Prostho Plus

by Piers Anthony

  "You have experience with—" here he paused to regain his shallow breath. "Lepidop mandibulars?"

  "On my world, butterflies don't have teeth."

  "Interesting. On Lepidop (another breath), primates don't have teeth." He laughed—a painful rattle, even in translation. "But I suppose you (breath) don't have genuine lepids, any (breath) more than we have real primates. (Breath, breath) It is merely a con (breath) venience of expression."

  Judy was happy to agree. This royal butterfly had no connection to any Earthly creature, just as Judy Galland had no connection to any galactic biped. The Monarch was not stupid, but he was rapidly weakening from the effort of conversation. Gruffness was hardly the problem; a fatal over-sociability might be.

  "Dismissed," the Monarch snapped.

  Two small purple Leps hurried her out of the chamber. "He's obnoxious when balked," one confided to her. "But he'll die soon, fortunately," the other said.

  This irritated her unreasonably. "Now stop that! I think he's very nice, and I won't have you saying such things behind his back."

  The butterflies tittered, and she realized that she had chosen a poor figure of speech that the translator had rendered literally. There was no "behind" for a butterfly's back; there was only "above". And that ruined the sentiment. She had made a fool of herself to no purpose. Their remarks might even have been well intentioned—and were probably true.

  Well, Trach had told her to beware of palace intrigues. She had probably already put her foot in it by speaking out thoughtlessly. She would be more careful henceforth.

  They showed her to a private chamber without further comment and left her. There was a galactic all-purpose unit that took care of all conceivable and some inconceivable physical needs, and she had learned how to squeeze entertainment from a standard translator. "Sing me a ballad," she directed it. And it did.

  The Monarch summoned her to another audience next day. He was considerably more affable, and she suspected that the court minions had dutifully relayed her remarks to him. She had spoken automatically, but she had defended the Monarch. Had she been negatively impressed, she might have said something entirely different, with no more thought. Or just let it pass. Little accidents like this could make all the difference, as she knew from her experience with patients on Earth. That was one reason dental assistants were usually personable and cautious about giving opinions. Usually.

  Now she almost felt guilty for speaking out, as though she had deliberately played politics. Maybe, subconsciously she had.

  But still the Monarch had no teeth, so could have no use for her. She was embarrassed, holding her little case of instruments. What politics was he playing?

  "My dear, I like your spirit. (Breath) Most visitors praise me lavishly (breath) to my antennae, but sneer (breath) behind their wings. How would (breath) you like to visit my past?"

  "Your Majesty, I don't understand."

  "I am forty-two years old," he said. The translator had rendered the time span into her terms, just as the all-purpose unit had created light and darkness to match her Earthly pattern of day and night. But it was a surprise. The Monarch was just about the same age as Dr. Dillingham! "We Lepids have lesser lifespans (breath) than some of you landbound forms. But then we (breath) have greater abilities. So life is fair."

  She had little basis to object, yet the Monarch's abilities were obviously long past. "I don't know how to—to visit your past. I'm sorry."

  "Of course you don't, my dear. (Breath) I shall take you. Ten years; I (breath) have strength enough for that.!

  Whatever it was, if it required strength it was best discouraged. He could afford no superfluous expenditures of energy. "I don't see what this has to do with dental hygiene, Your Majesty. Why take me?"

  "Give me your hand," the Monarch said. "Oh, you have only two. (Breath) Awkward, but I suppose you're used to it."

  "Yes." Hesitantly she held out one of her few hands, and he took it with one of his stick-thin members. His grasp was so feeble that she was afraid to close her fingers; even her lightest grip might crush his chitinous appendage.

  He shuddered. Something like a mild shock went up her arm. Then there was a strange shimmer. A wave of dizziness passed over her.

  Ten years," the Monarch said with pride. "My subjects can manage no more than five, even in their primes."

  She disengaged her hand from his surprisingly strong grip and looked at him, wondering whether he could be senile. A decade could not be wished away.

