by Nir Yaniv
“Give it here for a second, okay?” said Schwartz. He took the device, held it over the remains of the hot dog in his plate and pressed the button.
“Beep beep!” repeated the stick, green light and all.
“Is that a vegetarian hot dog?” asked Elijah hopefully, almost wistfully.
“You wish.”
~
Having finally managed to tune said preventative measure in a way he found satisfactory, Elijah spent the rest of our stay in Potemkin stuffing it into every possible crook and nanny. The toy said “beep beep” to cheeses and vegetables, “boop boop” to anything that had to do with meat, and an angry “EEEEEP!” when I directed it at the bedpost, in the hotel.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“If it can’t identify the thing, said Elijah, “it lets you know.”
I wondered aloud how many types of responses one could coax from it and Schwartz enlisted himself to the cause. It took him about an hour to find the fourth and final sound. He shoved the VegeSham’s spout into the contents of the frying pan I was using.
“Frrrr!” frrrr-ed the device angrily.
“What are you doing, you nut!” screamed Elijah and grabbed the VegeSnap from him. “Do you want to ruin it?”
“Why? What could I have possibly done?” said Schwartz innocently.
“The device,” said Elijah, “is very sensitive to temperature. I hope nothing happened to it!”
He had to re-tune his VegeSpam, and to run all the tests he had run earlier. Afterwards he spent very little time with us, but generously shared all of the interesting details he had discovered, to which we tried to pay no attention at all. We learned, against our will, that Quaker Oats sometimes have parasites, that it takes a while to identify sushi, and that gelatin is not a vegetarian food.
“Not vegetarian?” I asked.
“Gelatin is made of ground fish bones,” said Schwartz, spitefully happy. “I’ve known that since army boot camp. Check the candies you’re scarfing down.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Elijah, embarrassed. “I really like jelly stuff. Damn!”
“It’s not so bad,” Schwartz added. “Tomorrow you’ll discover that the soybean is also a kind of animal, and then we’ll really have a ball.”
“Get off his case,” I said. “We’re going to spend two months in this stupid spaceship together. Your idea, by the way.”
“You decided to get him the complete collection of Mess Tin.” retorted Schwartz. “What a great idea that was!”
“I,” I said, “was not the person who decided that we, of all the people in the whole wide world, would be the ones to find extraterrestrial intelligent life.”
“You just wait and see,” said Schwartz. “I researched this. It has to be this one. Of all the planets surveyed, Eta Pegasi III...”
“Okay, just shut up already.”
And so, the delegation’s spirits were quite high at the outset of our expedition.
~
“That’s BML/407,” said the launch supervisor. “It has a huge baggage compartment, three living areas, a small lounge and a centrifugalized restroom. And it’s all yours. Where are you off to?”
“Eta Pegasi,” I said. “Research—the usual shtick.”
“God,” said Schwartz. “My wife’s car looks better!”
“It’s been through some hard times,” the supervisor said, “but she’s passed the inspection and everything’s a-okay, apart from some problem with the supplies. You ordered something special, right?”
“Yes,” said Elijah. “A third of the food should be vegetarian.”
“What a piece of junk,” said Schwartz. “It really reminds me of boot camp.”
“That’s right,” the supervisor said. “I remember now there was a problem with the food, but we fixed it. You have some three hundred slices of toast we got special for you, and some crackers, and more of the same.”
“And is there anything to eat with that?” I asked.
“Do all your ships look like this?” Schwartz inquired.
“Yeah, sure! Ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise, thousand-island dressing, baked beans, peanut butter, liver-flavored eggplant pâté, you know, it’s what everybody eats.”
Elijah opened his mouth to ask something, but I managed to get a word in first. “What about our food?” I asked.
“No problems there,” said the supervisor. “You’ve got twenty-two different kinds of meat, pressure-packed, fruit and vegetable concentrates, thirteen different sauces, potatoes, and so on. Like I said, everything’s a-okay.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Schwartz. “You call this thing BML/407? This isn’t a B-M-L, it’s a BUMMEL is what it is!”
