Misunderstood. P.G. Wodehouse.

James 'Spider' Buffin.

 

P.G. Wodehouse

The profession of Mr. James ("Spider") Buffin was pocket-picking. His hobby was revenge. James had no objection to letting the sun go down on his wrath. Indeed, it was after dark that he corrected his numerous enemies most satisfactorily. It was on a dark night, while he was settling a small score against one Kelly, a mere acquaintance, that he first fell foul of Constable Keating, whose beat took him through the regions which James most frequented.

  James, having "laid for" Mr. Kelly, met him in a murky side-street down

Clerkenwell way, and attended to his needs with a sand-bag.

  It was here that Constable Keating first came prominently into his life. Just as James, with the satisfying feeling that his duty had been done, was preparing to depart, Officer Keating, who had been a distant spectator of the affair, charged up and seized him.

  It was intolerable that he should interfere in a purely private falling-out between one gentleman and another, but there was nothing to be done. The policeman weighed close upon fourteen stone, and could have eaten Mr. Buffin. The latter, inwardly seething, went quietly, and in due season was stowed away at the Government's expense for the space of sixty days.

  Physically, there is no doubt that his detention did him good. The regular hours and the substitution of bread and water for his wonted diet improved his health thirty per cent. It was mentally that he suffered. His was one of those just-as-good cheap-substitute minds, incapable of harbouring more than one idea at a time, and during those sixty days of quiet seclusion it was filled with an ever-growing resentment against Officer Keating. Every day, as he moved about his appointed tasks, he brooded on his wrongs. Every night was to him but the end of another day that kept him from settling down to the serious business of Revenge. To be haled to prison for correcting a private enemy with a sand-bag—that was what stung. In the privacy of his cell he dwelt unceasingly on the necessity for revenge. The thing began to take on to him the aspect almost of a Holy Mission, a sort of Crusade.

 

  * * * * *

 

  The days slipped by, bringing winter to Clerkenwell, and with it Mr. Buffin. He returned to his old haunts one Friday night, thin but in excellent condition. One of the first acquaintances he met was Officer Keating. The policeman, who had a good memory for faces, recognised him, and stopped.

  "So you're out, young feller?" he said genially. When not in the active discharge of his professional duties the policeman was a kindly man. He bore Mr. Buffin no grudge.

  "Um," said Mr. Buffin.

  "Feeling fine, eh?"

  "Um."

  "Goin' round to see some of the chaps and pass them the time of day, I shouldn't wonder?"

  "Um."

  "Well, you keep clear of that lot down in Frith Street, young feller. They're no good. And if you get mixed up with them, first thing you know, you'll be in trouble again. And you want to keep out of that now."

  "Um."

  "If you never get into trouble," said the policeman sententiously, "you'll never have to get out of it."

  "Um," said Mr. Buffin. If he had a fault as a conversationalist, it was a certain tendency to monotony, a certain lack of sparkle and variety in his small-talk.

  Constable Keating, with a dignified but friendly wave of the hand, as one should say, "You have our leave to depart," went on his way; while Mr. Buffin, raging, shuffled off in the opposite direction, thinking as hard as his limited mental equipment would allow him.

  His thoughts, which were many and confused, finally composed themselves into some order. He arrived at a definite conclusion, which was that if the great settlement was to be carried through successfully it must be done when the policeman was off duty. Till then he had pictured himself catching Officer Keating in an unguarded moment on his beat. This, he now saw, was out of the question. On his beat the policeman had no unguarded moments. There was a quiet alertness in his poise, a danger-signal in itself.

"You've got to butter him up, sir. I mean, like be nice to him."

  There was only one thing for Mr. Buffin to do. Greatly as it would go against the grain, he must foregather with the man, win his confidence, put himself in a position where he would be able to find out what he did with himself when off duty.

  The policeman offered no obstacle to the move. A supreme self-confidence was his leading characteristic. Few London policemen are diffident, and Mr. Keating was no exception. It never occurred to him that there could be an ulterior motive behind Mr. Buffin's advances. He regarded Mr. Buffin much as one regards a dog which one has had to chastise. One does not expect the dog to lie in wait and bite. Officer Keating did not expect Mr. Buffin to lie in wait and bite.

