Attention Saint Patrick by Murray Leinster (little bear else holmelund minarik TXT) 📕

me what she'd done yesterday. The darlin' had used the brains God gave her, and maybe holy St. Patrick put a flea in her ear. She figured out that dinies must find metal by its smell, and if its smell was made stronger by simple heatin' they'd be unable to resist it. And it was so. Ye saw the chief justice runnin' down the street with all the dinies after him."

The two members of the committee nodded.

"He was headin," said the president, "for the cold-storage plant that Sean O'Donohue had twitted me was empty of the provisions we'd had to eat up because of the dinies. It's no matter that it's empty now though. We can grow victuals in the fields from now on, because now the cold rooms are packed solid with dinies that ran heedless into a climate they are not used to an' fell—what was the word, Moira darlin'?"

"Torpid," said Moira, gazing at him.

"Torpid," agreed the president. "From now on when there's too many dinies we can send somebody runnin' through the streets with a hot plate to call them into cold storage. We've pied pipers at will, to help out the black creatures that've done so much for us. If we've offended Eire on Earth, by havin' the black creatures to help us, we're sorry. But we had to—till Moira and doubtless St. Patrick gave us the answer ye saw today. If we're disowned, bedamned if we don't hang on! We can feed ourselves now. We can feed some extra mouths. There'll be a ship droppin' by out of curiosity now and then, and we'll trade with 'em. If were disowned—we'll be poor. But when were the Irish ever rich?"

The committeeman who was a manufacturer of precision machinery mopped his forehead.

"We're rich now," he said resignedly. "You'd be bound to learn it. D'you know what the dinies' teeth are made of?"

"It's been said," said President O'Hanrahan, "that it's bor ... boron carbide in organic form. What that means I wouldn't know, but we've got a fine crop of it!"

"It's the next hardest substance to diamond," said the committeeman dourly. "It's even been guessed that an organic type might be harder. It's used for the tools for lathes and precision machinery, and it sells at close to the price of diamonds of industrial quality—and I'll make a deal to handle all we've got. What Earth don't need, other planets will. You're rich."

The president stared. Then he gazed at Moira.

"It's a pity we're bein' disowned," he said mournfully. "It would be a fine thing to be able to tell the grandfather Eire's rich and can feed more colonists and even maybe pay back what it's cost to keep us here so long. It would be a fine thing to hire colonists to build the houses they'll be given free when they're finished. But since Sean O'Donohue is a stern man——"

The ship owner scratched his head. He'd paused on the way to the presidential mansion. He'd had restoratives for his distress. He'd looked at the bottom of a bottle and seen the facts.

"I'll tell yea," he said warmly. "It's the O'Donohue's been battlin' to keep the colony goin' against the politicians that wanted to economize. He's made a career of believin' in this world. He's ruined if he stops. So it might be that a little bit of blarneyin'—with him desperate to find reason to stay friends, black creature or no black creatures——"

The president took Moira's hand.

"Come, my darlin'," he said sadly. "We'll reason with him."

Long, long minutes later he shook his head as Sean O'Donohue stormed at him.

"The back o' my hand to you!" said Sean O'Donohue in the very quintessence of bitterness. "And to Moira, too, if she has more to do with you! I'll have naught to do with shenanigannin' renegades and blasphemers that actually import snakes into a world St. Patrick had set off for the Erse from ancient days!"

It was dark in the old man's room. He was a small and pathetic figure under the covers. He was utterly defiant. He was irreconcilable, to all seeming.

"Renegades!" he said indignantly. "Snakes, yea say? The devil a snake there is on Eire! I'll admit that we've some good black creatures that in a bad light and with prejudice yea might mistake. But snakes? Ye might as well call the dinies lizards—those same dinies that are native Erin porcupines—bad luck to them!"

There was an astounded silence from the bed.

"It's a matter of terminology," said the president sternly. "And it's not the name that makes a thing, but what it does! Actio sequitur esse, as the sayin' goes. You'll not be denyin' that! Now, a diny hangs around a man's house and it eats his food and his tools and it's no sort of good to anybody while it's alive. Is that the action of a lizard? It is not! But it's notorious that porcupines hang around men's houses and eat the handles of their tools for the salt in them, ignoring' the poor man whose sweat had the salt in it when he was laborin' to earn a livin' for his family. And when a thing acts like a porcupine, a porcupine it is and nothing else! So a diny is a Eirean porcupine, native to the planet, and no man can deny it!

"And what, then, is a snake?" demanded President O'Hanrahan oratorically. "It's a creature that sneaks about upon the ground and poisons by its bite when it's not blarneyin' unwise females into tasting' apples. Do the black creatures here do anything of that sort? They do not! They go about their business plain and open, givin' a half of the road and a how'd'y-do to those they meet. They're sober and they're industrious. They mind their own business, which is killin' the Eirean porcupines we inaccurate call by the name of dinies. It's their profession! Did yea ever hear of a snake with a profession? I'll not have it said that there's snakes on Eire! And I'll denounce yea as a conscienceless politician if yea dare to put such a name on the honest, friendly, industrious Eirean porcupine eaters that up to this moment have been the savin' of the colony! I'll not have it!"

There was a long silence. Then Sean O'Donohue spoke dryly: "Porcupine eaters, you say? Not snakes?"

"Not snakes!" repeated the president defiantly. "Porcupine eaters!"

"Hm-m-m," said Sean O'Donohue. "That's better. The Dail's not immune to blarney when it's needful to accept it—and Eire back on Earth is hard put for breathin' room you say can be had from now on. What would be the reason for Moira standin' so close to you?"

"She's marryin' me," said President O'Hanrahan firmly.

Sean O'Donohue's voice was waspish.

"But I forbid it!" it said sharply. "Until I'm up and about and able to be givin' her in marriage as her grandfather ought to be doin'! Ye'll wait the few days till I'm able! Understand?"

"Yes, sir," said the president. Meekness seemed called for.

"Then begone!" snapped Sean O'Donohue. Then he added sternly: "Remember—no shenanigans!"

The solicitor general watched them depart on a wedding journey to a cottage in Ballyhanninch, which was on Donegal Peninsular, fronting on the Emmett Sea. He waved, like the assembled populace. But when they were out of sight he said darkly to the chief justice and the Chancellor of the Exchequer:

"I didn't have the heart to bring it up before, but there's the devil of a problem buildin' up against the time he comes back."

"Which problem?" asked the Chancellor of the Exchequer, warily.

"It's the sn ... the porcupine killers," said the solicitor general. "Things look bad for them. They're out of work. Even Timothy. There's no dinies to speak of for them to earn a livin' by killin'. It's technological unemployment. They earned their way faithful, doin' work they knew an' loved. Now they're jobless. There's no work for them. What's to be done? Put 'em on re [remainder of text is missing]

There was a pause. The solicitor general said firmly:

"I mean it! They've a claim on us! A claim of the highest order! They can't starve, it's sure! But would you have them have to hold mass meetin's and set up picket lines and the like, to get justice done them?"

"Ah," said the chief justice. "Some way will turn up to handle the matter. Like Sean O'Donohue was sayin' to me yesterday, at the very bottom of a bottle, we Erse can always depend on St. Patrick to take care of things!"

 

THE END

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Attention Saint Patrick, by William Fitzgerald Jenkins