A Scientist From South Of The Border

Short Story: A SCIENTIST FROM SOUTH OF THE BORDER

By W. Gill

IT is always hot in Port Moresby.

But in the Nor’west season the heat is appalling. Nevertheless, there must be some truth in the saying that one may get accustomed to anything, otherwise the two men seated on the hotel verandah could never have found the energy to continue their argument, desultory though it was, since every breath they drew seemed like a mouthful of cayenne pepper.

Maybe the glass of beer in front of each helped, though Fanning, who lived in the hotel and was something of a strategist, claimed that he chose this spot because it always got the benefit of the draught created by the fat bar-maid when she passed along the corridor to the dining room.

Fanning’s companion was a stranger to the town. If he were not he would never have allowed himself to be in veigled into this conversation, for it required but a short stay in Port to discover that any exchange of ideas with Fanning quickly developed into a one-sided affair. He loved to talk but all the local dwellers knew this by bitter experience and avoided him ac cordingly so that he now had no opportunities of getting a monologue off his chest except when occasional unwary visitors blundered into his craftily spun web of words.

This was such an occasion.

“You people of the Mandated Terri tory have a high oninion of yourselves all right,” said Fanning with heavy sarcasm. “Because we of Papua have been here so long you have the hide to call us moribund.” Indignation almost spurred him to an erect sitting position but he thought better of it; after all it was hot enough without that.

“I don’t mind betting,” he continued after an impressive pause, “that I could produce a chap in this town with greater organising ability, inven tive genius and all-round braininess than you could find anywhere throughout the Islands, let alone New Guinea.”

“Go ahead,” said the man from Rabaul after looking around in vain for a means of escape.

“It’s all right,” said Fanning observ ing the hunted look, “I’m not speak ing of myself now, though I’m willing to admit that I’m the finest singer in Papua. Still I have no tickets on myself because of that. No! the cove I’m referring to is old Scientif’; he’s down at the recreation grounds right now pegging out a claim in the centre of the cricket pitch in the hope that the team will buy him off before he starts digging.

“OCIENTIF’ is short for Scientific which is a title he earned years ago; his proper name has long been forgotten, if anyone ever knew it. He first came into the limelight when it became known that he’d signed on twenty shooting-boys as a pest and disease gang. He was managing a

coconut plantation in the Eastern Division at the time and the place was fairly riddled with giant Rhinoceros beetles and the job had broken the hearts of half a dozen stout fellows before he came on the scene.

“As it happened any trees the beetles had not destroyed were soon blown to smithereens by the over zealous shooting-boys so that he may be said to have fired himself, but the incident served to draw our attention to the fact that we had an original in our midst and the whole of his subsequent career was punctuated with similar unorthodox actions.

“We used to marvel at the fellow.

Some said that he was an intellectual giant; but most that he was a crank.

He himself modestly claimed to ap proach his problems from the scien tific angle—hence his nickname.

“It wasn’t until the bottom had fallen out of the price of copra, how ever, that Scientif’ got full scope for his peculiar genius. When the blow fell the owner of the plantation which Scientif’ was running wrote in structing him to pay off fifty per cent, of the labour. Then he (the owner) took to his bed with a hogs head of OP rum and dreamt that copra had made a miraculous recovery and ‘smoked’ was selling at forty quid the ton.

“Scientif’, however, wasted no time in dreaming. His place had always been a bad one for Jcuru-kuru (kunai you call it in New Guinea) and the reduced maintenance gang was quite unable to cope with it so, as a pre liminary skirmish, Scientif’ bought a score of scythes and sooled his boys onto the stuff with these amusing implements.

“By the time the scythers (if there is such a word) had reached the end of a line of coconuts the grass at their starting place had sprung up again so vigorously that they had to cut their way back to the compound and old Scientif’ soon saw that this would get him nowhere. Accordingly he donned his thinking cap and called Science to his aid.

“From ‘The Planters’ Guide,’ which contains all the information essential to the proper conduct of a plantation, he learned the requirements for laying a concrete tennis court. ‘Aha!’ he thought, ‘here’s the solution! No grass, not even kuru-kuru, could grow on concrete’ and straight away he de cided to pave an experimental area.

“As a result of some extremely in tricate mathematical calculations he found ithat he’d require about two hundred casks of cement for the job and promptly lodged an order for that amount. He had plenty sand and stone, the whole Estate being planted on nothing else.

“When the order reached the store keeper here in Moresby he nearly had a heart attack, knowing as he did the precarious financial position of

the plantation, and hurried off to shake the owner out of his beautiful dreams. The owner threw a Jamaica fit, savagely cancelled the order and, with fire in his eye and a wet towel round his head, caught the first coastal boat bound for his plantation, fully resolved to strangle Scientif’ on arrival.

“He cooled down a little before getting there, however, remembering that he couldn’t sack Scientif’ because he lacked the funds to pay up a year’s salary that was owing. But be that as it may, he definitely discouraged old Scientif’ from continuing with the concrete scheme and I’ve heard it said that his language might easily have been a trifle more tactful.

“It took more than a spot of des tructive criticism to baulk a mind like Scientif’s, however, and no sooner had the owner left ithe plantation than the brainy lad was exploring avenues (as the politicians say) and quickly hit on another method of eradicating the pest.

“As he afterwards explained to me the obvious way was to get at the roots of the matter, literally, and this he proposed to do by tunneling under the entire area and pulling the grass through from underneath!

THERE was an idea for you!” cried Fanning in triumph. “Nothing moribund about that.” He banged his clenched fist on his neighbour’s knee.

The man from Rabaul jumped almost out of his chair. “Hey? What was that? I beg your pardon but I didn’t quite catch your last few words.

You were saying something about producing some brainy fellow —would you mind repeating it please?”

Slowly an incredulous light dawned in Fanning’s eyes, to be quickly succeeded by one of elation.

“Sure,” he cried heartily, “I was going to tell you about a Papuan with more brains than anyone else in the Islands let alone New Guinea.”

“Go ahead,” said the man from Rabaul settling himself more com fortably in his chair.

Then Fanning was off again.