Collected Stories Of Arthur C. Clarke (115 page)

The creature was now about six feet tall, and apparently still growing – though much more slowly than it had been. All the other plants had been moved from its end of the conservatory, not so much because Hercules feared that it might be cannibalistic as to enable him to tend them without danger. He had stretched a rope across the central aisle so that there was no risk of his accidentally walking within range of those eight dangling arms.

It was obvious that the orchid had a highly developed nervous system, and something very nearly approaching intelligence. It knew when it was going to be fed, and exhibited unmistakable signs of pleasure. Most fantastic of all – though Hercules was still not sure about this – it seemed capable of producing sounds. There were times, just before a meal, when he fancied he could hear an incredibly high-pitched whistle, skirting the edge of audibility. A newborn bat might have had such a voice: he wondered what purpose it served. Did the orchid somehow lure its prey into its clutches by sound? If so, he did not think the technique would work on him.

While Hercules was making these interesting discoveries, he continued to be fussed over by Aunt Henrietta and assaulted by her hounds, which were never as house-trained as she claimed them to be. She would usually roar up the street on a Sunday afternoon with one dog in the seat beside her and another occupying most of the baggage compartment. Then she would bound up the steps two at a time, nearly deafen Hercules with her greeting, half paralyse him with her handshake, and blow cigar smoke in his face. There had been a time when he was terrified that she would kiss him, but he had long since realised that such effeminate behaviour was foreign to her nature.

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 overpowering 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 goodhearted 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 authorites 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 kindhearted 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 teacups 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 playfuly 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 conservatory.’

‘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 slaughterhouse. Haven’t met such a stink since I shot that elephant in Bulawayo and we couldn’t find it for a week.’

‘Sorry, Auntie,’ apologised Hercules, propelling her forward through the gloom. ‘It’s a new fertiliser 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 scrutinising 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 realised 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.

‘No – 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 to 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 muted 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 not 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 conservtory, 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….

Moving Spirit

First published in
Tales from the White Hart

In this tale from the White Hart, Harry Purvis introduces us to a ‘genuine mad scientist’ living in an out-of-the-way part of Cornwall, which is coincidentally where ‘Charles Willis’ – or should I say Arthur C. Clarke – spent part of his wartime service.

We were discussing a sensational trial at the Old Bailey when Harry Purvis, whose talent for twisting the conversation to his own ends is really unbelievable, remarked casually: ‘I was once an expert witness in a rather interesting case.’

‘Only a
witness
?’ said Drew, as he deftly filled two glasses of Bass at once.

‘Yes – but it was a rather close thing. It was in the early part of the war, about the time we were expecting the invasion. That’s why you never heard about it at the time.’

‘What makes you assume,’ said Charles Willis suspiciously, ‘that we never did hear of it?’

It was one of the few times I’d ever seen Harry caught trying to cover up his tracks. ‘
Qui s’excuse s’accuse
,’ I thought to myself, and waited to see what evading action he’d take.

‘It was such a peculiar case,’ he replied with dignity, ‘that I’m sure you’d have reminded me of it if you ever saw the reports. My name was featured quite prominently. It all happened in an out-of-the-way part of Cornwall, and it concerned the best example of that rare species, the genuine mad scientist, that I’ve ever met.’

Perhaps that wasn’t really a fair description, Purvis amended hastily. Homer Ferguson was eccentric and had little foibles like keeping a pet boa constrictor to catch the mice, and never wearing shoes around the house. But he was so rich that no one noticed things like this.

Homer was also a competent scientist. Many years ago he had graduated from Edinburgh University, but having plenty of money he had never done a stroke of real work in his life. Instead, he pottered round the old vicarage he’d bought not far from Newquay and amused himself building gadgets. In the last forty years he’d invented television, ball-point pens, jet propulsion, and a few other trifles. However, as he had never bothered to take out any patents, other people had got the credit. This didn’t worry him in the least, as he was of a singularly generous disposition, except with money.

It seemed that, in some complicated way, Purvis was one of his few living relatives. Consequently when Harry received a telegram one day requesting his assistance at once, he knew better than to refuse. No one knew exactly how much money Homer had or what he intended to do with it. Harry thought he had as good a chance as anyone, and he didn’t intend to jeopardise it. At some inconvenience he made the journey down to Cornwall and turned up at the Vicarage.