“Well, Barr?”
“That’s Sovolar and his gang. One of our men planted a camera—risky, difficult job, but he made it. Yet we haven’t found out what we want to know. You see, Sovolar is the kingpin of the Callistan pirates.”
BERTRAM nodded. He remembered now. During the Space War, the great empire of the pirates had burst into dark flower. Battening on the confusion of the times, they had robbed, plundered and murdered mercilessly. It was the story of Barataria all over again, except that it wasn’t a republic. Sovolar was the ruler, a shrewd, diabolically intelligent autocrat.
“But I thought the Callistan government was stamping the pirates out?”
“They’ve been working on that. Did a good job of it, but it’ll take time to finish. Trouble is, Bertram, we’ve reason to believe Sovolar’s behind a plan to wreck the Space Convention.”
“Oh? But how?”
“We don’t know. We thought he might have planted explosives under the surface, enough to destroy the asteroid. If so, we haven’t found it yet. A remote control device could blast Sky City to bits—and if the Convention’s here then, it may mean war. At least it’ll certainly mean the finish of the projected alliance.”
“But why should Sovolar want that?”
“Organization would mean his finish. Another war would mean a chance to build up his pirate empire again. Presidents, kings, emperors, diplomats, ambassadors from all the worlds are here. We’ve got to use kid gloves. You know how touchy some of them are. And the Callistans are the worst. Their ruler is like the old Chinese king, holy and untouchable. They have a rigid caste system, and the ambassadors they sent here are of royal blood.”
“I don’t see—”
“I’ve a hunch those ambassadors are fakes,” Gallegher said. “My theory is that the real ones were waylaid in space, and Sovolar and his men took their places. They’re wizards at disguise. Might even have used facial surgery. They’ve laid their plans in advance.”
“But in such a case—certainly you must investigate!”
The detective shook his head glumly. “Not as easy as all that. It’s forbidden for any other being to breathe the same air as a Callistan, even. It took months of parleying to get the ambassadors to come, and they’d pack up and leave pronto if they got insulted. You can’t argue with a Callistan’s psychology. They’re not human, Bertram.”
“But there must be some way of telling—”
Gallagher took out another photograph. It showed six Callistans, one of them holding a little Tardak—a black one this time. “Those are the real ambassadors. The trouble is, this snapshot checks exactly with the Callistans who arrived. Even the Tardak is black.”
“So?” Bertram looked thoughtful. “Tardaks are very suspicious of strangers, are they not?”
“Sure. I’ve thought of that. There’s absolutely no way to prove the ambassadors are fakes, and unless we can do that, we daren’t run the risk of friction. Remember, we haven’t any proof. It’s only vague theories and guesses. We may be entirely wrong.”
The detective scowled.
“If Sovolar did switch ambassadors, he may have planted explosive here already. One of the Callistans may have the remote control device on his person.”
“Surely you are wrong there?” interrupted Bertram. “To use it would mean their own destruction.”
“Yes. But Callistans have sent out suicide squads before, you know. These may be Sovolar’s men, under orders to die themselves if there’s no other way to destroy Sky City.” Gallegher threw up his hands. “You can see the spot I’m in. I can’t make a move. If I had just a scrap more evidence I’d take the risk. But I haven’t that scrap. And yet I’ve got to think of something . . . Mind if I walk up and down a bit longer here, Bertram? You know, it seems easier to think in Earth surroundings.”
“I knew that when I gave you the pass to my caverns, my friend,” Bertram murmured. He was tapping a fingernail at his teeth and frowning thoughtfully. “It may be that I have an idea, Barr. Will a paralysis ray work through plastic?”
“Sure. But—”
Bertram nodded. “We shall see, then. Listen, Barr . . .”
THE great chef exploded, glaring through a glass panel at the irritatingly accurate movements of the robot. “Idiot! Three of those mushrooms make an ounce—no more!” The robot ignored Bertram and continued to weigh the mushrooms with quick care. Three and a half. Bah! Even though they were small mushrooms, Bertram rocked with anger. Yet he had a cold, unpleasant feeling that the robot was doing its task very successfully indeed.
