Fish Tails (37 page)

Jeples is a nice old glabinour, but not of sufficiently high rank to have a personal sustainer. It would be terrible to witness an execution for being out of tune when a little personal care would carry it through. Another season or so and it would be retired from court to spend its aged years in safety.

Besides, when a great HE becomes annoyed first thing in the morning, it usually doesn't stop with one deheading. It can go on and on until the moppers are in hysterics and all the blood drinkers are falling off their perches from inadvisable repletion. Not that Feblia is concerned for itself. Early-morning annoyances are virtually always same-­sex-­directed and glabinours are arbitrarily considered to be male. That old rivalry thing. Every
few octads someone proves morning dominance reclusions are a complete myth, that they are not caused by anything physiological or psychological, that no glands are spewing anything at all!

Oh, yes, it had been
conclusively
proven that morning dominance reclusions resulted from a
specific
irritation: a night's sleep not being as restful as usual; the night cook not as well prepared as he-­she-­it-­or-­they should have been; the shes of the previous evening not as skilled as they should have been. HOWEVER, in this particular case, one had to ask, “How could they be skilled? Look at that creature on the throne! Look at its amtrog! How can anyone NOT look at its amtrog?
Has anyone even IMAGINED an amtrog of that size? Immensely swollen, out of all proportion to purpose! How could any she or any
consortium
of SHES and ancillary ITS do
anything
with that monstrosity except regard it with fear and revulsion?”

Oh, Feblia had seen the devices developed by the Erotory Society for pleasing monsters like this. Disgusting! Terrible fleshy pink naliwags, made out of glafwood and that slithery Vantec stuff, twenty times, one hundred times normal size, requiring eight to ten erotory specialists to manipulate them. Manipulate . . . that meant with the hands! What word did one use for hands, arms, legs, filquabs, shoulders, and thrugs? One must, quite literally, throw oneself into the work! All that trouble and pain simply because a He (Plethrob) had decided to become more He (!) than anyone else.

In south Gobanjur, where Feblia was reared among its egg siblings, any male who showed any sign whatsoever of developing that bigger-­bigger-­bigger ambition was mercifully and quietly done away with. It was the only sensible thing to do. But here in the north? They
enthroned
them, what else? The net effect was rizziwanks of infant males running about shouting, “Ooky me, ooky me. l gotta bigger amtrog'n you do!” And then, when the children got old enough to see a real monster, they suffered terminal frustration and either died or relieved the pressure with indiscriminate slaughter.

And lately there'd been entirely too much of that! When would members of the Jiptwik—­the almost-­royal-­families—­realize they could not help their kinfolk and snafluggers by nominating them to positions at court for which they were not well trained or equipped! Inevitably such a one would draw attention to him, her, it, or them selves by improper costume, inadequate abasement, or failure to hrack soon enough. At which point the dominant HE—­
who would inevitably be all too full of HIMself
—­would execute the creature for inability to shlub or some other such foolishness. Such heedless nominations were inexplicable—­unless, of course, the Jiptwik had wanted to get rid of the nominee all along. It could happen. It had happened, as Feblia knew, when the Snafluggers (one of the Jiptwik clans) had wanted to rid themselves of Feblia's own brood brother, Plikkub. Of course, Plikkub had always been an idiot.

Nobody, absolutely nobody is unable to shlub! One learns shlubbing in infant school! Seventeen damned cycles of it. One could shlub in one's sleep! In over thirty languages. One could shlub while laspinking, and one's partners would not even notice!

Ah! The great HE is speaking.

“This Lom-­world was asked for help, yes?”

“It truly was, Eyelash of Heaven. Urth-­world asked Lom-­world for help.”

“Because this Urth-­world was being destroyed?”

“Magnificent Muscle, it was indeed being destroyed by a plague of mankinds.”

“Mankinds? Am I aware of mankinds?”

“Why would the Glorious Skinflake take any notice of such inconsiderable trifles?”

“Most Magnificent Self would not. So how did Lom assist this Urth?”

