Still bonelessly undulating, she was backing toward the dark pond. Yet somehow the distance between us had not grown. That puzzled me for a moment, until I realized that I was swaying along after her. It seemed to be exactly the right thing to do.
I had the vaguest inkling that I was supposed to be engaged in some other task, something to do with Baldie. The word “qualities” tried to make itself known, but the humming and the swaying played trump upon trump.
I took another step. At that moment, a blast of icy cold liquid slapped against my face, instantly sobering me.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Greeves. “I was bringing you a glass of refreshment and stumbled on the uneven ground.” A firm hand took my arm, as he said, “Please let me lead you to the house, where we will locate a towel and undo the damage.”
The strong grip now drew me steadily away from the pond. The humming and speaking faded to a dwindle, then suddenly the Gloster head was once more illuminated by its customary clarity. I looked at Greeves and saw him regarding me with what I took to be a judgmental eye. I withdrew my arm from his grasp.
“A towel, Greeves?” I said, then added, “Pshaw! The occasion requires not less but more liquid, preferably brown, well aged, and with a splash of soda.” I strode toward the house.
“Indeed, sir,” he said, matching me step for step. “I will be pleased to prepare it for you.”
“Do so, Greeves,” I said as we crossed the threshold, shedding my rain gear, “and be not parsimonious in the dispensing.”
“As you wish, sir.”
Moments later, in the drawing room, he handed me a beaker of the best. I quaffed half in one swallow, took a breath, then downed the rest. I extended the glass to Greeves, and said, “Another is called for, I think.”
“Indeed, sir,” he said, gliding over to the drinks cabinet to repeat the miracle.
“And then,” I said, “some thinking must ensue.”
He returned with the whiskey. “Yes, sir. If I may say so, I have taken the liberty of examining the records stored in the library, and I believe I can provide grist for the mill.”
I might have mentioned before that Greeves is a great one for the information-gathering. Little that has happened since Adam was a ball of clay has escaped his attention. “Say on, Greeves,” I told him, taking a seat and doing justice to the drink. I was surprised that Baldie should have bothered to stock a decent single malt; carrot juice was more his line of country. But Greeves soon cleared up that minor point along with some more salient issues.
It seemed that the house in which we stood—actually, I sat while Greeves paced and recounted the fruits of his researches—had been built by none other than Hudibras Gillattely, a newt boffin. Baldie, arriving to give the professor the benefit of his views, had found it empty and simply moved in.
“I take it that, once he was exposed to the climate, this Gillattely fellow realized that the game was not worth the candle?” I said. “He departed for sunnier climes?”
“Apparently not, sir,” was the answer. “It seems that Professor Gillattely mysteriously disappeared while still in the midst of a research project focused on the pond outside. But he published his initial observations in the Journal of Salamandidrae Studies, of which he was the editor. Mr. Spotts-Binkle read the article and immediately wrote to the author. When his telegram was returned as undeliverable, he took umbrage and came to Venus to make his points in person.”
A picture was beginning to emerge, though I could not quite bring it into focus. “Is there more, Greeves?” I said.
“Indeed there is, sir.” His face took on a cast that I recognized. There was not only more, but the more was a pip. I bid him say on and braced myself for the fall of the other shoe.
“Professor Gillattely’s notes were written in a gentlemanly hand—” he began.
“In other words, nearly unreadable?” I offered.
“Very nearly, sir. But I was able to decipher much of them. His work was focusing on a new species he had named veneria salamandidrae sireni, especially on the creature’s reproductive habits.”
“I say,” I said, remembering Shilistrata’s limberness, “something saucy?”
“No, sir. To the contrary: the species is parthenogenetic.”
I grasped at a passing straw. “Persians?”
“No, sir. If I may presume to correct you, the term comes from the Greek word for a maiden, parthenos, and denotes a method of reproduction in which the female plays all the necessary roles, without benefit of male participation.”
“Oh,” I said, “not very sporting, if you ask me.”
“Indeed, not. No sport at all, sir.”
We seemed to have wandered down a byway. I sought to bring us back to the main thoroughfare. “What’s this got to do with Baldie?”
“Mr. Spotts-Binkle has taken up the torch where Professor Gillattely let it fall, sir,” Greeves said. “He has continued to study reproduction among the v. salamandidrae sireni. He has been fortunate not to suffer the same fate as his predecessor.”
“Eh?” I said. “I thought that was a mystery?”
“It was, sir,” he said, “until I examined the evidence.”
“Well, well done, Greeves,” I said. “They haven’t yet devised the plot you can’t fathom. That Christie woman should put you on a retainer.”
“Very kind of you to say, sir.”
“Not at all. Credit where credit’s due. So, what’s it all about, then?”
“The crucial clue, sir, was in the creature’s name, specifically the sireni cognomen.”
The term rang a faint bell. “Something to do with that Ulysses chap and beeswax?” I said.
“Indeed, sir. Ulysses put wax in the ears of his fellow Argonauts, then had them chain him to the mast while they rowed the Argo past the Isles of the Sirens, whose irresistible song drew hapless mariners onto wave-washed rocks.”
“Irresistible song, Greeves? You mean like that catchy little ditty Shilistrata was humming?”
“Exactly like, sir.”
The picture was becoming clear now, and a dire vista it made. “She was trying to lure me?”
“Into the pond, sir. Where she would have, if you’ll pardon my plain speaking, immersed you in the ooze and laid her eggs in every available orifice.”
“Oh, I say, Greeves! A fate worse than death!”
“I’m sorry to contradict you, sir. Death would have come before the egg-laying. By drowning, as it no doubt did for Professor Gillattely.”
“You haven’t seen any beeswax lying about, have you, Greeves?” I looked around, as if some might be conveniently to hand.
“Again, sir, I must correct you,” Greeves said.
“Blaze away, Greeves! The floor is yours.”
“Wax will not serve, sir, because the creature Mr. Spotts-Binkle has named Shilistrata communicates by mental telepathy.”
“Reads minds, you mean?”
“I cannot vouch for the reading, sir,” he said. “Her mentation is not like ours. But certainly she broadcasts a strong signal.”
“That humming,” I said. “Rather compelling.”
“Indeed, sir.”
I dwelt upon the matter for a few moments while allowing more of the flavor of peat and heather to do their salutary work. Then a thought struck. “But, you, Greeves, were not affected. It was as if your mental ears were stuffed with wax.”
“My mind was on other things, sir,” he said, “most particularly your safety.”
“Ah,” I said, and, “well.” After a moment, I added, “Thank you, Greeves.”
“Not at all, sir.”
“Is there more?”
“A little, sir. It would seem that Shilistrata, having fulfilled her biological destiny with Professor Gillattely, again came into season and began seeking a new host for her young. Mr. Spotts-Binkle presented himself and she began the process of, if I may speak bluntly, reeling him in. But then she decided, for reasons only she could know, that he was unsuitable. She decided to wait for a better prospect.”