  So every day, as he strolled on his beat, there sidled up to him the meagre form of Spider Buffin. Every day there greeted him the Spider's "Good-morning, Mr. Keating," till the sight of Officer Keating walking solidly along the pavement with Spider Buffin shuffling along at his side, listening with rapt interest to his views on Life and his hints on Deportment, became a familiar spectacle in Clerkenwell.

 

 * * * * *

 

  Mr. Buffin played his part well. In fact, too well. It was on the seventh day that, sidling along in the direction of his favourite place of refreshment, he found himself tapped on the shoulder. At the same moment an arm, linking itself in his, brought him gently to a halt. Beside him were standing two of the most eminent of the great Frith Street Gang, Otto the Sausage and Rabbit Butler. It was the finger of the Rabbit that had tapped his shoulder. The arm tucked in his was the arm of Otto the Sausage.

  "Hi, Spider," said Mr. Butler, "Sid wants to see you a minute."

  The Spider's legs felt boneless. There was nothing in the words to alarm a man, but his practised ear had seemed to detect a certain unpleasant dryness in the speaker's tone. Sid Marks, the all-powerful leader of the Frith Street Gang, was a youth whose company the Spider had always avoided with some care.

  The great Sid, seated in state at a neighbouring hostelry, fixed his visitor with a cold and questioning eye. Mr. Buffin looked nervous and interrogative. Mr. Marks spoke.

  "Your pal Keating pinched Porky Binns this mornin'," said Sid.

  The Spider's heart turned to water.

  "You and that slop," observed Sid dreamily, "have been bloomin' thick these days."

  Mr. Buffin did not affect to misunderstand. Sid Marks was looking at him in that nasty way. Otto the Sausage was looking at him in that nasty way. Rabbit Butler was looking at him in that nasty way. This was an occasion where manly frankness was the quality most to be aimed at. To be misunderstood in the circles in which Mr. Buffin moved meant something more than the mere risk of being treated with cold displeasure.

  He began to explain with feverish eagerness.

  "Strike me, Sid," he stammered, "it ain't like that. It's all right. Blimey, you don't fink I'm a nark?"

  Mr. Marks chewed a straw in silence.

  "I'm layin' for him, Sid," babbled Mr. Buffin. "That's true. Strike me if it ain't. I'm just tryin' to find out where he goes when he's off duty. He pinched me, so I'm layin' for him."

  Mr. Marks perpended. Rabbit Butler respectfully gave it as his opinion that it would be well to put Mr. Buffin through it. There was nothing like being on the safe side. By putting Mr. Buffin through it, argued Rabbit Butler, they would stand to win either way. If he had "smitched" to Officer Keating about Porky Binns he would deserve it. If he had not—well, it would prevent him doing so on some future occasion. Play for safety, was Mr. Butler's advice, seconded by Otto the Sausage. Mr. Buffin, pale to the lips, thought he had never met two more unpleasant persons.

"It's just that The Sausage has been asking about you, Spider. Nothin' personal."

  The Great Sid, having chewed his straw for a while in silence, delivered judgment. The prisoner should have the benefit of the doubt this time. His story, however unplausible, might possibly be true. Officer Keating undoubtedly had pinched him. That was in his favour.

  "You can hop it this time," he said, "but if you ever do start smitchin', Spider, yer knows what'll happen."

  Mr. Buffin withdrew, quaking.

  Matters had now come to a head. Unless he very speedily gave proof of his pure and noble intentions, life would become extremely unsafe for him. He must act at once. The thought of what would happen should another of the Frith Streeters be pinched before he, Mr. Buffin, could prove himself innocent of the crime of friendliness with Officer Keating, turned him cold.

  Fate played into his hands. On the very next morning Mr. Keating, all unsuspecting, asked him to go to his home with a message for his wife.

  "Tell her," said Mr. Keating, "a newspaper gent has given me seats for the play to-night, and I'll be home at a quarter to seven."

  Mr. Buffin felt as Cromwell must have felt at Dunbar when the Scots left their stronghold on the hills and came down to the open plain.

