck, and so he let himself in and shouted: "Dad?"

"That you, Bill?" "I'm back."

He then entered the cosy living room which contained, in addition to sparse furniture, a great many large and small springs, and greeted his father with a ceremonial Ashanti howl. He had not howled long, however, before his father brusquely requested that he cease. His father then asked him why he was wearing a large, ugly mask with blood-red tusks protruding from it. Bill explained that, for an acolyte of the vitality goddess, Koraze-ee, it was mandatory.

"Goddess, eh?" his father murmured, but Bill could sense that his mind was on other things.

They took a simple meal together, Bill confining himself to a moderate chunk of hallucinogenic fungus. It was scarcely concluded before Bill's father beckoned and whispered mysteriously:

"Follow me, son."

The older man then led the younger furtively out into the backyard where he paused and gazed cautiously around. Then the two padded stealthily across the little yard into the garden hut. After opening a massive padlock, Bill's father led the way into the interior where he indicated a crinkled, silvery machine which had tracks and a screw in its snout.

"The borer! "cried Bill.

"Not quite," replied his dad. "This here is a mock-up, made from the tin-foil you get in cigarette packets." "That's as far as you've got--after seven years?" 

"Mock-ups are very important," his dad reproved him. "All that's left now is the technical side. That's mainly connected with springs. It'll need a great many springs before it's actually boring. Now, Bill, I have a mission for you. Take off that mask, lad, and let's see your face."

Bill obligingly removed the massive Singhalese mask and his father looked at his face. Then Glebe senior continued :

"The need for secrecy is imperative. Almost any foreign government would give billions for this borer. The military implications are staggering. Anyone can see that this thing will revolutionize warfare. That's why we must hasten on and finish it so that our government will do any military boring that occurs and our country will once more achieve invincibility. Now I've applied to the home office, the patents office, the foreign office, the Queen, the prime minister, the arts council, and the Welsh liberation army and they all fail to grasp the momentous implications of this tin-foil borer. They won't act. No more will they stir. Bill, it's an old story. A sad story. It's a melancholy tale, old fellow. Son, it's a dismal history. Nevertheless, my loyalty, courage, patriotism and undaunted spirit are proof against all the barbed arrows of their ignorant scorn. I shall bore forward on my own and at this stage I must have help. Bill! Have you ever heard of Guthrie Pidge?" "What? Professor Guthrie Pidge?" "That's the one, late of Mushton and now lecturing in literary agronomy to sixteenth year students at Tan-bury Snide, Calikansas in the Compacted States of America. He's also doing great work with beans, trying to bash the local blight into submission. Bill, Pidge knows about the borer--" "But I don't see--"

"Wait! He's promised to help and the time has come for him to step into the picture. Now, I dare not trust the post. As is well-known, most postmen are double agents. I'm too old to travel myself and anyway, since the government refuses to vote me the seventy-three million I require to complete the project, I can't afford the fare. Bill, this is where your hitch-hiking genius comes into its own. Hasten to the Compacted States, thumb your way to Tanbury Snide and let Pidge know the time has come and also hand him this packet of plans."

That evening Bill paced restlessly about his little room. He shunned the drug cabinet. This was no moment for awakening the full range of his psychic powers. All he required now was a little common pondering. Should he hasten to Professor Pidge, as his father wished? But even as a fleeting assent passed through his mind another and more pathetic appeal intervened. Once more Bill was standing up to his waist in rank water in Pad Dee's paddy, listening to the earnest, humble application of the farmer who had befriended him and allowed him to sleep with the yak.

"If our love in Buddha counts for anything, O Bill, hasten back with the precious volume."

Bill reached into his pocket and withdrew it, Miniature Pumps, the book that could make all the difference between prosperity and starvation for the toiling farmer and his family. Too much water had been getting into the paddy fields and the miniature pump had broken down. Without the poor support of the little machine the harvest was doomed. Only by studying Miniature Pumps would Pad Dee be able to make the necessary repairs. Bill had promised to bring him the book. Might he post it? But what if his father were right? Might the treason of some postman prevent Miniature Pumps from ever reaching Connemara? Krishna! What a dilemma....

THREE

During the next few months I wrote numerous lamentable versions of the first chapter of my new novel. Another author might have become discouraged and this would undoubtedly have been the best course.

During this period two of my daughters had babies. These daughters were fine girls, fifteen or sixteen years of age and with pretty names like Joanna, Maria, Nicho-line and Snottynose. Unhappily the later stage of their pregnancy was marred by the fact that they both became exceedingly stout. I urged my wife to suggest to them tactfully that they should be more careful with their diet.

"Perhaps," suggested my wife thoughtfully, '"they should eat fewer nuts." "Is it the nuts that's making them so fat?" "I don't think that's nuts."

The girls went on increasing in girth and one day I slipped secretly up to Harley Street and consulted an obstetrician about it. He was a short man with ice-blue eyes and he listened attentively as I recounted the nature of the disorder.

"Do you mean," he finally interrupted, "that each month of their pregnancy they get a little fatter?"

"Precisely. Look here, is it serious?"

"It's perfectly normal."

"It's what?"

"It always happens. Oh, I wish--"

Here he rose from his chair with a faint gesture of resignation. He crossed to some shelves and hauled down a large casebook.

"See this? I want you to know that every one of these women, without one single exception, found herself in the same plight as your daughters."

"Good lord!"

"I've had them plead with me, offer me jewels, babies, switch gear, vintage cars, tax-free grants, rubber plantations, cured hams, dancing rats if I could find some way of mitigating their tragic increase in girth. Mr. Witt, do you know what I'm forced to tell them?"

"What?"

"Incidentally, I adored your Ruben Bismuth."

A quick mental check sufficed to convince me that I had never written a work called Ruben Bismuth, but I was too eager for medical counsel to mention it. I asked:

"And what are you forced to tell these unfortunate ladies?"

"That I can't help them. That no one can. It would involve a paradox, contradict a basic scientific law." "And what's that?"

"Two spatial bodies can never occupy the same vacuum while expanding. Do you understand?" "Well--"

"Think of it this way. Suppose you had a room with a large cupboard in it and some malignant aunt left you an even larger and uglier cupboard in her will. Now suppose further that your lease was up. Would it be possible to get a good price for both those cupboards?"

"But I don't quite--"

"Forgive me, Mr. Witt, but I have to deliver numerous siblings before tea and poke around in general. I can't give you any more time today but, my dear chap, take my word that there's nothing to worry about. Good afternoon."

I returned from this consultation much relieved. My daughters continued expanding but I made sure there was no vacuum in the house. I considered selling our cupboards but, on mature reflection, decided it was not necessary. However, I made a point of assuring them that our lease had many years to run although I was a little troubled at the thought of my publisher's machinations.

In the last stages of their pregnancies my daughters, as my wife assured me often happens, developed a craving. It was for machine tools and I had some capstan lathes installed in the basement. They spent happy hours down there, turning out axles for diesel locomotives. I don't think there can be many finer examples of capstan work by pregnant adolescent girls.

The babies were ultimately born and my daughters returned with them from hospital, greatly improved in appearance. It dawned on me that possibly they were slimmer because the babies which had been inside them were now outside. I wrote to the obstetrician outlining this theory and he replied promptly that he missed me horribly. Moreover, he failed to mention my theory and addressed me as "Darling Lillian", which does not happen to be my name. A few days later he wrote again, apologized for having sent me the wrong letter and asked me if I was still not able to supply the alloy fishing rod he had ordered last spring.

We had now abandoned the use of our living room. A good deal of earth had blown in and some grass and flowers had taken root. What with this flora, and also the wombats, the okapi, the crested toads, the harte-beests and a sombre hermit who had built a small, crude refuge there, we found the room lacked cosiness and we closed it off. I was gratified, therefore, when my publisher arrived one day, wearing a cloth cap and carrying a brick-layer's trowel, and expressed his intention of patching it up.

"You have a shrewd solicitor, Clive," he laughingly admitted, touching his cap.

He set to work at once but he was not skilful at laying bricks and I soon realized that the job would take weeks. On the second day he built a canvas hut in the living room and installed a glowing brazier outside it. I thought, at first, that he and the hermit would become friendly but, as far as I could judge, they barely exchanged a word. In the evenings, if I happened to be returning from somewhere, I would often see my publisher sitting at the door of his hut, warming his hands at the brazier and wearing the blank, hopeless expression that night-watchmen often wear.

My children were all fascinated by the mystery of reproduction and I decided that it was time they learnt a little about the true functioning of the human body.

"It is composed," I explained to the assembled family, "of cells, bones, brains, blood and various other items. Each part has a distinct function and yet, such is the unique planning, whatever its function it never takes a step without consulting the other bits and that is why the nerves are so useful. For example, suppose the blood decides that it hasn't been paying enough attention to, say, the pancreas, it doesn't simply rush over and engorge--that's a technical term--the pancreas but first sends an urgent message to other departments asking them if they've all got enough blood. Now possibly the liver or the right foot, or even the left foot, is feeling a bit bloodless at that moment and it cables back to this effect. The blood then invites the autocratic nervous system to arbitrate and between them they work out how much blood to send to each applicant. After this it's a simple matter to conduct the whole operation to everyone's mutual satisfaction. It should be emphasized that this complex operation happens not once but up to a dozen times a day. Is that clear?"

My children rapidly grasped this advanced material and asked numerous intelligent questions. For example, a medium-sized boy, whom I heard addressed as Rodney, asked:

"How many kidneys are there in the human body?" I explained that everyone has a different number of kidneys.

"Some people need twenty or thirty and others can get along with as few as eight. It just depends on whether you use them a lot."

"Where are the kidneys located?"

"They are distributed artistically all around."

"What is the function of the kidneys?"

"Respiration."

Finally, and best, I told them about the reproductive system, how it is related to the sexual function and has as its objective the provision of suitable employment for young mothers. It was a most rewarding afternoon.

My publisher finally finished repairing the wall. Before he left, I invited him to sherry and he told me that, on balance, he preferred publishing.

"It has a quite different atmosphere," he observed.

"You mean that in publishing you don't have to handle bricks and mortar?"

He pondered for a moment. Then:

"You've put your finger on it," he agreed.

Naturally we had intended to restore our living room to its former state of elegant comfort but an unforeseen complication arose. The hermit refused to leave. I tried to reason with him:

"You see," I elaborated, "in the evenings we may want to watch television or to have sympathetic and diverting friends in to enjoy the pleasures of social intercourse. Suppose on such occasions you want to pray or meditate or something? Don't you feel there are possibilities of friction?"

"Not if there's tolerance on both sides."

"And then what about your vermin? Are they adapted to luxury conditions?"

"They must take their chance."

70

In the end we were reluctantly compelled to yield. We restored most of the living room to its former state but left a corner where the hermit continued to inhabit his hut of petrol tins and mud. I soon realized that I had exaggerated the danger of collision and only once, when an eminent barrister and his wife had come to dine, did the hermit emerge with a crude flail of nettles and mortify himself rather ostentatiously as we sipped sherry.

One day two of my daughters approached nervously and stammered something about babies. "I beg your pardon?"

"It's just that--well, we both have babies."

I told them that I had long ago observed the fact and asked them if there was anything special they wished to tell me concerning it.

"No--it just seems--somehow--important," one of them, a nice girl whom I will refer to as Sandra, murmured shyly.

"And do you?" I asked the other one--I shall call her Millicent. "Do you also think this is a matter of importance, Millicent?"

"Well, in a way, yes," she confessed.

I smiled indulgently and explained that, at their age, things often loomed disproportionately large.

"There's no harm in it," I explained. "It's simply that you haven't yet acquired a mature scale of values. Now run along and play with your babies and try not to get worked up about things."

With happy, grateful smiles the two children skipped away.

So the weeks passed. I made little progress with my novel and sank slowly into a sort of mental stupor. I was dimly aware that the leaves were turning from gold to silver, from silver to dark-blue, from dark-blue to ultraviolet, from ultra-violet to battleship-grey. I listened to the prime minister on the wireless but the wild poetry barely penetrated my reverie. Children came and went and the great world whirled. Perhaps I would never complete my novel. Did it really matter? Probably life would go on as usual on Mars or on Venus and perhaps even on Earth. Life! There was no end to it? How could there be an end to it? There was no beginning! Might there perhaps be a middle? But where? On Mars? Were there publishers there? And bookshops? A vast untapped readership? And beyond Mars? What was beyond Mars? Space? But what was space? Merely a version of time. And what was time? Merely a version of space. And what was I? Merely a version of a novelist. Beyond me stood the Great Novelist who was himself space, time, Mars, bookshops, trees, prime ministers--was that it? The human story: a cosmic best-seller? For days I writhed in the grip of these slimy metaphysics.

Finally I struggled to the surface and glanced around. The room was full of pineapples. On top of the great heap of pineapples sat a small boy looking ill

"Who are you?" I inquired.

"Your son, Alexander."

"What are you doing, Alexander?"

"Eating a pineapple--my third."

"You'll be ill."

"Conceivably. The other children are already ill." At this I hastened in search of my wife and found her at the back gate, bargaining with an itinerant fruit merchant.

"How much are your pineapples?" I heard her ask as I drew up.

I instantly seized her by the arm and drew her away. "Are you mad?" I asked. "There's half a ton of pineapples in the house already."

"Pineapples are very healthy," she protested.

"But they'll go bad."

Tears sprang into her eyes.

"That's not my fault!" she sobbed. "I hate it when they go bad."

At that very moment a thought came to me. I suddenly knew what was wrong with the first chapter of my novel. It was not authentic. I was trying to write about something I had never directly experienced: hitch-hiking. Barely pausing to kiss my wife and tuck a brace of pineapples under my arms, I hurried out into the street and started hitch-hiking. When drivers picked me up I offered them a pineapple. Later I varied my technique and offered them an orange, a salami sausage, a liver sausage, a nectarine, a ham, tinned mushrooms or dried cod. Often we sat side by side, hurtling through merry England, and greedily gnawed salami.

Weeks later, contented, thoroughly imbued with the principles and practice of hitch-hiking I made my way home again. I rushed into the house, up to my study, locked the door and, in one great, effortless flow, wrote a magnificent first chapter to my novel. Then I fell asleep at my desk.

When I awoke, I was aware of a great peace. This came partly from a sense of work well done and partly from the absence of children's voices, or indeed any other sound, in the house. I judged it to be about mid-morning and I rose and shuffled sleepily to the window. Looking out, I was surprised to see a large group of children on the lawn gazing solemnly towards me. Amongst them I discerned both my wife and the hermit, also gazing earnestly at the house. From the size of the group, which included two girls carrying babies, I inferred that virtually my entire family must be assembled out there. I was about to raise the window, hail them and suggest that they come in and join me for coffee when I noticed, a little apart, a man squatting on the ground and wearing a steel helmet. At that very moment he appeared to press down on something and at once, with a dull roar, the house collapsed around me.

I must have been thrown clear by some trick of the blast for the next thing I saw was the excited face of my publisher, still topped by a steel helmet, staring down at me.

"Clive!" he cried enthusiastically. "Lord, man, you were perfectly right! A few hundred weight of explosive and the job's done! Saves all that messing about with bulldozers. Incidentally, I don't think you should have remained indoors. Explosions are dangerous and you could have been hurt. That's why I evacuated the family before I detonated the stuff."

He helped me to my feet and led me eagerly over to the smoking ruins, gloating over the thoroughness of the demolition.

"Hardly a stick or stone intact. It was brilliant of you, old man."

I turned and surveyed my family. I noticed that my wife seemed rather crestfallen and one of the girls with the babies began to sob.

"You realize," I asked my publisher, "that the house is now uninhabitable?"

A troubled look came over his face. He darted a swift, compassionate glance at my huddled family.

"Clive, I'm going to send you some tents, some comfortable ones! Don't protest. I want to send you some tents."

That night we built a fire from the debris of the house and clustered around it. The next morning an official from a well-known refugee organization arrived and handed me a parcel which we later found to contain a pound and a half of tapioca and three rubber gloves. I distributed the gloves amongst the older girls and they seemed mildly pleased with them. We cooked the tapioca by scooping a hole amongst the cinders and baking it but this proved to be the wrong technique for tapioca and it all turned into fine ash.

In the afternoon the tents arrived from my publisher and, after erecting them, we moved in. They were, as he had promised, good tents but we could not help contrasting them unfavourably with our demolished home. For some weeks we attempted to reconcile ourselves to living in the tents but then I decided that it could not last indefinitely. Accordingly, I went down to my publisher's office and remonstrated with him.

"It's all right, Clive," he reassured me, "we're starting on the redevelopment immediately and we're reserving a luxury mansion flat for you in the first block to go up."

"How long will that take, Walter?"

"Ten days, a fortnight"

This struck me as very little time for the construction of a twenty-five storey block of luxury flats with a revolving swimming pool on the roof, but my publisher assured me that modern techniques and materials were well up to it.

"We're using cantilevers, of course, and we intend to pre-stress all the concrete before we reinforce it. First, we put up a central core and then just wrap the dust cover round it."

I was still a little doubtful but I returned to our encampment and explained things to my family. The next day, as my publisher had promised, a large construction team arrived and built a high, wooden fence around the ruins of our house. For the next ten days there was continuous activity behind the fence and the following morning my publisher arrived, wearing a top hat and accompanied by several high officials and a film star. He invited me to join the group and, after a few speeches from the officials, the film star cut a strand of red tape and we all streamed on to the site. The block of flats was indeed complete but a glance showed me that my initial doubts had been justified. My publisher had not paid adequate attention to the matter of scale and the whole twenty-five storey block was only twelve feet high. On the roof, the little swimming pool slowly revolved. My publisher frowned irritably but, probably unwilling to lose face with so many influential people present, hurried on with the ceremony. He gravely conducted us around the building, squinting into the tiny rooms and indicating the bold design of the whole. After a while one of the officials hesitantly remarked:

"Of course, it's a magnificent structure--but isn't it rather small?"

"Oh yes," agreed my publisher, "it's a small block of flats all right. You will notice that each apartment has its own balcony."

Finally the official delegation departed and my publisher and I were alone together. I could see that he was distressed at the debacle and so refrained from any further comment. Making an effort to smile briskly, he turned to me.

"Well, Clive, I said you wouldn't have to wait long."

"You've done a marvellous job, William," I enthused. "I wouldn't have believed it possible in the time."

"Oh yes--determination, effort, attention to detail-- anything's possible if you try. Now then, old man, which flat do you want?"

I contemplated the little building, not wishing to seem critical.

"Well--" I squatted down and peered into a ground-floor window, "with all the children, it would probably be best."

"A ground-floor flat, eh? I think that's a wise choice, Clive."

He crouched beside me. By bending our heads almost to the ground we could gaze into the rooms and my publisher eagerly pointed out to me their many attractive features. Finally, we stood up again.

"That's it, then, Clive. You can move in at once if you want to."

The next day I wrote my publisher a tactful letter explaining that, when we had attempted to occupy our new quarters, we had found that the rooms, being only six inches high, were not adequate to our needs. I urged him to bring a tape measure and verify the fact for himself. He arrived that afternoon with an architect and they spent several hours taking measurements. After this they conferred together and then my publisher approached me.

"It seems the dimensions are not entirely satisfactory, Clive." He brooded for a moment or two, sighed, and then continued: "Clive, I've been thinking it over. This property development--vulgar business on the whole. Candidly, I regret that I ever embarked on it. So if you feel you'd care to resume possession of the site--daresay you could rebuild your house for fifteen or twenty thousand--just an idea--"

That very day I contacted a firm of builders and arranged for the reconstruction of our old home. Within six months it was ready for occupation, reproduced down to the last detail, which was the hermit's shelter in our living room. We moved in again and before long found it hard to believe that the place had ever been blown up by a publisher.

After this a quiet period ensued. I worked hard at my novel attempting, without much success, to reconstruct the brilliant first chapter which had been lost in the explosion. Naturally I often brooded on my three heroes and realized what a tremendous task I had set myself. Would they ever live harmoniously together in the pages of my book? Sometimes I doubted it. And yet the work slowly progressed. On occasion I would stand at my window, gazing out at the dripping eucalyptus trees and watching the sullen herds of elephant and moose rooting through the wild bamboo, and it would come over me with strange force, the sense of our joint and yet individual efforts on the earth. There in Bangor, Glebe was patiently adding spring after spring to his earth-borer. In Mushton, Guthrie Pidge was stuffing young minds with his exhaustive knowledge of sharks and pelicans and Pad Dee toiled in Connemara behind his yak, while here, in Cob Lane, I was chronicling their manifold, their multifarious, activities. I had a dizzy glimpse of the collaboration which is human life and my thoughts shuttled wildly about in the great pin-ball machine of my brain.

One morning I received a letter from Glebe informing me that the borer was now complete and ready for testing and inviting me down to Bangor for this event. In order to maintain the technique I decided to hitch-hike and accordingly I stationed myself the next day outside our house with a pineapple and a salami. Ours is a quiet lane and for several hours nothing passed. While waiting I noticed a young man on the other side of the street and, with a start, I recognized him as the father of some babies that had recently been born to two of my daughters. I crossed over at once and accosted him.

"You're Elvin Beale, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am."

"Why the devil are you shirking your responsibilities?"

"Am I shirking them?"

"Look here, Elvin," I urged, "I know that you're fond of telephones but that's no reason for neglecting two delightful infants and their mothers, is it?"

"It seems a rotten reason."

"I'm not square. I don't ask you to marry them but-- why don't you come and live with us for a while, simply to get to know them? Children have a way of twining themselves about you like a creeper. Moreover, we have several telephones that you can befriend. How about it?"

I took him persuasively by the arm and led him into the house and up to the bedroom where my two daughters were still in bed.

"There!" I urged. "Aren't they fine girls?"

"They're jolly nice!" he panted.

"Well--why don't you join them?"

I paused long enough to see him start to remove his shirt and then I set off once more to hitch-hike to Bangor. This time, I walked down to the main road. Then I waved the salami temptingly in the air and very soon a car pulled up.

It was a small car and the driver was wearing a clerical collar. I asked him if he was going in the direction of Mushton and he said that he was. I then courteously offered him some salami and, in deference to his calling, asked him if he believed in God. He did not answer my question but inspected the salami closely.

"It's one of the finest salamis I've ever seen," he enthused.

He then handed it back to me and we drove away. "And do you believe in God?" I asked again. "Oh, most decidedly. And I feel sure that He believes in me."

He then informed me that he was a keen amateur ornithologist and had recently observed a strange owl perched on his rectory.

"At first," he continued, "I took it for Cooper's 80

double-crested barn owl but I soon noticed that it had three crests. Naturally I then assumed it to be the lesser vetch owl but it had pink spots on its sternum. May I taste your salami?" "Of course."

"No--drat it!--there won't be time. I turn off here."

I immediately broke off a good third of the salami and pressed it upon him as the car drew up. I climbed out and watched him buzz happily away down a pleasant lane, the salami still clutched in his hand.

I was next picked up by a criminal but it was some time before I began to realize the fact. He was quiet at first as we hummed along, and then he asked me if I liked ferns. I told him that I was moderately devoted to these plants.

"They're so green," he rhapsodized. "When they're not green, they're so brown. They grow on the hills and they never drink whisky."

He spoke in a quiet, elegant voice. He talked a great deal about ferns and was clearly deeply instructed in their habits. Next he began to talk about the name Colin. He said that it was a splendid name, suitable for a fern or for the finest gentleman in the land. He told me that if he had a pig or a son he would call it Colin.

"This very car you're driving in is called Colin. Excuse me."

He had pulled up at the kerb and he now walked rapidly into a jeweller's shop. A little later he returned at a half-trot, firing a pistol back through the shop door. He entered the car and drove away rather rapidly. In a little while he turned and threw some bracelets and watches on to the back seat.

I was disturbed by this incident since I felt it signified that there was an unstable element in his character. However, I was lulled to such an extent, almost hypnotized, by his mellifluous voice that I made no comment. He now started talking about life in twelfth-century China. I was amazed at the breadth of his learning.