The Callistan Royal Dinner was being prepared. Up above, the Solar Room was jammed with the majesty of the planets, while Bertram dueled with his robot opponent in the great underground kitchens. The chef wore a flexible space helmet as protection against the Callistan artificial atmosphere, but his unbreathing rival, of course, needed nothing of this sort. Deftly Bertram worked, although his hands were shaking. He could not keep from casting worried glances through the glass into the adjoining kitchen.
The robot was perfectly following the formula imprinted in his sponge-platinum brain. A sweet first. A curious pinkish fruit it was, the middle scooped out and filled with a sickly almond paste that would have been nauseating to an Earthman’s palate. Then frozen soup, cut into cubes. A roast. The special sauces, eleven of them, blended as only Bertram of Sky City knew how to blend them . . . Bertram hoped!
The robot made no comment. It did its job, a bit faster than its human rival, but certainly it could not achieve the personal touch . . . Bertram hoped!
He hoped, but he was afraid. At last he clicked on a scanner, wide range, and watched a picture grow on the screen. It showed the Solar Room above, a gigantic circular chamber roofed with teleview plates that showed starry space. In the center of the floor a couple was dancing, the ancient Blue Danube a soft accompaniment to their graceful movements. The room was built like an amphitheatre, with tiers rising toward the walls. Some of the tables were under glass-plastic domes, with plastic transparent runways leading out of the Solar Room down little elevators. Under these hemispheres the atmospheric conditions of other worlds prevailed.
White-skinned Venusians sat at dinner under one, breathing air strong in carbon dioxide. Another was filled with drifting reddish spores, where Martians of the fungi forests squatted on cushions, their especially-adapted noses bat-like and hideous. Under another dome six Callistans sat, bulging-browed, with dark, plated skins, and expressionless faces. On the lap of one was the black Tardafc, teeth bared.
Tom Fargo was wandering about, chatting companionably with the guests, occasionally picking up a microphone to speak to the diners under the domes. Bertram’s heart swelled. They were all eating food—the cuisine Bertram of Sky City had made famous.
He cast a malignant glance at the robot, which was sliding golden salvers into a pneumatic receptacle in the wall. Royal Callistans always insisted on golden service. Hastily Bertram followed the robot’s example and turned again to the scanner.
PLATES on the Callistans’ table slid aside; the salvers of sweet stuffed fruit rose slowly into view. Bertram used a sharper lens. Was that a speck or a bruise on one of the fruits the robot had prepared? Or—Avidly he watched the immobile faces of the Callistans. They told him nothing. He glared at the robot and went back to arranging the iced soup in the tall urns that were required by the etiquette of the other planet.
Sweets, soup, roast, another sweet, a salty, tough stalk resembling celery—all these things were prescribed. The meal had only begun. A stew, strong with capers and an aromatic sauce having a medicinal smell, came next. Then a liqueur, to which a drop of iodine had been added—that, too, was a Callistan tradition, necessary for a people inclined toward thyroid trouble. The robot made no mistakes. And—unlike Bertram—it did not worry.
The chef was thinking of Gallegher. Suppose the detective had been right? Suppose there was actually a plot to destroy Sky City? Bertram’s blue eyes were worried.
&n
bsp; Suppose the robot won the battle? It would be better to be blown to bits with the asteroid, in that case!
Sadly Bertram added a pinch of salt to a pasty white glue. He reached for the pepper, and caught himself just in time. Whew! That had been close! Of course Callistans never used pepper . . .
The robot continued its work with diabolical, unhurried calm.
The meal drew to its close. Still nothing had happened. Bertram reached for a bowl containing what looked like a salad, mixed with fish flakes, and put it in the pneumo-tube. Beside it he laid a card inscribed:
“For the Tardak—compliments of Bertram.”
He added small cups of coffee, which Callistans enjoyed, and saw that the robot was doing the same. The panel in the wall clicked shut. Bertram went back to the scanner. The robot, he saw, was now motionless, its task finished.