“It offered to drown the destroyers, O heavenly hair follicle.”

“Ah. How?”

“How, most Marvelous Cuticle?”

Feblia felt a drop of sweat forming. Oh, no.

The great HE actually swelled. “Are you blamfozzled, Jeples? One means where did they get liquid? Space is abundant. Burning hydrogen is abundant. Metals are abundant. Light fills the very void. But liquid is not a condition universally available.”

“Ah, forgive my stupidity, Magnificent Nosehair. Hydroxic liquid is found in abundance on the-­very-­large-­world-­Squamutch, most Marvelous Mandible. You will remember that the-­very-­large-­world-­Squamutch had asked the planetary scrutators for more dry space on which to grow crops, those crops Your Magnificence has been kind enough to endorse. By taking one world's overabundance and placing it upon this other world—­”

“Which is named what again?”

“No, sir.”

“No, sir, what?”

“It is not named Whatagain, sir. It is named Urth.”

“Now that is a most demeaning untruth, Jeples. My Glorious and Utterly Unique Self has used its third retractable manipulator to access the catalog of acceptable worlds. Our own world of Barfram is there. Others are there. But my Astonishingly Masculine Self has found no planet with the name of Urth.”

Jeples bowed. Abasio/Feblia is amazed to see that its legs went down like a fold-­up ruler, five sets of knees bending in opposite directions, thus allowing Jeples to stop with his nose touching the floor. Jeples bounced up a few moglors in order to speak: “Your Magnificence is as ever utterly correct. Urth is never included in the catalog of
acceptable
worlds. As one said, it is infected with mankinds. It should have been fumigated aeons ago and IGGI ETC, the Inter-­Galactic Group Investigating Eradication of Toxic Creatures, is currently studying the problem. But all sensible creatures know how long such a study is likely to take, and meantime Urth is infected with hordes of mankinds who could at any time explode further into the great void to settle on other worlds as they have already transgressed upon Lom.

“Therefore, Miraculous One, Lom has prayed for succor from Squamutch, a conorbited world of vast size but only a tiny bit of land area, all dedicated to the farming of Fligbine. Through an utterly dependable, long-­life wormhole discovered by completely qualified and respectable Galactian Locators, liquid substance from Squamutch is being poured into the planet Urth. The wormhole being used has no inappropriate deviations and only one egress, which is buried deeply under the ocean on the planet Urth itself—­a location called the Mariana Trench. The wormhole has no lesser contiguities; it is direct and uncomplicated; and through it, one-­fifth of all liquid on Squamutch will be redirected into Urth. Urth—­a much smaller planet than Squamutch—­will be completely covered in ocean. Mankinds—­as air-­breathing, land-­dwelling creatures—­are being eradicated as IGGI ETC has ordered.” Jeples bounced slightly and began to hrack its way up.

“And as a happy side effect, Your Magnificence, Squamutch will end up with three times as much dry land on which to grow Fligbine, the Fligbine Your Utterly Flawless and Superb Magnificence so much enjoys in the evenings, or before the wake-­up meal, or after the afternoon nappy.”

Or any time at all, thought Feblia, when His Magnificent Muchness had nothing else to keep him amused.

“I am pleased,” said the Great One, almost smiling. The room hummed with pleasure and relief. The Great One had almost smiled! And before breakfast! The blood drinkers hummed.

Feblia reflected on the truth that Fligbine is delicious when eaten or sipped as a tea. When inserted into one's lateral anstrackle—­an anatomical feature of both males and neuters, but not of shes or frigles—­it produces a long-­lasting euphoria. It is also addictive. At the current time, this Great He Plethrob was,
all by himself,
utilizing half the annual crop produced on Squamutch in each Barframian year. In addition to His Enormous Maleness, the rest of Himself was actually getting fat! Which everyone is pretending to admire, for the Great One is soooo much less bloodthirsty when he is on Fligbine!
Lots and lots of Fligbine!

“Fligbine,” murmured Feblia as it moved back through the surrounding draperies and into the hallway, bumping into someone as it closed the curtains behind it.