"In twelfth-century China life was good. Each family had its own patch of ferns and none of the ferns drank whisky. There was an elected parliament and it was known as the parliament of ferns. Each fern in this parliament was called Colin. Excuse me."

Once more he got out of the car and this time he entered a clothing shop. After a few moments he emerged again. He held a large wad of banknotes in his hand but I noticed that he was not making good progress. The reason appeared to be that a man and a woman were clinging to him and he was methodically seeking to dislodge them with a neat little bludgeon. He soon succeeded, re-entered the car and we drove away. In spite of the drugged feeling induced by his potent conversation, I glanced backwards and saw the man and woman lying on the pavement.

"Look here," I cried, "what happened to those two?"

"Those two?" he smiled a remote, brooding smile. "They decided to sleep and dream of the Ganges."

I was dimly aware of a certain implausibility in this explanation but he now started talking again and my critical faculties were once more lulled. He began to talk about ferrous metals, occasionally digressing to note some important trait of non-ferrous metals or even alloys.

"Think of iron," he murmured, "slumbering under the ferns. One day it is kissed awake and for the first time tastes whisky. I have encountered iron in many exotic parts--Egypt, Balham, Gospel Oak--and it has always addressed me as Colin. Copper, bronze and beryllium are astute metals."

He now pulled up outside a police station and, with a quick movement, tossed something through a window. A moment later there was a blinding explosion. This snapped me to my senses and I hastily clambered out of the car and darted across the road. From there I watched dazed and wounded policemen staggering from the building and giving chase to my recent companion.

My last lift was with a doctor, a sullen man who admitted that his temperament had been ruined by epidemics. He deposited me in Bangor in the early hours of the morning and, as I descended from the car, he growled to himself:

"There's another damned epidemic--fractures this time. I'll bet this blasted hitch-hiker will have fractured some bone before dawn."

With this chill prediction sounding in my ears, I found a room in a small hotel called "The Nude Nymph" and passed a tolerably comfortable night, marred only by a persistent dream that I was driving a high-powered salami called Colin down a motorway.

In the morning I telephoned Henry Glebe and he told me that the test was scheduled for 4 o'clock that afternoon. Shortly before this hour a little group assembled in the garden shed outside Glebe's cottage. It consisted of myself, Glebe--looking, I felt, a trifle haggard--his son Bill, carrying a scale model of a sheep, and my publisher, wearing dark glasses. The last of these, when he saw me, started violently and buried his face in the collar of his coat. Glebe introduced him to me as the representative of a powerful industrial consortium interested in the commercial exploitation of the borer.

"Hello Ar--" I began, but my publisher interrupted in a stagey German accent.

"Could ve pleece prozeed mit the dest? My gumpany hass no dime doo vaist!"

He then pulled his hat low over his face, folded his arms and stepped back into the shadow. Glebe now removed the tarpaulin covering the machine and exposed it to view. I could not help feeling, at first glance, that it would prove inefficient. It had springs sticking out all over and was badly dented and buckled. Moreover, Glebe, as he explained apologetically before he started the test, had not been able to afford a proper motor and the pedal arrangement clearly supplied insufficient power. Glebe climbed into the machine, assured, us that, in the production model, his head would not protrude as it now did, "causing unnecessary drag", and then began to pedal. For several minutes, puffing heavily and turning rather purple, he continued to pedal. The screw at the front creaked slowly round. Then the screw suddenly fell off and Glebe, thrusting too hard now that the strain had been eased, plunged his foot through the fragile base of the borer. His son and I hastened to his aid and, in a few moments, managed to extricate him from the machine.

"Well," he puffed, as soon as we had deposited him on the ground again, "not bad, eh? Not too bad for a--a trial run?"

Naturally I hastened to congratulate him, saying that it had been a most exciting experience and that, with a little smoothing out of details, there was no reason why the borer should not be a great success. Glebe beamed happily. Then his son, rather touchingly, presented him with the model of a sheep, saying that he'd wanted to give his father something to commemorate the occasion and that he'd constructed the animal in his spare time out of old milk cartons.

"It's built to a scale of one in five," he explained.

I noticed that my publisher was taking pictures of the borer with a spy camera built into his false nose. I once more approached him but he pushed me away and, calling out to Glebe that he'd submit a full report to his "gumpany", he rushed out of the door.

That night, when I returned to my hotel, I was just in time to see my publisher, still wearing dark glasses, hurrying across the lobby with his briefcase. I immediately accosted him:

"Look here, Simon--"

He drew back with a snarl.

"You haff made a mistake, zurr."

"Aren't you my publisher?"

"Publisher? Vot publisher? Leaf me in beece!"

At this I could restrain myself no longer and I snatched off his dark glasses. He immediately struck me a savage blow on the cheek and rushed out of the hotel.

The next day I returned to London and went immediately to my publisher's office. As I was shown in, I heard him talking on the telephone:

"Yes, I was most impressed. Once it's fully developed the thing will undoubtedly be worth millions. There's just one slight--oh, hello, Clive!"

Seeing me, my publisher abruptly hung up the telephone. He gripped my hand and then, absently, opened one of his desk drawers and removed a plucked chicken from it.

"Geoffrey," I said, quietly but with feeling, "I won't naturally, bear a grudge but I'd like to know why you smote me in Bangor?"

"Good heavens!" exclaimed my publisher. "Look at this dreadful plucked chicken here in my desk drawer. Excuse me a moment, Clive."

He rang for his secretary and, when she entered, sternly rebuked her for placing a plucked chicken in his desk drawer.

"This fowl," he pointed out, "is in an early stage of putrefaction."

The secretary gazed coldly at the bird for a moment and then grasped it around the neck.

"I'm sorry, sir," she apologized. "It won't happen again."

"I hope not, Miss Plessent. Did you publish that book I asked you to, the one about pets?"

"I beg your pardon, sir, but you asked me to publish a book about dreams not pets."

"Dreams!" cried my publisher and then appealed to me. "You see, Clive, what we're up against?" Miss Plessent, we've already published two books about dreams this season. Really, you can trust me when I say that the market is ready for pets."

"Quite possibly, sir. But nevertheless you told me--"

They wrangled for some time and, about half way through the dispute, the secretary surreptitiously replaced the chicken in my publisher's desk drawer. When she had finally gone, he turned to me again:

"Forgive me, Clive. You were saying--"

"Yesterday, Godfrey, you snarled at me in a disagreeable German accent. Naturally, I want to--"

"Good Lord, Clive, look at this!"

My publisher had stooped under his desk and he now brought up a shallow pan filled with thick clay.

"How the devil did that get under my desk? Look, I've even got some on my trousers."

He rang irritably for his secretary and, when she arrived, asked her if she had placed the pan of clay under his desk.

"Yes, I put it there this morning, sir," she admitted.

"Why is that, Miss Plessent?"

"I couldn't think where else to put it, sir."

My publisher now told her, with commendable restraint I felt, that she must never again place any clay under his desk.

"The next time you have a pan of thick clay, kindly remember the safe or the filing cabinets--you might even ask the lift boy to keep it in his lift--there are numerous places, Miss Plessent, where you can suitably store thick clay if you'll give it a moment's thought."

Miss Plessent nodded contritely and said that she was sure she would find a more appropriate spot when next clay turned up in the office.

"Well, that's all we can ask, Miss Plessent, that people learn as they go along. Now leave us alone, please, and do publish that book about dreams."

"Very well, sir."

Miss Plessent departed once more. My publisher took up the chicken and, tapping absently on its breast, strolled to the window.

"William," I asked sternly, "why did you attack me?"

At this he turned vaguely towards me and in mild, apologetic tones explained:

"Well, it was actually to frighten you off, Clive. I want exclusive rights to that borer."

At this, of course, I informed him that, as far as I was concerned, he was welcome to them but that after the fiasco over the redevelopment of my house I was surprised to find him plunging again into affairs.

"I daresay you're right, Clive," he laughed self-deprecatingly, "but you seriously mean that you have no financial interest in Glebe's borer?"

"None whatsoever."

At this my publisher smote violently on his desk with the plucked chicken and, his face contorted, yelled: "Stop lying!"

"I'm not lying," I protested indignantly.

He now smiled vaguely once more and, pressing the button for his secretary, murmured:

"My dear Clive--why, you're the most ingenuous chap I know. Goodness, how often have I said that Clive Witt's simplicity would be an ornament to some child? Miss Plessent, I thought I asked you to remove this chicken?"

"Shall I file it, sir?"

"Yes, you'd better. I may want to consult it again." "Very well, sir."

"Now, Clive," resumed my publisher briskly, "just sign this waiver."

I gave him a questioning glance.

"Just a trifling formality. It merely states that neither you nor your family, nor any friends or associates you happen to have, nor anyone you nominate nor any of your descendants even unto the fourth and fifth generation has any claim whatsoever on Henry Glebe's invention. Just a friendly agreement, you understand. I doubt if many judges would actually impose the full ten years' imprisonment for breach. Here's a pen, old comrade."

My publisher guided my hand firmly to the appropriate spot and stood trembling all over while I signed. He then whisked the document over to a safe, locked it securely in and then, his back to the safe, stood rubbing his hands and gloating for several minutes. Finally, he became aware of my presence once more and, with an attempt at a negligent smile, murmured:

"Tedious, these business details. Clive! It seems ages since I last saw your family. How are all the little profits?"

With numerous further solicitous inquiries he hurried me to the door and out.

Deeply gratified that I had succeeded in re-establishing cordial relations with my publisher, I resumed work on the novel.




THE MIXTURE AND THE BAG

Chapter 4

Dr. Sonya Guildenkrantz stepped into the "Jolly Buddha," a country inn in Connemara. There was an immediate hush. Beautiful white women, carrying microscopes, were not often seen in this remote part of Ireland.

"Which of you," she asked, in a low, imperious voice, "is Pad Dee Murphy?"

There was no answer but Sonya's quick eye detected the mere quiver of a glance which Lucian Neath, the barman, bestowed on one of the golden peasants clustered around the dart board. She approached its recipient and said ceremoniously:

"Is it you, O farmer, that has written to the great science master, Guthrie Pidge at his palace in Arkansota across the wide ocean, complaining of a melancholy condition of your beans, whereby they wither and dwindle?"

The peasant bowed ceremoniously and replied: "Sure, and it's me own beans that have got the staggers. 'Tis a thurrible thing for an honest peasant. Is it you, missus, that will be lifting the blight from them?"

"I hope to, O farmer," Sonya assured him, her glance dwelling appreciatively on the lithe limbs of the sun-warmed man. "Know you that I am the assistant to Professor Pidge and know all the deep penetrations of his skill. Therefore, take me, O farmer, to your beans and I will make them large to see through this little tube I carry."

"Sure, and it's large I would be seeing them, missus. So just you jump into the old jaunting car and away we'll go."

However, before they could set out for Pad Dee's paddy, there was an interruption. A slight, white youth, holding a model of a yak skilfully wraught out of milk cartons, stepped out from a corner of the bar where he had been sitting concealed. He approached Dr. Guilden-

90

krantz slowly and when he was within a few inches of her murmured softly: "Don't trust them!"

"Who are you?" asked the lovely scientist peremptorily. She was not accustomed to having her scientific work hindered by hitch-hikers, such as this youth appeared to be, for all that he carried a model of a yak.

"Glebe's the name. Son of the great Henry Glebe of Bangor, the genius that gave us the earth-borer."

Naturally, at this, Sonya's eyes widened in involuntary respect.

"Are they then not trustworthy?" she asked in an aristocratic sibilant whisper that hissed softly through the little rude tavern.

"No, they're not," Glebe hissed sibilantly back. <These boys are all Buddhists. That's why I made this model of a yak as a token of friendship."

"But Buddhism," hissed back Sonya, "is surely a religion of peace."

"Sure it is--tha's right, missus--religion of peace," muttered a drunken old peasant who had caught her sibilant hiss.

"It may be a religion of peace," deferred young Glebe grimly, "but these bastards have got it all screwed up. They keep getting drunk and thumping each other. ...

