Hotel Andromeda

by Edited by Jack L. Chalker

  “Never mind.” Mister Moogi’s foreclaws were all clacking out a staccato beat until he sounded like an avalanche of castanets. “Just… never mind. Were I to add this debt to the score of all the damages you’ve already caused in my shop, you would be an apprentice forever. We certainly don’t want that.”

  “Don’t we?” Podvex curled his already roly-poly body into a more compact ball and groomed his toes self-consciously.

  “No-we-don’t!” Mister Moogi articulated each word just so, giving it the force of a falling sandbag. Poor little Podvex cringed. “Considering your past performance, I must say that only a four hundred percent increase in personal sales completed would redeem your account to a reasonable level.”

  “And what… what would you say’s a reasonable level, Mister Moogisir?” Podvex ventured. His silky blue shoulder fur was beginning to lose its gloss due to the strain he was under. The formidable Mister Moogi had scared Podvex enough when they were just neighbors, but as an employer he was terror in a giant dung beetle suit.

  “If I can get you out of my shop and into one of your own before either one of us perishes of old age, that would be reasonable. It would also be reasonable if you remained my apprentice until your dying day and when I sold your corpse for the value of its component elements, that sum would equal your debt to me. But it won’t, so it looks like my only hope is you bettering your sales record.”

  A hint of sheen seeped back into Podvex’s shoulder fur. His wide mouth arched up in the middle, the Dangvim equivalent of a smile. “But that’s why I’m here. Mister Moogisir! To give you the good news.”

  “You’re quitting my apprentice program? You’d be willing to pheromark an affidavit to that effect in the presence of the Merchants’ Tribunal? You’ve found some other employment in the hotel that interests you more?” Mister Moogi’s optimism was so delicate and lovely to behold, it was a sin to mash it into the dust.

  “Oh, no.” Podvex was adamant. “I could never leave you after all you’ve done for me. Mister Moogisir.”

  “All I’ve—” Holding on to sanity and scent sacs by the thinnest of threads, Mister Moogi attempted to make sense of his employee’s unwanted loyalty. “Podvex, you lower marsupial, I had your parents murdered!”

  “Yessir, and mighty quick it was. Dadder always did say that if he had to go, he’d like to die on the job, selling right up to the last moment, and Mommer… Well, I’ll let you in on a little secret, Mister Moogisir: I was way past the age for most Dangvim cubbers to leave the family den and set up their own establishments. Mommer and Dadder were going to give me just one more chance to conquer my own shop, and if I bollixed it this time, they were going to personally kill and eat me. So you see, I owe you my life. I’d never quit on you.”

  Mister Moogi began exuding a waxy substance much prized for its ability to grow hair on male Terrans of a certain age. It was the only way his people had of expressing despair. Dutiful Podvex set down the ruined Summon/Cummin unit and fetched a gross of plastic ampoules, continuing the conversation while he used these to harvest his employer’s extremely marketable tears.

  “But I do have good news for you, as I said,” he went on “While you were in the office, we had a customer.”

  “A customer?” Mister Moogi mocked his apprentice without shame or remorse. “I should hope that Splendel’s may boast at least a customer at any give instant.”

  “Ah!” Podvex gestured with a full ampoule. “But this was a sentient customer—”

  “Many paying-and-potentials eschew their servos for the pleasure of coming to Splendel’s in person.”

  “A wealthy customer—”

  “Haven’t I taught you that having wealth and being willing to part with wealth do not always share the same cocoon?”

  “A Terran customer—”

  “I have found, Podvex, that moneyed Terrans are not the only race in this part of the galaxy who don’t know the value of a credchip.”

  “A desperate customer!”

  “What?” Instantly Mister Moogi’s whole demeanor changed. He whirled around and seized little Podvex in two sets of foreclaws. Pale yellow striations played up and down his cheek flaps, an indicator of gut-level elation he had not had cause to use since the day his queen had told him she was not going to personally kill and eat him after sex. “Where is he, Podvex? You didn’t let him get away, did you?”

  “Oh, no, Mister Moogisir. He’s sitting in the Glorioski Lounge having a nice cup of squeeze tea and some cakes—yes, I made sure the cakes were nontoxic and properly drugged this time—and he said he didn’t mind waiting however long it took.” Podvex puffed out the frilled fur on his chest. “He said he could see that I was just the sentient for the job.”

  “Merciful Queen, the poor meat loaf must be desperate,” Mister Moogi breathed. “Oh well, no matter, no matter. He’s desperate and he’s rich and he’s ours. That’s all that counts, isn’t it, Podvex, my fine young clutchmate?” His foreclaws combed nervously through Podvex’s shoulder fur in an attempt at bonhomie.

  “You bet, Mister Moogisir” Podvex was so taken by his employer’s sudden gush of goodwill that he jabbered carelessly away in Underg’lac without noting how each hoi-polloi syllable made Mister Moogi wince.

  Master merchant and apprentice scurried to the Glorioski Lounge posthaste. There Mister Moogi found the customer of whom Podvex had burbled. “So it is no dream,” he breathed, taking in every juicy and costly-looking detail of the Terran’s attire. There was wealth here, and plenty of it. And he didn’t gaffe it. There may yet be hope of getting rid of Podvex, Mister Moogi told himself.

  Feeling quite rejuvenated at the thought, Mister Moogi hastened to greet this potential source of credchips unlimited. His superprime foreclaw flickered up to trigger his Taboolator implant (Terraculture file). The Taboolator was a lovely little device all upper-crust merchants employed so as not to accidentally make some unfortunate remark or gesture perfectly acceptable in their own cultures but anathema to the prejudices of their customers.

  “Welcome, welcome to Splendel’s, my honored guest,” Mister Moogi gushed. “To what do we owe the joy of serving so handsome a customer?” He was about to assign the Terran’s good looks to having ritually devoured all of his siblings, but the Taboolator squealed a warning just in time.

  The Terran stood up quickly. “Oh boy, I sure hope you can help me,” he said. “I need a courtship gift, and I’ve got no idea where to begin. Price is no object.”

  Mister Moogi was more than pleased. “Certainly, certainly. We here at Splendel’s pride ourselves on being the finest hotel gift shop money can buy. Our selection of goods is second only to our skill at matching the perfect gift to each lucky recipient. In matters of romance, we are exquisite and randy by aims, as desired. Of course I needn’t tell a sophisticated sentient like yourself that before we can begin to assist you, there is the matter of the contract—”

  “Contract?” The Terran blinked. Mister Moogi’s implant translated the grimace to mean that the man was somewhat taken aback. “I thought we took care of all that.”

  “We did, we did!” Podvex scampered forward, waving his paws frantically at the System port on the lounge wall. The shineout of a counsel-purchase agreement thrust itself into the lounge, inscribed with the Terran’s signature and, no doubt, Podvex’s pheromark above his printed name, had holos but the means to project scent as well as sight.

  “Your Mister Podvex agreed to help me find exactly what I need,” the Terran said.

  “I see, I see,” Mister Moogi muttered, eyes dancing over the plump terms of the contract. In brief it explained to anyone interested that Splendel’s, as represented by Podvex, had become lord, master, and queen of the Terran’s financial resources provided that Splendel’s could come up with a courtship gift for one K’taen-ka’a, a highborn Kha’ak of the world commonly known as Osprey. Galactic coordinates were given in the same boilerplate paragraph that held the lucky recipient’s DNA identification codes.
It was all pretty formulaic.

  Something got into Mister Moogi’s skull as he reviewed the contract. It wasn’t the fact that Podvex had done something right for a change. That was just the law of averages on his side. (As the old saying goes: Even a queen who eats all the young of one generation will manage to devour the incipient democrats with the rest.) No, there was something subtler at work here, making his brain twitch and jig. He leaned closer to the shineout, bringing all eyes into play.

  There was a scream followed by the overwhelming stench of long-restrained mature adult scent sacs letting go.

  “I’m sorry,” the Terran said to Podvex as they sat opposite each other in the Without Portfolio, a hotel bar favored by the ambassadorial set. “I didn’t know your boss felt that strongly about diplomats.”

  “Strongly isn’t the word,” the furry blue Dangvim replied. He had taken so many cleansings that his follicles were shrieking for mercy and still the smell of Mister Moogi’s outburst lingered at the roots. “It’s not your fault, Frankmacgregorsir. You told me you were a dipper. I should have known Mister Moogisir’s feelings on the subject.”

  The Terran gave Podvex a weak smile. “Just call me Frank, please. It’ll make me feel a little better about what I’ve done to you.”