“Oh, pardon me,” Feblia murmured, making the correct gesture of appropriate avoidance.

“Not at all,” the creature it had bumped replied. “I was waiting here for you. You are Abasio, aren't you?”

“Feblia,” he/it said. “Feblia. I don't want to cause any—­”

“Of course not. And it was nice of you to think kindly on old Jeples. He hasn't been the same since his snardat died. Little Pootsie.”

“Oh, no! Not the pretty little one with the purple ears. Really?” Abasio/Feblia found him/itself remembering a tiny creature, fluffy, with long . . . no, was that the right . . .  ?

“You probably never received the dream transmission at full resolution,” said the bumped creature. “Pootsie was a snardat. Furry? Rolled around like a ball? A beloved pet.”

The bumped creature had six legs, Feblia/Abasio noticed, and six arms, and a determinedly cheerful face. The six-­legged creature smiled. It had a very pleasant smile. Abasio/Feblia remembered that smile. It had seen that smile before . . .

The creature spoke: “I have just injected myself into this dream transmission to introduce myself. My name is Balytaniwassinot. Bally Tanny Wahsi Not. Among my ­people it's a fairly short name, but others sometimes have trouble with it. Earthers do, I've noticed.” The creature put two of its arms on Abasio/Feblia's shoulders and stared deeply, hypnotically into his, its, Feblia's eyes.

“Please try to keep this in mind, Abasio. I have inadvisably involved myself in the mankind problem! It's against the regulations! I admit that. However, I have an overwhelming aversion to what was going to happen if we let matters take their course. Humans are a galactic nuisance; one can accept that, one has to accept that, the evidence is overwhelming. They are also, however, a very creative and innovative ­people. One has only to look at this new thing, this aquati-­forming of their race. Well, in the last analysis, it all comes down to bao or no bao. If we can fix that lack . . . well, I think of it rather like a blood transfusion. One that carries certain antibodies. You're not following? That's all right.
You will remember!
You'll add two and two to get four and four plus four to get barflic and a half, like humans always do. Nonetheless . . .

“I wanted you to know that you and your sweet wife have my congratulations. You're managing very well. I've been observing the sea-­­people process for some little time—­time jumping is such a help!—­a century here, a century there. Forbidden, of course, so one has to fix the logs to cover. I've become an expert at that. (Dream transmissions, being my own invention, are not monitored or recorded in anyone's logs, so this is just between us two. You may not recall the details, but I intend that you shall retain the feeling of reassurance.)

“At any rate, it's all coming to a—­what does one say—­to a climax? To a crisis? I've heard your plea to the Listener, as well as those of others, and since the, ah,
the nitty-­gritty
—­the phrase is archaic but descriptive—­looms ever more closely on our horizon, keep in mind that I will be there to assist. If things appear particularly upsetting, don't despair. That final tending to details is often the worst part, but they will be tended to. I just wanted you to know.”

The dream had wandered off into never-­never land. Abasio felt the outlines of things wavering. “Very kind of you, Mr. Bahlee . . . ah . . .”

“Oh, do call me by my nickname. Fixit. So much easier. And it's what I do. Sometimes in accordance with policy . . . sometimes, as in this case, not entirely. Policy is all very well, but it never makes room for the exceptional, does it? I do hate to see any race of creatures totally expunged, and that would have been the alternative. And everything comes down to a question of bao in the end. It was nice to see you. And it was interesting to learn about the Fligbine . . .”

“Fligbine,” said Abasio to himself as he wakened. “Good old Fligbine.”

A
BASIO HAD AWAKENED BECAUSE
K
IM
had put his head into the wagon to report that one of the horses had a foot problem.

Abasio reviewed the dream, quite clearly. He lifted his shirt to be sure his belly was not . . . unbellylike, wondered briefly how someone injected themselves into someone else's dream life, decided it had merely been part of the whole dream, none of which made much sense. Or . . . hadn't Xulai said something about the amount of water exceeding the size of the presumed source? Or had that been something Precious Wind had said?