
Chapter One 7
That much is clear.
The True History of Planets was begun in those teenage years of the century, and
it was the book he laboured at for much of the ensuing decades. He worked on
it laboriously, after the First War and then through the second, by which time
he was an esteemed college professor, at one of the oldest universities.
There was never enough time for Reg. Never enough hours in the day, nor
days in the year, or years in the century.
His opus grew slowly and he grew old with it. Selfishly and slavishly he kept
it to himself, sharing its shadowy, learned bulk only with a number of his most
valued colleagues and fellow scribblers, during the thirties and forties.
This society of writers, based around his college, gathering once a week to
discuss and to read aloud their works in progress was known, rather jovially
amongst themselves, as the Smudgelings. All of them were convinced of the
greatness and the seriousness of Reg’s massive book.
It was a book he was working on till the day he died.
This was much later, in the early nineteen-seventies, by which time he was
long retired, much fˆ
eted as a scholar, and still shackled to his immense imagi-
native work.
At the end of his life, Reg had left his ancient university town and had moved
south, to live by the sea again, in Bournemouth. This was to appease his long-
suffering wife, Enid, who dearly wished to live in a bungalow by the sea and
no longer in a damp, clammy university town.
Enid had stuck loyally by him during his years as a professor, though she
despised the academic life. It had been she who, as a nurse, had coaxed him
through that nervous illness of 1917. She stayed with him because she loved
him, though hers was not a happy life.
When he died in 1974, it was Enid who at last went into Tyler’s makeshift
study in the bungalow’s garage to sort out his affairs. She was the one who had
hoiked out the dusty manuscript of the ongoing book and promptly sold it for
a bomb.
One that set off reverberations everywhere.
Up and down the length of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries on Earth,
and other worlds besides.
Notably the dogworld.
Not that the doughty Mrs Tyler cared.
She had always considered Reg too precious with his novel. The agents and
publishers she consulted during her early widowhood all told her that it was a