by Paul Ableman
“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 Stout snout.”
“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 card board—”
“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 Capt
ain 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: ‘Earthmen 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 dinkum 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, intergalactic 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?”
“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 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 sleep ing 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.”