  His wings were orange. His body was full. His antennae were erect. He looked twenty years younger.

  Judy felt strange. Her clothing did not fit comfortably. Her blouse was loose, her skirt tight, her shoes wrong. She felt gangling and her face itched. What was wrong?

  "And now I have my teeth again," he said, smiling. And he did. "Of course they are not in good condition, and in five more years I lost them entirely. But with your care and advice I may be able to preserve them longer."

  This seemed to answer an important question, but she hardly heard him. "I'm younger too!" she exclaimed.

  "Naturally. So is the palace, the planet, the galaxy. This is my past."

  "Time travel? That's impossible!"

  "Impossible for you, certainly. And for most species. That is why I was able to extend my empire so readily, though it is drifting away now that my powers have declined."

  "But what about paradox? I mean—"

  "There is no conflict. We are ten years younger, and the universe is ten years younger, but we are not of it, precisely. The full explanation would be too technical for your comprehension. We merely experience, we do not affect, except for our own bodies."

  Judy shook her head. "How could you conquer an empire if you couldn't use your talent to affect it?"

  "Simple. I travel to a foreign planet, then I visit its past and make notes. Then I comprehend its vulnerability, and in the present I exploit it. No enemy strategy is a surprise to me, nor can it ever be, unless it dates from beyond my own lifetime."

  "Your Majesty, it still doesn't make sense. I see you younger, and I seem to be about sixteen myself. But when I was really sixteen I was a high-school girl on Earth, ruining my teeth with cola. So this can't be—"

  "It is my past, my dear, not yours. You become younger merely to stay in phase with me. I would take you to Earth and show you that school of yours, but my migrating years are over and no ship will respond to our touch now. You may look at Lepidop instead."

  "Don't tell me you migrated between planets without ships!"

  "Don't tell you? Very well, you shall remain ignorant of that talent." The Monarch preceded her to a silken parapet walling off a bulging room, so that they actually stood outside the body of the castle. Beyond it the colourful butterflies danced in the early dusk, whirling in columns of turbulence. "See, the chrono gives the date," he said, gesturing towards a huge clock-tower about a mile distant. "Just over ten years ago."

  She was the clock but did not know how to read its symbols. She was coming to believe that they had travelled back; nothing else explained the phenomena. She was younger; she could not be deceived about a thing like that. The Monarch now had plenty of breath and physical vigour, and he did have remarkable powers.

  A yellow messenger lighted on the parapet. July stepped back, but the insect took no note of her or the Monarch. The yellow mouth parts were moving, but she heard no translation. Naturally not, she realized when she considered it: the machines could not have been programmed for English ten years before she came. They would be inoperative for her—and of course unnecessary for the natives.

  Then how, she wondered sharply, was she able to hear and comprehend the Monarch's present speech?

  "My dear," he remarked, "your thought processes are so delightfully open. The phase applies to the translators too, but only for you and me. We cannot communicate with the creatures of this time, or indeed make ourselves known to them in any way. I heard no more than you did, just then."
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br />   "Oh," she said, more perplexed than ever.

  A thick-bodied, furry antennaed drab moth arrived on foot. It gazed out over the parapet a moment as though envious of the aerial ceremonies beyond, then lowered its head to the wall. A tremendous tongue uncurled and brushed the tight strands that formed the parapet and all the castle/palace. She saw with shock that its wings had been partially clipped, so that it could not fly.

  "The menials come out at night," the Monarch murmured distastefully. "We don't associate with them, of course, but we recognize that they do have to clean the grounds sometime."

  "The moths? They do the work?"

  "That is the natural order, since they are basically inferior. We merely relieve them of the onus of making decisions. No doubt they are happier than we are."

  The moth hardly looked happy. It seemed resigned, feeling no frustration, apart from that one glance outside, because it had no hope. She started to voice a protest at this callousness of the Monarch, but he spoke first: "We'll return to the throne-room. You shall instruct me on caring for my teeth."

