by Mike Resnick
Laid sweet potatoes all around.
Come on, Blue,
You can have some too.
Never did like possum meat. Even when you bake a possum it tastes just awful. The sweet potatoes were just to kill the flavor. Folksingers and poets live on steak and praise; let ‘em try living on possum for a few days and I bet that verse would come out different.
Anyway, I did offer some to Blue, just like the song says. He looked at it, picked it up, and kind of played with it like a pup dog does when you give him a piece of fruit. At first I thought it was just good taste on Blue’s part, but then his nose started to swell where the possum had nailed him. Usually I’d slap a little mud on a wound like that, but mud’s not the easiest thing to come by when it’s below zero, so I rubbed some snow on instead.
First time in his life Blue ever snarled at me.
When old Blue died he died so hard,
He jarred the ground in my back yard.
Go on, Blue.
I’ll get there too.
Guess the possum had rabies or something, because Blue just got worse and worse. His face swelled up like a balloon, and some of the fire went out of his eyes.
We stayed in the shack, me tending to him except when I had to go out and shoot us something to eat, and him just getting thinner and thinner. I kept trying to make him rest easier, and I could see him fighting with himself, trying not to bite me when I touched him where it hurt.
Then one day he started foaming at the mouth, and howling something awful. And suddenly he turned toward me and got up on his feet, kind of shaky-like, and I could tell he didn’t know who I was any more. He went for me, but fell over on his side before he got halfway across the floor.
I only had a handful of bullets left to last out the winter, but I figured I’d rather eat fish for a month than let him lie there like that. I walked over to him and put my finger on the trigger, and suddenly he stopped tossing around and held stock-still. Maybe he knew what I was going to do, or more likely it was just that he always held still when I raised my rifle. I don’t know the reason, but I know we each made things a little easier for the other in that last couple of seconds before I squeezed the trigger.
When I get to Heaven, first thing I’ll do
Is grab my horn and call for Blue.
Hello, Blue.
Finally got here too.
That’s the way the song ends. It’s a right pretty sentiment, so I suppose they had to sing it that way, but Heaven ain’t where I’m bound. Wouldn’t like it anyhow; white robes and harp-strumming and minding my manners every second. Besides, winter has always chilled me to the bone; I like heat.
But when I get to where I’m going, I’ll look up and call for him, and Blue will come running just like he always did. He’ll have a long way to go before he finds me, but that never stopped old Blue. He’ll just put his nose to the ground, and pretty soon we’ll be together again, and he’ll know why I did what I did to him.
And we’ll sit down before the biggest fire of all, me smoking my pipe and him twitching and snorting like always. And maybe I’ll pet him, but probably I won’t, and maybe he’ll lick me, but probably he won’t. We’ll just sit there together, and we’ll know everything’s okay again.
Hello, