VMR Theory

by Robert Frezza

  I noticed a cut over Catarina’s right eye. “Where did you get that?”

  “Klo’klotixag Navy Intelligence drew a deuce in the big stakeout lottery. Apparently, they’re a little peeved about it. Someone left a letter bomb for me, and they appear to be the likeliest suspects.”

  “So what’s the embassy kitchen serving for dinner?” I asked, suddenly feeling very cold.

  “Tee Special Secret Police will be watching for you. You cannot go back t’ere!” Trixie admonished.

  Catarina nodded. “I’ve arranged a place for us to hide.

  1 have food in the car to last us a couple of days. I promised Trixie I’d teach her how to cook.”

  “What about the rest of our crew?”

  “Harry and Rosalee are still at large. I haven’t had time to see what our three musketeers have been up to.”

  I glanced at my watch. “They’re probably eating lunch right now.”

  “You could call t’em,” Trixie volunteered. “Battalion Leader Tskhingamsa said telephone calls from here cannot be traced.”

  I shrugged. “Why not?” I picked up the phone and let it dial the embassy, explained what I needed to the electronic secretary, and let the secretary route the call through to the cafeteria. A minute later Minnie, Mickey, and Bunkie appeared on the screen.

  “Friend Ken!” Mickey said. “We were exceedingly worried about you. As Bucky says, ‘Prolonged silence from friends indicates trouble in the relationship.’ ”

  “Uh, thanks. I’ve only got a minute, and I called to see what you three have been up to.”

  They looked at each other. Finally Bunkie spoke. “Well, we stopped by a factory to see how it operated, and then we went to the market.”

  “Why a factory?”

  “We were considering buying it,” Minnie explained. “Buying a factory? What kind?”

  “It was for light metals. The managers running it had no idea how to organize efficiently. It took us most of the morning to straighten matters out,” Minnie said with a virtuous air.

  “Don’t tell me you spent all of your money on a factory.”

  “Oh, no,” Mickey interjected. “We would never do that. What would Uncle Cheeves say? But we had to reinvest our profits in something.”

  Dear old Uncle Cheeves was Bucky’s Prime Minister for Life. Cheeves was usually six steps ahead of anyone else, and anything he had a paw in was cause for concern. “What profits?” I asked, watching Catarina’s ivory complexion suddenly turn a few shades lighter.

  “From the market,” Mickey said innocently.

  I shut my eyes. “What... did . . . you . . . buy?” Mickey’s furry head pumped up and down. “Oh, the usual sorts of things. Some nice stocks. A few commodities. Friend Ken, are you certain you are all right? You really don’t look very well.”

  “Oh, I’m fine, just—fine. How much pocket money did Uncle Cheeves give you?”

  “Well, he made us convert it to gold because the inhabitants here apparently have some silly restrictions on bringing currency to their planet.”

  “How . . . much . . . gold?”

  Mickey turned to Minnie, while Bunkie did her best to avoid meeting my eyes. “How much did we bring? Wasn’t it five quanatsT Mickey used the calculator on his wristwatch to convert this into metric. “That is 94.13 kilograms!” he announced proudly.

  Minnie nodded. “It seemed silly to us to use up most of our weight allowance on gold, but Uncle Cheeves insisted. Because of the war scare, we got a very good price.”

  “Bunkie?” I said very softly.

  “Well, sir, Miss Lindquist told me to keep them out of trouble, so I thought I should do my best to make sure that they didn’t lose their money. The markets here aren’t regulated, so you have to be very careful what you buy and sell,” Bunkie said, trying to look off into space.

  “We gave Bunkie five percent of our profits,” Minnie added.

  I rubbed my temples. “Bunkie, what have you done?”

  She consulted her notes. “Well, on Monday we effected a partial comer on mercury, let the price go up twelve percent and sold. Then we shifted into laser technology stocks—people here don’t understand how to value options. That was a good long-term investment, so after they took off we only sold half of our holdings. On Tuesday—”

  1 saw Tskhingamsa approach. “Our transportation just arrived,” I said, “so let’s skip ahead. How much are the three of you worth?”

  “Ownership or control?” Bunkie asked.