  The winter had set in with some severity that year, and Mr. Buffin's toes, as he stood in the shadows close to the entrance of the villa where Officer Keating lived when off duty, were soon thoroughly frozen. He did not dare to stamp his feet, for at any moment now the victim might arrive. And when the victim weighs fourteen stone, against the high priest's eight and a half, it behooves the latter to be circumspect, if the sacrifice is to be anything like a success. So Mr. Buffin waited and froze in silence. It was a painful process, and he added it to the black score which already stood against Officer Keating. Never had his thirst for revenge been more tormenting. It is doubtful if a strictly logical and impartial judge would have held Mr. Keating to blame for the fact that Sid Marks' suspicions (and all that those suspicions entailed) had fallen upon Mr. Buffin; but the Spider did so. He felt fiercely resentful against the policeman for placing him in such an unpleasant and dangerous position. As his thoughts ran on the matter, he twisted his fingers tighter round his stick.

  As he did so there came from down the road the brisk tramp of feet and a cheerful whistling of "The Wearing of the Green." It is a lugubrious song as a rule, but, as rendered by Officer Keating returning home with theatre tickets, it had all the joyousness of a march-tune.

  Every muscle in Mr. Buffin's body stiffened. He gripped his stick and waited. The road was deserted. In another moment….

  And then, from nowhere, dark indistinct forms darted out like rats. The whistling stopped in the middle of a bar. A deep-chested oath rang out, and then a confused medley of sound, the rasping of feet, a growling almost canine, a sharp yelp, gasps, and over all the vast voice of Officer Keating threatening slaughter.

  For a moment Mr. Buffin stood incapable of motion. The thing had been so sudden, so unexpected. And then, as he realised what was happening, there swept over him in a wave a sense of intolerable injustice. It is not easy to describe his emotions, but they resembled most nearly those of an inventor whose patent has been infringed, or an author whose idea has been stolen. For weeks—and weeks that had seemed like years—he had marked down Officer Keating for his prey. For weeks he had tortured a mind all unused to thinking into providing him with schemes for accomplishing his end. He had outraged his nature by being civil to a policeman. He had risked his life by incurring the suspicions of Sid Marks. He had bought a stick. And he had waited in the cold till his face was blue and his feet blocks of ice. And now … now … after all this … a crowd of irresponsible strangers, with no rights in the man whatsoever probably, if the truth were known, filled with mere ignoble desire for his small change, had dared to rush in and jump his claim before his very eyes.

Spellbound by this fiendish plot...

  With one passionate cry, Mr. Buffin, forgetting his frozen feet, lifted his stick, and galloped down the road to protect his property….

  "That's the stuff," said a voice. "Pour some more into him, Jerry."

  Mr. Buffin opened his eyes. A familiar taste was in his mouth. Somebody of liberal ideas seemed to be pouring whisky down his throat. Could this be Heaven? He raised his head, and a sharp pain shot through it. And with the pain came recollection. He remembered now, dimly, as if it had all happened in another life, the mad rush down the road, the momentary pause in the conflict, and then its noisy renewal on a more impressive scale. He remembered striking out left and right with his stick. He remembered the cries of the wounded, the pain of his frozen feet, and finally the crash of something hard and heavy on his head.

  He sat up, and found himself the centre of a little crowd. There was Officer Keating, dishevelled but intact; three other policemen, one of whom was kneeling by his side with a small bottle in his hand; and, in the grip of the two were standing two youths.

  One was Otto the Sausage; the other was Rabbit Butler.

  The kneeling policeman was proffering the bottle once more. Mr. Buffin snatched at it. He felt that it was just what at that moment he needed most.

 

 * * * * *

 

  He did what he could. The magistrate asked for his evidence. He said he had none. He said he thought there must be some mistake. With a twisted smile in the direction of the prisoners, he said that he did not remember having seen either of them at the combat. He didn't believe they were there at all. He didn't believe they were capable of such a thing. If there was one man who was less likely to assault a policeman than Otto the Sausage, it was Rabbit Butler. The Bench reminded him that both these innocents had actually been discovered in Officer Keating's grasp. Mr. Buffin smiled a harassed smile, and wiped a drop of perspiration from his brow.

