Tales from the White Hart (Arthur C. Clarke Collection: Short Stories)

by Arthur C. Clarke

  Aunt Henrietta looked upon Hercules’ orchids with some scorn. Spending one’s spare time in a hothouse was, she considered, a very effete recreation. When she wanted to let off steam, she went big-game hunting in Kenya. This did nothing to endear her to Hercules, who hated blood sports. But despite his mounting dislike for his over-powering aunt, every Sunday afternoon he dutifully prepared tea for her and they had a tête-à-tête together which, on the surface at least, seemed perfectly friendly. Henrietta never guessed that as he poured the tea Hercules often wished it was poisoned: she was, far down beneath her extensive fortifications, a fundamentally good-hearted person and the knowledge would have upset her deeply.

  Hercules did not mention his vegetable octopus to Aunt Henrietta. He had occasionally shown her his most interesting specimens, but this was something he was keeping to himself. Perhaps, even before he had fully formulated his diabolical plan, his subconscious was already preparing the ground…

  It was late one Sunday evening, when the roar of the Jaguar had died away into the night and Hercules was restoring his shattered nerves in the conservatory, that the idea first came fully-fledged into his mind. He was staring at the orchid, noting how the tendrils were now as thick around as a man’s thumb, when a most pleasing fantasy suddenly flashed before his eyes. He pictured Aunt Henrietta struggling helplessly in the grip of the monster, unable to escape from its carnivorous clutches. Why, it would be the perfect crime. The distraught nephew would arrive on the scene too late to be of assistance, and when the police answered his frantic call they would see at a glance that the whole affair was a deplorable accident. True, there would be an inquest, but the coroner’s censure would be toned down in view of Hercules’ obvious grief…

  The more he thought of the idea, the more he liked it. He could see no flaws, as long as the orchid co-operated. That, clearly, would be the greatest problem. He would have to plan a course of training for the creature. It already looked sufficiently diabolical; he must give it a disposition to suit its appearance.

  Considering that he had no prior experience in such matters, and that there were no authorities he could consult, Hercules proceeded along very sound and businesslike lines. He would use a fishing rod to dangle pieces of meat just outside the orchid’s range, until the creature lashed its tentacles in a frenzy. At such times its high-pitched squeak was clearly audible, and Hercules wondered how it managed to produce the sound. He also wondered what its organs of perception were, but this was yet another mystery that could not be solved without close examination. Perhaps Aunt Henrietta, if all went well, would have a brief opportunity of discovering these interesting facts—though she would probably be too busy to report them for the benefit of posterity.

  There was no doubt that the beast was quite powerful enough to deal with its intended victim. It had once wrenched a broomstick out of Hercules’ grip, and although that in itself proved very little, the sickening “crack” of the wood a moment later brought a smile of satisfaction to its trainer’s thin lips. He began to be much more pleasant and attentive to his aunt. In every respect, indeed, he was the model nephew.

  When Hercules considered that his picador tactics had brought the orchid into the right frame of mind, he wondered if he should test it with live bait. This was a problem that worried him for some weeks, during which time he would look speculatively at every dog or cat he passed in the street, but he finally abandoned the idea, for a rather peculiar reason. He was simply too kind-hearted to put it into practice. Aunt Henrietta would have to be the first victim.

  He starved the orchid for two weeks before he put his plan into action. This was as long as he dared risk—he did not wish to weaken the beast—merely to whet its appetite that the outcome of the encounter might be more certain. And so, when he had carried the tea-cups back into the kitchen and was sitting upwind of Aunt Henrietta’s cigar, he said casually: “I’ve got something I’d like to show you, auntie. I’ve been keeping it as a surprise. It’ll tickle you to death.”

  That, he thought, was not a completely accurate description, but it gave the general idea.

  Auntie took the cigar out of her mouth and looked at Hercules with frank surprise.

  “Well!” she boomed. “Wonders will never cease! What have you been up to, you rascal?” She slapped him playfully on the back and shot all the air out of his lungs.

  “You’ll never believe it,” gritted Hercules, when he had recovered his breath. “It’s in the observatory.”

  “Eh?” said Auntie, obviously puzzled.

  “Yes—come along and have a look. It’s going to create a real sensation.”

  Auntie gave a snort that might have indicated disbelief, but followed Hercules without further question. The two Alsatians now busily chewing up the carpet looked at her anxiously and half rose to their feet, but she waved them away.

  “All right, boys,” she ordered gruffly. “I’ll be back in a minute.” Hercules thought this unlikely.

  It was a dark evening, and the lights in the conservatory were off. As they entered, Auntie snorted, “Gad, Hercules—the place smells like a slaughter-house. Haven’t met such a stink since I shot that elephant in Bulawayo and we couldn’t find it for a week.”

  “Sorry, auntie,” apologized Hercules, propelling her forward through the gloom. “It’s a new fertilizer I’m using. It produces the most stunning results. Go on—another couple of yards. I want this to be a real surprise.”

  “I hope this isn’t a joke,” said Auntie suspiciously, as she stomped forward.

  “I can promise you it’s no joke,” replied Hercules, standing with his hand on the light switch. He could just see the looming bulk of the orchid: Auntie was now within ten feet of it. He waited until she was well inside the danger zone, and threw the switch.

  There was a frozen moment while the scene was transfixed with light. Then Aunt Henrietta ground to a halt and stood, arms akimbo, in front of the giant orchid. For a moment Hercules was afraid she would retreat before the plant could get into action: then he saw that she was calmly scrutinizing it, unable to make up her mind what the devil it was.

  It was a full five seconds before the orchid moved. Then the dangling tentacles flashed into action—but not in the way that Hercules had expected. The plant clutched them tightly, protectively, around itself—and at the same time it gave a high-pitched scream of pure terror. In a moment of sickening disillusionment, Hercules realized the awful truth.

  His orchid was an utter coward. It might be able to cope with the wild life of the Amazon jungle, but coming suddenly upon Aunt Henrietta had completely broken its nerve.

  As for its proposed victim, she stood watching the creature with an astonishment which swiftly changed to another emotion. She spun around on her heels and pointed an accusing finger at her nephew.

  “Hercules!” she roared. “The poor thing’s scared to death. Have you been bullying it?”

  Hercules could only stand with his head hanging low in shame and frustration.

  “N-no, auntie,” he quavered. “I guess it’s naturally nervous.”

  “Well, I’m used to animals. You should have called me before. You must treat them firmly—but gently. Kindness always works, as long as you show them you’re the master. There, there, did-dums—don’t be frightened of auntie—she won’t hurt you…”

  It was, thought Hercules in his blank despair, a revolting sight. With surprising gentleness, Aunt Henrietta fussed over the beast, patting and stroking it until the tentacles relaxed and the shrill, whistling scream died away. After a few minutes of this pandering, it appeared to get over its fright. Hercules finally fled with a muffled sob when one of the tentacles crept forward and began to stroke Henrietta’s gnarled fingers…

  From that day, he was a broken man. What was worse, he could never escape from the consequences of his intended crime. Henrietta had acquired a new pet, and was liable to call not only at weekends but two or three times in between as well. It was obvious that she did no
t trust Hercules to treat the orchid properly, and still suspected him of bullying it. She would bring tasty tidbits that even her dogs had rejected, but which the orchid accepted with delight. The smell, which had so far been confined to the conservatory, began to creep into the house…

  And there, concluded Harry Purvis, as he brought this improbable narrative to a close, the matter rests—to the satisfaction of two, at any rate, of the parties concerned. The orchid is happy, and Aunt Henrietta has something (query, someone?) else to dominate. From time to time the creature has a nervous breakdown when a mouse gets loose in the conservatory, and she rushes to console it.