  “Oh, Mister Moogisir will get over it.” Podvex shrugged and sipped his squeeze tea. “We’ll find you the perfect courtship gift for Miz K’taen-ka’amam, you’ll pay us a lot of money, I’ll get my commission, and I’ll never sign up another dipper customer as long as I live.”

  “That’s for sure,” Frank said rather heavily. He leaned across the table. “Do Dangvims handle alcohol without exploding?”

  “It makes us giddiloopers, but we don’t explode,” Podvex replied.

  “Good.” Frank signaled the nearest servo and ordered them both a stiff drink. “Belt it down the black hole,” he instructed Podvex in lowest Underg’lac. “You’re gonna need it.”

  Sometime later, a definitely giddiloopers Podvex blinked at the Terran diplomat, mouth gaping. “Droppings,” was all he could say, over and over again, or sometimes, incredulous, “No droppings?”

  “None.” Frank shook his head.

  “Awww, droppings.” Podvex cried. “I’m dead.”

  “We’re dead,” the Terran corrected. “I just decided to take you along for the hearse ride.” He frowned at a thought that nibbled one brain lobe. “I don’t know what possessed me to drag you in on this with a fully formal contract. When I went into Splendel’s all I wanted was some casual advice about this gift—the alien point of view and all that. Nothing binding. It wouldn’t be fair to involve other sentients just because my lingonberries are on the line. Why would I have done something so…?”

  “My fault.” Podvex stared into the echoing depths of his empty glass. “When I heard you say price was no object, I did what Mister Moogi always told me to do: I hustled you up to the lounge and fed you cakes specially… um… seasoned to make you more receptive.”

  “You mean drugged?” Frank raised an eyebrow.

  “Enough to make you hand me your sister if I asked for her.” Podvex’s spongy tongue mopped up the last drops of alcohol from the bottom and sides of the glass. “Standard merchanting procedure. So don’t feel bad on my account. I’ve dirtied my own den and now I’ve got to lie in it.”

  “Tell me about it!” Frank leaned back, arms folded. “The same thing happened to me, all because I couldn’t keep my big mouth shut. I’m not even supposed to be here. The Hotel Andromeda was just a stopover for me en route to my next posting, but when I registered I saw a public shineout about the wedding of the age booked for this hotel: a marriage made on Osprey! Who’d have thought it?”

  “They don’t marry on Osprey?” Podvex asked.

  “Oh, they marry, all right. The rituals and taboos surrounding marriage within the tribes of the Kha’ak and the P’toon are taught to every fledgling dip. If you don’t run away screaming, they figure you’ll do. Marriage is very important to both tribes. Only children born in wedlock to the Kha’ak are permitted the supreme honor of becoming warriors who get to slaughter the P’toon, and vice versa.”

  “Like the servowars during post-Bingemass sales.” Podvex nodded. “I see.”

  “What makes this wedding special—special, hell; incredible?—is that K’taen-ka’a is Kha’ak, but the bridegroom is—”

  “P’toon?”

  “You got it.” Frank covered his face with his hands. “I read that shineout three times, just to make sure it was real. Third time’s when I caught her name on it. Ever since we were stubtails in the dipcorps school, Juanita VanTeufel has been my nemesis. Don’t get me wrong: Juanita’s a beautiful woman and a great dip, but the way she always gloats when she one-ups me! For bringing off an intertribal marriage on Osprey she’ll get to crow over half the galaxy. To this day I don’t know how she did it.”

  “So you sought her out to—congratulate her.” Podvex gave Frank a knowing look. Industrial espionage was also an integral part of the successful merchant’s life, as Mister Moogi had taught him.

  “Have it your way. The Terran dipcorps maintains a permanent suite in the hotel, you know, and when I went up there to try learning how Juanita pulled off this coup, instead of a party I stumble into a wake. Juanita’s crying, her boss is yelling at her, his boss is yelling at him, and her boss is—”

  “At the scent-sac sphincter’s limits?” Podvex suggested. “Why? Was the wedding not to be?”

  “That’s what they told me. That’s all they told me. Oh, they made me welcome as a fellow dip, and they recognized me as a friend of Juanita’s—they even cut off the multilevel harangues and recriminations and left the room to give us some private time to exchange the social pleasantries—but they refused to breathe a word about why the wedding was history. I wasn’t one of them, see, so they couldn’t give me an official briefing.” His cheeks colored slightly as he added, “There was nothing to prevent Juanita from briefing me… after.”

