Authentic Science Fiction, No. 23 — page 42: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

80 THE SINGING SPHERES in a very comfortable bed in a strange room, idly wondering where he is, but too bemused to bother overmuch. And in addition there was a peculiar juvenile simplicity which, when I’d sorted things out, made the proceedings en- joyably easy. This pleasant surprise heightened my enthusi- asm, and little Pinky proved undeniably friendly. “What are you?” The question came with interested curiosity. Not “who,” mark you, but “what.” At least he recognised us as beings different from his own.species. I did my best to tell him— referring to myself alone to avoid complications—but without much success. “And what is that?” He indicated Hartnell. “That,” I said, determined on a measure of revenge, “i your uncle Hartnell.” To this day no satisfactory explanation has been provided, although I’ve discussed the matter with psychologists and psychiatrists in many places. The best theory they can put forward is that the Mattus unconsciously transmitted my own deep affection for young Hartnell—which certainly exists, despite his many exasperating ways——and was accepted and copied by this juvenile sphere. ‘Tubby advanced a quite different idea that Pinky instinctively recognised “another big bag of wind,” but whatever the reason there is no denying that this small, rosy globe metaphorically attached itself as a nephew to a favourite uncle. The introduction of Tubby met with scant reaction and all the wide-eyed wonder remained centred on young Hartnell. “And who am I?” I didn’t suppose for a moment that Pinky would appreciate the implications. “You,” I said, “are a prince of Kardoon.” “What's a prince?”’ The others, standing in silence while the Mattus worked, exhibited signs of impatience. “Come on, Pop,” said Hartnell. “Those nurses or what- ever they call °em might be back at any moment. I don’t hear ’em cheering any longer. How’s it going?” I told him everything was under control. “Ts it? You've talked him round? Let’s get going, then.” I got to work again on little Pinky. “We must leave here now. We will see all the wide fields—” I couldn’t think of a more attractive description that might make a small boy wish THE SINGING SPHERES 81 to look at bare expanses of brown desert. “—on the other side of the hills.” I sensed reluctance to leave familiar places. “Why?” “Don’t you want to go with Uncle Hartnell?” That did it. He floated obediently alongside, at waist- height, while we carefully retraced our steps through the defile. There was only one possible line of action—to place little Pinky in Fandar’s care and find out if news had been received from Fuzzy-bubble. The Mattus that day provided a rich fund of emotional eavesdropping. andar positively goggled when he saw what we had brought with us and he bobbed unceasingly in homage. ““A prince of Kardoon!” he breathed, half-unbelievingly. “You realise what this means, O strangers?” We might not appreciate everything, but we understood a good deal of the implications. No obstacle now stood be- tween the council and a formal resolution to depose Makkub, although I didn’t suppose for one moment that matters would be as simple as that. A tactical dilemma presented itself. Should we keep Pinky’s existence a secret for the time being - —or should we immediately announce him to the populace at large, thereby forestalling any murderous attempt by Makkub to elminate this new opposition? The trouble was that we were out of touch with Jatest developments in the Great Halls. Confronted by Fandar, Pinky knew his first experience of divided loyalties. He immediately recognised this yellowish sphere—who kept bobbing respectfully—as one of his own kind, yet Uncle Hartnell remained an undeniable attraction. The poor little fellow’s bewilderment was obvious. ‘A baby prince!” repeated Fandar, almost overcome by the wonder of events. “Truly, a momentous day!” “Look here,” said Hartnell, “we’ve got to find out what’s happening down there. How about trying again to get in through the nursery?” “We could wait for Fuzzy-bubble—” began Tubby. “He might be hours! Or he might have been caug I fell back on the blessed solution of compromise. “Give him another ten minutes or so. If he hasn’t turned up by then—” Meantime we didn’t fancy being surprised, so I moved off Comicbooks.com