  As for Hercules, there is no chance that he will ever give any more trouble to either of them. He seems to have sunk into a kind of vegetable sloth: indeed, said Harry thoughtfully, every day he becomes more and more like an orchid himself.

  The harmless variety, of course.…

  Cold War

  One of the things that makes Harry Purvis’ tales so infernally convincing is their detailed verisimilitude. Consider, for instance, this example. I’ve checked the places and information as thoroughly as I can—I had to, in order to write up this account—and everything fits into place. How do you explain that unless—but judge for yourself…

  “I’ve often noticed,” Harry began, “how tantalizing little snippets of information appear in the Press and then, sometimes years later, one comes across their sequels. I’ve just had a beautiful example. In the spring of 1954—I’ve looked up the date—it was April 19—an iceberg was reported off the coast of Florida. I remember spotting this news item and thinking it highly peculiar. The Gulf Stream, you know, is born in the Straits of Florida, and I didn’t see how an iceberg could get that far south before it melted. But I forgot about the whole business almost immediately, thinking it was just another of those tall stories which the papers like to print when there isn’t any real news.

  “And then, about a week ago, I met a friend who’d been a Commander in the U.S. Navy, and he told me the whole astonishing tale. It’s such a remarkable story that I think it ought to be better known, though I’m sure that a lot of people simply won’t believe it.

  “Any of you who are familiar with domestic American affairs may know that Florida’s claim to be the Sunshine State is strongly disputed by some of the other forty-seven members of the Union. I don’t suppose New York or Maine or Connecticut are very serious contenders, but the State of California regards the Florida claim as an almost personal affront, and is always doing its best to refute it. The Floridians hit back by pointing to the famous Los Angeles smogs, then the Californians say, with careful anxiety, “Isn’t it about time you had another hurricane?’ and the Floridians reply ‘You can count on us when you want any earthquake relief.’ So it goes on, and this is where my friend Commander Dawson came into the picture.

  “The Commander had been in submarines, but was now retired. He’d been working as technical advisor on a film about the exploits of the submarine service when he was approached one day with a very peculiar proposition. I won’t say that the California Chamber of Commerce was behind it, as that might be libel. You can make your own guesses…

  “Anyway, the idea was a typical Hollywood conception. So I thought at first, until I remembered that dear old Lord Dunsany had used a similar theme in one of his short stories. Maybe the Californian sponsor was a Jorkens fan, just as I am.

  “The scheme was delightful in its boldness and simplicity. Commander Dawson was offered a substantial sum of money to pilot an artificial iceberg to Florida, with a bonus if he could contrive to strand it on Miami Beach at the height of the season.

  “I need hardly say that the Commander accepted with alacrity: he came from Kansas himself, so could view the whole thing dispassionately as a purely commercial proposition. He got together some of his old crew, swore them to secrecy, and after much waiting in Washington corridors managed to obtain temporary loan of an obsolete submarine. Then he went to a big air-conditioning company, convinced them of his credit and his sanity, and got the icemaking plant installed in a big blister on the sub’s deck.

  “It would take an impossible amount of power to make a solid iceberg, even a small one, so a compromise was necessary. There would be an outer coating of ice a couple of feet thick, but Frigid Freda, as she was christened, was to be hollow. She would look quite impressive from outside, but would be a typical Hollywood stage set when one got behind the scenes. However, nobody would see her inner secrets except the Commander and his men. She would be set adrift when the prevailing winds and currents were in the right direction, and would last long enough to cause the calculated alarm and despondency.

  “Of course, there were endless practical problems to be solved. It would take several days of steady freezing to create Freda, and she must be launched as near her objective as possible. That meant that the submarine—which we’ll call the Marlin—would have to use a base not too far from Miami.

