by E. M. Foner
“I guess we’ll find out when the time comes,” Bill said fatalistically, swiping his palm to open the door to his cabin. “Hey, do you want to grab a coffee or something after standing in tonight?”
“I’ll probably be too tired, but we’ll see.”
“Be persistent,” Flower advised Bill after the girl entered her own cabin. “She won’t know that you’re serious otherwise.”
“I already feel like I’m stalking her,” the young man grumbled as he headed for the bathroom. After a quick shower, he collapsed in bed for a nap. It felt like he had just fallen asleep when the Dollnick AI woke him for work. Ten minutes later, he found himself hand-mixing a bowl of something with the consistency of wet cement, while Harry thumbed through the printed version of the All Species Cookbook that the beetle doctor had brought from Union Station.
“Looks like it’s stiffening up nicely,” the baker said. “Does the spoon stand on its own if you leave it upright?”
“It’s getting the spoon to move at all that’s the problem,” Bill complained. “What is this stuff?”
“I’m making a Verlock Ash Dough recipe I got from Flower using the suggested substitution from the All Species Cookbook of whole wheat for pumice. I can’t believe they eat that stuff.”
“Whole wheat?”
“Pumice. Whole wheat is good for you.”
“But why are you using Earth ingredients to bake for aliens?”
“Because they can all digest it. I’ve been a baker my whole life, and I can tell you that the whole point of dessert is to give the diners something to look forward to at the end of the meal. Before the All Species Cookbook came out, all I could offer them was fruit every night.”
“We have lots of fruit and I don’t want to dry it all,” Flower reminded him.
Harry poked the rapidly hardening mixture with his finger. “The aliens can all tolerate most of the basic foodstuffs from Earth, so if I can come up with something that looks and tastes a bit like their favorite desserts from back home using our ingredients, that will solve the problem.”
“Not with Razood,” Bill pointed out. “He doesn’t eat grains.”
“I thought I’d start with the low hanging fruit and come up with something for Brynlan. I’m suspicious Verlocks care more about the texture than the taste.”
“So what do you want me to do with this?”
“Roll it out before it hardens. Try for a single sheet about as thick as your finger, and then cut it into squares and put them on the greased tray there. A half-hour in the oven should do for the first baking.”
“Got it,” Bill said, digging out the dough with both hands and plopping it on the counter for rolling. “At least it’s sticking together.”
“I wouldn’t mind making different desserts for each species, but Flower thinks it’s important that they share some part of the meal for the sake of camaraderie, and she doesn’t count drinks.”
“Don’t you think it’s weird that all of the aliens are affected by alcohol?”
Harry shrugged. “I’m not sure they are, at least, not in the same way. The Dollnicks are the only ones I’ve seen get tipsy at meals, but that may be because they only drink on special occasions.”
“The Frunge and the Drazens imbibe more alcohol per capita than the other tunnel network species, though Humans aren’t far behind,” Flower interjected.
“So the Verlocks and the Grenouthians aren’t drinkers?”
“They have greater body mass, higher alcohol tolerance, and don’t make cultural allowances for drunks.”
“Are these all right?” Bill asked, showing Harry the tray of raw biscuits. “They sure don’t look like desserts.”
“We’re basically making hardtack, so take one of those chopsticks from the utensils drawer and poke holes in a grid, say at about two fingers width. It’s to help make sure they bake all the way through and dry better.”
“Do I have to preheat the oven?”
“I already did. When they made ship’s biscuits on Earth, they usually baked them multiple times or dried them in kilns. It’s less an item of food than a convenient way to store flour, but the Verlock likes biting into things that would break our teeth.”
“So how did sailors eat them?” Bill asked as he began poking the biscuits with a chopstick.
“Sometimes they wrapped their hardtack in cloth and beat it to get smaller pieces they could suck on, but soaking worked better. Soup, tea, even seawater, according to what I’ve read. Once you’ve finished and put the tray in the oven, come help me with tonight’s main course.”
“Which I shouldn’t have let you talk me into,” Flower commented.
“It will be fine,” Harry said. “I’ve always dabbled in pizza. When you have an oven and dough, it’s hard not to experiment.”
“Don’t forget about Razood,” Bill said, joining the baker at the main counter after putting the tray in the oven. “And the setpoint temperature on the oven jumped a hundred degrees when I closed the door.”
“That’s how I voice-programmed it,” Harry said. “Have you ever ordered a pizza with friends and asked for half with one topping and half with another?”
“I’ve never ordered a whole pizza in my life. Just slices.”
“I had an idea for preparing an entrée the aliens can share. Basically, I’m going to make a couple of pizzas that are divided into quadrants, where the toppings on each one are intended for a specific species. Razood gets crustless.”
“Crustless pizza? That would just be a melted glob of cheese and sauce with little bits of other stuff mixed in.”
“Pretty much, but I asked third officer Lynx for advice since she served as a cultural attaché for years and has eaten at all sorts of alien banquets. She assured me that the Frunge on Union Station order crustless pizza from human restaurants all the time.”
“How about Jorb?”
“The Drazens are the easiest aliens to please, I’m not even making special slices for him. He can pick what he wants and just add hot sauce.”
“Brynlan?”
“For the Verlock, I’m using beef jerky and salt cod for toppings,” Harry said. “They’re in the bowl there, if you can dice them up for me.”
“The Vergallian?”
“You can’t go wrong with vegetables for the Vergallians or the Grenouthians, though now that you ask, I’m not sure about mushrooms. Flower?”
“The Vergallians will eat mushrooms, but the Grenouthians would be so offended they would probably declare war.”
“Hold the ‘shrooms,” Harry repeated to himself.
Fifteen
“I hope Flower didn’t put bugs in our food,” Irene said nervously. “It is Dollnick night, if you’ve forgotten.”
“Did you think I was dressing up for the lecture after the meal?” Harry fumbled with his necktie, trying to remember how to tie the knot. “I thought tying a tie was supposed to be like riding a bicycle, but I’ve completely forgotten how to do this.”
“I think Flower will care more about our being on time than how we look.”
“You’re probably right,” Harry said, crumpling up his necktie and tossing it on the bed. “I’ll just wear the jacket and go with an open collar.”
“I never understood why men would want to be choked with a silk noose while eating. You don’t see women sacrificing comfort for fashion.”
Harry bit his tongue as his wife of over forty years looked straight into his eyes, daring him to respond. It was only thanks to the high heels she was wearing that their eyes were even near the same level, and he had a hard time believing that her wire-reinforced undergarments were built for comfort. As they strolled to the common room, he couldn’t help noticing that she kept a grip on his arm for balance, probably because she hadn’t worn heels in years. It turned out that at least two-thirds of the cooperative’s members had dressed for the occasion, but the dozen bots wearing ship’s livery came as a complete surprise.
“Where’s the food line?”
Irene asked.
“Must be table service tonight,” Harry surmised. “It looks like everybody else is here so we better sit.” The couple quickly found places between Nancy and Dave at their usual table.
“Welcome to the first ethnic food night at Flower’s Paradise,” the Dollnick AI announced over the public address system. “Tonight I’ll be serving recipes from the Galactic Free Press that were submitted by Humans living and working on Dollnick open worlds. I’m giving those of you with dietary restrictions the night off, and there are three entrées that everyone can choose from. I’m catering the after-party for the bocce ball league with the leftovers later and I’ll tell them it’s Modern Italian cuisine.”
“This should be interesting,” Nancy muttered to Jack under her breath, as a serving bot towing a floating cart arrived at their table.
“Good evening,” the bot greeted them in oddly accented English that Flower must have copied from an old movie. “May I suggest you all start with a refreshing fruit salad?”
“That sounds safe,” Nancy said, and then reworded her response after Jack nudged her and shook his head. “I meant, that sounds very nice.”
The bot opened a chilled compartment in the food cart and removed a large stainless steel bowl with straight sides. “Just say when,” it instructed Nancy, adding a ladleful to the bowl that was part of her place setting.
“That’s fine,” she said immediately, the ladle being sized for a Dollnick.
The bot worked its way around the table ladling fruit salad into all eight bowls, and then returned to float alongside the cart while they ate.
“Other than you making it, what’s so Dollnick about fruit salad, Flower?” Dave asked.
“The green, red and orange color scheme, plus the precision knife work,” Flower responded via the bot’s speaker grille, giving the impression that it was suffering from multiple personality disorder. “The cantaloupe pieces, being orange, are cut as rhombic dodecahedrons, while the watermelon, as befitting red fruit, is served as perfect spheres. Can you tell me how the green pieces are shaped?”
“Pyramids,” Nancy replied immediately. “I noticed right away, but I didn’t want to say anything in case it’s considered impolite.”
“Dollnicks don’t suffer from the thin skins so many other species display while eating,” Flower said proudly. “The only unforgivable offense is to ask how much something costs.”
“Do you mean in general, or related to the price of food?” Harry asked.
“Specifically the food being served. We, I mean, biological Dollnicks, see that as a veiled insult.”
“Couldn’t somebody be asking how much a melon costs to find out if they can afford it?”
“In that case, they would ask where the melon was purchased. Dollnicks use price queries to indicate quality issues. For example, passengers stranded on an interstellar liner might ask the crew, ‘How much did you pay for the last engine overhaul?’ It’s considered very witty in those circumstances.”
“It’s very good, the fruit salad,” Brenda said.
“Of course. Everything was picked earlier today on the ag decks. You couldn’t find quality like this on Earth unless you lived on a farm, and maybe not then.”
“Can I get another serving?” Dave asked.
“As healthy as fruit is, it’s high in sugars and I’d rather you didn’t,” Flower said, and then the bot’s voice shifted back to that of an English butler. “Your choices for the main course are spoon worms, Sheezle bug hash with gravy, and roast Furg with blended larvae sauce.”
“Uh, could I just get a sandwich?”
“They aren’t real Sheezle bugs or Furg,” Flower said, taking control of the bot’s speaker again. “Think of it as tribute food, like if I served you pistachio ice cream in the shape of a celery stalk.”
“Oh, I’d like that. Then whatever is fine. I’ll take the spoon worms.”
“Very good, sir,” the butler voice declared, and bringing a new stainless steel container out of the cart, began spooning fat, squirming worms onto Dave’s plate. “Just say when.”
“When! What is this? You just said we weren’t getting real Dollnick food.”
“And you aren’t,” the bot said, reverting to Flower’s voice yet again. “Echiurus echiurus, better known as spoon worms, are the closest Humans can come to eating Dollnick Snakees. I maintain a saltwater tidal pool where I grow them as a treat for the captain. Spoon worms are a Korean delicacy.”
“Could you keep them for the captain and I’ll try the Sheezle bug hash?”
“Wait,” Nancy said. “What’s the hash made from, Flower?”
“Earth ingredients,” the AI hedged.
“Are any of them alive?” Dave asked.
“Definitely not. And it’s baked rather than fried, reducing the number of empty calories.”
“You’re the only one counting, but I’ll try it.”
“Would anybody else care for spoon worms?” the bot asked in its butler-voice. On receiving no reply, it tilted Dave’s plate to slide the rejected entrée back into the stainless steel container, and then brought out a casserole dish with a glass lid. The bot removed the lid and began slicing squares of the baked hash.
“It smells heavenly,” Irene said. “That’s what I’ll have as well.”
“Me too,” Jack chimed in, and all of the other diners at the table jumped on the safe option, rather than trying the as-of-yet unseen substitute for roast Furg with blended larvae sauce. The hash proved to be crunchier than expected, but it had a rich nutty flavor, and it matched well with the braised asparagus and fresh corn, which Jack explained was close to a staple crop he had grown for Dollnicks on their ag worlds.
