The Galactic Gourmet sg-9

by James White

  “Is this an important contribution?” asked Remrath. “Does it help keep them clean and fresh?”

  “Yes,” said Gurronsevas again. “I would say without hesitation that it is the most important one, since without it nobody would survive.”

  In his head-set he could hear Murchison making an untranslatable sound.

  “And you want to help keep us fresh,” said Remrath, lifting the last, newly-washed platter from the trough, “by making our food look nice and taste better? Impossible!”

  Gurronsevas shook his hands dry because there was nothing he could see resembling a towel and said, “I would like you to allow me to try.”

  Without replying, Remrath turned and hobbled stiffly into the outer room to return a few minutes later with an armful of the recently arrived vegetables. It began pulling leaves off some of them and roots from others before dropping the presumably edible parts into the water before it spoke.

  “You are allowed to try, stranger,” it said. “But if, out of your greater knowledge and other-world experience, you cannot produce meat for us you will be wasting your time. That is our hope and the reason why I forced Tawsar to meet you in the first place. Instead of explaining our urgent need for meat, which is necessary for the survival of our species, he was ashamed and talked of other things and allowed your healers to do strange things to him.

  “What do you want to do first, Gurronsevas?”

  “I would like to begin,” he replied, “by talking to you about the Wem …”

  “Yes, please,” said Murchison. “Apart from the physiological data, Prilicla says that you are getting more useful information from your friend in five minutes than we did from Tawsar in two hours.”“… About what you think of yourselves and your world,” he went on, ignoring yet another unexpected compliment, “as well as what you like to eat. Which objects, scenes and colors do you consider beautiful? Is the appearance of your food as important as its taste and odor? It has long been my belief that, in several important respects, a person’s behavior and level of culture is reflected by the food it eats and, of course, the civilized rituals and refinements practiced while cooking, presenting and eating it …”

  “Stranger!” Remrath broke in. “You are becoming offensive, to myself and the Wem people. Are you suggesting that we are savages?”

  “Gurronsevas, be careful,” said Murchison urgently. “Dammit, are you trying to pick a fight?”

  “That was not my intention,” he said, replying to both questioners. “I know that the Wem are close to starvation, and many of the rituals of eating require a sufficiency, if not a surplus, of the preferred foods. But where I come from eating rituals can be altered, either through necessity or to relieve the boredom of an unchanging diet.

  “Despite my ignorance of Wem cooking,” Gurronsevas continued quickly, “I shall make suggestions on how this may be done. If these suggestions are offensive or unsuitable for any physical or psychological reason, tell me so at once without wasting time on politeness. But before you do so, let me test the foods that are available and debate the suggestion with you at length so that I as well as you will know why it is unworkable.

  “To make these tests,” he went on, “I need your permission to take samples, very small quantities, of the vegetation and condiments that you use here. As well, I would be grateful if you could take me out to where these plants are harvested. Seeing them in their natural state, and gathering and testing other possibly edible growths in the vicinity, might suggest alternative meals or changes in the existing menu.”

  “But it is meat that we need,” said Remrath firmly. “Have you a suggestion for providing that?”

  “Only,” said Gurronsevas, suddenly impatient with the other’s culinary monomania, “if you were to eat one of us.”

  “Gurronsevas …!” Murchison began.

  “We would not eat you, Gurronsevas,” said Remrath, taking the suggestion literally. “With respect, your limbs and body appear hard and tough. You might taste like the branches of a tree. The shape-changer’s parts might cause indigestion by changing shape within us, and the limbs and body of the beautiful, winged creature are as fleshless as the twigs of a bush in winter. The soft being who balances on two legs and the one with the shining fur might be suitable. Are they soon to die?”

  “No,” said Gurronsevas.

  “Then you must not offer them to us,” said Remrath in a very serious voice, “The Wem believe that it is wrong to eat another intelligent being unless it dies naturally and free of disease, or its body is broken in an accident. You must not shorten another person’s life out of sympathy for our hunger, no matter how desperate our present need. I am grateful for the offer, but distressed and shocked that you would behave with such a lack of feeling towards your friends. Your gift of meat is refused.”

  “I’m glad,” said Murchison.

  “So am I,” said Gurronsevas, bypassing the translator, “I am tough only on the outside. But I seem to have talked myself into a corner …”

  To Remrath, he said, “Please, there is no need for you to feel distressed or shocked because we hold the same belief. My words were ill-chosen and were a clumsy attempt at asking another question. Would the Wem accept off-planet food, provided it was palatable and we were sure that it would not harm you?”

  “Off-planet meat?” Remrath asked hopefully.

  “No,” he said, and this time his words were well-chosen as he explained that, while it was possible to give the food the taste and consistency of different other-worldly meats, the material was not and had never been alive. The reason for this was that when different meat-eating life-forms worked together as they did at Sector General and on the ship, it was considered insensitive to eat the flesh of non-intelligent creatures who often bore a close physical resemblance to their intelligent colleagues. He ended, “The food is artificial, but you could not tell the difference.”

  Remrath replied with a sound that suggested disbelief. The long silence which followed was broken by it saying, “Regarding the tour of our vegetable gardens, I have duties here which allow me very little free time for walking in the valley. I have a class and I must prepare for the evening meal …”

  Gurronsevas concealed his disappointment. He would have preferred to have Remrath as a guide and advisor on Wem plant life than to waste his own time pulling quantities of specimens — which the other would have known immediately to be toxic — and then having to wait on the results of Murchison’s analyses. Politely, he said, “What are you serving this evening?”

  “More of the same,” said Remrath shortly. It raised one hand stiffly to point toward the outer room and went on, “But we will be able to make the necessary time, Gurronsevas, if you bring in and break up the firewood, and help me wash the vegetables.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Remrath’s movements over the rough ground of the valley floor were slower than Tawsar’s had been and clearly caused it more pain, and it steadfastly refused to enter any area that was lit by the early afternoon sun. Both problems were solved by Naydrad, who joined them with the anti-gravity litter and deployed its sunscreen over the initially reluctant passenger. The Charge Nurse had been instructed to guide the litter and to leave all the conversation to Gurronsevas, and the agitated state of its fur showed what it thought of the enforced silence. Danalta, whose job as protector had been declared redundant, had rejoined Prilicla and Murchison on Rhabwar to help process the Wem physiological data provided by Tawsar.

  The forenoon and early afternoon classes, held in the big cavern so as to keep the pupils out of the direct sunlight while taking advantage of the maximum natural illumination from the windows, had left the mine to work outdoors again, and Remrath seemed to have forgotten the time limit it had placed on the specimen-gathering exercise. Plainly it was enjoying the comfort of traveling on the litter and it was deriving even more amusement from the strange things Gurronsevas was saying and doing.

  “Surely,” it said during one of their sto
ps on the higher, uncultivated slopes, “you do not eat flowers on your world?”

  “Sometimes,” said Gurronsevas, “the stems or leaves or petals can be crushed or cooked and used to complement or contrast with the other ingredients, or arranged on the platter so as to make a meal look attractive, or simply to decorate and give a pleasing appearance and smell to the dinner table. Sometimes we eat them.”

  Remrath made another sound that did not translate. It had been making them for most of the afternoon.

  “These berries with the brown-spotted green skin,” he went on, pointing at a low-growing bush with dense, wiry foliage which he recognized as the plant he had earlier used to scrub the platters clean, “are they edible?”

  “Yes, but in very small amounts,” the Wem replied. “They are the running berries. Their taste is sharp now and sweet when they are fully ripened. But we do not eat them unless one of us is having difficulty with the elimination of body wastes. You, you are not going to take them, too!”

  “I will take specimens of everything,” said Gurronsevas, “especially from medicinal plants which can sometimes add flavor as well as health-enhancing properties to a meal. You say that the Wem use many such plants. Who is responsible for prescribing them?”

  “I am,” it said.

  As the senior cook of the establishment, Remrath and himself had a lot in common. The Wem’s knowledge and vocabulary was severely restricted, naturally, but they spoke the same language. It would be helpful to the medical team, he thought, if he was able to identify the Wem equivalent of a doctor.

  “And who among you,” he persisted, “deals with the more seriously ill or injured cases? Is there a special place where they are treated? And what is done for them?”

  There was a long silence, during which Gurronsevas wondered whether his seemingly innocent questions had given offense, before Remrath spoke.

  “Unfortunately, I am,” it said. “And Gurronsevas, I do not speak of such things to off-worlders, or even to friends. Tell me more about the strange ways you serve food.”

  They returned to the subject that Gurronsevas knew was safe and which he considered more interesting anyway.

  Initially, Remrath’s interest was merely polite. Obviously it was enjoying the comfort of traveling on the litter and was anxious to prolong the experience. But once Gurronsevas was able to make it accept the idea that eating food might be something more than the simple ingesting of organic fuel, and described with enthusiasm the many other-world rituals and subtleties used in its preparation and presentation, and the large number of different courses that could be served as part of a single meal, its interest became more serious — if, at times, combined with a large measure of incredulity.

  “I can believe that you consider a meal to be a work of art,” Remrath said at one point, “like a beautiful wood-carving or wall-painting. Of necessity a meal is a very short-lived work of art if the artist’s work is successful. But comparing the taste sensations to the pleasures of procreation is …surely that is an exaggeration?”

  “Perhaps not,” Gurronsevas replied, “if you consider that one provides a moment of intense pleasure which can be expanded and heightened by experience and controlled delays, while the other is a continuing, although admittedly a less intense pleasure, which lasts for much longer, is less subject to factors of age or physical fatigue, and is not subject to premature consummation.”

  “If you can do that with food,” said Remrath, “you must be a very good cook.”

  “I am the best,” said Gurronsevas simply.

  Remrath made a sound which did not translate and so, for some reason, did Naydrad.

  Only the topmost slopes of the valley were lit by the setting sun and the air temperature had dropped noticeably when they began their return to the mine. The young members of the working parties and classes, unsupervised, were running and hopping about in small groups on the flat area outside the entrance. This was an activity which was encouraged, Remrath explained, so as to use up their surplus energy and make them hunger for both the evening meal and sleep, because non-reparable bodily damage could occur if they were to go wandering about in the dark tunnels. Even though the waterwheels provided continuous power, except in special circumstances the mine was not lighted at night because their small remaining store of filament bulbs could not easily be replaced.

  “Do you intend to work these miracles of taste for us?” said Remrath suddenly. “How will you do it when you know nothing about Wem food and have eaten barely an insect’s mouthful of my stew?”

  “I shall try,” Gurronsevas replied. “But first the Wem samples must be tested to ensure that they will not harm me. Should they prove edible to myself as well as the Wem, only then will I try to compose something. Naturally, any meal or course that I produce must first be tested on myself. Your advice regarding taste sensations and intensities would be greatly appreciated, since my Tralthan taste sensorium will differ in certain ways from that of the Wem, but I would not serve a meal to anyone that was not first eaten in its entirety by myself.”

  “Even a project that is doomed to failure,” said Remrath, “can be interesting to watch. Do you wish to return to the kitchen now?”

  “No,” said Gurronsevas sharply, unused to having his artistic ability doubted in this fashion. He went on, “The analysis and initial experimentation with the specimens may take some time. I will return tomorrow or perhaps a day or two later. With your permission, of course.”

  “Will you require a guide,” asked Remrath, “to find your way back to my kitchen?”

  “Thank you, no,” he replied. “I remember the way.”

  No more was said until they joined the crowd of rowdy young Wem outside the mine entrance. Two of them helped Remrath off the litter, one tried to crawl through the open space between the apparently unsupported underside and the ground, then began chattering excitedly to the others about the strange, tingling sensation that the repulsion field had caused in its head and arms. Another was about to climb onto the empty litter when Remrath chased it away with threats of imminent dismemberment and other dire punishments which, considering the First Cook’s physical weakness and impaired mobility, were not being taken seriously by either.

  Naydrad had begun to guide the litter back toward the ship and Gurronsevas was turning to follow it when Remrath spoke again.

  “Tawsar, also, would be pleased if you visited us again,” it said, “to talk to the young about the other worlds and peoples and wonders you have seen. But of your work in the kitchen you must speak only to me lest some of your ideas about food cause mental distress or nausea.”

  He was able to control his own mental distress, caused by shock and anger that anyone would even suggest that the great Gurronsevas was capable of preparing a meal that would nauseate anyone, before he came within closer range of Prilicla’s empathy.

  By the time he returned to Rhabwar’s casualty deck, Naydrad had unloaded his samples and, fur rippling in anticipation, was busying itself at the food dispenser while Murchison and Danalta were doing incomprehensible things at the analyzer console. He looked around for Prilicla, but the pathologist answered his question before he could ask it.

  “Cinrusskins are short on stamina, as you probably know,” Murchison said, smiling. “It has been sleeping this past four hours and we are trying not to let our emotional radiation get too noisy. You’ve had a long day, Gurronsevas. Do you need food, rest, or both?”

  “Neither,” he replied. “I am in need of information.”

  “Aren’t we all,” said Murchison. “What exactly do you want to know?”

  As precisely as possible Gurronsevas did as he was asked. It required many minutes for him to do so, and Murchison was about to reply when Prilicla flew in to join them. The Senior Physician gestured with one delicate manipulator for it to continue.

  “First,” the pathologist began briskly, “to deal with your questions about the testing of Wem vegetation for edibility by the FGLI classifi
cation, yourself, as well as the native DHCGs. We obtained more physiological information from Tawsar than it was aware of giving, and while we still have many questions regarding the Wem endocrinology, and the evidence we have found of a possible genetic rift in the area of the herbivore-carnivore, or perhaps herbivore-omnivore, transfer which may take place at puberty, these should become clear when we have more …I’m sorry, Gurronsevas, that part of the investigation is medically specialized and of no interest to you.

  “What we can tell you,” it went on, “is that our study of the tongue structure and analysis of the saliva indicates the presence of a taste sensorium and an oral pre-digestive system that is in most respects similar to those found in the majority of warm-blooded, oxygen-breathing life-forms, including your own. If you identify and label your specimens and give us a few hours to process them, we will be able to tell you with a fair degree of certainty which plants, or sections of plants such as roots, stems, foliage or fruit, will be edible by the Wem and yourself, and which will be toxic to a greater or lesser degree. Frequently, material which we would classify as being toxic if introduced directly into the bloodstream can be rendered harmless by the normal detoxification processes of digestion, so it is unlikely that you would poison a Wem or yourself if the food samples tested are initially kept small. The same applies to any food material for the Wem produced by Rhabwar’s synthesizer.

  “We cannot tell you how exactly any given sample will taste,” it went on. “The chemical composition will indicate whether or not the taste will be intense, but not whether it will be intensely pleasant or unpleasant to a Wem. As you more than anyone else here know, taste is a personal preference which varies between individuals of a single species, much less those with different evolutionary backgrounds.”

  “It seems,” said Gurronsevas, “that the Wem palate will have to be reeducated.”

  Murchison laughed and said, “Thankfully, that isn’t my problem. Is there anything else you want to know?”