“Yes,” agreed Colonel Christie. He swirled the remains of his sherry thoughtfully around the bottom of his glass.
“And to regain its rightful place in the world.”
“Yes, that too,” muttered the Prime Minister. of course, did everything I could, went before the United Nations to offer the formula for the most modest royalties, even flew to Paris to negotiate under a flag of truce. Shocking behavior that, even for Froggies.”
“Yes, an outright rejection. Said they’d found their own antidote.”
“Muttered something about being the country of Pasteur and Curie, blast ’em.” The Prime Minister scowled darkly at his empty glass, thrust it out to be refilled by Colonel Christie. “A cheeky lot, even when they’re up to their necks in Roquefort.”
“Were up to their necks, I’m afraid,” said the Permanent Secretary. He sighed. “Their antidote worked even better than they said it would; it not only destroyed Colonel Christie’s surprise de Roquefort, but, as a useful by-product of its withering away, it also seems to be regenerating the ozone depletion in the Earth’s atmosphere.”
“And now it’s all been completely eradicated?” asked Colonel Christie. “Even here in the British Isles?”
“Oh, yes, everywhere. After cleaning up the rest of the world, the French were kind enough to send an entire flotilla of aeroplanes to every last cranny of this sceptered isle. They billed us, of course, in Swiss francs. But Penicillium roquefortii christii is now entirely a thing of the past, even here.”
The Colonel sighed. “Ah, well, such are the vicissitudes of war.”
“Vicissitudes!” The Prime Minister’s scowl deepened. “That’s all you have to say about it, man, about… about the greatest disaster in the history of England?”
Colonel Christie shrugged minutely. “Our antidote did work—at least when we tested it out.” He shrugged again, sipped listlessly at his sherry. “Only, only—”
“Only it sterilized every male in the British Isles when we sprayed it on your say-so, you lunatic!” The Prime Minister’s voice rose to a scream.
“Yes, that was unfortunate, I do admit. Something devilishly subtle about affecting the protein structure of developing spermatozoa, I believe. How was I or Hollilockes to possibly know?”
“No child has been born in the British Isles in the past three and a half months,” said the Permanent Secretary between gritted teeth, “except those conceived overseas. Already the nation’s sperm banks have been completely depleted. France, I believe, has offered to send as much as we need from similar institutions of their own.” He turned cold blue eyes to Colonel Christie. “And, I believe, I saw on this morning’s telly six aeroplane loads of hearty young French volunteers—all of them male—arriving at Heathrow in order to help out with what one of them called ‘la maladie anglaise’.” His stare intensified. “Do you realize, Colonel Christie, that singlehandedly you have wiped out the English race?”
“Ah, yes,” murmured the Colonel, his gaze moving absently around the Tower room he shared with the Prime Minister. Finally it settled on the small teak dining table, “Ah, yes. A pity, that. Tell me, Secretary, do you think you could possibly ask the warder on your way out to send us up a nice piece of Stilton for dinner? Its veins are always so much bluer and tastier than a Roquefort’s, don’t you agree?”
EDITOR’S NOTE: You can read the prior history of this situation in the author’s “Unlimited Warfare,” in our November 1974 issue.