AFTERWORD: SUMMERTIDE.
About a year ago I was sitting in a bar in Brighton, drinking beer with Bob Forward. His first novel, "Dragon's Egg", was finished but not yet published, and we were chatting randomly about exotic stellar and planetary settings for stories. We had known each other long before either one of us published a word of fiction, so we tended in our conversation to dwell on the science side of sf plotting.
Bob mentioned that he had come up with a rather interesting planetary system and he was going to build a novel around it. Naturally, I asked for details. He didn't want to give them. He said that he preferred not to talk until he had everything plotted out to a conclusion. I quite understand that attitude—some writers go further, and will never say a word about a story until the last sentence has been typed and the finished story is away in the hands of an editor. So I just nodded, and instead I started to describe the planetary doublet system that I developed for use in "Summertide," which I had finished and sold just a couple of months earlier for publication in DESTINIES.
I described the twin planets of Quake and Egg, rotating just outside the Roche limit, and I mentioned the big tidal effects that would be generated if we had a highly eccentric orbit for the pair about their sun.
Bob didn't seem too responsive, so at last I stopped talking. Long silence. Then he said: "I was thinking that my novel would probably be called ROCHE WORLD." It would be about—you are allowed one guess—a planetary pair that rotates about each other just outside the Roche limit. The eccentric orbit of the doublet around their sun would produce huge tidal forces . . .
So of course we had to talk plots, and it fortunately turned out that they were completely different. Thank Heaven. I had just been through a similar experience a few months earlier, with THE WEB BETWEEN THE WORLDS and Arthur Clarke's THE FOUNTAINS OF PARADISE. Coincidences lose their charm if they begin to happen regularly.
I really shouldn't have worried. A system like Dumbbell has enough strange properties to provide a hundred different story settings. Keep your eyes open for ROCHE WORLD, it will be interesting.
THE MARRIAGE OF TRUE MINDS
It was one of those mornings where Nature seemed to have gone overboard in her desire for perfection. The sun was shining cheerfully from a sky of cloudless blue. Summer flowers nodded their heads with proper appreciation of the light breeze, birds sang, bees droned smiling in and out of the blossoms, and lambs skipped through the long grass. A morning, in short, where man and setting were in tune. So it seemed to Clarence, ninth Earl of Emsworth, as he leaned over the side of the pigsty, silent and admiring.
The object of his devotion looked to be full of the same blithe spirit. She was standing contentedly at the trough, busily working her way through the fifty-seven thousand, eight hundred calories that Wolff-Lehmann assures us is the appropriate daily intake for any pig who insists on the silver medal and will not take no for an answer. Turnip tops, bran mash, potato peelings and windfall apples were falling before her onslaught, like the Assyrian after a bad night out with the Angel of Death. The Empress of Blandings was in rare form, and the Earl watched in fascination. With that inspired attack, he felt, next week's contest in Bletchingham would be no more than a formality, a simple matter of a rubber stamp on an already assured decision. God's in his Heaven, all's right with the world, thought Lord Emsworth; or at any rate he might have, if his memory for poetry had been a little better.
Which shows that even ninth earls can be wrong and that there may be a worm in the most attractive apple. The Blandings worm, in fact, had just popped his head up over a hedge forty yards from the sty and was watching closely. Observers familiar with the local scene might point out that the newcomer, worm or no worm, bore an amazing physical resemblance to George Cyril Wellbeloved, late pigkeeper at Blandings Castle, and but recently removed from the Earl's employ for the ghastly deed of pig nobbling. George Cyril, although he had encountered no difficulty in finding alternative employment, did not look happy with his new position. All may have been sunshine and brightness in the world at large, but in the heart of the pig man there was no light, save what from heaven was with the breezes blown. He had the look of a man whose employer had ordered him to win the Bletchingham Fat Pigs' Contest with a mere shadow of a pig, a puny porker whom the Empress of Blandings outweighed by a good ten stone.
It could not be done, thought G.C. Wellbeloved. Judging from the sounds that came from the sty, the contest was becoming more one-sided every minute. He ducked below the hedge and snaked back to the gate, where his new employer, Sir Hamish Mackay, was awaiting his return.
