Hidden Variables

by Charles Sheffield

  It was there, twenty-seven plums later, that Lady Constance found her. Lord Emsworth's sister was not dressed for comfort. She was heading for London, and her hat alone had denuded the ostriches from a large portion of the African continent.

  "There you are, Clarence," she said benevolently. There was nothing like a trip to the big city to tone up the system. "I see the plums are ripening nicely, but it looks as though the birds have been at them."

  The Empress grunted companionably. Lady Constance had never been one to stand there and dish out the rotten potatoes with her own fair hand, but her tone was friendly and the Empress was of a naturally kindly disposition.

  "I have asked Beach to serve tea on the terrace," went on Lady Constance. "With the weather so beautiful, it seemed a shame to remain inside. Come along, Clarence. I'm afraid I will not be able to join you, since my train leaves in thirty minutes." The Empress grunted.

  "And remember," said Lady Constance, "you must be careful about the house tonight. Lock all the doors. I have asked Beach to do the same and to check everything before retiring. Julia called me this morning, and apparently the burglars are still at work in the neighborhood. The Bishop lost all his silver just last night."

  The Empress grunted again. When Lady Constance took her arm, she allowed herself to be led out of the orchard and over to the terrace, where an ample tea had been set out. Lady Constance looked at her watch.

  "I'm afraid I'll have to leave you to it. I'll see you tomorrow afternoon."

  The Empress gave a final grunt and watched as Lady Constance hurried off through the French windows that opened onto the terrace. To some people, grunting might seem an inferior form of conversational response, but not to Lady Constance. She knew her brother well, and he would not in her opinion be easily mistaken for Oscar Wilde. She could recall occasions when Lord Emsworth's contribution to a dinner party had been the single word "Capital," repeated two or three hundred times, and another when he had described the care and feeding of prize pigs in such relentless and graphic detail that a lady guest of neurasthenic temperament had been led from the room in hysterics. Lord Emsworth had many sterling qualities, and his sister found a grunt to be quite satisfactory.

  Left now to her own devices, the Empress found much at the tea table to interest her. Apart from sandwiches, potted shrimps, and several varieties of cakes and jams, the thoughtful Beach had set out a selection of hothouse grapes and peaches. Although rather hindered by her unfamiliar form, the Empress had a fair go at all of these delicacies and pretty much managed to sweep the board. It was only when the last mustard-and-cress sandwich had followed the final dollop of clotted cream down the hatch that the Empress became aware of the answer to the old riddle: What is the difference between the digestive system of an aging peer and that of a pig who has three times won the silver medal in the Shropshire Fat Pigs competition?

  A little contemplation of the infinite seemed to be called for. She staggered back to the orchard, lay down full-length beneath the shade of a pear tree, and was soon fast asleep. The servant who came out to collect the remnants of the tea noticed the recumbent form of Lord Emsworth, but her main attention was reserved for the carnage on the terrace table. The Shropshire Herald was apt to miss some news items, that she knew, but an invasion of the district by a Mongol Horde ought to have drawn at least a paragraph. So she mused, and returned inside as the shadows lengthened across the rolling lawns of Blandings Castle, and the calm of evening descended over house and garden.

  Descended outside the house, that is. Inside it, there was a certain amount of ferment—most of it within the breast of young George.

  The lad had been thinking about his recent encounter with Sir Hamish, and it was becoming increasingly apparent to him that he had been manipulated, as clay in the hands of the potter. He realized that would not do. The Champion Paper had been quite firm on the point; millionaires-to-be never allow themselves to be separated from their earnings by the mere blandishments of a honeyed tongue.

  Fortunately, it was not too late. George knew now what he had to do. At eight o'clock, Sir Hamish and Maestro Wellbeloved would observe their tryst by the pigsty, for the purpose of abducting the Empress. Clearly, if George were to turn up there also, return the talisman and again demand a tenner as the price of his silence, the baronet would have no choice but to give it to him. George had heard the yearning tone in Sir Hamish's voice when he spoke of the Empress, and it had sounded familiar. Like Lord Emsworth, the man would be putty where pigs were concerned.

  George picked up the talisman and sneaked out of the back door of the castle. The shades of night were falling fast as he approached the Empress' sty, ready for the confrontation.

  His timing had been excellent. Sir Hamish had just arrived but had not yet begun the operation proper. For one thing, his accomplice had been slightly delayed by a desire to make the first dent in his pig-pinching earnings. George Cyril Wellbeloved had just emerged from the Emsworth Arms, weaving a little but clearly feeling no pain, and was now making unsteady progress towards Standings Castle. The other factor that had slowed Sir Hamish was the first sight of the Empress herself. He felt like some watcher of the skies, when a new planet swims into his ken. The Empress made the Jewel of Kabul look like the runt of the litter. Earth, thought Sir Hamish as he looked on her, had not anything to show more fair. What was that other Wordsworth poem that had helped to make his schooldays miserable? My heart leaps up when I behold, the Empress in her sty. Something like that. He gazed on.

  In the sty itself, Lord Emsworth had just awakened from a blissful sleep. He had eaten until even a champion fat pig could hold no more, then enjoyed a refreshing mud wallow and nap. The only cloud on his horizon was the horrid object that had appeared over the side of the sty. Sir Hamish, taking his cue from the wily Pathan, had covered his face with boot-blacking before venturing forth on his ill-deeds. He would have reaped applause in the minstrel show on Brighton Pier, but he fitted in poorly with native customs in central Shropshire.

  This was the tableau, Man and Pig, that presented itself to George as he approached the Empress' abode. He paused twenty paces short of the sty. Sir Hamish, eyes and teeth gleaming from a coal-black countenance, was a trifle off-putting. Although George was a brave lad, he decided he ought perhaps to give the talisman another chance before taking the next step. He pulled it from his pocket, rubbed it feverishly on his sleeve, and closed his eyes.

  It was no use. When he opened them, Sir Hamish still stood there, black and fierce as ever. George girded up his loins, walked forward, and held out the amulet.

  "You can have this back," he said. "I want my ten pounds instead."

  The sudden appearance of his grandson startled Lord Emsworth. He was already feeling a little dazed by his abrupt return to human form, if that term may be stretched to include Sir Hamish.

  "What?" he said. "What what?"

  "Ten pounds. You agreed to give me ten pounds."

  "I did?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes."

  Lord Emsworth was struck by a sudden thought.

  "Is it your birthday?"

  "No."

  George was beginning to feel a lot more comfortable. Sir Hamish looked fierce, no doubt about it, but the conversation was running along lines already familiar to George from frequent discourse with his grandfather.

  "Ten pounds," he repeated. "You owe me ten pounds."

  "Right. Ten pounds. Do I have ten pounds?"

  "Why not look in your wallet?"

  "Of course." Lord Emsworth warmed to the lad's quick intelligence. "Capital idea. You're quite right, there's more than enough here."

  As he peeled a couple of fivers from Sir Hamish's wad, Lord Emsworth heard an anguished squeal from the sty behind him. Normally, he would have responded to it instantly, but just now an odd feeling was creeping over him. Even to an intellect as limited as the ninth Earl's, recent events were beginning to seem a little odd. It was
, he realized, time for some peace and quiet. A couple of chapters of Whiffle's masterpiece The Care of the Pig, accompanied by a beaker full of the warm south with perhaps a splash or two of soda, would go far to restore him. He pressed the money into George's hand and set a determined course for Blandings Castle. Whiffle's book and the decanter were both in the study, and the sooner he could be with them the better he would like it.

  "Here, wait a minute." George was pleased by the smoothness of the operation, but he was an honest lad. "I didn't give you back the amulet. It's yours now."

  He pressed it into Lord Emsworth's hand, shuddered again at the blackened and bewhiskered face, and made a rapid exit before Sir Hamish could tell him that he had changed his mind.