  Officer Keating was enthusiastic. He described the affair from start to finish. But for Mr. Buffin he would have been killed. But for Mr. Buffin there would have been no prisoners in court that day. The world was full of men with more or less golden hearts, but there was only one Mr. Buffin. Might he shake hands with Mr. Buffin?

  The magistrate ruled that he might. More, he would shake hands with him himself. Summoning Mr. Buffin behind his desk, he proceeded to do so. If there were more men like Mr. Buffin, London would be a better place. It was the occasional discovery in our midst of ethereal natures like that of Mr. Buffin which made one so confident for the future of the race.

  The paragon shuffled out. It was bright and sunny in the street, but in Mr. Buffin's heart there was no sunlight. He was not a quick thinker, but he had come quite swiftly to the conclusion that London was no longer the place for him. Sid Marks had been in court chewing a straw and listening with grave attention to the evidence, and for one moment Mr. Buffin had happened to catch his eye. No medical testimony as to the unhealthiness of London could have moved him more.

"Well, Jeeves. One more fine mystery wrapped up..."

  Once round the corner, he ran. It hurt his head to run, but there were things behind him that could hurt his head more than running.

 

 * * * * *

 

  At the entrance to the Tube he stopped. To leave the locality he must have money. He felt in his pockets. Slowly, one by one, he pulled forth his little valuables. His knife … his revolver … the magistrate's gold watch … He inspected them sadly. They must all go.

  He went into a pawnbroker's shop at the corner of the street. A few moments later, with money in his pockets, he dived into the Tube.

 

END

 

Louis Shalako has books and stories available from Amazon.

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More on P.G. Wodehouse from Wikipedia.

 

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A Stranger In Paris, An Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery #9, Pt. 28. Louis Shalako.

Roger, Langeron that is. And the wife or mistress, whichever the case may be.

Louis Shalako.

The food was good and then there was Steve from Vancouver.

The food was good—very good.

It wasn’t just that the cooking was good. It was more than good—the presentation showed the hand of a real master, hovering in some aggressive perfectionism over a kitchen of real devotees, all of whom were engaged in a labor of love.

Introductions had been made, and they had all gotten acquainted to some extent. To Gilles’ relief, no one had made any real reaction to his name, but they were all foreigners, which was a stroke of luck.

Americans, British, one Italian and one of the single ladies was from Brazil. Some Canadian guy leaning over from the next table, obviously interested in one or all of the more single and unaccompanied ladies…this was Steve from Vancouver.

Staff were clearing dishes, coffee and brandy was being offered. Sooner or later, the folks at the head table would decide it was time for the speeches. People were lighting up, males mostly, but some of the ladies as well…he was sort of awed by one grand dame, with some sort of ebony cigarette holder as long as her arm. The lorgnette, glasses on a stick as Ann had said once, was almost unnecessary, as she peered through the eye-piece, unexpectedly fixating on him, and giving a languid finger-wave, moving on with her examination of those around her.

He’d always sort of liked the smell of lighter fluid, as he hit on the end of his own cigar.

Gilles would stub it out in a minute or so, and yet, inevitably he would come back to it. It really was a vile habit.

Off in one corner was a platform, and a small orchestra it seemed, was setting up. Twenty-five pieces, according to the program, jazz, pop and classical. Some sort of lady singer, in a long and silvery dress, as he congratulated himself upon his observations. Big deal. A distinguished looking guy seemed to be presiding over them, and it would start up soon enough—

And then there was the dancing. Margot.

She had eyes too, right.

Their eyes met. He inclined his head, shrugging slightly.

They would cross that bridge when they came to it, with as much grace and dignity as they could muster.

Margot was laughing at him.

Again—

That, was one very dangerous woman.

Her mouth opened and she stared.

He turned to look.

“Oh, my. Is—is that Joseph?” She clamped down and shook her head.

Oh, my, is that Joseph...???

They were supposed to ignore each other, if possible.

The little man, in a plaid cape, for crying out loud…a fucking Sherlock hat, and the pipe, and yes, a big magnifying glass. Which would have taken three hands, but he was doing all right with only two. Carrying a rather full brandy snifter, passing by on his way to somewhere else, he turned and gave Gilles a big wink. Puffing away on the most monstrous cigar…

Oh, for crying out loud—you couldn’t actually see LeBref anymore, but one could follow his progress by the laughs and shouted remarks as the noise in the room picked up.