"Noo, whut's 'a seetuation, mon?"
Sir Hamish had spent most of his life harassing the unfortunate natives on the Afghanistan border, which was doubtless character-building but offered a Highland Scot no opportunity to learn more than a feeble approximation to spoken English.
"No."
"Nae what?"
"No." George Cyril was not a man to waste words.
"Ye mean we canna win?"
"Yes."
"The Empress is fatter than the Jewel o' Kabul?"
"Yes."
Sir Hamish was also sparing in his words. He retreated briefly behind his substantial whiskers for a moment's thought, then stepped closer to Wellbeloved. He faltered before the effluvium of pig manure that clung to George Cyril like a guardian angel, then firmed his resolve and pressed closer.
"Ye see whut that means?"
"Yes."
"We'll hafta pinch her."
"Yes."
Wellbeloved considered his last response for a moment. It was missing an important element.
"But I'll need a hundred pounds. Service beyond the usual duties."
"A hundred!"
"One hundred."
"Poonds!"
"Pounds," corrected George Cyril.
Sir Hamish looked at the pig man's stubborn countenance and fought a mighty battle within himself. To understand the baronet, it is first necessary to realize that he had not been a lifelong admirer of pigs. Most of his existence, he would frankly admit, had been a sordid waste, pottering about collecting medals and honors. Only recently had the overwhelming attraction of black Berkshire sows pierced his heart, and now he was trying to make up for lost time. If money were needed, money would be used. After all, what else was money for? But that decision had to win out over the native thriftiness of a true Scotsman, and the battle was of epic proportions within his sturdy breast.
"Fifty," he said at last.
"No. One hundred."
Sir Hamish sought to look Wellbeloved straight in the eye, with the expression that had in the past quelled the playful spirit of wounded Bengal tigers, but he was defeated by the pig man's sinister squint, which never permitted him to look into more than one eye at a time.
"Grrarrr," said Sir Hamish.
"Right," said George Cyril, recognizing a growl of assent when he heard one. "Eight o'clock tonight, after she's had her linseed meal. She gets quiet then. Money in advance. Don't forget it. I'll bring the van."
He turned and hurried away along the ditch, before Sir Hamish could offer a counterproposal. The latter stood there, fists clenched and whiskers vibrating. Like the poet Keats, he could not see what flowers were at his feet, or what soft incese hung upon each bough. He was thinking of his hundred pounds, and already he was suffering separation pains. No bloodthirsty Pathan, seeing Sir Hamish at that moment, would have risked an appearance before him; and in fact the head that popped up from behind the nearby hedge was not that of an Asian warrior. It belonged to George, the eleven-year-old grandson of Lord Emsworth, and it was clear from his expression that he had overheard the lot.
Under normal circumstances, the lad's reaction would have been to lie low until Sir Hamish had gone, then run off to spill the beans to his grandfather. He got along famously with Lord Emsworth, although the latter sometimes seemed unsure who he was.
Today, however, George had retired behind the hedgerow to br
ood over the unfairness of the world in general, and of Lord Emsworth in particular. When the editors of a recent issue of the Champion Paper for Boys gave full and explicit directions for the construction of a bow and arrow, presumably they expected their readers to follow them. And having followed them to the letter, it was not reasonable to suppose that an enterprising youth should leave the bow untested.
It was blind fortune that decreed that the household cat, after receiving an arrow amidships (fired, George estimated, from not less than twelve paces) should have chosen to leap through the open window, demolishing in transit three potted begonias and a china bust of Narcissus.
Lord Emsworth, under strong pressure from his sister, Lady Constance, had confiscated the bow and a bag of toffees and garnisheed George's allowance until the plants were paid for. The lad had retired to the hedge to seek solace from the latest copy of the Champion Paper and had been there, alone and palely loitering, when Sir Hamish and his pig man appeared on the scene.
What, you may ask, could an eleven-year-old do with the information he had overheard, other than take it to his older and wiser relatives? Setting aside any question of Lord Emsworth's wisdom, the problem is still a good one. It was pure coincidence that the latest issue of George's magazine should contain an article on becoming a millionaire in six months or less. The men who write for the Champion Paper are of catholic tastes—today the key to great wealth, tomorrow perhaps a novel and improved method of catching rats. The fact that the author of the latest article had never managed to make more than twelve shillings and sixpence a week was not mentioned in the magazine.