  Lord Emsworth looked at the talisman for a moment, but his attention was elsewhere. He again set his legs in motion towards the castle, and again he was detained. The figure of George Cyril Wellbeloved now stood before him, clutching at a convenient fence post in an attempt to stop the ground from moving around beneath his feet.

  " 's all ready." he said.

  "What? "said Lord Emsworth, regarding his former pig man with little favor.

  " 'sready. 's all ready to pinch the Empress."

  "What!!"

  It occurred to George Cyril that, since his own speech was impeccably clear, Sir Hamish must be hard of hearing, or even perhaps inebriated. He leaned forward and put his mouth close to Lord Emsworth's ear.

  "Ready to pinch the Empress!" he bellowed, forgetting that pig-pinching is usually regarded as a silent sport.

  Lord Emsworth recoiled. There was a certain something in the pig man's aura, overwhelming the usual pig-related smells.

  "Wellbeloved, you're drunk. Stop this silliness and get along home at once."

  It seemed at first as though George Cyril had found a way to obey the instruction instantaneously. He had immediately disappeared from sight. His big mistake, he realized as he fell into the warm bosom of the ditch, had been to release his hold on the fence post. Shortly before he lapsed into the arms of Morpheus, it occurred to the pig man that the aristocracy follow very inconsistent behavior patterns. In the afternoon they harass you to pinch a pig, and that same night they have lost all interest in it.

  With Wellbeloved out of the way, Lord Emsworth set off once more for the house. On the way, he became aware of the amulet that young George had thrust into his hand. It was of no special interest to him and a nuisance to carry. He threw it from him into the orchard and proceeded to the front door. It was locked, but that was nothing to a man of his resources. In a few moments he had fished out the spare key from its hiding place behind the rose trellis. He went inside, and continued steadily to the study and to the combined restorative powers of Whiffle and a glass of liquid refreshment.

  And it was there that Beach saw him a few minutes later, as the butler made his rounds of the house in accordance with Lady Constance's parting instructions.

  * * *

  Young George had retired to his room immediately upon his return from the sty. He was happy to have his ten pounds and did not contemplate any further action that night. Something attempted, something done, has earned the night's repose, he thought. It was with some surprise that he soon heard a knock on his bedroom door and saw Beach enter. Relations between the two were pretty good, but they did not extend to evening soirees in George's bedroom.

  Beach's manner was never exactly festive, but now he looked positively grim. He was carrying a large iron poker.

  "Excuse me, Master George," he began."But are you aware of Lord Emsworth's whereabouts?"

  It seemed an odd question. The Earl was not in the habit of leaving an itinerary with his grandson. George shook his head.

  "It is most important that we locate him," went on the butler. "In making my rounds of the castle a few minutes ago, I observed a burglar in His Lordship's study. He was unaware of my presence and had even had the audacity to help himself to certain potables there. I have left Jarvis guarding the study door, but I would like to have Lord Emsworth present when we apprehend the malefactor."

  George's eyes opened wide at Beach's words. If the Champion Paper for Boys had a fault, it was a tendency to dwell on sensational crime.

  "Did you recognize him?"

  Beach shook his head. "My acquaintances in the criminal community are regrettably few, Master George, and the man was wearing an excellent disguise. I would much appreciate it if you would run along to the Empress' sty now and see if His Lordship is there."

  George started guiltily. "He's not there."

  "Indeed. Are you sure? I have not seen him since before tea."

  And there, of course, he had George. To reveal one thing to Beach might lead to revealing all, including George's own role in the purloining of the pig. George's reading had made him well aware of the dangers of being an accessory after the fact.

  "I'd better just go and look," he said and escaped before further questioning could be applied.

  We left the Empress, you will recall, asleep in the orchard. So it may seem unlikely that George, heading for the sty, would encounter anything that looked like his grandfather. The Empress, we might argue, should have stayed put. Pigs, and especially prize pigs, can sleep almost indefinitely, even if they look like peers of the realm. That does not hold true, of course, when they are struck hard on the nose by flying objects. The amulet that Lord Emsworth had cast into the orchard had given the Empress a good one, and she came to a rude awakening.