  That was right—the Monarch had teeth now! This was one thing she was qualified to do. "Suppose I clean your teeth while I explain about the procedures?"

  "Excellent." He settled on the throne and opened his mouth. His teeth were surprisingly similar to those of a human being: twenty four of them, divided into incisors and molars, sixteen and eight respectively. No cuspids. Normal occlusion. That, as galactic dentition went, was practically, identical to her own set.

  She brought out her instruments, set up the sterilizer, and tied a protective cloth about his furry neck. This was awkward, because his head was not attached in a familiar manner, but she had learned not to let such details interfere. She lifted a sealer and began to check.

  "Your teeth are not in the best condition, I'm afraid," she remarked. "There's a good deal of erosion, and the gums—"

  "Ouch!"

  "Are a trifle tender. You need the attention of a dentist."

  "Allow a moth to touch my royal teeth?" he demanded incredulously.

  Oh-oh. "Don't you have any butterfly dentists?"

  "Certainly not. No butterfly would soil his dignity by learning a trade."

  "Trade? Dentistry is a profession."

  "Kingship is a profession, my dear. I would have any subject who fell so low as to practise a manual art put under the lights."

  The lights?"

  "Executed, to employ a euphemism. You would not care to know the details, my charming alien hygienist." Then he fathomed her thought. "No, there is no such restriction on aliens; we understand that the ways of the galaxy differ from ours peculiarly. No stigma attaches to you. You are not at fault for having been hatched on a barbarian world."

  That did not allay all her concerns, but she let it pass. Judy was beginning to appreciate the full extent of the problem. No wonder the Monarch had lost all his teeth.

  "Well, I can show you how to extend the life of your teeth, but it's already pretty late. Too much damage has already been done."

  Ten years is not far enough back?"

  "I'm sorry, Your Majesty, it isn't."

  "Explain anyway."

  She continued to work, cleaning away the immediate residue of what appeared to be years of neglect. "Oral prophylaxis is much more than just cleaning the teeth. The whole mouth, the entire habitat has to be considered. The food of primitive species tends to be hard, tough and gritty, and it cleans the teeth naturally. But civilized foods tend to be soft and sticky, and many essential nutrients are refined out. And sugar—processed saccharine—well, it's best to stay away from it, if you value your teeth."

  "But I love sweet foods!"

  "Your teeth have already informed me of that. If you insist on eating sweets, at least keep your teeth clean at all times. A truly clean tooth cannot decay. And it is important to disturb the natural bacteria in your mouth regularly, for some of these attack the enamel of your teeth. You can't eliminate all bacteria, but you can rout them out and keep them uncomfortable, so that they never have a chance to multiply and mass against your teeth."

  "You are beginning to make sense," the Monarch said. "But how do I keep them clean?"

  "You brush them, for one thing." She brought out a toothbrush, one of the few remaining from her original supply. Well, when they were gone, they were gone. "I'm sure you have better instruments and better systems at Lepidop, but the principle is constant: get them clean. Now I'll demonstrate the best way to clean off the surfaces, then you can do it yourself after every meal."

  "But—"

  It was her turn to divine his thought. "This can't be considered manual labour. It's hygiene. Only the most finicky and enlightened persons practise it. Clean teeth are a mark of, er, nobility."

  "Naturally," he replied, having known it all the time.

  "But brushing isn't enough." She brought out a spool of dental tape, "This is more difficult but more important. You have to pass the tape between your teeth, like this—"

  "Ouch!"

  "Now that didn't hurt, Your Majesty! You just expected it to. You pass it between your teeth and pull it back and forth a little, and it polishes the surfaces the brush can't reach. Darn these inexperienced adolescent fingers of mine! There. And right there, in the crevices between the teeth, is where food is most likely to collect, and where the undisturbed bacteria will feed and multiply in their own contented microcosm. You no more want to ignore these places than you want to ignore an assassin in your palace. Bacteria are assassins to your teeth."

