Hidden Variables (50 page)

Clearly, it could not last. Lord Emsworth had reappeared from the study holding another full glass, and now he was ready to repossess Whiffle and continue his studies. Inexplicably, it was in the hands of a large, hairy gentleman who had apparently just come from an audition for the part of Othello, Moor of Venice. The Earl advanced and stood before the newcomer.

"Whiffle," he said courteously, holding out his hand.

"Aye, Whiffle," agreed Sir Hamish.

"I mean, I would like my copy of Whiffle. I was reading it."

To Lord Emsworth's great surprise, he perceived that the visitor had been reading it too. He had made many attempts to persuade others of his own household to peruse the work in detail, but had met with no success. But here, apparently, was a man who was studying the work without coercion.

Sir Hamish looked up from the book and shook his blackened head.

"Nae doot aboot it, this mon's a gee-enius. Would ye see this noo, his deescussin' o' the feedin' mix."

"You read Whiffle?" asked Lord Emsworth. He was a man who liked to be sure.

Sir Hamish nodded. "Aye. Morn an' eve. He's the Masterr of us a'."

There was no mistaking the reverence in his tone. Lord Emsworth felt the sudden thrill of communion with a fellow spirit. Sir Hamish had expressed his own sentiments exactly.

"Did you ever—?" he began, but Beach had appeared annoyingly in front of him.

"Excuse me, My Lord, but I wonder if you wish me to arrest this intruder."

"Arrest him?"

"Yes, My Lord. For illegal entry."

"Certainly not, Beach. This gentleman is not an intruder. Didn't you hear what he said about Whiffle? Tell me," said Lord Emsworth, turning his attention again to Sir Hamish. "Do you by any chance raise pigs yourself?"

Sir Hamish hung his head in shame. It was a question that seared his soul. "Ah'm tryin'. But it's nae use. Ma piggy's as thin as a wheeppet. Ah canna mak' the Jewel tak' tae the bran mash."

"Ah." Lord Emsworth looked grave. He knew how such problems could bring a strong man to the brink of despair. "I wonder, have you tried adding a spoonful of malt to it?"

"Malt?"

"One tablespoonful to two pounds of mash."

"Ye think it'd perr-suade yon tae tak' her fodder?"

"The Empress of Blandings put on ten pounds in the first week I tried it."

"Ten!"

"Ten."

"Poonds!"

"Pounds," corrected Lord Emsworth.

"Ah'll try it," said Sir Hamish. Then he hung his head again. The scales were falling from his eyes, and he realized that only a man of saintly mind would reveal the secrets of superpig raising to a rival.

"But Ah hafta mak'a confession tae ye. Ah was after tryin' tae steal the Empress."

"Stealing her?"

Sir Hamish nodded glumly. "Aye. She's a queen o' pigs. Ah wanted t' tak' her."

"Very natural," said Lord Emsworth charitably. "If she didn't belong to me I would feel the same way myself. But now, about this important matter of the feeding mix. What do you think of the Petrovsky masher? That's what I've been using, but there are still lumps in the feed."

"Aye, Ah ken that. Ye ha' need o' the McGillicuddy Mix-Master, afore the mash. Then there's niver ony deeficulty wi' it."

Lord Emsworth blinked with excitement. It sounded like the instrument he had been looking for. He wondered how he had failed to meet this excellent man before, one who knew his Whiffle thoroughly and who, despite a penchant for burnt cork and an apparently incurable speech impediment, was willing to dispense good advice so freely.

"I'll buy one immediately. Beach, get me Whister's of Bond Street on the telephone."

Beach coughed politely. "With respect, Your Lordship, it is now eleven o'clock at night. I am not sure they will still be open."

"Eleven o'clock? Good Heavens, then it's time for the Empress to have her bread and molasses." He looked at Sir Hamish diffidently. "You know, there is a Fat Pig Contest over in Bletchingham next week, and I will be unable to attend in person—there's this silly nonsense in the House Of Lords, and my sister will make me go to it. I was wondering. Is there any chance that you would be willing to show the Empress for me? If it wouldn't be too much trouble."

Sir Hamish, overcome with emotion, picked up a priceless Elizabethan embroidery and wiped at his eyes with it. Three woven members of the English nobility were transformed to chimney sweeps.

"Ah canna think o' anythin' finer. Ah'm no worthy o' the honor, Ma' Lorrd."

Lord Emsworth put his arm around Sir Hamish's shoulders and led him to the door. It went without saying that his visitor would want to share the excitement when the Empress embarked on her last meal of the day.

"Call me Clarence," he said.

AFTERWORD: THE MARRIAGE OF TRUE MINDS.

As they say, one pig leads to another. After Judy-Lyn delRey bought "The Deimos Plague" for STELLAR 4, we sat in her office and talked of our shared admiration for P.G. Wodehouse in general and the Empress of Blandings in particular. She remarked how nice it would be if there were a story in which the Empress starred in a fantasy or sf setting, complete with the other occupants of Blandings Castle.

I agreed completely, went back home, and wrote this story with much enjoyment and even more effort. The Wodehouse style is unique and it is beyond hubris to try to match it.

By the time this was finished I had sold a different story ("The Subtle Serpent") for STELLAR 5, and anyway this wasn't right for that series. However, Judy-Lynn helped me to obtain permission to publish from the Wodehouse literary executors, and I sold the story to FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION. For a week or two after the sale I was riding high. I must, I felt, have captured that delicate and elusive Wodehouse touch.

I came down in a hurry. I received a letter from Ed Ferman, editor of F&SF. He had not, he explained, read any P.G. Wodehouse. Would I therefore send him some appropriate background for the story's lead-in?

Oh my prosthetic soul! I sent background material, of course I sent it. But if not actually disgruntled, I was (to borrow from the Master) far from being gruntled.

THE END