Bill Glebe sat at a rude trestle table in the "Jolly Buddha", a country inn in Connemara, constructing a model of a yak out of bottle tops. He heard a wailing and keening and, turning to the peasant seated next to him, asked its cause.

"It's us peasants," replied the peasant. "We've been having a thurrible time wit the beans which have acquired a disastrous blight. I've written to the great Pidge of Texabama across the broad ocean since he is undoubtedly the foremost living expert on bean diseases but I've had no reply. That's a nice model of a yak you're making, stranger."

"Isn't it delightful? I intend to present it to the local temple as an offering of friendship."

"Sure, and Father O'Flaherty will be tickled to have that model yak on his altar. Seriously, I should like to be your blood brother because anyone who visits us in our hour of affliction and makes such dinkum little yaks is okay." 

Just then they heard the sound of galloping hooves and everyone looked out to see a beautiful scientist, clutching a microscope, ride up on a yak.

"Which of you," she cried imperiously, "is Pad Dee Pidge, the genius that gave us the earth-borer ... ?"




THE MIXTURE AND THE BAG Chapter 4

Professor Sonya Guildenkrantz mounted the yak. The district commissioner eyed her dubiously. In the distance the great volcano roared and flared. From all around came the angry chattering of cheetahs, wildebeests, gorillas and other noisome animals. Connemara, he knew, was no place for a solitary white woman.

"Look here," urged the district commissioner, "why don't you abandon this insane exploit?" He pointed with his pipe stem towards the distant volcano. "Your path lies there and I fear we're in for an eruption. You'll probably reach the volcano just as it erupts and many millions of tons of hot lava will come searing down upon you. Or suppose, just for the sake of argument, that you elude the lava, there are cheetahs--man-eating cheetahs--in these jungles. They may attack you. How will you preserve your life? Also, it is my official duty to warn you that the tribes may rise."

Sonya tossed her head rebelliously, taking care to maintain a firm grasp on the precious microscope and the jug of Compound 8724. She pointed with an undaunted finger.

"Out there," she cried, "are suffering men and blighted beans. Do you suppose for one instant that I could even hesitate?"

"These people are used to hardship," frowned the district commissioner. "Stay here, and be my bride."

"I am dedicated to science," Sonya haughtily informed him, "and to the compassionate use of science to alleviate human suffering. I will never marry. However, if you had asked me last night I would have gladly passed the night with you in carnal intercourse since I have no puritanical feelings about the natural claims of the body. But now I can no longer hesitate. This inn or rude tavern--this 'Jolly Buddha'--how far you say it is?"

"Between you and it, my darling," sighed the district commissioner, "are seventy miles of pestilential jungle. Would that I were free to accompany you and guard you from peril on your journey. However I am not. Farewell ! Return safely, if you can manage it. Farewell!"

With a touch of her heel, Sonya started the yak and together they lurched off into the jungle. For many hours they lurched along. Large butterflies fluttered through the trees and more than once a savage cheetah growled at her with menace. Suddenly, ahead, she saw a man standing at the side of the track, waving an attractive salami. She drew up beside him.

"What are you doing in this remote spot?" she inquired.  .

"Hitch-hiking. It's my hobby. My dad is Henry Glebe of Bangor, the genius that gave us the earth-borer. Could you give me a lift please?"

Reluctantly, since she feared the extra weight would slow down the yak, Sonya agreed. After the hitch-hiker had mounted pillion, they jogged on together. At dawn the following day they spied the "Jolly Buddha" and doubled their pace. Although it was so early all the peasants were assembled within. They were holding an emergency meeting and had just decided to despatch one of their number to Father O'Flynn at the local mosque, begging him to offer up prayer to Krishna for the salvation of their beans. The choice had fallen on Pad Dee Murphy, the most popular man amongst them, and the bravest.

Just at this point Dr. Sonya Guildenkrantz and young Bill Glebe arrived on the yak. Instantly taking in the situation, Sonya, her glorious eyes flashing brightly, stood in the rude doorway and cried:

"What craven superstition is this? I tell you the priests can pray till the yaks come home but not one jot of blight will they cure. However, this compound, rich in yagga root, prepared by the great lord of science, Guthrie Bean, the Pidge that gave us..."





FOUR

My novel was not going well. The basic trouble was that my publisher had, along with our house, blown up the first chapter and I had never succeeded in recapturing the sheer effortless flow with which I had written it. I decided to scrap everything I had done to date and start afresh, concentrating this time on the science-fiction possibilities.

THE SILVER SPORES

The crew of the earth-borer Stoutsnout had been selected with great care. Captain of the ship was burly, fearless Guthrie Pidge, a biologist by profession and probably the world's greatest authority on antibodies. Second in command was young Bill Glebe, narcotics expert and son of the inventor of the ship. In addition, there was Pad Dee Murphy, selected largely on the basis of his superb physique. Pad Dee was not a scientist but, upon being appointed to the crew, he was given an intensive course in polymathy. Finally, there was Dr. Sonya Guildenkrantz. The inclusion of a woman in the crew had provoked raised eyebrows at first. The Minister of Extra-Terrestrial Exploration had been against it.

"Damn it, Shotman," he had protested, raising his eyebrows at his senior aide, "people will assume they're getting up to all sorts of malpractices in the dark seclusion of that borer. Public opinion is ubiquitous these days."

"Nevertheless, sir," Shotman patiently reiterated, "Dr. Guildenkrantz is one of our most brilliant psycho-physicists. There are only two others of any competence."

"Both men, aren't they?"

Shotman sighed. He walked to the stand which supported the gleaming model of the Stoutsnout. Once again he felt a compulsive pang clutch at his heart on remembering that, were it not for the trivially defective condition of that very organ, he himself might have achieved inclusion in the crew. He turned abruptly back to his chief:

"Look here, sir, Dubfoot of Sposters is eighty-three. That only leaves Dr. Crood--"

"Well?" pursued the minister testily, "what's wrong with Crood?"

"Amongst other things, sir, he--"

Shotman leant forwards and whispered something to the minister, who blanched perceptibly.

"You mean--you're telling me--" he ultimately sputtered, "there's simply no alternative to this--this female?"

"Sir," Shotman resumed, as diplomatically as he could, "the crew will be cooped up together for months. Now they're all vital, energetic types--"

But the minister indignantly interrupted him: "You can hardly be implying, Shotman, that her majesty's government could condone sexual intercourse!"

However the minister ultimately found himself with no alternative but to ratify the inclusion of Dr. Guildenkrantz in the crew.

The final briefing was held at a secret rendezvous, deep in the country. Numerous scientists and politicians, as well as generals, admirals and spies, were present.

"Now chaps," began the minister cordially, "we want you to do well. We want to be proud of you and we have to pip all the other powers who want to do it first. As you know, this is to be the first major expedition to determine the nature of sub-surface conditions on the planet Puph-borl."

At this the crew members exchanged a bewildered glance, and Captain Pidge hesitantly interrupted the minister with:

"Just one thing, sir?"

"Yes, captain?"

"The fact is, no one mentioned the planet Puphborl to us. We thought we were going to explore sub-surface conditions here on earth."

"Quite off the beam," the minister rebuked him. "Space is the trend nowadays and we've decided that you lot are to do Puphborl. Damn it, it's only eighty-four million light years away."

"It may not be far, sir," demurred the captain respect- ¦ fully, "but how are we to get there?"

"In the earth-borer, of course."

Pidge now attempted to explain to the minister that the earth-borer was in no way suitable for space travel but the minister impatiently interrupted:

"Look here, captain, this project is costing the taxpayer enough money to provide seven hospitals, four schools and a non-denominational place of worship for every village on earth. If you can't get to Puphborl on that we'll have to find someone else who can."

"Give me a moment, sir."

Pidge turned anxiously to old Glebe, the strange, reticent genius who had given them the earth-borer.

"Can you do it?" he asked simply.

Glebe pondered stolidly, oblivious of the impatient attendance of some of the most eminent men in England. Finally, he nodded.

"I'll have to modify the Canning Diffuser to obtain extra force units for initial thrust. That shouldn't be too difficult. The miniature pumps can be synchronized, via a Tonks relay, with the rheostat circuit and that should give you the blow-back field you'll need for clearing the moon. After that it's just a case of working in some extra springs and caulking the whole ship up so that air doesn't escape. Mark you, it'll take about a week."

The minister groaned but, after consultation with his advisers, decided that it was unlikely that a new team could improve on the time.

"Very well," he snapped, "blast off one week from this very moment."

One week later--blast off! This memorable occasion, man's first venture into outer space, and not merely to some local spot like the moon or Mars, but to the planet Puphborl in the system Delta Flamenco, far, far beyond the Milky Way, is watched by senior personnel from all the services and an impressive contingent of spies. There is a moment of sharp dismay when the Stoutsnout, obeying its deepest instincts, moves down instead of up and disappears beneath the surface of the earth. After gazing incredulously at the crater for a moment, the minister turns to order the arrest of Glebe only to find the latter pointing with a quiet smile, or rather pointing with a finger, a quiet smile upon his face. The minister whirls just in time to see the Stoutsnout issue, with a roar, from the centre of a bowling green a little distance away and then surge powerfully up towards the heavens. He hastily fishes out a medal, pins it on to Glebe's chest and then utters an historic remark. With a smile he turns to the indignant bowlers, whose game had been utterly ruined, and says:

"Apologies, good friends, but the game that we play here today, unlike your own, is not just a lot of balls!"

He then strolls away, chatting confidentially with a spy whom he takes to be his chief security officer.

Three weeks later, on board the Stoutsnout.

It was the pre-prandial hour. Young Bill Glebe was at the controls. The other three crew members were standing before the large window in the cocktail lounge enjoying a dry martini before dinner and gazing out at the wondrous spectacle which still held them breathless with enchantment. They watched the gaudy cosmic rays snaking in intricate patterns round the ship. Green, silver-green, silver-blue, orange-blue and violet, the vivid rays writhed and coiled playfully in the vacuum, interspersed with brilliant atoms of hydrogen that shone like tiny stars. Sometimes the shifting pattern of the rays was disturbed by the intrusion of some meteor, glowing in the bright nimbus of its magnetic field. Tiny ions, gold and lemon-yellow, accumulated like precious snow on the window ledges. Far off great suns flared and contracted and comets drove their brazen paths through the corridors of space. Pointing towards a purple cloud of interstellar gas ahead of them, Captain Pidge had just started to say:

"We may be in for a spell--"

When the Stoutsnout lurched violently, causing them to spill their drinks. An instant later, they felt the brakes being applied and heard young Glebe's voice on the intercom:

"The damn fool came at me head on."

Almost immediately the young narcotics officer burst into the cocktail lounge.

"Did you see it?" he cried.

"See it? See what, Glebe?" demanded the captain sharply.

"The other ship! It nearly hit us."

"Other ship?" rasped Pidge. "Look here, Glebe, as you're supposed to know, this is man's first venture into space. How can there be another ship? Now get back to the controls."

"I don't care," stuttered Glebe eagerly. "I tell you I saw it--an enormous ship with living beings inside it!"

Pidge gazed at him piercingly and then turned to Dr. Guildenkrantz. He saw her lips frame the words "space delirium". Nodding at the powerful Pad Dee Murphy, he was about to order him to immobilize young Glebe when the latter, with a strangled cry, exclaimed:

"There! There! Now who's space delirious?"

Pidge whirled. Beyond the window lay a great rocket ship. It's outer skin quivering with dazzling radiance, its long lines of ports disclosing small, pale faces, the alien craft rode beside them.

Slowly the four humans drew together and, with a feeling of awe behind which trembled fear, waited for

100

what would happen next. Thus began their first encounter--mankind's,first encounter--with the Vilp!

As they watched, a port opened in the top of the strange ship and someone climbed out with a megaphone. Raising the instrument to his lips, the alien bellowed something but, because of their own steel shell, they could not make out what it was.

"I suppose I'd better nip out and see what he wants," muttered Captain Pidge.

"Is that safe, sir, begorrah! Praise Buddha!" asked Murphy anxiously.