Who had won? Bertram or the robot? Or was it a tie?
Fargo came over to the memisphere and used the microphone. No doubt enquiring about the dinner. If the Callistans had detected no difference between the food prepared by the robot and that served by Bertram, all would be lost!
THE coffee lifted itself to view, together with the bowl for the Tardak. A Callistan read the card Bertram had written, nodded impassively, and lifted the black animal to the top of the table. It bared vicious fangs, went toward the bowl, and sniffed inquisitively. But Bertram knew what Tardaks liked, and he was not surprised when the beast began to devour its food greedily.
Fargo was still talking. There was an expression of pleased triumph on his thin face. Bertram’s heart sank.
The manager departed. After dinner, the chef knew, Callistans always played a ceremonial game of kotan, using tiny cubes like dice and thin strips of metal. They were at it now. Bertram waited.
Time dragged on. The Tardak had finished its meal and had gone to sleep. The door behind the chef opened and Fargo entered.
“Mind if I come in? You’re through with the Royal Dinner now, eh?” He was wearing a transparent light helmet because of the Callistan atmosphere in the kitchen.
Bertram glared silently.
“What’s wrong?”
“Tell me!” the chef growled.
“The robots stay,” Fargo said.
“Sorry, Bertram, but the Callistans could detect no difference at all. I’m—”
He paused, staring past the other at the scanner screen. It was still focused on the Callistan dome.
“Say! What’s happening to that Tardak?”
“It—it—” Bertram licked his lips.
“Good heavens!” Fargo gasped. “The beast’s been poisoned! Blast you, Bertram, what did you feed it? You know how those Callistans are! Why on earth did you ever take such a chance?”
“Wait! Watch! That Callistan—ah-h!” Bertram danced with lumbering horror as the tallest of the ambassadors sprang up suddenly, his eyes on the dead Tardak, and reached toward his pocket.
“Barr!” Bertram yelped. “Quick!”
Barr Gallegher could not hear, of course, but he, too, had been watching. A pale violet beam probed down from above the Callistans’ dome. The ambassadors froze, motionless as statues.
“Bertram!” Fargo snarled. “You’re behind this!”
The chef was watching a group of ray-armored plainclothesmen moving hurriedly toward the paralyzed Callistans under their dome.
“Of course I am behind it. So they were pirates! Ah-h!”
Fargo did not hear. He was gone, frantically racing back toward the Solar Room, wondering whether or not Bertram had gone mad . . .
IN THE master kitchen Bertram of Sky City stood like a mammoth Gibraltar and shook a cocktail. Barr Gallegher and Tom Fargo sat watching him. The chef uncapped the shaker, sniffed thoughtfully at its contents, and then continued his activities.
“Space pirates,” Fargo murmured. “And Sovolar’s men!”
Gallegher nodded.
“They’ve confessed—under scopalomine. We’ve recovered the explosive they planted in the Martian Cavern. And the Callistan government has already space-wired us its thanks and is sending a representative by armed convoy.”
“I’ll be—”
“Bertram did it,” the detective chuckled. “It was all his plan. Soon as I noticed the Tardak keel over, I switched on the paralysis ray—just in time.”
“Bertram,” Fargo said softly.
There was no answer.
“Bertram,” the manager repeated. “I have been thinking—”
Silence. Fargo gulped and went on. “I don’t know what you did to that Tardak, but I was wrong in one point. I said emergencies couldn’t arise in a kitchen. Well—this was an emergency. A big one.”
Bertram kept on agitating the shaker. Gallegher winked at him.
“I can see your point about robots,” Fargo said. “If we’d had robot chefs tonight, Sky City would probably be destroyed by this time. Bertram, I am sending the robot back to Earth in the morning. You’re in charge. Complete charge. No robots.”
“Ah-h,” said Bertram.
“Now, in the name of the devil, tell me what you did to that Tardak!” Carefully the chef poured cocktails. “Why, that was simple, Fargo. I was told the pirates might have killed the Callistan ambassadors and taken their places. The real ambassadors had a black Tardak. The pirates owned a white one. Now Tardaks hate strangers—so, logically, Sovolar’s men would have kept their own and dyed it black.”
Fargo nodded. “But—”
“My Earth caverns are very complete. I even have some St. John’s wort there. And I have studied my profession. So I knew that, curiously enough, St. John’s wort is deadly poison to white-haired animals—and to no others!”
THE manager’s jaw dropped. “Huh?”
“It sounds like a fable, but it is perfectly true. I made a few tests this afternoon, to make certain. An animal with white fur is physiologically different from one with brown or black. At any rate, I mixed St. John’s wort with the Tardak’s food, and, since it was a white-haired beast dyed black—it was poisoned.”
Gallegher lifted his glass.
“A toast, Fargo. To Bertram—of Sky City!”
They drank the toast. Fargo looked much happier now.
“I was wrong, Bertram,” he said generously. “And you were right. But now—no more talk of robots. Okay?”
Bertram pursed his lips.
“Ah-h—I should like to keep this one, if you do not mind.”
“Eh? Don’t tell me—”
The great chef smiled. “I have a job for it, Fargo. Something it can do very well.”
“Keep it if you like. But I thought you said robots were useless.”
“It will be well fitted for this task,” Bertram chuckled, his blue eyes gleaming with triumph. “It will do nothing but wash dishes, Fargo.”
1943
NOTHING BUT GINGERBREAD LEFT
A story of a rhyme, of perfect rhythm, and the complete disruption of military machinery by a nursery jingle that could not be forgotten.
The only way to make people believe this story is to write it in German. And there’s no point in doing that, for the German-speaking world is already starting to worry about gingerbread left.
I speak figuratively. It’s safer. Very likely Rutherford, whose interests are equally divided between semantics and Basin Street, could create an English equivalent of gingerbread left, God forbid. As it is, the song, with its reductio ad absurdum of rhythm and sense, is meaningless in translation. Try translating Jabberwocky into German. So what?
The song, as Rutherford wrote it in German, had nothing to do with gingerbread, but, since the original is obviously unavailable, I’m substituting the closest thing to it that exists in English. It’s lacking in that certain compelling perfection on which Rutherford worked for months, but it’ll give you an idea.
We’ll start, I suppose, with the night Rutherford threw a shoe at his son. He had reason. Phil Rutherford was in charge of semantics at the University, and he was bat
tling a hangover and trying to correct papers at the same time. Physical disabilities had kept him out of the army, and he was brooding over that, wondering if he should gulp some more Sherman units of thiamin, and hating his students. The papers they had handed in were no good. For the most part, they smelled. Rutherford had an almost illicit love for words, and it distressed him to see them kicked around thus. As Humpty Dumpty had said, the question was which was to be the master.
Usually it wasn’t the students. Jerry O’Brien had a good paper, though, and Rutherford went over it carefully, pencil in hand. The radio in the living room didn’t bother him: the door was closed, anyhow. But, abruptly, the radio stopped.
“Hi,” said Rutherford’s thirteen-year-old son, poking his untidy head across the threshold. There was an ink smudge on the end of the youth’s nose. “Hi, pop. Finished my homework. Can I go to the show?”
“It’s too late,” Rutherford said, glancing at his wrist watch. “Sorry. But you’ve an early class tomorrow.”
“Nom d’un plume,” Bill murmured. He was discovering French.
“Out. I’ve got work to do. Go listen to the radio.”
“They make with corn tonight. Oh, well—” Bill retreated. leaving the door ajar. From the other room came confused, muffled sounds. Rutherford returned to his work.
He became aware, presently, that Bill was repeating a monotonous, rhythmic string of phrases. Automatically Rutherford caught himself listening, straining to catch the words. When he did, they were meaningless—the familiar catch phrases of kids.
“Ibbety zibbety zibbety zam—”
It occurred to Rutherford that he had been hearing this for some time, the mystic doggerel formula for choosing sides—“and out goes you!” One of those things that stick in your mind rather irritatingly.
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