The Adventures of Charles Fort, Herring Biologist
Chapter 1: Where Have All The Herring Spawned?
"It looks bad, Charles." Nute Fisk, Director of the British Columbia Herring Board, scowled behind his desk. "The annual herring spawn survey results came in while you were recuperating from your investigation of the case of the giant herring of Vancouver." Nute Fisk's fingers toyed with the form guide he'd laid aside. "The annual herring spawn has failed to eventuate. There's not a herring nor herring egg in sight. I don't have to tell you what that means."
On the other side of the desk, Charles Fort, herring biologist, was a study in brow-furrow management. "No herring salad?"
"No herring salad."
"No kippers?"
"Not a one."
Charles Fort's eyebrows scaled new heights. "No rollmops?"
Nute Fisk shook his head.
Charles Fort's eyes glazed over as if in a trance. His lips moved, shaping words:
Herring in the sea --
That they are nowhere --
That they do not spawn.
"Yes, yes," said Nute Fisk. "We know that. Find out why."
The last quarter of last year - herring to the west!
The first quarter of next year - we shall have herring.
"Glad to hear it," muttered Nute Fisk, deep in his form guide.
***
Betty Wonset stood, her knees protesting from too much kneeling. That silvery stuff on the ground was herring spawn alright; her analysis confirmed it. How it came to be on the seventeenth hole of the Port Alberni Royal Golf Club, though, was anyone's guess.
She looked up as Charles Fort appeared from the direction of the sand trap. Nute Fisk had told her to expect him. Maybe he could tell her how this mass of herring spawn had come to be here.
Charles Fort exchanged greetings with her that were so perfunctory as to be vestigial. His eyes drilled into the silvery mass spread out over several square metres of level turf.
"Charles, I was wondering -"
Charles held up a hand, cutting Betty off mid-predicate. He crouched and thrust his finger into the silvery sheen, scooping up a dollop. He inspected the whitish mass dripping from the tip, then lifted his finger towards his mouth.
Betty winced. "Charles -"
"It'sh -" He scrubbed his front teeth with his finger, getting up into the tops of his gums. "It'sh, ah - shalty..." He scrubbed along his back teeth. "It'sh, ah -"
"Herring spawn," Betty said.
"It'sh herring shpawn." Charles sucked his finger clean. "That's just what I was going to say."
"I was wondering if you could tell me how it got here."
Charles blinked like a marmoset that had been asked to show ID. "No idea."
Betty sighed.
Charles stood, dusting off his hands. He looked up, shading his eyes against the sun. "I'll tell you what, though, Betty..."
"Yes, Charles?"
Charles nodded as if to himself. "It didn't get here by itself."
Betty looked at him the way an old, tired cat appraises the wool dangled by it's human's newest grandchild.
"I was thinking," she said, "that maybe it fell from a plane."
Charles Fort nodded as if to himself. "Yes, that's a possibility." He began to pace the turf. "A plane that was carrying herring spawn. There's none in the Pacific Ocean..." His pacing gained tempo. "But if someone had sucked it up out of the sea, they could have loaded it onto a plane and flown over Port Alberni, heading for the United States, where they hope to corner the market and sell their ill-gotten spawn at an all-time record price!" He stopped pacing and flung his arms wide. "But that's dastardly!"
"Why, thankyou, Mister Fort," said a silky voice behind him. The cold, hard snout of a gun barrel pressed into the small of his back. Betty's eyes went wide. "Now, put your hands up - both of you!"
[Disclaimer: All characters are fictitious. No resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is intended. I mean, come on!]