"I think so. They don't look hostile."

Pidge raised the hatch and climbed out on to the roof of the Stoutsnout. Immediately he gasped. He had forgotten how much vacuum there was in space and the cosmic rays stung unpleasantly as they beat against his bare skin. Struggling for breath, he strained to hear what the other was saying.

"Ahoy there?" came the words, faintly across the gulf between the two ships.

"Ahoy!" called back Pidge.

"What ship is that?"

"The earth-borer Stoutsnout, bound for Puphborl. Who are you?" "My name's Drik." "No, I mean what ship is that ? " "Patrol ship. Tell me, what race do you belong to?" "Homo sapiens. We're human beings--from Earth." "Earth? Never heard of it."

"You must have done. Otherwise how do you speak English?"

"Can't speak a word, old chap. This is pure telepathy. 

I'm a Vilp and we're good at telepathy. Look, why don't you slip over here for a drink? We can finish our chat in comfort."

"How do I know that you won't hypnotize me, instal a nuclear capsule in my brain and then send me back to destroy my entire race?"

"Well, I suppose if it comes to that, you don't! Jolly bizarre notion, old fruit! Is that the sort of prangs you earth chaps get up to?"

"Of course not. But we know enough not to trust aliens."

"Tell you what, then, I'll slide over to you--if you promise you won't slip any capsules into my brain." "My word as an officer."

At this, Drik pulled a small space launch up through the hatch and jetted swiftly over to the Stoutsnout. Captain Pidge escorted him to the cocktail lounge and while doing so, discreetly inspected his guest. Drik, he saw, was, by human standards, a short, studious-looking fellow with a shy, engaging smile. Captain Pidge introduced him to the other humans:

"Crew, I'd like you to meet--er--Drik. Drik is a-- forgive me, what did you say you were?"

"When do you mean?" asked Drik amiably.

"A couple of minutes back."

"I love you, Dogbrain!"

"I beg your pardon?"

Drik's expression changed.

"Who's a dirty Vilp?" he snarled.

"Please--really--I--do calm--"

As swiftly as he had adopted it, Drik relinquished his bellicose stance and, with a gentle smile, sank down into a comfortable chair. He looked around him with interest. "Pretty crude little earth-borer you've got here." "Do you think so?"

"Very crude. I can see you're barbarians. Just out of curiosity--how many million years have you been civilized?"

"Well, I'm afraid, actually--"

At this point Drik unexpectedly rose to his feet beaming, and carolled:

"You lot are the first Vilp I've ever met and I think you're great!"

"But I thought you were the Vilp?"

"So did I," sighed Drik. Then he roared, "which of you bastards took my lizard?"

"Your--"

"Come on! Come on! Hand over that lizard! Do you want me to annihilate this whole sector of space?"

"I'm afraid, sir, you've made--"

"Dry up! I'm going to tell you people something."

Here Drik rose and, trembling with indignation, marched about the cocktail lounge, haranguing the humans.

"Just think very seriously--do you or do you not want me to annihilate this whole sector of space? You invite me over for a drink and try to slip a capsule into my brain. We must have been misinformed. We always heard earth cats were cool cats and you're just a bunch of lizard thieves. Why would you think I wouldn't mind? I've had that lizard a long time. Who wants a stinking capsule in his brain? Anyone interrupts me once more and I annihilate this whole goddamn sector of space. What you people don't dig is that we've been civilized a hell of a long time. Why should we chicken out because of a bunch of lousy Vilp in a beat-up earth-borer? Perhaps you doped it out wrong? Perhaps you figured you'd just rave out into space, nicking people's lizards and pulling the old capsule trick? Okay. Now, what time does the concert start____"

The minister turned just in time to see the Stoutsnout issue, with a roar, from the centre of a bowling green and surge powerfully up towards the stars.

Three weeks later, on board the Stoutsnout:

It was time for the daily roll-call. The crew were drawn up in a line in the cocktail lounge. Captain Pidge, facing them, called out their names.

"Dr. Sonya Guildenkrantz, biophysicist."

"Here, sir."

"Pad Dee Murphy, spacehand." "Here, sir."

"William Glebe, pilot." "Here, sir."

As usual there were no absentees. Captain Pidge gazed thoughtfully out of the window at the fantastic panorama of space as he prepared to issue the day's orders. Before he could speak, however, a soft, timid voice, which he did not recognize, asserted:

"You--er--you forgot me, skipper."

Pidge glanced sharply in the direction of the voice. Standing beside Glebe, at the end of the rank, was a small man wearing a transparent cloak and short pants made of glistening metallic stuff. Intolerant of intruders at the daily roll call, Pidge asked curtly:

"Who the devil are you?"

"Don't you remember, captain? I'm Sergeant Drik."

As he spoke, the little man delicately fingered a knob set into the strange, bulky belt he was wearing and, as he turned it slowly, watched the captain intently as if expecting some response. However, Pidge merely snorted indignantly.

"I have no recollection of any Sergeant Drik. I believe you're a stowaway."

"Stowaway, captain?--that's funny, you're not responding to this hypnobelt. Listen, I'm not a stowaway. I'm the--er--navigator."

"What do you mean, navigator?"

"Don't you feel anything? Aren't you getting hypnotized?"

"What the hell do you mean?" "The Galactic Council assured me that once I'd tuned in to your wavelength, you'd accept my story." "What story?"

"That I'm an earthman just like the rest of you, the navigator of this craft. Once you've accepted it, I have to keep an eye on you until the Council decides your fate."

"Council? What council?"

"The Vilp Galactic Council. We dominate this whole galaxy. I don't know how your race escaped our notice but now that you've taken the first feeble steps towards civilization, we've got to decide whether to annihilate your whole solar system or not."

"Young man, you're insane."

"I'm not really a young man. I'm eighty-three thousand years old. I do wish this damned belt would work. It's very embarrassing." "I think you're a spy."

"Well, I admitted that. The trouble is you're not supposed to know it. Look! The others are all nicely hypnotized. What's the matter with you, you big lunk? Why don't you respond?"

"Consider yourself under arrest!"

"Don't be silly. Look, I'll have to pop back to the Council on hyperwave to get this belt fixed. The snag is it's a devil of a job setting your co-ordinates and just possibly I won't be able to find you again. Oh, why are you so hypnotism-resistant?"

"It's all right. I'm hypnotized."

"You are? That was sudden. You're not just faking, are you?"

"Of course not, I'm thoroughly hypnotized."

"Well, you certainly should be. This belt is pumping out thousands of psycho-watts--that's enough to hypnotize a multitude of small-brained creatures such as you."

"Now, who did you say you were?"

"Sergeant Drik, the navigator."

"That's right--you're the navigator. By the way, where do you come from, Sergeant--er--Drik?"

"I come from Plek in sector Plek-Ang-Plek. Oh, I understand--you mean where am I pretending to come from on earth--that is what you call that little speck of yours, isn't it?"

"That's right, earth."

"Well, think of me as coming from--oh, I don't know --one of your cities--say, North Pole."

"North Pole, eh?"

"That's right, North Pole."

"That's not a city. It's a pole."

"You're supposed to be hypnotized."

"I still know the difference between a city and a pole."

"You're not hypnotized at all."

"Now suppose you tell me the truth. Who are you?"

"I have it! You must be kin of ours! That's the only possible explanation of why this hypnobelt has failed to hypnotize you. It's effective against all other actual and hypothetical life forms in this galaxy-cluster. Our scientists have proved that. Yes, you of earth must be distant cousins of the Vilp. See, even your colleagues are stirring--they are only partially hypnotized. Brave man! By your resistance you have preserved your entire race and won the protection of the Vilp forever!"

At this, Drik pressed a button on his tunic and, with a faint crackle, dematerialized and was gone____

The minister turned in time to see the Stoutsnout surge up towards the stars.

Three weeks later, on board the Stoutsnout.

Captain Pidge was standing in the cocktail lounge, sipping a preprandial martini and gazing out through a port. Suddenly he saw it.

"What on earth--er--in space--" he muttered, his hand automatically reaching out to press the "summons" bell.

A moment later the rest of the crew joined him. "Now chaps," Pidge urged them, "take a look at that."

The others, in obedience to his pointing finger, gazed out through the port and discerned that the ship was being accompanied by a silver object, roughly spherical in shape and about three feet in diameter.

"Whatever is it, sorrh? Praise Buddha," asked Murphy anxiously.

"That's what I intend to find out," Pidge assured him. "Scoop it in, Glebe."

Glebe obediently departed to the scoop chamber and, in a few minutes, returned rolling the silver ball.

"Too heavy to lift, sir," he explained.

"Don't be a nit, Glebe," Pidge rebuked him. "There's no gravity in space."

He raised the object between two palms and slowly revolved it. It was made of some tough, slightly flexible substance. Its skin resembled that of a pomegranate, except that it was dull silver in hue.

"Looks like an immense spore," muttered Pidge, uneasily. "Anyone got a knife?"

Murphy proffered his pruning knife and Pidge attempted to make an incision into the silver skin. However, the knife made no impression.

"Hmm, get me an electric saw."

But the electric saw also failed to penetrate the object's hide. They tried every edged instrument on board the borer. Nothing made the least impression on the great silver pomegranate. Even the beam from a welder's torch failed to leave a mark on its surface.

"Odd," murmured Pidge. "Anyone got any ideas?"

"You don't suppose," queried Murphy anxiously, "it could be an immense spore, sorrh?"

"I wondered that myself."

"Aye. That's what gave me the idea, sorrh."

Just then, Sonya, who had been curiously examining the object, gasped.

"Captain Pidge? It's--it's opening!"

With a feeling of awe, the humans clustered around the object and watched as a little tear, such as tiny terrestrial crocodiles make with a special tooth when they emerge from their leathery eggs, slowly widened until a crack divided the silvery husk into almost two halves. After this, nothing further happened.

"Perhaps, sorrh," suggested Murphy uneasily, "we'd best chuck it back into space."    j

"No. It's our duty to examine it. Come on, give me a hand."

Gingerly they took hold of the separated edges of the silver rind and gently pulled them back. Inside, curled up like a foetus and sound asleep, was a small man wearing a transparent cloak and glittering metallic pants. The crew of the Stoutsnout contemplated him uncertainly and then Captain Pidge reached forwards and shook him gently by the shoulder.

"I say there--who are you?"

The small man opened his eyes and looked about him. Somewhat stiffly he straightened his limbs, disengaged himself from his silver husk and stood up. He looked questioningly at Captain Pidge.

"Well? Something delay the project? How much time left?"

"How much time left for what?" Captain Pidge queried dubiously. "Hold on, this isn't Plek in Plek-Ang-Plek!" 

"This is the earth-borer Stoutsnout, bound for Puphborl." 

"Puphborl? Are you talking about Puphborl in the system Delta Flamenco?"

"That's the one."

"But that's my home system. This is great, really great! Yeah but--hold on--what's the date?" "Nineteen hundred and sixty-seven." "Nineteen hundred and sixty-seven what?" "Years, of course."

"Years? What scale do you use? By mine it's at least eighty four million, six hundred and fifty-four thousand, two hundred and six because that's what it was when-- when--"

The small man paled. He glanced wildly around, then rushed to the window and gazed out. For a long time he studied the surrounding constellations. When he turned there was a great sadness in his eyes. He slumped into one of the chairs and stared listlessly in front of him. The humans were touched and Sonya went up to him. Placing a gentle hand on his shoulder she asked:

"What's the matter?"

"It worked," the little man sighed. "God, how it worked!"

"What worked?" asked Sonya curiously.

"The--whaddyacallit--the suspended animation. Hell, it only seems like a moment since they sealed me up in there and it's really--I can work it out from the stars--it's really forty thousand million years!"

The crew glanced significantly at each other, but the little man continued:

"Think of it, forty thousand million years since my 110

whole race got blown up by a super-nova. I'm a Vilp, you know." "A what?"

"A Vilp! A Vilp! You must have heard--no, why should you? It was a long time ago. Yes, but didn't you say you were going to Puphborl ? "

"That's right."