  "Suddenly I understand you very well! Give me that tape!"

  His digits were much stronger than they had been when he was old. Before long he became proficient in both brushing and taping.

  "Now," he said, "I begin to weary. Take my hand."

  She took it, thinking he needed help, but as the vertigo passed over her she realized that they were jumping forward again in time.

  She was twenty-six again, her clothing fitted snugly, and the Monarch was back at forty-two/eighty-odd. His wings were bleached, his antennae sagged.

  "But look," he gasped before she left. "Teeth!"

  He was right. They were so dilapidated as to be almost useless, but they were there and they seemed clean. "You took care of them!" she cried, delighted.

  "For ten (breath) long years." He flopped on the throne, exhausted. "Dismissed."

  It was several days before the Monarch summoned her again. "It is very tiring, revisiting the past," he explained. "And tedious, following your instructions. But it saved my teeth for five years longer than they lasted before. You gave good advice."

  "I tried to," she said, but the whole business amazed her. How could they really have travelled back in time? But if they hadn't, how had the Monarch recovered his teeth? They were not good teeth, but they were genuine.

  Ten years were not enough to grant me perfect dentures," he said. "Would twenty years do it?"

  Twenty years were equivalent to forty in his life, she remembered. He would be half his present age—Hardly past his prime. "It might."

  "Take my hand."

  She obeyed while protesting. "But your Majesty. The strain—"

  The dizziness overcame her, worse than before.

  When she regained equilibrium, things had changed drastically. The Monarch was tremendous—twice his original size—and the throne had expanded to match. His wings were brilliant orange delicately veined, bordered on the fringes with a double row of white spots set in black. His torso was full and strong, his antennae were long and firm. He was a splendid figure of an insect.

  And his teeth, as he smiled, were fine and even. He had done it: he had taken them back to the time before dietary dissipation and dental neglect had damaged his teeth irreparably.

  But Judy was in trouble. She looked at herself. Her clothing hung upon her in gross festoons, her shoes were like boxes, and her dental case was impossibly heavy.

  She had lost two decades. Physically, she was
six years old.

  "Come fly with me, my dear," the Monarch said. "This is my time of power."

  "But I'm not dressed!" she wailed.

  "Neither am I. Does it matter?"

  What use to debate with a butterfly about clothing! Her blouse was now as big on her as a dress, and far less neatly shaped. She belted it around her middle with a strand of dental tape and discarded much of the rest of her apparel. It would have to do.

  They went to the parapet, its outer bulge now swollen into a large balcony. "But you said equipment wouldn't work for you here," she protested, remembering what he had said ten years later (three or four days ago, subjective time). "How can you fly?"

  "You jest, my dear," he said benignly, and hooked four hands into the back of her blouse-dress. She screeched as the dental tape snapped and she had to scramble to avoid complete déshabillé.

  The Monarch flexed his handsome wings. Air blasted down, and then they were aloft. By the time she managed to knot her outfit securely about her, the palace had fallen away and the ground was already awesomely far below.

  Now she was glad she weighed so little. Her blouse was good nylon, but...

  "Material power," the Monarch said as they flew. "It has been claimed by sages on my world and perhaps even on yours that this can not bring happiness, but assuredly it can. At this moment in the span of my reign I control seventy systems, each with one or more habitable planets, and I hold a virtual monopoly on the distribution of Ra radium throughout the galaxy. I have phenomenal wealth, and even the lowliest of my subjects live in ease. Look there?"

  She peered as he swooped low. There was a silver city with minarets and flying buttresses, each structure bedecked with scores of bright green butterflies. It was as beautiful a municipality as she had ever seen.

  "Is this your capital?" she asked.

  He laughed resoundingly. This is Luna—the slum-city of Lepidop. Every occupant is a moth. See the ugly spots on those wings."

  The spots were not ugly to her. "Luna moths," she murmured.