  “Let’s say control.”

  “Well, it’s hard to be precise—”

  “Ballpark figure.”

  Bunkie played with her calculator. She made a sickly smile. “Roughly a hundred and forty million in Confederation currency.”

  “We took Tuesday morning off to sightsee,” Minnie explained.

  “They don’t know anything about employee incentives to increase productivity here,” Mickey protested.

  I shut my eyes. “Aren’t you afraid of what the government is going to do when it finds out what you three have been up to?”

  “Oh, no. We bought ourselves a few ephors. Uncle Cheeves was very specific about that,” Mickey said solemnly.

  “Friend Ken, may we have the rest of the day off?” Minnie asked. “We need to do some restructuring.” “Yes,” I said in a very tiny voice.

  “As they trooped away I noticed that Trixie was a little pinkish around the gills. Clearly she wasn’t used to dealing with Rodents.

  Before I could hang up the phone, another face appeared on the screen. “MacKay,” Bobby Stemm whispered hoarsely, “this is important. The Special Secret Police have informed us that you killed a shadur. Is this true?”

  “Well, sort of, but—”

  “Oh, my God, MacKay! Whatever possessed you?!” “How about self-preservation.”

  “Don’t you know that shadurs are an endangered species?”

  “No, but at the time it didn’t seem that important.” “Well, you’ve gone and done it now! Do you have the slightest idea how much trouble you’re in? A delegation from the Peace Coalition for a Just Ecology arrived this morning to discuss preservation of the shadur with the Klo’klotixa government now that they’ve finished with their crusade to save the hepatitis-B virus, and they closeted themselves with the ambassador as soon as they heard.”

  “Wait a minute, Bobby,” Catarina interjected. “What is the Peace Coalition for a Just Ecology?”

  Bobby mopped his forehead. “The PCJE is a militant umbrella organization of animal rights activists. Their motto is ‘Hug Trees, Not People.’ The delegation has sworn a blood oath to vivisect you on sight.”

  “How serious are these folks?” I asked.

  Stemm held up a “Save the Elephant” flyer, and I

  skimmed it quickly. Instead of culling elephants to keep them from overpopulating their habitats, it recommended culling Africans.

  Stemm explained, “A few members of the delegation know the ambassador from his activist days, and the ambassador is so furious with you for having to listen to them that he’s ordered the Marines to turn you back if you try and enter the embassy.”

  I sighed. Conquest’s Law holds that you can anticipate the behavior of an organization by assuming that it is controlled by a secret cabal of its enemies bent on discrediting it.

  Tskhingamsa positioned himself where Bobby couldn’t see him and motioned. “We must leave!”

  Bidding Bobby a fond farewell, we hurried outside to where the car was waiting. Tskhingamsa climbed into the driver’s 'seat while the rest of us piled in back and opaqued the glass.

  “What do you think?” I asked Catarina as we headed south along the river.

  She shrugged. “Slow week, isn’t it?”

  We drove over a bridge and went about a dozen blocks when Catarina suddenly pointed to a parking garage and Tskhingamsa pulled in. He stopped the car and turned around in his seat. “Are you certain you will be safe? I could perhaps hide you.”

 
Catarina opened the door and looked to see if anyone was around. “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think it would be prudent for either of us.” We got out, and Tskhingamsa sped off.

  Trixie had discarded her submachine gun, which made me feel slightly more secure. “What next?” I asked as we stepped behind a pillar.

  Catarina sat down and leaned her back against the pillar. “Our ride should be arriving any minute now.”

  Ten minutes later a wrinkled little Macdonald with pale pink eyes drove up in a beat-up copy of a Volkswagen and cautiously eased into a parking space.

  Catarina nudged Trixie. “That looks like it now.”

  Trixie ran over and exchanged a few words. Then she waved both her arms, and Catarina and I moved to join her.

  Catarina took charge of introductions, “Deacon Mjarlen, may I present Xuexue and Ken MacKay.”

  “Miss Catarina, I am delighted to make your charming acquaintance and t’at of your friends.” Mjarlen made the sign of the cross. “May you be a half hour in heaven before tee Devil knows you’re dead. Finest kind. Climb in.”

