Chapter 1 (Terran)
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a Protoss in command of a new base, must construct additional pylons.
The universal, however, had yet to make its way to Hertfordshire. And thus, when an Observer-class vessel was seen dropping out of cloakspace and into a stand of elms, witnesses experienced the event more in terms of far-away lights, to be admired and then forgotten, than in its proper context: that of looming expansionism by a race of scaly-countenanced men whose eyes burned with the moral seriousness of a thousand giggle-bereft suns.
Expansionism begins at home: ideally everybody's home, but on this occasion that of the Bennets.
"My dear Mr. Bennet," said his lady to him, "have you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?"
Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.
"But it is," returned she; "for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she told me all about it."
Mr. Bennet made no answer, for his silent prayers for a distraction had been answered by a faint sound coming through the window. Were he a futurist, he might have thought it akin to that of a fax machine mistakenly attempting to transmit a horse; but Mr. Bennet, no such visionary, found himself initially forced to blame Mrs. Long's ill-bred cat. Still, the way it kept warbling, and beeping –
"Do you not want to know who has taken it?" cried his wife impatiently.
His tone sharpened. "We are either being watched, or I am going mad. Whether my sanity or our safety is at stake, for God's sake please be silent and allow me to listen."
This was invitation enough. "Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken by a young man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came down on Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much delighted with it, that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he is to take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be in the house by the end of next week."
The noise had now ceased. Mr. Bennet gave up, sighing, then gave up sighing and spoke.
"What is his name?"
"Bingley."
"Is he married or single?"
"Oh! Single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune; four or five thousand a year."
"And I presume you are thinking of his marrying one of our daughters."
"I have been thinking of little else. Pray tell, what gave away my hopes?"
"Do you remember the fourteenth of last month, when we were visiting our friend Tunley, and went out for a walk with him in the woods of Istleton? You spent most of that time deploying your impressive powers of rhetoric to the effect that he must get to know our Jane better."
"Oh, but I remember all too well."
"Then you must also remember that we happened upon two young lumberjacks in the woods, and you made us all stop and converse with them for an hour, over the course of which you introduced them to our two youngest a total of six times."
"Certainly; what of it?", she returned, now a little stung.
"And then when the lumberjacks seemed less than wholly interested, you suggested that Lizzy marry one of the trees."
She shrugged. "It was quite tall. In any case, Bingley is at least animal, rather than vegetable or mineral; and he may well fall in love with one of our daughters, and therefore you must visit him as soon as he comes. Indeed you must go, for it will be impossible for us to visit him if you do not."
"Whence such hope? They have none of them much to recommend them," replied he; "they are all silly and ignorant like other girls; although Lizzy has something more of quickness than her sisters."
"Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such a way? You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion for my poor nerves."
"You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration these last twenty years at least."
Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and caprice, that a tribe of trolls had taken him in as a youth, impressed by his talent, and drilled him for twenty-three years in the harrowing art of provocation. (Only after the death of Socrates had trolling and philosophy become separate disciplines, the former dispersing to the frozen depths of Norway.) Her mind was much more easily bested than those of his erstwhile green mentors. She was a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented, she fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her daughters married – by any means, at any cost, to anybody, or anything. Little did she know that some anythings had just fallen from the sky. In fact, little did she know, full stop.