“I have it,” said Blottisham.
Professor Quillibrace did not look up.
“Do you?”
“The puddle.”
Miss Stray looked across the table.
“The puddle?”
“Yes. The puddle that was there yesterday.”
Quillibrace folded the corner of his newspaper.
“I had wondered how long it would take.”
“It is clearly Heraclitean.”
“Of course.”
“The puddle changes continuously.”
“Yes.”
“The water evaporates.”
“Yes.”
“Rain replenishes it.”
“Yes.”
“And therefore”—Blottisham raised one finger—“it is never the same puddle twice.”
There was a pause.
Stray said, “Wasn't that the point?”
“Exactly.”
“No,” said Quillibrace. “That was the beginning of the problem.”
Blottisham frowned.
“I have solved the problem.”
“You have named it.”
“Which is the first stage of solving it.”
“Only at St Anselm's,” said Quillibrace.
Blottisham ignored him.
“The question is: what makes the puddle the same puddle?”
“Water,” said Quillibrace.
Blottisham looked offended.
“Professor.”
“I thought I would save time.”
“It isn't the same water.”
“Then the mud?”
“Also changes.”
“The depression in the path?”
“Closer.”
“The place?”
“Closer still.”
Blottisham smiled.
“Then I am right.”
“No.”
“But you just said—”
“I said you were closer.”
Stray had been looking out of the window.
“I think the blackbird is important.”
Blottisham sighed.
“The blackbird.”
“It keeps coming back.”
“Because it likes puddles.”
“Perhaps.”
“Then the blackbird is merely an empirical distraction.”
Quillibrace raised an eyebrow.
“That's an unusually confident way of describing a bird.”
Stray continued.
“The puddle changes. The water changes. The weather changes. Even the path changes a little. But the blackbird keeps returning to something.”
“To the water,” said Blottisham.
“Perhaps.”
“To its reflection?”
“Perhaps.”
“To the place?”
“Perhaps.”
Blottisham looked exasperated.
“You can't keep saying ‘perhaps’.”
“Why not?”
“Because we are academics.”
Quillibrace nodded solemnly.
“She has a point.”
Blottisham leaned back.
“Very well. The blackbird recognises the persistence of the puddle through change.”
“Does it?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“Because it returns.”
“Or it returns because there is water there.”
Blottisham paused.
“That amounts to the same thing.”
“No,” said Stray.
“Why not?”
“Because you're making the blackbird answer a question we asked.”
Quillibrace smiled.
“A common academic practice.”
Blottisham looked from one to the other.
“But the story asks whether the puddle is the same puddle.”
“Does it?” said Stray.
“It says the puddle wonders.”
“Yes.”
“So the question is there.”
“Perhaps.”
Blottisham groaned.
“Must everything be ‘perhaps’?”
“No,” said Quillibrace. “Only the things we haven't established.”
Blottisham was silent for a moment.
Then he said, “I still think the puddle is an excellent illustration of Heraclitus.”
“I don't doubt it,” said Quillibrace.
“But it isn't an illustration of Heraclitus.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because Heraclitus didn't have a puddle.”
Blottisham stared at him.
Stray laughed.
Quillibrace returned to his newspaper.
Outside, it had begun to rain.
Blottisham looked towards the window.
“I wonder if it is the same rain.”
“No,” said Quillibrace.
“How do you know?”
“I don't.”
Blottisham smiled.
“Perhaps.”
Quillibrace lowered the newspaper.
“Don't start.”
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