And thus our new home for the next few months was named.
Elijah made some squeaks of protest that a woman’s name wasn’t chosen, but Schwartz diverted his attention by revealing to him the fact that potatoes are actually a dormant animal life-form. When the rhubarb died down, we brought our baggage into the Bummel and were launched towards the stars.
~
Imagine a scientific journey to an unknown planet. You probably envision brave, undaunted researchers, enduring without complaint and for extended periods of time the harsh living conditions of interstellar travel; collecting information worth its weight in gold, against insurmountable odds; sacrificing; improvising; courageously seeking out exotic new life-forms; and so on, and so on. Usually these delusions will star a muscle-knotted male hero and minimally garbed female companion—or vice versa.
On the other hand, three gluttonous, gawky and grouchy guys would never star in such a tale. For some unfathomable reason, no imagination has ever stretched far enough to think of relating the exploits of such a trio. Go figure.
~
On the first day of our glorious expedition, we had nicely-baked hot dogs, and Elijah had baked beans and toast.
On the second day, we had microwaved hamburgers—nothing special, but digestible, and let’s leave it at that—and Elijah had baked beans and toast.
“You don’t want mayonnaise or mustard or anything?” I asked him, and that’s how we discovered that besides being a vegetarian for purely ideological reasons, he also hated mayonnaise, and mustard was considered by him to be the punishment for Original Sin.
On the third day, we had veal cutlets and Elijah had baked beans and toast.
“Do you mind not eating all the baked beans?” Schwartz asked him, instigating a fight which lasted two-score and seven hours.
On the fourth day I decided to make mashed potatoes, and thus we discovered that our potatoes had decided to develop a culture of their own. The smell was abysmal. We sealed their storage cell and two of us decided to have schnitzel instead, while the third was left to consume baked beans and toast.
On the fifth day, right after Elijah finished eating his baked beans and toast, Schwartz came up with a brilliant idea.
“Say,” he remarked, “did you check the toast with your VegeSkunk?”
“VegeSCAN!” said Elijah, insulted. “No, but that’s an interesting idea. Where did I put it? Oh, here it is!”
“Boop boop!” said the contraption, and a red light went on.
“It must need to be reset,” said Elijah.
“You bet,” said Schwartz.
“One hundred percent,” I said.
~
Elijah and Schwartz worked on the VegeScum for a full day, but to no avail. It said “beep beep” to the ketchup, it said “beep beep” to the eggplant pâté, it said “beep beep” to the pickles, it said “beep beep” to the baked beans. It said “boop boop” to the hamburgers, it said “boop boop” to the hot dogs, it said “boop boop” to the mustard—but only because Schwarz had dipped his cutlet in it the day before—and it said, in an impressively decisive manner, “boop boop” to the toast.
Elijah ate nothing but baked beans that day, and in the bridge there was a certain feeling of unpleasant suffocation.
A small g
limpse of hope teased us when Schwartz offered Elijah the use of the processed food, those green glops of unknown origin which are featured on the menu of every vehicle worthy of the name “spaceship.” They are well-suited for zero-gravity nutrition, are visually abominable, as tasty as sawdust, and it would be a waste of words to describe their stench. They are, in short, classic vegetarian food. Unfortunately, Elijah’s dastardly doohickey decided to honor them with no more than a derisive “EEEEEP!”
“I always claimed that it isn’t actually food,” said Schwartz, and Elijah feasted on another spoonful of baked beans.
The next day Schwartz tried, out of desperation, to read the instructions that came with the contraption. The whole day we heard him mumbling about fatty acids and glycerol, about receptors and sugars, about stresses, steroid molecules, the amino acid relations and temperatures. We didn’t understand a word—and in my opinion, neither did Schwartz—but the whole issue prevented a fight or two, and amen to that.