"But Puphborl doesn't exist any more. It was blown-up in a super-nova forty thousand million years ago!" "Really? Then what's that?"

Captain Pidge pointed to the far port beyond which Puphborl, a scene of vital activity, loomed close on the port bow. The little man hurried to the glass and gazed incredulously.

"Then they were wrong! The astro boys had it doped out wrong. They said there was going to be a super-nova and they shot millions of us out into space in the hope that we'd light on some oxygen somewhere. But they were wrong! It's still there--good old Puphborl--and after forty thousand million years--I'm coming home!"

The little man capered about the cocktail lounge, laughing and shouting. Finally he turned to the humans again.

"Here, when we get to Puphborl you folk must be my guests. I've got this terrific flat--oh! Oh Hell--I bet they've rented it by now____"

I had reached this stage when I received a letter from Professor Pidge informing me that his situation had changed and that he had decided to withdraw from the novel. This was, of course, a staggering blow. It seemed that all my work might have been in vain since I could see no possibility of concluding the work without its protagonist. I decided that I would have to visit Pidge and endeavour to persuade him to reconsider his decision. Accordingly, the very next day, I travelled up to Mushton and went straight to Pidge's flat.

I had rung three times and was about to press the button a fourth time when the door flew open and Pidge, unshaven and red-eyed, glared sombrely out at me.

"Yes?" he inquired in a hostile voice.

"Hello, Pidge, old man," I greeted him soothingly, "may I step in for a moment?"

"In? What do you mean, in?"

"Pidge, don't you remember me? Clive Witt, the novelist?"

At this Pidge blinked a few times. Then his harsh and challenging expression slowly relaxed and he murmured :

"Witt? Ah yes." He beckoned me inside. "Come in, Witt. Forgive me. Been riding it too hard I suppose, but I'm on the track of something--something--anyway, what can I do for you?"

"The truth is, Pidge, I'm worried about the Stoutsnout."

"This way--" Pidge ushered me into his roomy study. "Now what was that?"

"The Stoutsnout. It's an earth-borer that's been adapted to space travel and it's half way to Puphborl with you in command."

"Half way to--oh, you're talking about this imbecile novel of yours? No, I'm sorry, Witt, you've been too slow about it. Circumstances have changed. You see, I've left biology."

"Left biology?" I echoed in surprise. "Why have you done that?"

"Why?"

Pidge smiled sardonically. He walked over to his desk on which lay a bulky sheaf of notes, a pen and a small cardboard box. He picked up the box, gazed at it for a moment, and then replaced it on the table. Finally he turned to me again.

"Why have I left biology, Witt? Well, I'll tell you. Because of reaction--dark, blind, stupid reaction! A few months ago we--myself and one or two of my most talented graduate students--came up with something rather exciting--a totally original technique for grafting slips of rhododendron on to baby pigs. It was a beautiful experiment--complex, elegant--and do you know what they said, Witt ? "

"What?"

"They put me on the carpet. They said there was no application for it. They said I was wasting time and equipment. Can you imagine, Witt? As if research weren't its own justification, as if its ultimate value could ever be--anyway, since they adopted this mediaeval attitude, naturally I had no option but to resign."

I was deeply distressed to learn of this injustice but, as I attempted to commiserate with Pidge, he silenced me with a tolerant smile.

"Oh, it's of no moment, Witt. I'll be vindicated in the end. The truth can never be indefinitely suppressed. No, as a matter of fact, in a sense it was a blessing--you see--"

Here, he glanced dubiously at his desk but then, as if he had reached some inner decision, he continued firmly.

"Why not? The world will know soon. Witt, you probably weren't aware of my secret ambition."

"Secret ambition?"

"The brain, Witt! Research into the brain, the physical basis of culture, of art, of human achievement. What a subject! And so little has been done. Anyway, being freed from teaching and lab work I've been able, for the first time in my life, to really get down to it. Well, I'm on the threshold of something big--a complete correlation of physical structure with mental activity!"

Naturally, I was deeply impressed by this and I asked Pidge by what method he was proceeding.

"That's it, Witt!" chuckled Pidge. "That's exactly it, procedure! It's always been my strong point and it'll be the pedestal on which my immortal fame rests. Procedure ! It's so easy, Witt, when you hit on it, and yet no one--I can say this with confidence--no one has ever hit on it before. Witt, I've simply reversed the process! How do most workers proceed? They examine the brain! Damned difficult! it's inside the head! They have to chip bits off and examine those. But what's a bit? Only a bit! It's not the brain, Witt, is it now?"

I agreed that it was not.

"Or else," Pidge rushed on, "they extract some mouldy dead brain from a corpse. What good is that? It's the living organ that concerns us! They take X-ray pictures--just a lot of blur! They record electrical impulses--just a lot of zigzags! Out of all this dubious and partial data they painfully elaborate a most unconvincing model of the brain. Witt, do you see what I've done? I've reversed the procedure!" "How exactly--"

"Instead of starting with the inaccessible organ, I've begun sensibly with a whole, perfect, finished model. After that--don't you see?--it's just a case of accurately describing it!"

"Yes but--the model--how do you--"

"That's it! That's the beauty of it! Since the structure and function of the brain are still substantially unknown, there can be no exact criteria for selecting the model. In fact, one has virtually complete freedom of choice. Here, Witt, here it is!" Pidge danced to the desk and seized the cardboard box exultantly. "Look! A complete, detailed model. Contemplate it, Witt, the secret of our species' pre-eminence!"

"Remarkable, Pidge! But wait--that's just a cardboard--"

"Can you credit it?" marvelled Pidge. "It's hollow! Completely hollow! No one has ever so much as suspected that before! And then the shape! It's very nearly a perfect cube! Could anyone infer that from looking at someone's head! But perhaps the most remarkable feature of all--look at this, Witt."

Pidge pointed dramatically at the words "Sundazil Polishing Powder" which were stencilled on the box.

"You see? There's lettering on it! Witt, I suspect we're close to the origin of language here!"

Pidge now replaced the box lovingly on the table and then, in the grip of intense intellectual excitement, stamped about the room, snapping his jaws like a chameleon. Finally, he approached me and laid a regretful hand on my shoulder.

"Old chap--you'll understand! I'm sorry, profoundly sorry, to disappoint you but you can see that a bold, blight-fighting biologist hero is one thing and a deep, retiring student of the brain is quite another. It would be vulgar--unthinkable--for me to go on commanding the Puphsnout."

"I suppose you're right, Pidge," I concurred reluctantly, "but it makes things very awkward for me. Do you think a woman could handle an earth-borer?"

"Hm? Very likely--now, Witt, you'll have to forgive me--"

Pidge had once more seated himself at his desk and was reaching for his pen. I could see that he was impatient to resume his studies and so I made my way to the door and departed.

Three weeks later, on board the Stoutsnout.

"All hands muster in the cocktail lounge. All hands muster in the cocktail lounge!"

The crisp, authoritive voice of Captain Sonya Guildenkrantz issued from the ship's speakers. Bill Glebe carefully switched over to the automatic astronaut before relinquishing his grasp on the steering wheel. Pad Dee Murphy laid aside his copy of Miniature Pumps. Soon the crew were drawn up facing Captain Guildenkrantz.

One by one, she ticked off their names on the nominal roll. Then she looked severely at a small, shy-looking chap, wearing a transparent cloak and glittering metallic pants, who was standing at one end of the rank. "Well?" she asked severely.

Realizing that his presence had been noticed, the small man blushed and shuffled uneasily. Captain Guildenkrantz strode over and confronted him.

"Well?" she asked again.

"Who," asked the other eagerly, "won the ball game? Nice to be in the crew, skipper. Freak out."

"When did you stow-away on this earth-borer?"

"God save the queen. I really dog--er dig--this trip, darling."

"What's your name?"

"Isaac Newton. Up the workers. Don't call me a Vilp, sister. Your loyal servant, m'am. Good morning."

At this, Captain Guildenkrantz, a dubious frown on her face, withdrew a few feet and beckoned the crew.

"Clearly a spy. The question is, what's he hiding?"

The small man, looking worried, now approached them and began earnestly:

"I get it, chaps, you wish I should arrive salubrious. Fact is--get me--we've done a bit more of this civilization racket than you fine, upstanding sahibs. Example? What a wow talker me--huh?--in your lingo? Super-ether monitoring--advanced Vilp technology. Not to worry, cronies! Good cheer--up bottoms--from Vilp Galactic Administration. Me Councillor Drik. Honourable chums, no one wants to annihilate your system! Well--some jesters, some cads we have, utter: 'Earth-men one day get civilized. We annihilate them now. This technique, no rivalry in future.' Some drag jokers, hey? Evil cats! Sad, even super-civilized Vilp experience divided judgement. But up cheer, up bottoms, majority Vilp Galactic Council veto violence. Three hurrays. They send me, Councillor Drik, to place one eye upon you."

Captain Guildenkrantz now made a slight gesture at the powerful Pad Dee Murphy who, gathering his commander's meaning, advanced purposefully on the slight alien. However, as he was about to seize Drik, a faint bluish aura surrounded the latter's body and Pad Dee was thrown vigorously back.

"I say, pal," exclaimed Drik reproachfully, "excise the rough material, prithee! This most dicey. Gratuitous violence alienates Vilp Council. Council have this din-kum little gimmick, matter-dispersal--posh! --no more solar system! Gentlemen, buddies, think double! What nevermore to breathe the musky bosky? Say, what is this carpet of marmalade? Oh pure sea-ocean! Ha! Cities! Hong Kink? Blithe Paree? Is this dissipation? Come, sweet souls, do not be square! Fraternal, inter-galactic co-operation beats violence. Go, man, indis-putedly. Let us cement eternal Vilp-human friendship? Stick up thy mit!"

At this the entire crew of the Stoutsnout surrounded Drik in a menacing way. The little Vilp watched their advance and then, marvelling sadly at the perverse and inexplicable ways of this immature race, at the last moment dematerialized and, at the square of the speed of light, sped back to report the failure of his mission to the Galactic Council____





FIVE

For the next few months the novel proceeded smoothly. Sonya developed into a competent and reliable captain and I was delighted to find that, contrary to my foreboding, Professor Pidge was scarcely missed. Only the final chapter remained to be written.

THE SILVER SPORES Conclusion--The Twilight of the Vilp The Minister of Extra-Terrestrial Exploration held the little glass phial up to the light.

"Interesting," he murmured. "How many spores did you say were in this tube, Guildenkrantz?" "A thousand billion, sir, give or take a few." "And every one a Vilp, eh?"

"More or less, sir. At least each one of them is, as it were, a Vilp seed. They've got special incubators and hatchers at Plek-Ang-Plek, their capital. You see, the Vilp gave up reproducing sexually millions of years ago because they found it necessitated immoral behaviour. Their scientists devised a means of synthesizing these spores and they've used them ever since."

"And this is the whole lot, eh? Enterprising of you to snaffle them, Guildenkrantz." "It wasn't easy, sir."

But, as she said it, Sonya blushed inwardly. It had been easy. The Vilp had long ago outgrown suspicion. In their simplicity they had never suspected that a younger, more ruthless species might betray them. Indeed the concept of betrayal was probably outside their psychology. A Vilp scientist had actually placed the phial in Pad Dee's hand with the explanation:

"There, old chap, you are now holding the future of the Vilp nation in your hand. Careful, dear comrade, not to drop it. If exposed to air that phial will be ruined and we will be a doomed race."

It had been a simple matter for Sonya to utter a brusque command:

"Keep it!"

And then, with the Vilp Galactic Council trailing along behind them, uttering bewildered pleas for the return of their future, to hurry Pad Dee to the Stoutsnout and blast off for earth.

"Look here, though, Guildenkrantz, point just occurs to me--what's to stop the beggars making a lot more of them?"

Sonya frowned. She hadn't thought of that____

"Look here, though Guildenkrantz, how do we know

these Vilp fellows won't make a lot more of them? They

sound like clever rascals." Sonya smiled.

"I knew you'd ask that, sir. But you see they can't. "Why not?"

"Because--er--now what is the reason. ..."

