My Uncle Oswald Part 10

"They did, did they," A. R. Woresley said, sounding pleased. He went on carefully measuring out blue liquid from a beaker into the test tubes with his pipette. "Just let me finish this," he added. Yasmin stood still, waiting, sizing up the victim.

"Now, my dear," A. R. Woresley said, laying down the pipette and turning round for the first time. "What was it you--" He stopped dead in mid-sentence. His mouth dropped open and his eyes became as large and round as half-crowns. Then the tip of his red tongue appeared underneath the bristles of his nicotine moustache and began sliding wetly over his lips. For a man who had seen little else but Girton girls and his own diabolic sister for years on end, Yasmin must have appeared before him like the creation, the first morning, the spirit moving over the waters. But he recovered quickly.

"You had something to ask me, my dear?"

Yasmin had prepared her question brilliantly. I have forgotten precisely how it went, but it dealt with a situation where chemistry (his subject) and biology (her subject) became intertwined in a most complex manner, and where a deep knowledge of chemistry was required in order to unravel the problem. The answer, as she had so shrewdly calculated, would take at least nine minutes to deliver, probably more.

"A fascinating question," A. R. Woresley said. "Let me see how best to answer it for you." He crossed to a long blackboard fixed to the wall of the lab. He picked up a piece of chalk.

"Would you like a chocolate?" Yasmin said. She had the paper bag in her hand and when A. R. Woresley turned round, she popped one into her own mouth. She took the second chocolate from the bag and held it toward him in her fingertips.

"My goodness gracious me!" he burbled. "What a treat!"

"Delicious," she said. "Try it."

A. R. Woresley took it and sucked it and rolled it round in his mouth and chewed it and finally swallowed it. "Glorious," he said. "How very kind of you."

At the moment when the chocolate went down his gullet, I noted the time on my watch. I saw Yasmin doing exactly the same thing. Such a sensible girl. A. R. Woresley was standing at the blackboard giving a long exposition with many splendid chemical formulae written in chalk. I didn't listen to it. I was counting the minutes pa.s.sing by. So was Yasmin. She hardly took her eyes from the watch on her wrist.

Seven minutes gone by . . .

Eight minutes . . .

Eight minutes and fifty seconds . . .

Nine minutes! And dead on time, the hand that held the chalk against the blackboard suddenly stopped writing. A. R. Woresley went rigid.

"Mr. Woresley," Yasmin said brightly, timing it to perfection, "I wonder if you'd mind giving me your autograph. You are the only science lecturer whose autograph I still don't have for my collection." She was holding out a pen and a sheet of chemistry department notepaper.

"What's that?" he stammered, putting one hand into his trouser pocket before turning round to face her.

"Just there," Yasmin said, placing a finger halfway down the sheet as I had instructed her. "Your autograph. I collect them. I shall treasure yours more than any of the others."

In order to take the pen, A. R. Woresley had to remove his hand from the pocket. It was a comical sight. The poor man looked as though he had a live snake in his trousers. And now he was beginning to bounce up and down on his toes.

"Just there," Yasmin said, keeping her finger on the notepaper. "Then I shall paste it in my autograph book along with all the others."

With his mind fogged by gathering pa.s.sions, A. R. Woresley signed. Yasmin folded the paper and put it in her purse. A. R. Woresley clutched the edge of the wooden lab bench with both hands. He started rocking about all over the place as if the whole building were in a storm at sea. His forehead was damp with sweat. I reminded myself that he had had a double dose. I think Yasmin was reminding herself of the same thing. She took a couple of paces backwards and braced herself for the coming onslaught.

Slowly, A. R. Woresley turned his head and stared at her. The powder was. .h.i.tting him hard and there was a glimmer of madness in his eyes.

"I . . . er . . . I . . . I . . ."

"Is something wrong, Mr. Woresley?" Yasmin said sweetly. "Are you feeling all right?"

He went on clutching the bench and staring at her. The sweat was all over his face now and running onto his moustache.

"Can I do something to help?" Yasmin said.

A funny gurgling noise came out of his throat.

"Can I get you a gla.s.s of water?" she asked. "Or some smelling-salts perhaps?"

And still he stood there, clutching the bench and waggling his head and making those queer gurgling noises. He reminded me of a man who'd got a fishbone stuck in his throat.

Suddenly he let out a great bellow and made a rush at the girl. He grasped her by the shoulders with both hands and tried to push her to the floor but she skipped back out of his reach.

"Ah-ha!" she said. "So that's what's bothering you, is it? Well, it's nothing to be ashamed about, my darling man." Her voice as she spoke to him was as cool as a thousand cuc.u.mbers.

He came at her again with hands outstretched, pawing at her, but she was too nimble for him. "Hold on a sec," she said, flipping open her purse and taking out the rubbery thing I had given her the night before. "I'm perfectly willing to have a bit of fun with you, Mr. W, but we don't want anyone around here to get preggers, now do we? So be a good boy and stand still for a moment while I put your little mackintosh on."

But A. R. Woresley didn't care about the little mackintosh. He had no intention of standing still. I don't think he _could_ have stood still if he'd wanted to. From my own point of view, it was instructive to observe the curious effect a double dose had upon the subject. Above all, it made him hop. He kept hopping up and down as though he were doing calisthenics. And he kept making these absurd bellowing noises. And he kept waving his arms round and round windmill fashion. And the sweat kept trickling down his face. And there was Yasmin, dancing around him and holding out the ridiculous rubbery thing with both hands and shouting, "Oh, do keep _still_, Mr. Woresley! I'm not letting you come _near_ me till I get this on!"

I don't think he even heard her. And although he was clearly going mad with l.u.s.t, he also gave the impression of a man who was in great discomfort. He was hopping, it appeared, because excessive irritation was taking place. Something was _stinging_ him. It was stinging him so much he couldn't stand still. In greyhound racing, to make a dog run faster, they frequently insert a piece of ginger up its r.e.c.t.u.m, and the dog runs flat out in an effort to get away from the terrible sting in its backside. With A. R. Woresley, the sting was in a rather different part of his body, and the pain of it was making him hop, skip, and jump all over the lab, and at the same time he was telling himself, or so it seemed, that only a woman could help him to get rid of that terrible sting. But the wretched woman was being too quick for him. He couldn't catch her. And the stinging feeling kept getting worse all the time.

Suddenly, using both hands, he ripped the front of his trousers and half a dozen b.u.t.tons scattered across the room with little tinkling sounds. He dropped the trousers. They fell around his ankles. He tried to kick them off, but couldn't do so because he still had his shoes on.

With the trousers now around his ankles, A. R. Woresley was temporarily but effectively hobbled. He couldn't run. He couldn't even walk. He could only hop. Yasmin saw her chance and took it. She made a dive for the erect and quivering rod that was sticking out through the slit in his underpants. She grabbed it in her right hand and held onto it as tightly as if it were the handle of a tennis racquet. She had him now. He began to bellow even louder.

"For G.o.d's sake, shut up," she said, "or you'll have the whole university in here! And keep _still_ so I can get this d.a.m.n thing on you!"

But A. R. Woresley was deaf to everything except his fierce and fundamental desires. He simply could _not_ stand still. Hobbled as he was by the trousers round his ankles, he went on hopping about and waving his arms and bellowing like a bull. For Yasmin, it must have been like trying to thread a needle on a sewing machine while the machine was still in motion.

Finally, she lost patience and I saw her right hand, the one which was grasping, as it were, the handle of the tennis racquet, I saw it give a wicked little flick. It was as though she were making a sharp backhand return to a half volley with a quick roll of the wrist at the end of the shot to impart topspin. A vicious wristy little flick it was, and it was certainly a winner, because the victim let out a howl that rattled every test tube in the lab. It stopped him cold for five seconds, which gave her just enough time to get the rubbery thing on and then to jump back out of reach.

"Couldn't we calm down just a teeny weeny little bit?" she said. "This isn't a bullfight."

He was tearing off his shoes now and throwing them across the room, and when he kicked off his trousers and became fully mobile again, Yasmin must have known that the moment of truth had arrived at last.

It had indeed. But there is no profit in describing the coa.r.s.e rough and tumble that followed. There were no intermissions, no pauses, no half-time. The vigour that my double dose of Blister Beetle had imparted to that man was astounding. He went at her as though she were an uneven road surface and he was trying to flatten out the b.u.mps. He raked her from stem to stern. He raked her fore and aft, and still he kept reloading and firing away although his cannon must by then have been scorching hot. They say that the ancient Britons used to make fire by rotating the point of a wooden stick very fast and for a long time on a wooden block. Well, if that made fire then A. R. Woresley was about to start a raging conflagration any moment, wood or no wood. It wouldn't have surprised me in the least to see a puff of smoke come up from the wrestlers on the floor.

While all this was going on, I took the opportunity of making a few notes with pad and pencil for future ref erence.

_Note one_: Endeavour always to arrange for Yasmin to confront the subject in a room where there is a couch or an armchair or at the very least a carpet on the floor. She is undoubtedly a strong and resilient girl, but having to work on a hard wooden surface in exceptionally severe circ.u.mstances as she is doing now is asking rather a lot. The way things are going, she could easily suffer severe damage to her lumbar region or even a pelvic fracture. And where would our clever little scheme be then, tra-la-la?

_Note two_: Never again prescribe a double dose for any man. Too much powder causes excessive irritation in the vital regions and gives the victim a sort of St. Vitus's dance. This makes it almost impossible for Yasmin to roll on the sperm collector without resorting to foul play. An overdose also makes the victim bellow, which could be embarra.s.sing if the wife of the victim, the Queen of Denmark, for example, or Mrs. Bernard Shaw, happened to be sitting quietly in the next room doing needlepoint.

_Note three_: Try to think of a way of helping Yasmin to get out from under and to do a bunk with the precious sperm as soon as possible after the stuff is in the bag. The devilish powder, even when sparingly administered, might easily keep a ninety-year-old genius bashing away for a couple of hours or more. And quite apart from any discomfort Yasmin might be suffering, it is vital to get the little squigglers into the freezer quickly, while they are still fresh. Look, for example, at old Woresley right now and how he's still grinding away although he's obviously delivered the goods at least six times in succession. Perhaps a sharp jab in the b.u.t.tocks with a hatpin would do the trick in the future.

Out there on the floor of the lab Yasmin had no hatpin to help her, and to this day I do not know precisely what it was she did to A. R. Woresley that caused him to let out yet another of those horrendous howls and to freeze so suddenly in his tracks. Nor do I wish to know, because it's none of my business. But whatever it was, I was quite certain a nice girl like her would never have done it to a nice man like him if it had not been absolutely necessary. The next thing I knew, Yasmin was up and away and dashing for the door with the spoils of victory in her hand. I nearly stood up and clapped for her as she left the stage. What a performance! What a splendid exit! The door slammed shut and she was gone.

All at once, the laboratory became silent. I saw A. R. Woresley picking himself up slowly off the floor. He stood there dazed and wobbly. He looked like a man who had been struck on the head with a cricket bat. He staggered over to the sink and began splashing water onto his face, and while he was doing this, I myself crept from my hiding place and tiptoed out of the room, closing the door softly behind me.

There was no sign of Yasmin in the corridor. I had told her I would be sitting in my rooms at Trinity throughout the operation, so she was probably making her way there now. I hurried outside and jumped into my motor car and drove from the Science Building to the College by a roundabout route so as not to pa.s.s her on the way. I parked the car and went up to my rooms and waited.

A few minutes later, in she came.

"Give me a drink," she said, crossing to an armchair. I noticed she was walking sort of bow-legged and treating herself tenderly.

"You look as though you've just brought the good news from Ghent to Aix riding bareback," I said.

She didn't answer me. I poured her two inches of gin and added a cubic centimetre of lime juice. She took a good gulp of the splendid stuff and said, "Ah-h-h, that's better."

"How did it go?"

"We gave him a little bit too much."

"I thought we might have done," I said.

She opened her purse and took out the repulsive rubbery thing which she had very sensibly knotted at the open end. Also the sheet of notepaper with A. R. Woresley's signature on it.

"Tremendous!" I cried. "You did it! It all worked! Did you enjoy it?"

Her answer astonished me. "As a matter of fact I rather did," she said.

"You _did?_ You mean he wasn't too rough?"

"He made every other man I've ever met look like a eunuch," she said.

I laughed at that.

"Including you," she said.

I stopped laughing.

"That," she said softly, taking another gulp of gin, "is exactly how I want my men to be from now on."

"But you said we gave him too much."

"Just a teensy bit," she said. "I couldn't stop him. He was absolutely tireless."

"How _did_ you stop him?"

"Never you mind."

"Would a hatpin be helpful next time?"

"That's a good idea," she said. "I shall carry a hatpin. But I'd much rather get the dose exactly right so I don't have to use it."

"We'll get it right."

"I really would prefer not to go sticking hatpins into the King of Spain's b.u.m, if you see what I mean."

"Oh, I do, I do."

"I like to part company on friendly terms."

"And didn't you?"

"Not exactly, no," she said, smiling slightly.

"Well done, anyway," I said. "You pulled it off."

"He was funny," she said. "I wish you could have seen him. He kept hopping up and down."

I took the sheet of notepaper with A. R. Woresley's signature on it and placed it in my typewriter. I sat down and typed the following legend directly above the signature:

_I hereby certify that I have on this day, the 27th of March, 1919, delivered personally a quant.i.ty of my own s.e.m.e.n to Oswald Cornelius Esquire, President of The International s.e.m.e.n's Home of Cambridge, England. It is my wish that this s.e.m.e.n shall be stored indefinitely, using the revolutionary and recently discovered Woresley Technique, and 1 further agree that the aforementioned Oswald Cornelius may at any time use portions of that s.e.m.e.n to fertilize selected females of high quality in order to disseminate my own bloodline throughout the world for the benefit of future generations._

(Signed) _A. R. Woresley_ _Lecturer in Chemistry,_ _Cambridge University_

I showed it to Yasmin. "Obviously it doesn't apply to Woresley," I said, "because his stuff isn't going into the freezer. But what do you think of it otherwise? Will it look all right over the signature of kings and geniuses?"

She read it through carefully. "It's good," she said. "It'll do nicely."

"I've won my bet," I said. "Woresley will have to capitulate now."

She sat sipping her gin. She was relaxed and amazingly cool. "I have a strange feeling," she said, "that this whole thing's actually going to work. At first it sounded ridiculous. But now I can't see what's to stop us."

"Nothing can stop us," I said. "You'll win every time so long as you can always reach your man and feed him the powder."

"It really is fantastic stuff."

"I found that out in Paris."

"You don't think it might give some of the very old ones a heart attack, do you?"

"Of course not," I said, although I had been wondering the same thing myself.

"I don't want to leave a trail of corpses around the world," she said. "Especially the corpses of great and famous men."

"You won't," I said. "Don't worry about it."

"Take for example Alexander Graham Bell," she said. "According to you, he is now seventy-two years old. Do you think _he_ could stand up to it?"

"Tough as nuts," I said. "All the great men are. But I'll tell you what we might do if it'll make you feel a bit easier. We'll regulate the dose according to age. The older they are, the less they'll get."