  “The Florida Keys were considered but at once rejected. There was no privacy down there any more; the fishermen now outnumbered the mosquitoes and a submarine would be spotted almost instantly. Even if the Marlin pretended she was merely smuggling, she wouldn’t be able to get away with it. So that plan was out.

  “There was another problem that the Commander had to consider. The coastal waters round Florida are extremely shallow, and though Freda’s draught would only be a couple of feet, everybody knew that an honest-to-goodness iceberg was nearly all below the waterline. It wouldn’t be very realistic to have an impressive-looking berg sailing through two feet of water. That would give the show away at once.

  “I don’t know exactly how the Commander overcame these technical problems, but I gather that he carried out several tests in the Atlantic, far from any shipping routes. The iceberg reported in the news was one of his early productions. Incidentally, neither Freda nor her brethren would have been a danger to shipping—being hollow, they would have broken up on impact.

  “Finally, all the preparations were complete. The Marlin lay out in the Atlantic, some distance north of Miami, with her ice-manufacturing equipment going full blast. It was a beautiful clear night, with a crescent moon sinking in the west. The Marlin had no navigation lights, but Commander Dawson was keeping a very strict watch for other ships. On a night like this, he’d be able to avoid them without being spotted himself.

  “Freda was still in an embryonic stage. I gather that the technique used was to inflate a large plastic bag with supercooled air, and spray water over it until a crust of ice formed. The bag could be removed when the ice was thick enough to stand up under its own weight. Ice is not a very good structural material, but there was no need for Freda to be very big. Even a small iceberg would be as disconcerting to the Florida Chamber of Commerce as a small baby to an unmarried lady.

  “Commander Dawson was in the conning tower, watching his crew working with their sprays of ice-cold water and jets of freezing air. They were now quite skilled at this unusual occupation, and delighted in little artistic touches. However, the Commander had had to put a stop to attempts to reproduce Marilyn Monroe in ice—though he filed the idea for future reference.

  “Just after midnight he was startled by a flash of light in the northern sky, and turned in time to see a red glow die away on the horizon.

  “‘There’s a plane down skipper!’ shouted one of the lookouts. ‘I just saw it crash!’ Without hesitation, the Commander shouted down to the engine room and set course to the north. He’d got an accurate fix on the glow, and judged that it couldn’t be more than a few miles away. The presence of Freda, covering most of the stern of his vessel, would not affect his speed appreciably, and in any case there was no way of getting rid of her quickly. He stopped the freezers to give more power to the main diesels, and shot ahead at full speed.

  “About thirty minutes later the lookout, using powerful night-glasses, spotted something lying in the water. ‘It’s still afloat,’ he said. ‘Some kin
d of airplane all right—but I can’t see any sign of life. And I think the wings have come off.’

  “He had scarcely finished speaking when there was an urgent report from another watcher.

  “‘Look, skipper—thirty degrees to starboard! What’s that?’

  “Commander Dawson swung around and whipped up his glasses. He saw, just visible above the water, a small oval object spinning rapidly on its axis.

  “‘Uh-huh,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid we’ve got company. That’s a radar scanner—there’s another sub here.’ Then he brightened considerably. ‘Maybe we can keep out of this after all,’ he remarked to his second in command. We’ll watch to see that they start rescue operations, then sneak away.’

  “‘We may have to submerge and abandon Freda. Remember they’ll have spotted us by now on their radar. Better slacken speed and behave more like a real iceberg.’

  “Dawson nodded and gave the order. This was getting complicated, and anything might happen in the next few minutes. The other sub would have observed the Marlin merely as a blip on its radar screen, but as soon as it upped periscope its commander would start investigating. Then the fat would be in the fire…

  “Dawson analyzed the tactical situation. The best move, he decided, was to employ his unusual camouflage to the full. He gave the order to swing the Marlin around so that her stern pointed towards the still submerged stranger. When the other sub surfaced, her commander would be most surprised to see an iceberg, but Dawson hoped he would be too busy with rescue operations to bother about Freda.