  “After the social pleasantries?” Podvex was a bright young Dangvim.

  Frank swallowed one reply and voiced another. “The P’toon refuse to recognize a wedding as legal or binding until the groom has sent the bride a courtship gift. That’s the only thing that Juanita told me. Oh yes: Also that the gift cannot be selected or delivered by the groom himself, or by a servo, and that if the bride shows any indication that she doesn’t like it, the wedding’s off. The P’toon indicated that they wanted a Terran dip to do their shopping for them.”

  “It was therefore a question of responsibility that had disrupted the harmony of your friend’s place of employment.” It was too bad that Mister Moogi wasn’t there to hear his apprentice phrase the situation in flawless Demigalac.

  “Uh-huh. That’s what she said.” Frank signaled the servo and bought another round, downing his before he added, “Served me right for forgetting that in the dipcorps the first thing they teach us is to listen for what the other person doesn’t say.”

  Podvex listened as Frank went on to outline a familiar scenario. The Dangvim was quite familiar with shopper’s panic, an affliction knowing no boundaries of galactic race or culture. Like Frank, he would have assigned Juanita’s desperation to the fear of picking out the wrong gift for the bride, thereby bringing the weight of a failed strategic tribal union crashing down upon her head.

  “No one would care if the P’toon and the Kha’ak continued to cut each other into hash until doomsday, except for two things: Osprey is a rich world and both tribes have recently discovered primitive nuclear weapons.”

  “Dirty ones?”

  “Obscenely filthy ones. What good are resources and trade agreements when the world that’s got ‘em is sizzling like a ham steak on a griddle?”

  Podvex folded one paw atop the other. He was swaying slightly, but so was Frank. “My friend,” he said. “I see your predicament. You thought to rescue the female who is your rival, thereby making her indebted to you forever and mo
re amenable to revealing her professional techniques and/or bearing your cubbers when a mutually convenient time for reproduction comes. But the female deceived you as to the full significance of her assigned task. There is more at work here than the mere giving of a bridal gift.”

  “To the P’toon, it’s a gift,” Frank said. “To the Kha’ak it’s a declaration of war.”

  K’taen-ka’a poked her lunch with a delicate silver fork until the unlucky meal squeaked. Then she bit its head off. As she plucked a stubborn scale out from between her teeth, she said, “Oh, I’m not fussy about my courtship gift. Anything will do. Just anything.”

  Podvex scuffed his hindpaws over the lumps and bumps of a dozen costly Kha’ak carpets, strewn in careless profusion over the floor of the bride-to-be’s room. The Kha’ak were strong believers in the dictum Less is less. Refinements of taste such as minimalism made them laugh. They preferred ostentation, display, and gross consumerism. Mister Moogi would have worshiped them.

  “Anything?” the Dangvim repeated. “You’re not just saying that, are you, K’taen-ka’amam? This is your courtship gift. According to what Frankmacgregorsir told me about your people, this is the last time you’ll be able to make any choice independent of your husband, until you have borne his first child.”

  “Upon which happy occasion I get to kill him, if I can.” The highborn Kha’ak maiden smiled.

  “You missed a scale, there,” Podvex pointed out, “Second dagger-like tooth from the right, upper.”

  “Thank you.” K’taen-ka’a levered it free with the silver fork and spat it out. “I adore lizard, but with mammals you don’t have so many little hard bits to get caught in your teeth after.”

  “Yesmam.” Podvex didn’t like the way she looked at him when she said that. Privately he said a prayer that the lady would not suddenly decide that what she wanted for a courtship gift was him, on toast. “As I was saying, the Terran Frankmacgregorsir, acting on behalf of your chosen P’toon bridegroom, Mairphot Garoo visTonktonk, has empowered me as a representative of Splendel’s gift emporium to give you your choice of any and all merchandise in the shop provided that you… that you…” The poor Dangvim felt his professional coolness melting at the edges under the unwavering yellow stare of the Kha’ak. She was smiling, or at least showing all her teeth. It didn’t make what Podvex had to ask her any easier. “…that you promise not to take your bridegroom’s chosen courtship gift as ri’khak-umrow.” He had some trouble getting out the untranslatable alien syllables, but he managed.