“True … Yes, quite so. Still, we cannot turn Flutic topsy-turvy for the sake of possibly impractical speculation.”
“Just as you like,” said Cugel. He climbed from the grave and for the rest of the morning worked at menial tasks, laughing and singing with such verve that Gark and Gookin made a report to Twango.
At the end of the afternoon Cugel was allowed an hour to his own devices. He laid a spray of lilies on Weamish’s grave, then resumed digging in his own grave … After a few moments he noticed Gookin’s blue cap, where that grotesque pastiche of homunculus and frog crouched under a mallow leaf.
Cugel pretended not to notice and dug with energy. Before long he encountered the cases which Weamish had secreted to the side of his own grave.
Pretending to rest, Cugel surveyed the landscape. Gookin crouched as before. Cugel returned to his work.
One of the cases had been broken open, presumably by Weamish, and all its contents removed except for a small parcel of twenty low-value ‘specials’, left behind perhaps by oversight. Cugel tucked the parcel into his pouch, then covered over the case, just as Gookin came hopping across the sward. “Cugel, you have overstayed your time! You must learn precision!”
Cugel responded with dignity. “You will notice that I am digging my grave.”
“No matter! Yelleg and Malser are in need of their tea.”
“All in good time,” said Cugel. He climbed from the grave and went to the gardener’s shed where he found Yelleg and Malser standing hunched and numb. Yelleg cried out: “Tea is one of the few free perquisites rendered by Twango! All day we grope through the freezing slime, anticipating the moment when we may drink tea and warm our shriveled skin at the fire!”
Malser chimed in: “There is neither tea nor fire! Weamish was more assiduous!”
“Be calm!” said Cugel. “I still have not mastered the routine.”
Cugel set the fire alight and brewed tea; Yelleg and Malser grumbled further but Cugel promised better service in the future and the divers were appeased. They warmed themselves and drank tea, then once more ran down to the pond and plunged into the slime.
Shortly before sunset Gookin summoned Cugel to the pantry. He indicated a tray upon which rested a silver goblet. “This is Twango’s tonic which you must serve to him every day at this time.”
“What?” cried Cugel. “Is there no end to my duties?”
Gookin responded only with a croak of indifference. Cugel snatched up the tray and carried it to the workroom. He found Twango sorting scales: inspecting each in turn through a lens, then placing it into one of several boxes, his hands encased in soft leather gloves.
Cugel put down the tray. “Twango, a word with you!”
Twango, with lens to his eye, said: “At the moment, Cugel, I am occupied, as you can see.”
“I serve this tonic under protest! Once again I cite the terms of our agreement, by which I became ‘supervisor of operations’ at Flutic. This post does not include the offices of valet, scullion, porter, dogs-body and general roustabout. Had I known the looseness of your categories —”
Twango made an impatient gesture. “Silence, Cugel! Your peevishness grates on the nerves.”
“Still, what of our agreement?”
“Your position has been reclassified. The pay remains the same, so you have no cause for dissatisfaction.” Twango drank the tonic. “Let us hear no more on the subject. I might also mention that Weamish customarily donned a white coat before serving the tonic. We thought it a nice touch.”
Twango went back to his work, referring on occasion to the pages of a large leather-bound book hinged with brass and reinforced with brass filigree. Cugel watched sourly from the side. Presently he asked: “What will you do when the scales run out?”
“I need not concern myself for some time to come,” said Twango primly.
“What is that book?”
“It is a work of scholarship and my basic reference: Haruviot’s Intimate Anatomy of Several Overworld Personages. I use it to identify the scales; it is invaluable in this regard.”
“Interesting!” said Cugel. “How many sorts do you find?”
“I cannot specify exactly.” Twango indicated a group of unsorted scales. “These gray-green ‘ordinaries’ are typical of the dorsal areas; the pinks and vermilions are from under the torso. Each has its distinctive chime.” Twango held a choice gray-green ‘ordinary’ to his ear and tapped it with a small metal bar. He listened with eyes half-closed. “The pitch is perfect! It is a pleasure to handle scales such as this.”
“Then why do you wear gloves?”
“Aha! Much that we do confuses the layman! Remember, we deal with stuff of the overworld! When wet it is mild, but when dry, it often irks the skin.”
Twango looked to his diagram and selected one of the ‘specials’. “Hold out your hand … Come, Cugel, do not cringe! You will not suddenly become an overworld imp, I assure you of this!”
Cugel gingerly extended his hand. Twango touched the ‘special’ to his palm. Cugel felt a puckering of the skin and a stinging as if at the abrasive suck of a lamprey. With alacrity he jerked back his hand.
Twango chuckled and returned the scale to its position. “For this reason I wear gloves when I handle dry scales.”
Cugel frowned down at the table. “Are all so acrid?”
“You were stung by a ‘Turret Frontal Lapidative’, which is quite active. These ‘Juncture Spikes’ are somewhat easier. The ‘Pectoral Skybreak Spatterlight’, so I suspect, will prove to be the most active of all, as it controlled Sadlark’s entire web of forces. The ‘ordinaries’ are mild, except upon long contact.”
“Amazing how these forces persist across the aeons!”
“What is ‘time’ in the overworld? The word may not even enter the parlance. And speaking of time, Weamish customarily devoted this period to diving for scales; often he worked long hours into the night. His example is truly inspiring! Through fortitude, persistence and sheer grit, he paid off his account!”
“My methods are different,” said Cugel. “The results may well be the same. Perhaps in times to come you will mention the name ‘Cugel’ to inspire your staff.”
“I suppose that it is not impossible.”
Cugel went out into the back garden. The sun had set; in the twilight the pond lay black and lusterless. Cugel went to work with a fervor which might have impressed even Weamish. Down to the shore of the pond he dragged the old iron trough, then brought down several coils of rope.
Daylight had departed, save only for a streak of metallic eggplant along the ocean’s horizon. Cugel considered the pond, where at this time Weamish was wont to dive, guided by the flicker of a single candle on the shore.