“And now for dessert,” the bot announced, after collecting the plates and bowls. “I give you, Weevil Mud.”
“Is that what I think it is?” Dave asked, his eyes going wide.
“It looks like chocolate ice cream with chocolate chips!” Brenda exclaimed.
“The Dollnick original is oil-saturated peat with weevils, but the recipe called for substituting ice cream and raisins,” Flower said. “I thought as long as we’re getting crazy, I’d swap the raisins for chocolate chips, but don’t expect to see it more than once a year.”
While the cooperative members devoured their sinful dessert, the bots circulated with hot drinks and cleared away the other plates. Instead of the common room emptying out after the meal, a trickle of non-members arrived, including Woojin, Lynx, and Dianne. A few people began pointing towards the back of the room, and there Harry spotted a number of the aliens from his cafeteria, who had slipped in through a side entrance. The beetle doctor came in through the front, glared at Dave through multi-faceted eyes, and then joined the other aliens.
“Do you think he knows I had two servings of ice cream?” Dave asked guiltily.
“Wipe the corner of your mouth,” Brenda whispered.
Jack rose from his spot and walked over to the small lectern that a bot had placed where the steam table was usually located. The large display panel behind him that most often showed an exterior view of the colony ship and had recently been given over to recordings of various legacy games, now displayed a title card that read, “The Business of EarthCent is Business.”
“I’d like to welcome everybody to the maiden lecture of our series, but first, let me thank Flower for the wonderful meal,” Jack said, and then allowed time for the enthusiastic applause. “Our guest tonight will be Third Officer Pyun Lynx, and she’ll be speaking about EarthCent’s mission to do its best for humanity. Lynx worked as an independent trader for ten years before being recruited by EarthCent Intelligence and eventually serving as the cultural attaché on Union Station. If you didn’t pick up on the name, Lynx is married to our captain, Pyun Woojin, and they have a lovely daughter, Em, who is home sleeping after an exhausting day at nursery school. Mrs. Pyun?”
“Thank you, Jack,” Lynx said, stepping up to the lectern. “Although I have served as a diplo
mat, I never really cared for making speeches, so please feel free to interrupt at any time with questions and maybe we can have a group discussion. If any of you are afraid of slide shows, don’t worry, this is the only one I have prepared,” she continued, making a sweeping gesture to indicate the display panel behind her. “It’s from an address that the President of EarthCent gave to a recent graduating class from our diplomacy school. Does anybody recognize the quote?”
“The chief business of the American people is business,” Nancy spoke up. “President Calvin Coolidge, though he’s usually misquoted in the form you’re showing.”
“Hmm, I think our president’s version is snappier,” Lynx said. “When the Stryx opened Earth and established EarthCent as the sole contact point for official dealings between our people and the tunnel network, they didn’t give our diplomats many guidelines as to what would be expected of them. For the first fifty or so years of EarthCent’s existence, our ambassadors were tolerated by the tunnel network members, but our people were seen as little more than the latest source of unskilled labor for species that avoid using automation whenever possible.”
The audience began to point in Lynx’s direction and make appreciative noises. It took the captain’s wife a few seconds to realize that Flower had started showing still images on the display panel illustrating the different types of manual labor done by humans around the tunnel network.
“Er, thank you, Flower,” Lynx continued. “Our ambassadors did their best to represent humanity through official channels, such as serving on the committees mandated by the Stryx on their stations, but progress was slow because the aliens saw, and continue to see us, as primitives. How many people here have watched Grenouthian documentaries about Earth?”
Every hand in the room went up.
“And how many of you would say that those documentaries paint a positive picture of our progress?”
“The one about spectacular bridge collapses did end with a quick survey of famous suspension bridges that have been standing for over two centuries,” somebody called out.