"Yes, but hang on, Guildenkrantz. As far as I can see--if I were a Vilp that is--I'd just set about and make a lot more of them."

"Would you, sir? And where would you get the vitoomium?"

"The what?"

120

"The vitoomium! Each one of these spores contains a tiny patch of vitoomium and the vitoomium is essential for the recipe to work. Well now, vitoomium can't be synthesized, even by the Vilp. Sir, every scrap of vitoomium in this galaxy cluster is in that phial you're holding."

"That's all very well, Guildenkrantz, but what's to prevent them haring off to some other galaxy cluster for a consignment of this vite--vite--this stuff? I mean, these Vilp sound like pretty nippy chappies?"

Sonya frowned. What was to prevent the Vilp going further afield in search of vitoomium. ...

"That's all very well, Guildenkrantz, but what's to stop your Vilp friends from going to another galaxy cluster for a load of this--er--this substance?"

"It can't be done, sir. No one can ever reach another galaxy cluster."

"Why's that then?"

"Contradicts a basic scientific principle. Two speeding vacuums can never occupy the same galaxy cluster. Do you see what I mean?"

"No, not really."

"Think of it this way. Suppose you had an aunt and she left you two cupboards. Now suppose one of these 1 cupboards was travelling at the speed of light. How much vitoomium would it hold?" "Eh?"

"Anyway, I can assure you, sir, that the Vilp can never make any more spores. You hold the destiny of the Vilp nation in your hands. All their mighty achievements are at our disposal."

"Oh rubbish, Guildenkrantz! They'll just start sleeping with each other again."

Sonya frowned. The possibility of the Vilp reverting to primitive modes of reproduction had never occurred to her____

THE SILVER SPORES

Conclusion--The Twilight of the Vilp

The Stoutsnout once again came to rest in the centre of Plek-Ang-Plek and Sonya stepped out. One of the first people she saw was her old friend, Drik, and she called to him immediately. He hurried up with a delighted expression.

"So you've come back, eh?" he chuckled. "Couldn't stay away from good old Puphborl?"

Sonya shook her head, astonished.

"Aren't you going to arrest me?" she asked.

"Arrest you? How do you mean?"

"Look," Sonya said deliberately, "you must have heard by now. I stole your silver spores."

"That's right! I did hear something about that. Listen, have you had a good trip? I haven't been out in space for ages. Come on, let's find a little spot and have dinner."

"But Drik!" exclaimed Sonya. "Don't you understand? I couldn't bear it! My conscience--to think that I'd repaid your kindness and trust by ruthlessly depriving you and your whole species of their future! I nearly went mad."

"You poor kid!" sympathized Drik. "Tell you what, we'll pop out to Hiborl--only a couple of light years away--pleasure planet--you'll soon--"

"But you idiot!" cried Sonya, torn between affection and annoyance. "Don't you understand? I've brought them back with me--the silver spores! I'm returning your future to you."

"Really?" asked Drik. "That's great! Now listen, I know a restaurant--"

"Drik! You must be insane! Don't you realize that I'm carrying in my handbag the entire future of the Vilp? The most precious thing your race possesses?"

Drik blushed slightly at this and shuffled his feet.

"Well--er--actually, Sonya, I don't want you to think we're unappreciative or anything--I mean you've probably gone to a lot of trouble, coming all the way back to Puphborl in that primitive earth-borer and everything--but the fact is, we don't really need those spores any more."

"Don't need them?" asked Sonya, astonished.

"Well, no, the fact is--we've converted to sex again."

"Converted to sex?"

"Yep. We used to be sexual beings, you know; in the old days--twenty, thirty million years ago--and we're just going back to it, that's all. Listen, do you like poached yagga fish____"

"Drik! You must be insane! Don't you realize that I've brought back your silver spores? The most precious thing your race possesses?"

"The silver spores? Gosh, yes, I was forgetting. Those spores are very important to us Vilp. Without them we couldn't reproduce any more."

"Exactly. You're at last beginning to understand, Drik."

"Yep, this is a very big thing for us Vilp. You say you've got those spores on you, Sonya?" "Yes, here they are."

Sonya carefully withdrew the phial from her handbag and handed it to Drik. He gazed at it wonderingly.

"That's them all right--our silver spores. The Council will be very pleased about this, Sonya. They'll probably make you an honoury Vilp or something like that. Here, you'd better hang on to them."

Drik tossed the phial lightly to Sonya. Unfortunately she failed to catch it and it fell to the ground, breaking and allowing a little trickle of silver to spill out.

"It's broken!" Sonya wailed.

Drik peered down at the ruin, nodding soberly.

"Yes, it's broken all right."

"But the spores! They're ruined! Drik, doesn't this mean--doesn't it mean the end of your race?" Drik sighed.

"It sure looks like it. Yep, I guess this is the end of the Vilp all right. Here. Sonya, do you like poached yagga fish? It's the most delicious..."

THE SILVER SPORES

Conclusion--The Twilight of the Vilp An attempt was made to re-introduce sex into Vilp society. It was not, however, very successful. The instinct had been lost and the Vilp were too logical to embrace what was now a mere arbitary rite. For example, in accordance with the Council's instructions, a young male Vilp would invite a young female to go for a walk with him. They would stroll for a while, perhaps discussing some intricate mathematical theorem, and then the youth, remembering the new situation, would say:

"I desire you insanely."

"How do you mean 'insanely'?"

"It means a gross perturbation of cerebral functioning--something we've outgrown, really."

"And you feel like that now?"

"Well--I mean it's the correct formula for courting. Look, it's here on the Council's instructions."

"Is it? Oh yes, T desire you insanely.' Odd! Listen, what if the modulus of the fifth integral happened to be random? Surely that would mean--"

"I say, we ought to court a bit. It's only fair."

"All right."

"Well--as I said--I desire you insanely." "How do you mean 'desire'?" "It means that I wish to invaginate my member." "Right. Go ahead."

"Here--what you just said, about the fifth integral being random--you know what would happen? There'd be a tensor shift of the entire probability factor towards infinity!"

"Exactly! And that would displace the force vectors so that--"

At the end of the decade, it became clear that the sex scheme was a failure. A few babies had been born and were being desultorily raised but romantic love, jealousy, marriage, promiscuity, infidelity, perversion--all the old traditions which the Council had attempted to reestablish--had never really taken root. The churches, the courts of law, the brothels, the back-street abortionists, the vice squads and the other institutions which, on the basis of a close scrutiny of the historical records, the Council had, with difficulty, recreated, were barely used. A committee of senior Vilp founded a newspaper and filled its columns with complaints about the riotous profligacy of their fellow citizens in the hope of providing an erotic stimulus. But few Vilp read it, and those that did soon turned with relief to the latest research monograph____

THE SILVER SPORES

Conclusion--The Twilight of the Vilp

Councillor Agg drifted above the ginger sea of a small blue planet. He looked down and saw a couple copulating on a pleasure raft. He immediately dived down and sat beside them.

"Hello," he greeted them warmly. "How are you?"

"Very well, sir," answered the girl.

" 'Sir', eh?" laughed Agg. "What do you take me for, a councillor?"

"Yes sir."

"Can't deceive you youngsters. Well, it's the truth." Agg removed the hand with which he had been hiding his insignia. "I'm Councillor Agg, glad to meet you."

The young couple ceased copulating and introduced themselves.

"Nice little planet this," remarked Agg, conversationally. "Anything special about it?"

"Nothing very much," answered the youth. "There's some intelligent light, but that's about all."

"Intelligent light, eh? Not more than a few hundred planets with intelligent light, as I recollect. Worth a little research?"

"I don't know, sir. The trouble is there's really nothing new to be learned about intelligent light."

"I know," sympathized Agg. "The institutes are working back on Puphborl to find a few new fields for research but I don't think they've come up with much recently. Well now, glad to see you copulating like that. Been doing a lot of it?"

"A fair amount, sir."

"Great! Great! Keep at it. Rare to find a couple of really diligent youngsters like you. Most of them--you know--copulate now and then--if they happen to remember--don't bother to have orgasms--practically never conceive--no way to run a sex drive, is it?"

"No, sir."

"I mean, now that we've lost the silver spores, we've really got to copulate, otherwise we're a doomed race! But you two seem to understand the problem."

"Oh yes, sir."

"In that case, I won't bore you with my usual pep talk, about our achievements and all the galaxies we dominate and all the life-forms that are dependent on us--I mean, you two are doing the job, aren't you?"

"I hope so, sir."

"Good! Fine! Well, I'll be shoving. There's a big, white planet orbiting that next star--thought I might take a look at that before bedtime."

"Good luck, sir."

"Thank you. Thank you very much. And you really enjoy copulating, eh?" "Oh yes, sir, we think it's fine." "Right."

Agg bestowed a warm smile on the couple and stood poised to float up from the raft. Instead of lifting, however, and maintaining his benign smile, he pressed a button on his belt. A barely-visible lilac field enfolded the young couple, reducing them instantaneously to transparent crystals. Agg gazed thoughtfully at the crystals for some time, then he moved forward and scooped them carefully into a little bag which he placed in a pocket of his metallic pants. Then he pressed another button on his belt and floated upwards at increasing velocity. When he reached the outer limits of the atmosphere, he transferred to hyperwave and, the next instant, rematerialized in the outer atmosphere of the white planet. As he drifted down towards the surface, he was still sardonically reproaching himself:

"Crystallizing a nice young couple like that--good copulators too--you watch yourself, councillor, you're behaving in a somewhat eccentric way."

Agg landed on the back of a large but small-brained ice mammal. The beast was about a mile high and was occupied in gouging the frozen carcasses of smaller animals out of an ice-mountain and devouring them. However, its metabolism was slow (requiring about a year for the act of opening its jaws) and so its motion was not disturbing. Agg approached a comfortable laboratory on the animal's back in which a young Vilp couple were living. He touched the door and it slid open.

"Hello," he greeted them. "Well, this is really attractive, and fully equipped! I see you've even got a Canning Diffuser."

The young man, however, did not respond to Agg's friendly greeting. Frowning, he informed the councillor that he was not in the mood for conversation and that there was a travellers' hostel near the stellar axis of the planet.

"That so?" asked Agg, with feigned interest. "Tell you the truth, I'm not ready for bed just yet. It'd be nice to have a little chat with you two if--"

"Now I'm afraid--" began the youth irritably.

"If," continued Agg, with slight emphasis, "you can put up with a verbose old councillor for a few minutes."

At the word "councillor" the young man started slightly. He glanced at Agg's insignia and then, with a faint, deferential gesture, apologized.

"Forgive me, sir! Reprehensible, I know. Don't know what's getting into us." He turned peremptorily to the girl, who like himself, was naked. "Why let me make an ass of myself? Why not warn me that I'm being discourteous to a councillor?"

"I--I didn't notice either," stammered the girl.

"Don't be upset," Agg soothed them. "It's unimportant. I expect you've been wrapped up in research?"

"Research!" grunted the young man contemptuously. "What research is there? We're just getting a few routine statistics--metabolic conversion rates, bio-replacement schedules--nothing of any real significance."

"And yet," remarked Agg, accepting the glass of "chell" that the girl had handed him and sipping it with pleasure, "you seemed a little preoccupied, a bit--well, distracted when I knocked."

"I think it must have been this sex business, sir."

"Really? How do you mean?"

"Well, I mean, we've been copulating quite a bit. It begins to--well get you after a while. You feel the same, don't you, Ben-11?"

"Yes, it's strange," agreed the girl. "You just start off copulating because now we've lost the spores we've got to keep the race going. Then you begin to get--kind of preoccupied with it. I don't know--"

"Try to explain, my dear," encouraged Agg gently.

"Well, it forms a new social group, if you see what I mean. Oh, I know it's not significant compared to the various functional units one joins from time to time but when you've been copulating with someone for a while --a--relationship seems to develop."

"A relationship?" Agg frowned. "What exactly do you mean by a relationship, my dear ? "

The girl smiled.

"I can't really define it--not yet, anyway. Oh, it's probably nothing, just the unfamiliarity. It's a pity we lost the spores. I think sex is going to make a big difference in the long run."