It was actually Elijah who discovered the solution to the mystery, somewhere in the depths of his Mess Tin collection, of all places. Flour, it turns out, is almost never free of the remnants of insects caught by the harvester, and Elijah’s toast, collected with much fuss and at the last moment, was not of good quality to begin with. With a sigh of relief we agreed to be considerate and let him eat our portions of baked beans. Schwartz and I didn’t care about the quality of the toast, and Elijah, to illustrate his gratitude, tried to put together some refried beans for us.
You wouldn’t believe the mess caused by one pot of boiling oil in zero gravity.
~
On the tenth day the baked beans ran out. This produced a sigh of relief from two thirds of the staff, while the remaining third seemed a bit disappointed. We suggested that he start eating crackers.
For a week, the atmosphere was a little tense. We ate separately, because even the smell of meat drove the device insane—Elijah had to air out the bridge before every meal—and to block the croquettes and schnitzels from his view and to block our view of the crackers. The latter’s crumbs got everywhere, especially on everyone’s nerves.
It seemed as if Elijah’s mood was gradually deteriorating, until one morning, as we sat down to eat, we found him smiling as widely as humanly possible, holding a small round tin. Preserved corn.
Elijah told us how he had smuggled the tinned corn on board, and then provided us with a short description of his love for corn. Afterwards I also said how much I loved corn, especially of the tinned variety. Elijah countered by explaining that, although he highly appreciates the honest emotions I expressed toward corn, as far as this amazing vegetable was concerned, his love had neither contenders nor limits. In response, I claimed that, with all due respect to my old friend, corn was one of my oldest hobbies, ever since childhood, and that any smidgen of a rumor suggesting that my love for the Food of the Gods was even remotely comparable to someone else’s appreciation, was pure folly. Elijah responded that, despite our prevailing friendship, I lacked even the smallest notion of the love of corn.
Finally Schwartz intervened, with typical impatience, and said, “You’re not allowed to eat corn here anyway.”
Consequently a terrible row broke out. Elijah argued against the discrimination against corn, and Schwartz reasoned that you can’t eat granular food in zero-gravity conditions. I proposed that due to our sincere love of corn, we would eat it all without leaving any, and Schwartz inquired whether I loved corn so much I would be willing to sleep with it. Elijah proposed opening the tin in the lavatory centrifuge, and Schwartz told him that if he wants to spend a month and a half in a sealed spaceship with a plumbing problem, may he do so in good health.
“Or maybe you prefer,” he added, “instead of going in the bathroom, to go into the airlock?”
That settled it.
~
A month post-launch, Elijah looked quite Robinson-Crusoeish. He had achieved this feat without ever setting foot on the soil of an alien planet. His hair had grown long, he had stopped shaving and his eyes stared into space while his tongue licked his lips incessantly. He had been eating nothing but crackers for a fortnight, after discovering that the liver-flavored eggplant pâté reminded him too much of meat, despite the happy “beep beep” of the VegeStuck.
I put it plainly that the aforementioned consumer good reminded me of a failed high-school biology class experiment, while the smell reminded Schwartz, more than anything else, of boot camp.
Elijah mumbled something about spoiling the environment, but we managed to convince him that space is infinite and that it would probably not take too much note of an eggplant or two, while for us, confined in a closed area, the issue was more critical. Thus a few pounds of liver-flavored eggplant pâté were thrown into space, where they probably cause a hazard to commercial routes to this very day.
~
After that, Elijah spent his time delving into the depths of the datasheets we had received regarding “our” planet. The unmanned probe had determined a high Earth-compatibility level—about ninety-five percent. A little more oxygen, a little less nitrogen, but bacteria and plants had already been discovered before the hasty survey was completed and the probe was launched to another destination. The galaxy is full of these, of course, and so any planet that does not show clearer signs of life is abandoned to its fate until gallant and intrepid researchers such as ourselves show up.