  Trixie and I exchanged baffled looks. Seeing me hesitate, Catarina opened the rear door and pushed me in while Trixie took the front seat.

  “My venerable vehicle does not have opaque glass, so it would be prudent to pull tee curtains,” Mjarlen said as he backed us out slowly and almost into the far wall.

  I looked around for the seat belt while Catarina pulled the curtains. “Uh, are you a Christian?”

  “Of course, Cat’olic. Finest kind. Rah rah, Notre Dame!” Guided at least as much by divine providence as Mjarlen, our vehicle lurched out into the street, bringing several oxcarts to a screeching halt.

  “But—” I began.

  “Human religions would be proscribed if tee government realized t’ey existed, but God has preserved us t’us far,” Mjarlen explained smugly.

  “How—” I began.

  “Tee mailship arrived today, and Fat’er Yakub sent me a letter mentioning t’at you and Catarina were bret’ren and might need help as well as God’s grace, you especially, Mr. MacKay.”

  “Call me Ken. But how—” I began.

  “Did Fat’er Yakub not tell you? He came here as an et’nologist years and years and years ago. He stayed in my house. I cannot understand why he didn’t mention it. Oh, I remember, your government would not have approved. But still, it was years and years ago, so t’ey could hardly hold it against him.”

  “But why—”

  “Ah, Ken, it is an ancient tradition of tee Church to provide sanctuary to tee poor and oppressed.”

  If I was befuddled, Trixie was clueless. She turned around and leaned her chin on the headrest. “What is a church?” sfie asked in a small voice.

  Mjarlen explained, trusting in God’s grace a bit more than I would have done. “A church is a building used for Christian worship, but it also signifies tee body of believers in Christ’s message and tee communion of saints.”

  “Oh,” Trixie said in an especially small voice.

  “We use my home as our church, and I will hide you t’ere, Ken. From what Fat’er Yakub said, no one would ever t’ink to look for you in a church.”

  I looked at Catarina and shrugged helplessly. “I might as well take my lumps and get it over with. Theology is not my strong suit, but somewhere along the line I got the impression that Christ taught His message and died on the cross to save mankind from its sins. How do you Macdonalds fit in?”

  Catarina gave me that slightly superior look she reserves for occasions when I have truly distinguished myself.

  ‘“Ken, you must consider Christ’s teachings.” Mjarlen, who had obviously studied with Jesuits, extended one digit skyward to emphasize his point, and heaven responded by steering several vehicles around us after we drifted over the center line. “Jesus died to bring a message of salvation to intelligent beings. Tee headline did not read, ‘Jewish boy does good in front of hometown crowd.’ Tee message of love, fait’, and morality in tee Bible was not directed merely to a handful of puny creatures on one planet, but to all sentient beings, excepting lawyers and Pharisees.”

  We careened around a rider on a large dun-colored beast. I hastily pulled the curtain tight and stared at Catarina. “Did you just see someone riding a cow?”

  “Duocornis macdonaldensis, the Macdonald duo-com,” Catarina corrected me. Then, to distract me from my cares, she proceeded to “udderly milk” the resemblance for the next five minutes without repeating herself. I can be pretty “gullibull.” I tried flinging myself out of the vehicle, but the rear doors had child-proof locks.

  Mjarlen’s car, with minor assistance from Mjarlen, finally stopped in front of a small stone-faced bungalow. Mjarlen turned around and handed us three of the flowing, ankle-length cloaks worn by very poor Macdonalds and the children of the very wealthy. “I will take you in now.”

  “How many, er, beings do you have in your congregation?” I asked, stumbling over my hem.

  “Nearly one gross of families,” Mjarlen answered proudly as he rooted through his pouch for the key.

  “Aren’t the police suspicious of all the traffic in and out of here?” Catarina asked.

  “Oh, no,” Mjarlen assured her. “We just say we’re playing bingo.”

  Most Macdonald homes have cellars to remind them of their ancestral caves and why they don’t want to go back, and Mjarlen led us downstairs, where we pulled up some cushions and I told them about Wipo’s James Bond theory.

  “Perhaps if I write and explain to tee government t’at you are not James Bond at all, it will clear matters up,” Mjarlen reflected.

