by Paul Ableman
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. Guildenkrantz 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-Terrestial 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 psychophysicists. 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 Puphborl.”
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 respectfully, “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: