‘Yes, here are the independent fingers and claws, the separate and unfused metacarpals, the un-birdlike caudal appendage, all the ribs non-unciate and thin, neither birdlike nor very reptilian, the thin coracoid, the centra free as far as the sacrum, and the very long tail...’ His voice quite died away to a murmur, Professor Blumpkinn, perhaps thinking that it was not polite to lose the attention of the other guest, said, ‘This, you see, Prince Vlox, is the famous Archaeopteryx, hundreds of millions of years old, which the sensational press has rather inadequately described as the so-called ‘no-longer-missing-link’ between reptiles and birds…observe the sharp teeth and the feather…this other one unfortunately has no head…and this one—’
Here Prince Vlox, perhaps not an omnivorous student of palaeontology, said, ‘Yes. Seen it.’
‘Ah ... was that in London? or Berlin?’
‘Never been in either place.’
Blumpkinn gaped. Recovered himself. Looked, first amused, then sarcastic, then polite. Eszterhazy slowly looked up. ‘What do you mean, then, Roldry. “Seen it”? What—?’
Prince Vlox repeated, with a slight emphasis, that he had seen it. And he bulged his eyes and stared, as though to emphasise the full meaning of the verb, to see.
‘What do you—Ah…“Seen it,” seen it when, seen it where?’
‘On our land. Forget just when. What do you mean, “Am I sure?” I don’t need a monocle to look at things. Why shouldn’t I be sure? What about it?’
Blumpkinn and Eszterhazy for a moment spoke simultaneously. What about it? There were only two known Archaeopteryx specimens in the world! one in London, one in Berlin—think what a third would mean! Not only for science, but for Scythia-Pannonia-Transbalkania and its prestige.
Vlox, with something like a sigh, rose to his feet; clearly the subject no longer much engaged him ... possibly because his own family and its prestige was incomparably older than the Triple Monarchy and its prestige. ‘Well, I’ll have it looked for, then. Must be off. Things to do. My wine-merchant. My gunsmith. My carriage-maker. A turn of cards at The Hell-Hole. See if they’ve finished re-upholstering my railroad car. Tobacconist…new powder scales…Can I execute any commissions for you, as they say? Haw haw! Tell you what, Engly, damned if I know what you want with this odd old bird, but tell you what: trade it for that funny French painting.’ And he donned his tattered seal-skin cap (so that he should not be struck by lightning) and his wisent-skin cape (also fairly tattered, but wisents weren’t easy to get any more), picked up his oak-stick, nodded his Roldry-nod, neither languid nor brisk, and went out into Little Turkling Street, where his carriage (as they say) awaited him. Some backwoods nobles kept a pied-à-terre in Bella in the form of a house or apartment, Prince Roldran preferred to keep a stable and to sleep in the loft. With taste and scent, no argument.
Silence for some seconds. Such was the prince’s presence, that his immediate absence left a perceptible hole.
Blumpkinn: What do you say, Doctor ‘Bert, is the prince quite, [a hesitation]…dependable?
Eszterhazy [removing his monocle]: In some things, instantly. He would think nothing of striking a rabid wolf with bare hands to save you. In others? well ... let us say that fossils are not quite in his line. We shall see. Any kind of fossils from out that way should be interesting. If the old witch-women have left any.
The Imperial Geologist blinked. ‘Yes ... if they’ve left any—Though I suppose…imagine, Doctor, they used to grind up dinosaur bones and feed them with bread and oil to pregnant women!!’
‘That’s what they did to my own dear Mother. Well, why not? Calcium, you know.’
The Imperial Geologist (the King-Emperor, Ignats Louis, in authorising the position, had hoped for gold and, no gold being found, had shrugged and gone out to inspect the new infantry boots)—the Imperial Geologist blinked some more. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Well, why not. Calcium ... I know.’
Some years before there had appeared the book From Ram’s Head to Sandy Cape on Camelback, by a New Chum (Glasscocke and Gromthorpe, No. 3, the Minories, 12/-), and Eszterhazy had translated it into Modern Gothic, as he had its successors, Up the Fly River by Sail and Paddle, and In Pursuit of Poundmaker, plus a General Survey of the Northwest Territories (available at Szentbelessel’s Book House near the New Model Road at two ducats per or all three for five ducats, each with eleven half-tone illustrations and a free patriotic bookmark; write for catalogue). From these translations a friendship had developed. Newton Charles Enderson was not really a ‘new chum,’ far from it: he was a ‘currency lad’; and now he was on holiday from the University of Eastern Australia and hoped to explore some more, in the lands of the Triple Monarchy.
There were a number of not-very-well explored (not very well explored by any scientific expeditions, that is; they had all been very well explored by the River Tartars, the Romanou, and by all the other non-record-keeping peoples who had gone that way since the days of (and before the days of: caches of amber had been found there, and Grecian pottery) the Getae, who may or may not have been close of kin to the ancient Scythian Goths) and rather languid waterways disemboguing into the Delta of the Ister. And New Chum Enderson had wanted Eszterhazy to go exploring with him, in a pirogue. And Eszterhazy had very much wanted to do so. There were several sorts of bee-eaters which had never been well engraved, let alone photographed; skins of course were in the museums, and several water-colours had been made by someone whose identity had been given simply as An Englishwoman, long ago; still semi-impenetrably wrapped in her modesty, she had withdrawn into her native northern mists, leaving only copies of the water-colours behind.
‘But I am afraid that our schedules don’t match. Really I do regret.’
New Chum regretted, too. ‘But I must be back for the start of term.’
‘And I for the meeting of the Proposed Canal Committee. Well ... I know that your movements are as precisely dated as those of Phileas Fogg, so just let me know when you’ll be back, and I’ll give you a good luncheon to make up for your privations. There’s a person in the country who’s promised me a fine fat pullet, and the truffles should be good, too, so—’
New Chum gave a bark, intended for a laugh, of a sort which had terrified Pommies and Aboes alike. ‘I’m not one of your European gourmets,’ he said. ‘Grew up on damper and ‘roo. Advanced to mutton, pumpkin, and suet pud. More than once ate cockatoo—they’d told me it was chook—”chicken” to you—and I never knew the difference. Still, of course, I’ll be glad to eat what you give me, with no complaint…Ah, by the way. Don’t depend on me much or at all to identify and bring back your bee-eaters. Know nothing of ornithology. Officially I’m Professor of Political Economy, but what I am, actually, is an explorer. Glad to give you a set of my notes, though.’ And on this they parted.
Two pieces of news. The country pullet would be on hand the next day. Also alas the sister-in-law’s sister of Frow Widow Orgats, housekeeper and cook, had been Taken Bad with the Dropped Stomach—did she require medical advice?—an elf-stone?—no: she required the attentions of her sister’s sister-in-law. The house, with the help of its lower staff, might keep itself for a little while. ‘And Malta, who I’ve hand-picked meself, will cook for you very well till I gets back, Sir Doctor.’ Malta, thought the Sir Doctor, had perhaps been handpicked so as to prevent the Sir Doctor from thinking of her as a suitable full-time replacement—she was not perhaps very bright— but merely he said, ‘Tomorrow they are bringing up a special pullet for the luncheon with the foreign guest and it may not look just exactly as the sort they sell here at the Hen Mark in town; so mind you do it justice.’