  It took her only a second or two to pick up the talisman, decide that it could not be eaten, and begin to look for other diversions. Gadding about is all right for the daytime, but as evening shadows fall the right-minded pig yearns for the comforts of the home sty. Somewhat stiffly—for the ground beneath a pear tree is not an ideal couch for anyone over fifty—the Empress rose and made her way back home. She came to the fence that surrounded the sty and looked in. To her great surprise, she found it already occupied.

  The change to porcine form had not pleased Sir Hamish. Putting aside the fact that it may have improved his appearance, we must admit that he had a point. A man who has come to snaffle a pig must be ready for certain surprises, but a change of roles with the swag is not one of them. Sir Hamish had concluded that Lord Emsworth arranged it and somehow turned the tables on him.

  His suspicion seemed to be confirmed when, after some minutes of standing in the sty, he saw Lord Emsworth's face peering in at him over the fence. He fancied that he could detect a smug look of trimph in the Earl's expression. A man who had trained his stomach to accept Madras curry for breakfast would never know it, but lingering indigestion can produce just such a look. Twenty-seven plums in five minutes would be nothing to the Empress under normal circumstances, but now she was handicapped by the inadequate alimentary canal of a mere human. She did not like the feeling inside her. All she wanted was her straw bed and a few hours of meditation.

  And for real satisfaction, she would like to be rid of Lord Emsworth's clothes. They itched and chafed. She reached behind her and scratched at her back with the amulet she was holding. It was nice and sharp, and rather like the pumice scraper that George Cyril Wellbeloved had applied to her in the happy days before his disappearance from the Blandings Castle environs.

  George, approaching from the side, did not notice the amulet with which his grandfather had been rubbing his back. His mind was mainly taken up with the odd fact that Lord Emsworth was at the sty, while Sir Hamish was not. Then reason asserted itself. Clearly, the Earl has pottered down there for a late night worship of the Empress, and Sir Hamish was not stupid enough to try and steal the pig under the very nose of her owner.

  He tugged at his grandfather's sleeve. "I say. Beach wants you to come back to the castle."

  "Mph?" said Sir Hamish.

  Not a sparkling reply, but George knew his grandfather's style. He tried again."Beach wants you to come to the castle."

  "Mph?" repeated Sir Hamish, still feeling slightly di
zzy from the switch.

  It occurred to George that he was certainly earning his ten pounds. If Sir Hamish were within earshot, he ought to be ready to double the fee.

  "Beach says there's a burglar in the study, drinking your whisky. He wants you to come back and help to arrest him."

  Lord Emsworth, approached in this fashion, was likely to ask why Beach wanted to be arrested, but Sir Hamish responded differently. He had been in a pigsty for hours, then suddenly shifted to a body that had recently done awful things to its digestive system. Only one word of George's remarks had penetrated his clouded brain.

  "Whisky?"

  "That's right, drinking your whisky. In the study. Come on."

  George turned and led the way. Sir Hamish trailed along behind him, still clutching the amulet. He felt like one that hath been stunned and is of sense forlorn, but if it were all a dream, at least it was a superior dream, one with whisky in it.

  As they left the sty, there was stirring within. The Empress was home again and feeling as though a late-night snack of linseed meal and buttermilk might go down well. She did not see the two visitors approach the castle, where Beach stood on guard.

  As a butier, Beach had few equals. If you wanted a man to shoot the crusty rolls around the dinner table or put a baronet in his place with a single raised eyebrow, you should look no further. He had it all. About the only criticism that one could make of that super-butler was of his odd reading habits. Beach was an insatiable consumer of those lurid volumes that one sees on sale in railway bookstalls, with daggers, drops of blood, white gloves and black masks displayed prominently on the cover. The arrival of a burglar at Blandings Castle offered a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Within minutes, Beach had footmen guarding doors, windows and chimneys, and another by the fuse box. He had already ascertained that the telephone wires had not been cut—much to his surprise. He tiptoed towards Sir Hamish, as the latter followed young George into the castle.