George's recent studies had told him exactly what to do. He stood up straight and looked calmly at Sir Hamish Mackay.
"I heard everything," he said. "The price for my silence is ten pounds."
Logically, George should have asked for more. Wellbeloved had set his fee at a hundred. On the other hand, ten pounds was the largest sum of which George had any personal acquaintance, and amounts beyond that felt vague and insubstantial. One hundred pounds would have raised questions within him, that logically should have troubled seekers of the Holy Grail, but apparently never did; to wit, what would one do with it if he had it? Ten pounds, on the other hand, would buy an excellent airgun and leave enough over for riotous living. More than that, despite the written advice he had just received, would make George uneasy.
"Grrrrrrr," said Sir Hamish.
It was not this time a growl of assent, but one of frustration. One does not make arrangements for a criminal act, only to have them overheard by a small boy who is the grandson of the victim. Sir Hamish would have sworn that there was no one around when he and George Cyril Wellbeloved had begun their brief conversation, and the boy's ectoplasmic manifestation had been a nasty shock.
Sir Hamish knew he would have to act quickly. However, the Mackays had survived in the highlands of Scotland for hundreds of years, and that called for a certain basic cunning.
"Aye. Hmph. Ten poonds. Ah," said Sir Hamish.
He reached into his pocket as though seeking his wallet and drew out a curiously carved ebony disc, to which a number of leather tassels had been tied. He handed it across the hedge to George.
"Here, houd this while Ah see if Ah ha' the poonds. Houd it soft, noo."
George looked curiously at the carvings on the disc's face.
"I say, what are these markings?"
"Spells. Dinna ye worrit ye'sel aboot them."
George had understood only the first word, but it was enough.
"Coo. Magic spells?"
"Aye. Yon's a giftie fra' ma auld serrvant, Khalatbar."
"Coo. What does it do?"
Sir Hamish pulled a much wrinkled piece of paper from his pocket. It seemed to have suffered diverse fates before being used to transmit a written message. The baronet looked at George with a cunning eye.
"D'ye read Pushtu?"
The lad shook his head, and Sir Hamish nodded in satisfaction.
"So Ah'll have tae translate fer ye."
He ran his eye quickly over the document, making the throat-clearing noise that in a Scotsman often passes for reasoned speech. At last he nodded.
"A verra valuable giftie. It turrns a mon tae a creature, when ye gie it a wee bit rubbit."
"Coo." George looked at the amulet reverently. "Any man? Why did he send it to you?"
Sir Hamish peered hard at the paper.
"Aye. Any mon, it's guid for. Ma serrvant used yon tae alterr his wifie's mother tae a croco-dial. He doesna' want her back noo, and he's sent me yon talisman tae pree-vent it bein' used agin."
"Coo."
George looked again at the ebony disc. Compared with that, a mere airgun seemed like an infant's plaything. His eyes gleamed at the possibilities. Fatty Parsons could be a hippo, and Cousin Juliet a horned toad. And what about Spotty Trimble? The potential was enormous.
"Would you sell it? I'd take it instead of ten pounds."
Sir Hamish rolled his eyes, wiggled his whiskers, bared his teeth and otherwise registered shock.
"Sell it? Ma laddie, yon's worrth a forrtune. Sell for ten poonds? Ah'd be gie'in' it awa'."
"Then I'll just have to go and tell grandfather what you'll be doing tonight."
"Houd on." Sir Hamish held up his hand. "A' right, ye win. Ye can tak' it. But mind noo, nae worrd aboot ony o' this. Gang awa' wi' ye."
George grabbled the amulet and did his instant disappearing act behind the hedge. Sir Hamish breathed a sigh of relief at his wallet's close escape, smiled a horrid and whiskery smile, and set off for the gate. As he went, he threw away Khalatbar's request that Sir Hamish obtain for him a commission in the Coldstream Guards. It had, contrary to all logic, served a useful purpose. Now there were serious pigpinching arrangements to be considered, if the Empress were to be in his possession before the day was done.