  I had a slight coughing fit. While it may be true that in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king, in the asylum of the witless, the merely half-witted are out of place.

  “That might not be a very good idea,” Catarina explained tactfully. “The government might not take your word for it. After all, you haven’t known us very long.”

  “I suppose you are right. Still, magna est veritas et praevalebit, great is trut’ and it will prevail.”

  “That’s Latin, isn’t it? Did Father Yakub teach you any other languages?” I asked.

  “I know a smattering of all of tee languages of tee Bible—Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Aramaic, Gaelic,” Mjarlen explained.

  I blinked. “Gaelic?”

  “Did not Fat’er Yakub tell you? Tee Galatians were shanty Irish who took a wrong turn somewhere around Macedonia. Like Fat’er Yakub himself, our Blessed Savior was just a little bit Irish on tee Virgin Mary’s side.” Mjarlen began humming the Notre Dame fight song.

  With that to stop conversation, we heard the whistle for the front door, and Mjarlen went to answer it. He returned visibly shaken. “You must hide. Tee Special Secret Police are searching for you and for boxes of wood called coffins in every house in tee city. However, no one knows what wood is. But tee Special Secret Police are rut’less males habituated to violence, former convicts and postal workers. Daily, we ask God to relieve of tee terror t’ey represent.”

  He passed across a newspaper one of his parishioners had brought. Trixie read us the headline. “Terran Schooled in Mysteries Defies Special Secret Police, Kills Shadur, and Levitates out of Escape-Proof Cell.”

  Underneath was Harry’s picture. I never get any respect.

  Catarina smiled. “You have to admit you don’t look very dangerous. The Special Secret Police may have been the tiniest bit embarrassed to give the newspaper your mug shot.”

  Using her dictionary to translate, she calmly read the article aloud. “ ‘Although the Special Secret Police have issued denials, several well-placed sources have confirmed MacKay’s shadur-slaying and subsequent escape. Delegates from the human Peace Coalition for a Just Ecology expressed outrage over the cold-blooded killing and confirmed reports that MacKay is a vampire, a deathless, supernatural being which exists by drinking blood from living creatures. A Confederation spokesman declined comment. Further outrages are
expected momentarily, and the Bureau of State Security urges citizens to remain calm, but to report any suspicious activity.’ ” She looked up. “We seem to have gotten their attention.”

  “ ‘Several well-placed sources,’ ” I scoffed. “Doesn’t anybody know how to keep secrets?”

  Mjarlen tugged at my sleeve. “Perhaps we may discuss t’is at greater leisure, but now you must hide. I have a priest’s hole.”

  “A what?” I had lost the thread of the conversation and briefly considered lifting up some of the cushions to find it.

  “During the sixteenth century, English Catholics built hiding places for priests into their houses,” Catarina explained. “It’s the sort of thing that Father Yakub would think of.”

  Mjarlen led us over to a comer of the cellar laid out in tiles made from some sort of hard plant fiber. Selecting one, he slid a thin, hooked tool into one of the joins and lifted up a block of flooring and subflooring. “Your hiding place.”

  “Right,” I said, looking down. The cosy little pit was equipped with an alcove for books, track lighting, and a nice little chair. Unfortunately, what was a spacious hole for one Macdonald was decidedly cramped for the three of us. “I’m starting to get nervous about holes.”

  “In you go,” Catarina said cheerfully, a phrase I was beginning to loathe. After we stuck Trixie in the chair and squeezed in around her, Mjarlen shut the lid.

  “So what’s our plan?” I asked, removing Trixie’s elbow from my right eye, where it didn’t belong.

  “Lunch first. Then we hang loose. Trixie has the meeting with Dr. Blok set up for tonight. While we’re waiting, I have a stack of mail that came in for you on the mailship.”

  “Was the mailship anyone I know?” Most mailships are operated by artificial-intelligence constructs, and some of them have extremely artificial personalities.

  Catarina smiled. “One of your favorites. RVN 23. Swervin’ Irvin.” Irvin had a habit of erratically changing course and speed when approaching a gravity well, which had earned him his nickname and hopefully would shorten his career.