"Really?" Agg contemplated her for some time, then nodded thoughtfully. "Anyway, it's a fine thing to come upon a patriotic, dutiful young pair like you two. Well now, there's no need for me to bore you any longer. You're obviously setting a splendid example. Just keep at it, that's all. Now I'll head for that traveller's hostel and get a little sleep I think."

Agg moved towards the door, which slid open as he approached. When he reached the threshold, however, he paused--paused for quite an appreciable time. The young couple glanced at each other. Slowly Agg's hand moved to his belt. A little later he turned and, a curious expression, a mixture of doubt and satisfaction on his wrinkled old face, scooped the crystals into his little bag.

Some time later, Agg paused in intergalactic space.

There were no stars for thousands of light years in any direction. Agg drifted, brooding on time and on his people. Before long he noticed a faint radiance i approaching and soon another Vilp drew up beside him. Agg recognized him as Councillor Bo-17.

"Hello, Agg," Bo-17 greeted him. "Thought I sensed a councillor in these parts. Where are you heading for?"

"Don't really know," admitted Agg, accepting Bo-17's flask and taking a pull of chell. "Fact is, I'm feeling a bit homesick. Probably head back to Puphborl for a spell."

"Super-nova over there," remarked Bo-17, nodding towards a faint point of swelling radiance in a nearby galaxy. "New one, I think. Perhaps we ought to tap it. They're a bit short of power in those parts. Tell me, Agg, how do you find the sex drive's going?"

"Pretty well."

"Pretty well, eh? You're having better luck than I am! Easier to find a planet without a life-form than a good copulator amongst the Vilp. Least that's my impression. Still, I suppose we'll win through. Oh, what have you got? Do I sense crystals?"

"I've got some crystals," nodded Agg shortly.

"Really? Offenders? Here, there's a reconstitution station on the planet I'm making for. Like me to take them along with me?"

"No, it's all right. I'll hang on to these crystals."

"Right you are. Well, I'd best be pushing along. I'm heading out to a fringe galaxy--take me the best part of an hour--and, I'm hungry! See you, Agg."

"See you, Bo-17."

The other councillor pressed a button on his belt and abruptly vanished. For some time afterwards, Agg lingered thoughtfully. He reached down and patted the pockets of his metallic pants which were now heavy with several bags stuffed full of crystals. Bo-17 hadn't met him just casually, not in this remote spot. His appearance had been a function of the growing concern of the corporate mind of the Council. So they were beginning --probably to about the same extent that Agg himself was--to register his revolt. Agg smiled, chuckled, then for a long time, drifting in emptiness, he roared with laughter. Then he reached down, pressed a button on his belt and vanished from dimensional space.

Some months later, on an undistinguished planet, Agg scooped a few crystals into an already bulging bag and then lay placidly on a couch in the little outpost laboratory and waited. They were coming--he could sense it. From five thousand loci throughout the cluster, from whichever of the Vilp-dominated planets they had been patrolling when the critical tension of Agg's revolt had automatically convened them, the Galactic Councillors were converging on Agg. He lay still. His brain-- which, like the brain of every councillor, could separately consider or creatively synthesize at least two hundred separate lines of thought--prepared for the trial to come.

"Hi, Agg!"

The first arrival emerged into dimensional existence by Agg's side.

"Agg, great to see you, Vilp!" and Isk-12, the second to arrive, sat down on the end of the couch.

"Haven't seen you for centuries, Agg," thus Nad-79.

"Agg! How's tricks?" queried Agg-54.

"It's real good to see you, Agg," Semi-13 saluted his old friend.

Soon the greetings became so numerous that they merged into an indistinct hum of comradeship as councillors materialized rapidly in and around the laboratory. When the last of the five thousand had arrived, the whole body according to custom, drifted out into space and there opened the session, restricting the agenda at first to routine matters. Reports of geological, cosmo-logical and social events throughout the cluster circulated telepathically around the Council and were instantaneously metabolized into resolutions. Within a few minutes, as the councillors drifted in relaxed attitudes, millions of interlocking decisions had been taken on the conduct of Vilp affairs. Then the causal issue of the meeting slowly began to manifest itself and the initial probing murmurs, prescribed by convention, began to be sensed.

"Big load of crystals you've got there, Agg." "Where do you find all the offenders, Agg? I haven't come across a really crystallizable crook for years." "You think the sex drive's going to succeed, Agg," "Agg, I'd like to know your views on techniques for encouraging copulation?"

Agg now projected into the joint consciousness of the Council the indispensable "challenge datum".

"These crystals aren't offenders. They're copulating couples. I've been crystallizing the best copulators I've found--got about ten million here."

"Do you hear that?"

"Listen to what the councillor says?"

"Here we've been trying to drum up a little sexual enthusiasm and this Vilp's been crystallizing them as fast as he could."

"Agg's got no time for our sex drive--that's clear."

The exclamation and reproaches continued. Each councillor registered, and participated in, the debate at this level. It was the topmost level, the most superficial, the patch of foam on the surface of an ebullient sea beneath which mighty life-forms grapple. At the next level down was data, sheer information. Here, each councillor was projecting into the joint consciousness of the Council every relevant fact of which he was master. The historians disgorged dates, names, statistics concerning the history and pre-history of every intelligent life-form throughout the cluster with special emphasis on Vilp participation. The mathematicians spewed out formulae and equations representing, in total, a picture of the energy-structure of the cosmos. The psychologists presented analyses of all modes of consciousness and their potential development. Each group of specialists made its contribution.

At the next level down was synthesis. Here data and interpretation perpetually combined, dissociated themselves and recombined into synthetic views of vast areas of total reality. Here the units of consideration were the growth and decay of civilizations, the life-cycle of galaxies, the slow explosion of modes of consciousness, the growth-potential of each type of vitality. Here Vilp history unfolded from its arboreal origins to its fusion with the metabolism of a thousand million galaxies.

At the deepest level was vision. Here no distinction was made between the actual and the hypothetical, between the form of culture and the innumerable collateral possibilities. Here time was abolished and all force and intelligence in the universe was scanned for its ultimate expression.

Soon the surface level was abandoned. Mere verbal concepts could no longer serve even to polarize the deeper levels. From now on the debate was "silent". Nothing that could be expressed in language any longer circulated through the high consciousness of the Galactic Council as it floated--visually a casual and relaxed assembly of elderly Vilp--on the fringes of a minor planet.

With what remained of his individuality, Agg smiled. He had touched off something big, as big as anything he could remember and he had been a councillor for some thousands of years. The debate was no longer between him and the remainder of the Council. Nor was it between two factions within the Council. It was not even between opposing attitudes ambivalently maintained in each councillor's mind. In truth, it was no longer a debate.lt had become a furnace,a furnace of pure intelligence from which--in the same way that heavy metals, in the near-absolute excitation of a super-nova, are produced from initial hydrogen--a new and denser vision of reality would emerge.

It lasted for seven minutes, making it about two minutes longer than any other session of the Galactic Council ever held. Then slowly verbalization began once more at the topmost level, at first restricted to stylized exclamations.

"Whew!"

"Gosh!"

"Vilp!"

"Glad we don't do that every day!" "Not sorry that little session's over!" "Agg, it seems you're not so nutty after all." "So it's time to hand over."

"Who'd have thought those barbarians were the ones?"

A delegation was appointed. Three senior councillors --not including Agg--were despatched to the distant planet Earth to inform its primitive inhabitants that they happened to be the trustees of the greatest evolutionary potential of any life-form up to and including the Vilp, to offer the human race graduated access to all Vilp science and to transfer to the nursery dominion of man the hegemony of the cosmos. Then, with a final burst of cheerful farewells, the doomed councillors of a self-condemned species dispersed once more to resume their unending patrol, but not the sex drive, until the reply from Earth was received____

At this point, nearly at the poignant climax of my work, I received a letter from Henry Glebe informing me that he had now abandoned the earth-borer since certain new calculations he had made indicated that such a machine would not prove genuinely effective:

It seems that the most we could hope for would be that it would plunge its nose several feet into the earth. You will appreciate, Mr. Witt, that at the commercial level very few people would pay money for such a short ride, probably not even if cocktails and ice cream were served gratis. Then again, the military applications would be seriously restricted since it is an uncommon event for an embattled nation to wish to plunge soldiers a few feet into the ground where they are unlikely to encounter the enemy.

Accordingly, I have ceased development on the borer and must ask you to remove all mention of it from your forthcoming novel, since it would clearly be actionable to suggest that I would devote myself to producing a stupid machine of this kind.

I have, however, exceedingly pleasant news for you. There is not on the market at present a lawn-mower capable of whistling popular songs. The simple incorporation of a steam organ in a conventional mower would result in such a machine and I am at present at work along these exciting lines. You can consider yourself at liberty to utilize this new invention in your novel in place of that stupid old borer that I should never have devoted so many fruitless years to developing.

Another point: my son has given up hitch-hiking because he wishes to become a tycoon. He therefore wishes to withdraw from your novel since he feels that his new image would not happily accommodate the idea of hitch-hiking aimlessly about the place.

Hoping that you are well and that our effective and grandiose collaboration may continue.

Yours with a merry whistle,

Henry Glebe

Naturally I was far from pleased with this intelligence but nevertheless retired to my study to see if it would be possible to adjust my novel to the new conditions. As a test, I went back to the first chapter.     



THE SILVER SPORES Chapter 1

... at this the crew members exchanged a puzzled glance.

"What did you say, sir?" asked Captain Guildenkrantz, hesitantly.

The minister repeated his statement and then the captain explained that she felt there had been a failure of liaison somewhere.

"You see, sir, no one mentioned the planet Puphborl to us. We thought we were going to mow Earth."

"Well, I'm afraid you were wrong," the minister rebuked her. "Space is the rave these days and we've decided that you lot are to mow Puphborl. Damn it, it's only eighty-four million light years away."

"It may not be far, sir," demurred the captain anxiously, "but how are we to get there?"

"In the whistling mower, of course."

Sonya now attempted to explain to the minister that the mower was in no way suitable for space travel, but he testily silenced her.

"Look here, Guildenkrantz, if you can't get to Puphborl, I'll find another team who can."

"Give me a moment, sir."

Captain Guildenkrantz now turned hopefully to old Glebe, the pathetic idiot who had given them the whistling lawn-mower.

"Can you do it?" she asked simply.

"Do it--flew it--suet--" gibbered Glebe.

"Pull yourself together, man. Can you adapt this mower for space travel?"

"Can adapt it for anything, girlikins," leered Glebe, with a lewd gesture.

"Stop that, you old beast!" hissed Sonya sibilantly, kicking Glebe on the shin.

Glebe uttered a stentorian howl of pain. Taking alarm, the remainder of the crew leapt aboard the mower which, blasting out "Cattie Man's Stomp" from its organ pipes, trundled away across country in the direction of Mushton____

It was no good. The game was lost. The whimsical unreliability of my characters amounting, I felt almost convinced, in the case of Glebe to certifiable lunacy, had wrecked the project. The Silver Spores would never drip from the presses, never grace the shelves of the libraries, never comfort the nocturnal pillow. How many months had gone by on this abortive project? I could barely guess. Indeed after forty-five minutes of concentrated guessing I abandoned the attempt. Still, there were consolations. I was still rich, respected and famous. Next time I would vet my applicants more carefully, subjecting them to a full range of psychological and emotional stability tests. In spite of everything I felt almost gay.

I went for a walk in the garden. Some of my children were hoeing long rows of yams and others were harvesting baskets of breadfruit. A few shorthorn cattle browsed placidly on the whortleberries. Two of my daughters were perched in the boughs of a blackthorn tree, turning axles for diesel locomotives. An elephant trundled up the kitchen path. My wife was astride the animal's neck. With a brusque command, she caused the great beast to kneel and then helped me up behind her. I clasped my arms fondly around her waist. With a jab of her heels, she impelled the animal forward and we lurched off out of the garden gate and down the street. Before long, we saw my publisher advancing to meet us. He was clad in a suit of black armour and was riding on a milk-white stallion. I guessed immediately that he had come to declare his eternal devotion to my wife and challenge me to single combat.