* * *
George was Lord Emsworth's flesh and blood, and it was no more than natural that they should share a few traits of character. The lad had avoided the general dottiness and absentmindedness of the ninth Earl, but he had inherited his singleness of purpose. When Lord Emsworth went over to the pigsty to look at the Empress of Blandings, that is exactly what he did. If there were no interruptions, he would stand there happily until it was too dark to see, then stay to listen. In the same way, George now had his mind set on a fair test of the talisman, and he proposed to employ it, like Oberon's love potion, upon the next live creature that he saw. Fatty Parsons, Cousin Juliet, and Spotty Trimble were perhaps more intriguing targets, but the figure of Lord Emsworth, still bending over the sty, had the great advantage of immediacy.
George hurried closer, rubbing the talisman against his pullover.
The Empress had inexplicably stopped eating. Lord Emsworth was mentally urging her on with all his inadequate powers of mind, and at the same time he had thrust one hand into his jacket pocket. Encountering George's bag of toffees, some primitive childhood instinct led him to remove one, unwrap it. and lift it to his mouth.
The life of a prize pig is not particularly exciting. The high point of the Empress' week was likely to be signaled by the discovery of an unusually juicy turnip, or a better-than-average pail of potato peelings. But in that bland catalog of days, unenriched by strange events, one stood higher than the rest. A visitor had once thrown into the sty a bar of Devon toffee that had accidentally been dropped in the mud. Now, that ambrosial fragrance was again wafting to her nostrils. The Empress yearned towards it, as the hart after the water-brook, at the same time as Lord Emsworth, toffee poised before his lips, willed her to eat. George rubbed the talisman.
Nothing happened. His grandfather stood there still, in human form. George felt that old sinking feeling. For the first time, he began to appreciate the meaning of the phrase caveat emptor. Sir Hamish, the cunning haggis-eater, had tricked him into accepting a useless bit of carved wood instead of ten pounds.
George turned and ran back towards the gate. It might be
too late to reverse the decision, but he had to give it a try. At the very least, he would have to learn Pushtu to make sure this sort of thing did not happen again.
Back at the sty, matters apparently ran on much as before. It may be, as the gents who specialize in studies of animal intelligence assure us, that a pig has no capacity for abstract thought. Its perceptions of matters intellectual, they assert, are dim and confused, and it can think of only one thing at a time. But for many years, friends and relatives had been saying much the same thing about Clarence, ninth Earl of Emsworth, and in rather stronger language. From a line purified by centuries of inbreeding, no one expects too much in the way of brains. Even so, many people felt that Lord Emsworth, with a power of mind that had on occasion been compared unfavorably with that of a boiled potato, took the matter to extremes.
This mental lack now stood the ninth Earl in good stead. Many men finding themselves on all fours inside a pigsty might be perplexed, even alarmed. Not so Lord Emsworth. Two feet in front of his snout stood a cornucopia of interesting food, and it all smelled delicious. A few turnip tops as hors d'oeuvres, he thought, and then perhaps twenty or thirty pounds of bran mash as a nice entree. Deep within, Lord Emsworth sensed the vast eating potential of his new form. He pushed his head forward and took the first mouthful.
It was exquisite; better, in his judgment, than the cordon bleu of Alphonse at the Astoria on even a very good day. The sun shone warm on his broad back, and from the corner of his eye he could see a patch of squishy mud that looked ideal for a postprandial wallow and nap. The peace that passeth all understanding filled his soul. He was perfectly happy.
The Empress, on the other hand, was a good deal less contented with her lot. Although the Earl, never a slave to fashion, was dressed for comfort, the clothing felt strange against her skin. She wriggled about uncomfortably inside the itchy shirt and trousers. Then there was her new shape. It was wrong in a number of ways, shorter here and longer there. If Richard III had popped up next to her outside the sty, to complain that Nature had shaped his legs of an unequal size and disproportioned him in every part, the Empress would have applauded and joined in the chorus. The only advantage of her new posture was a view of the kitchen garden, denied to her from lower levels. It was a sight that no prize pig, however transmogrified, could ever resist. She turned and slowly made her way towards a laden plum tree.
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