Would it never end.

There was that wine glass again.

The future is always rosier when viewed through the bottom of a glass. That was D’Artagnan or somebody in some old French novel. The Three Musketeers, Alexander Dumas, which he had read as a boy.

At least he thought he had.

***

END

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Eighteen.

Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Twenty.

Chapter Twenty-One.

Chapter Twenty-Two.

Chapter Twenty-Three.

Chapter Twenty-Four.

Chapter Twenty-Five.

Chapter Twenty-Six.

Chapter Twenty-Seven.

Poor old Louis has books and stories in, on, or at, Kobo.

Author's Note: there is something weird about that first caption, but I can't seem to fix it.

See his alleged works on Fine Art America.

 

Thank you for reading.

 

 

 

 

A Stranger In Paris, an Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery #9, Pt. 26. Louis Shalako.

 

Louis Shalako

In the pre-dawn gloom, Gilles had felt the first few pin-pricks of cold wetness, blinking a bit in denial perhaps, and the car headlights, the streetlamps just up the way now revealed the awful truth…

“Nom de Dieu. Are those snowflakes?” He settled into the back seat, grateful for the heater and the fact that Alphonse had probably been driving for fifteen or twenty minutes just to get here.

She was all warmed up, the windows were clear and the wipers in good condition, knowing Alphonse...this one time Gilles had gone looking for him and found him down in the garage, hood up, rag in hand, and the engine just gleaming, and Alphonse sort of drinking in the smell of grease, petrol, coolant, brake fluid, wet rubber and glass cleaner.

“Yes, it’s the season for it. I can’t wait until it’s all over you know—” He eyed Gilles in the mirror; presumably, he was talking about Christmas.

Maintenon knew the feeling, actually. He allowed himself a bit of a sigh.

“Boss.” Tires hissed on pavement, and one particular gust rocked the vehicle discernably.

“Yes, Alphonse.”

“I was up in the room the other day. Somebody said something and I’ve been thinking about it.”

Tires hissed on wet pavement.

The stoplights up ahead were just about to change, he somehow knew it, and Alphonse concentrated on the driving for the moment. Sure enough…he pulled to a stop, left turn signal going…there was nothing there at this time of day, but one just had to wait patiently. They were cops, after all. He’d composed his thoughts.

“No. It’s just that a few people saw the black car, right. When Hector was killed. And that’s about all they remember. They do all agree, right. Ah, but there was this one witness. A real aficionado, sir. If you know what I mean.”

An aficionado.

“And?”

“The witness didn’t just see the car, Gilles. He watched it. Fuck, he ogled it. He looked at it with envy and longing, and some sort of a future dream in his head. Yeah, if I know guys like that. If he ever won the lottery, I mean a real big one. He would try and replicate that car. He loved it, Gilles. Also. He gave a very precise and observant description, far more than any of the others.” Black on black, inside and out, the only other thing was the chrome, lots of it, and according to the gentlemen, probably the best looking car in town. Big, swooping exhaust pipes coming out on either side up front.

“Yes?”

“I’d like to go up to the unit and read that report, ah, again, Inspector.”

“Sure. No problem—”

But there was more.

“The thing is, Gilles. The guy said it turned right at the third intersection. That’s the part that I’ve been thinking about.” They were rolling again, pedestrians on the sidewalks somehow familiar and yet anonymous at the same time.

The snowflakes were getting thicker, and bigger, and yet the street was still just black and wet.

“Ah.”

“Basically, I want to read the report for myself. Rather than just some random remark in passing, and then. Then I want to look at the map, not just this pissy little thing in the glove-box.”

Which he had surely already done, thought Maintenon.

“Absolutely.”

He thought. Alphonse must know every street, alley and cul-de-sac in town by now.

“Do you want to go out there today?” Perhaps around lunchtime—

No irony there, it was just a thought.

I’ll buy you lunch—

But he didn’t say it.

“No, I want to think about this. It depends on the map and the report. Besides—you guys got the big shindig on tonight.”

Maintenon nodded.