By the week before the landing, Elijah knew all the data, as well as the content of his toy’s operations manual, word for word. He used the VegeSchnook to ascertain the content of the crackers, the ketchup (completely a meat product by this time—Schwartz’s handiwork), the frozen food, and even us. It transpired that the device could recognize a human person, although it did take it some time—unless the victim yawned, sneezed or just breathed heavily on it, which caused it to cry out immediately.
“Why are you checking us?” I asked. “We’re animals, I promise. It’s no use eating us.”
“In any case, it’s two against one,” Schwartz added, practical as always. “You don’t stand a chance.”
Elijah fixed him with a frightful stare.
“Okay, enough,” I proclaimed. “It’s only food!”
“Let’s see you after a month of crackers. Then you should talk.”
“Come on,” I said, “it can’t be that bad!”
“You wouldn’t believe,” said Elijah and threw me a dark look, “How bad it can be.”
“You could always take food from us,” said Schwartz, surprisingly generous.
“As opposed to some of those present,” Elijah said, “I have principles. I do not end lives.”
“They’re not alive anymore,” said Schwartz, but his words fell on deaf ears.
~
The sun of Eta Pegasi gradually grew as we approached the solar system’s plane. Eta Pegasi I is a piece of rock very close to the sun itself, in an orbit similar to that of Mercury’s around Sol. E.P. II is a bit smaller than Venus and has no atmosphere. E.P.III, on the other hand, looks like a classic globe from school days, with cloud decorations and everything. In other words—exactly the way Earth used to look, once upon a time.
~
Landing day.
Elijah woke up early in the morning so that he would have enough time to check and recheck and re-recheck his protective suit. The latter’s helmet rested, neglected, in the laundry basket, after the “security vs. comfort” argument was decided by a coin toss. Schwartz suggested we vote on who descended first, but in a burst of compassion I granted the right of way to Elijah.
“Look at him,” I said. “Don’t you think he’s suffered enough?”
We landed the Bummel in the center of a green plain, a bit to the north of the equatorial line. To the west, snowy-peaked mountains could be seen, to the south and east spread a threateningly thick jungle. Above us the sky was beautifully bright blue, and underneath the spaceship there was, it goes without saying, a large black pit. Schwartz m
umbled something about possible damage to alien life forms, but I was more interested in those familiar to us, especially the one which was gaily prancing out of the airlock, VegeSpade in hand.
“I don’t like this,” said Schwartz.
“Let him wind down,” I said. “He’ll be much more amiable later.”
This idea made Schwartz happy, and thus, encouraged, we made our way outside.
~
Elijah spent the morning grazing in the pasture, pushing the VegeSplat into every hole.
The grass reminded me of a football field, and Schwartz of boot camp. We spent a while pleasantly arguing, until Elijah’s voice on the comlink cut us off.
“Yeeeee-haaa!” he yelled. “You’ve got to come and see this!”
“What are you yelling about?” I said. “We’re coming, we’re coming.”
“And relax,” said Schwartz.
We sauntered over to the small figure which was Elijah, a few hundred yards to the north.
“What a nudnik,” I said.
“What a nudnik,” I thought faintly.
“Huh?” said Schwartz.
“Huh?” I thought, more assuredly.
Elijah waved his VegeStain excitedly and pointed to a green lump, some form of strange distorted vegetation on the ground beside him.
“Hey!” I said.
“Hey!” I thought, almost aloud.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I thought.
Schwartz looked at me.
“I think so,” I thought, in a slightly different voice.
“See how wonderful it is!” Elijah yelled. “Exactly what I’ve been looking for!” —and my thoughts immediately repeated his words.
“Wait a second,” I said and thought, “Something strange is going on.”
The plant seemed, upon closer inspection, like an old tent stricken with Elephant Man’s disease. Bluish crystals glittered on the ground around it.
“This thing reads thoughts and sends them back?” I thought, and understood that the thought came from Schwartz.
“Probably,” I thought. “Hold on a moment. Let’s try something. Hello! Who are you?”
“Hello! Who are you?”