Yes, he was going to need his energy. Quite frankly, he was planning a nap, whether at his desk and in his chair, or maybe even on one of the long maple pews lining the walls of the hallway outside their office. An emergency blanket and a couple of cushions under his head, the thought of sleeping in his shoes somehow better than taking them off…

The benches were just too big, or he’d have had one dragged into the Unit. There was a reason people like him kept a spare shirt and a razor in their desk drawer. Clean socks and a new toothbrush. More than one reason, when one thought about it. What he really should have done, was to sleep in—something which he seemed incapable of, these days.

He had a ton of time off coming to him, something he actually dreaded.

Fuck.

“Very well.”

***

Four of them piled into the limousine, courtesy of Roger, Langeron that is to say, as well as what Maintenon assumed was either his current mistress, or possibly the new wife.

Either way.

Of course, the department had to have at least one limo—maybe even more than one.

For the sake of cover, or rather the lack of it, something for the tabloids perhaps—anyways, just in case, Margot and Gilles were going together, in something vaguely resembling logic. Alphonse, up in the front seat, did not need a ticket although he’d be around, as he put it—he’d be keeping the engine warm and no apologies for that. Racking up the overtime hours in his own inimitable fashion.

A couple of other tickets, plus increased police foot patrols in the immediate vicinity, a pair of radio vans aimlessly cruising nearby, meant that their backsides were about as covered as they could possibly be under such circumstances, which were murky at best. Someone had phoned around, trying to locate spare tickets, from friendly newspapers, the radio news organizations. A few literary and arts magazines. That part of the plan would leak like a sieve, although it might be a few hours. The plan was to flood the place with off-duty cops…all under orders to stay as sober as possible, keep an eye on the crowd and be ready for just about anything. He hadn’t heard back on that one. It struck him that at least a few proper journalists would check it out—free food and drink being a powerful inducement, considering their long hours, poor pay and pounding out the next great novel in a candle-lit garret somewhere in their off hours. One or two of them might even get a story out of it.

“All right. We had best be going.” Cold as it was, Gilles was sweating.

“Have you seen this, Gilles?” Langeron proffered a file folder with a few typewritten sheets.

He reached up and snapped on the interior light.

“Oh, God.” Gilles groaned after about three lines.

More bullshit—a delivery van, a company name that no one had ever heard of, and it probably didn’t exist except in someone’s fertile imagination, and a bunch of severed fingers…fuck. Sitting there for an entire week.

Phone line disconnected at about the same time as the last killing. The phone company would soon give them an address, and it too would be empty and deserted, perhaps an empty desk, a chair and a lamp, all pulled out of dustbins or picked up for a few francs from a second-hand shop. The city had a few hundred such shops, a thousand, or so one must assume. There’s another thousand man-hours. It was easy enough to get a phone line installed, all it took was a name, an address and a deposit.

Fuck.

There it was, right at the very bottom. The suspect vehicle, likely stolen, had been worked over pretty thoroughly. Stolen plates, (they might get something there if they had the time), vehicle identification number missing…serial numbers ground off the vehicle frame, engine and transmission. It sounded like someone had been very thorough. It looked like a fairly professional job. Police technicians would take it down, piece by piece and bolt by bolt. Virtually all of the really expensive parts had a serial number, and the original manufacturer would be contacted. If there was anything there to find, they would find it.

His instincts told him otherwise.

“Just more confirmation. Or more nonsense.” Roger had a point. “Okay, so all of this is a presentation. We had no big idea that the killings were unrelated. That’s about the farthest thing from our minds. The odds of getting fingerprints would appear to be rather small, but then of our known or imaginary victims, none of that information is available anyways. What, then is the point? Other than the fact that they can run circles around the police, and not much more. Otherwise—”

Otherwise, why not muffle the voice and call in from a phone booth, or leave some bullshit manifesto at the front desk of a newspaper. It had been done before, as often as not some kid, a wino, dropping it off for a few francs and thinking they were doing someone a favour. Such places were busy enough, with enough background distractions, such a person could drop an envelope on the reception counter, give a quick nod and a wave, and fade back out into the street, never to be seen again…sooner or later, someone would pick it up and open it up, just to see what the hell it was.

So. Why not? Why not just throw one more fuck into the system.

Why not.

***

END

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Eighteen.

Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Twenty.

Chapter Twenty-One.

Chapter Twenty-Two.

Chapter Twenty-Three.

Chapter Twenty-Four.

Chapter Twenty-Five.

 

Louis has books and stories on Google Play. Many of them are free.

See his works on ArtPal.

Thank you for reading, ladies and gentlemen.

 

 

The Challenge of Writing Science-Fiction. Louis Shalako.

Louis Shalako.

One of the great challenges of writing something like Tactics of Delay is that it is science-fiction that must happen three to five hundred years in the future. Proper science-fiction usually focuses on an extrapolation of current science, and tries to predict the future in a relatively short term. In that sense, Tactics is more of a space-opera, one that I have tried to make realistic. This almost presupposes starting off in the present day, with a level of technology that we don’t really have. It presupposes a commitment that we don’t presently have, a commitment to exploring and colonizing nearby star systems.

There’s just no way that this story could be happening fifty or a hundred years in the future.

For that reason, it is extremely hard to guess what the technology might look like, or how it might be applied, and what the results might be so far in the future. In that sense, the story stands a good chance of becoming little more than a rehash of twentieth and twenty-first century military science. (The truth is, the author doesn’t even know very much about that either.) The other thing is that writing a book is an exploration. At some point one recognizes that this thing could go on for a million words. But a novel is more like a hundred thousand words. At that point, one accepts the limitations and tries to figure out an ending that doesn’t leave the reader disappointed. It has to round off at the end, the work a coherent whole that is understandable, readable, and not too wanting in the final analysis. It is, after all, just another form of entertainment.

It is, hopefully, a story.

The fact that we have FTL space-ships and laser communications at great distances only underlines that fact. The analogies are there, calling them ‘ships’ clearly connotes the sea.

The military story is a recognizable trope, and to the reader, men and women in goggs, guns, mines, bombs and rockets are all too familiar in the present day.

That’s not to say there isn’t any science to the story. That science actually helps us to date it forwards, rather than in the past, as an archaeologist would do.

It would take a minimum of three to five hundred years for the process of terraforming a planet like Denebola-Seven, even if the process started first thing tomorrow, in the year 2017. 

Still, if the planet already had an atmosphere and some kind of proper topsoil, fresh water and the right amount of ‘solar’ radiation, i.e. sunlight, Terran species such as corn and soybeans, pine trees, even Terran fish species, and domestic animals, might be well established within fifty to a hundred years of initial colonization. If the planet already had its own plants, animals, insect-like and bird-like species, it would greatly help the process. That’s not to say imported species would be entirely dispersed all over the planet, but they certainly would be within a zone around concentrations of human activity. It’s interesting to speculate how quickly an imported bird species, one with a massive migration, would take to develop something similar in a wholly new environment, one where there is competition from native species, and at the same time, uniquely new opportunities for feeding and breeding.

Imported insects (and other life-forms) that thrived, would spread out and continue to spread out until they had penetrated all conceivably-livable ecosystems and would, over time, reach a state of ‘equilibrium’, one subject to the terms and conditions of that particular planetary environment.

It’s also interesting to speculate as to how governments and self-governance would form under new social conditions. In the story, we find that the few towns and cities are governed and policed—the rest of the planet is almost utterly devoid of human life and so they have developed no overall, single planetary government. The tax base is very small, and all things human have to be paid for. This is probably true of the sentient native culture as well. Yet one might sort of expect a single, united planetary government to be among the first things to happen. In the Old West analogy, such things take time. This is arguably why the planet is a member of a Confederation of independent planets, and also why they have contracted with the Organization, also members, for their defense.

Development, the establishment of the rule of law, spreads out in a wave, from a centre of power and culture. It’s a lot like insects in that regard.

And then there is the wealth. The Unfriendlies are there for a reason, after all. That is the key to the frontier, and its winner-take-all mentality. It’s an entire planet, one eminently suitable for human life, with a minimal ability to defend itself.

It is a story of human nature, as much as anything else.

Over the course of writing such a thing, we squeeze in as many themes as we can get.

We also learn something in the process.

END

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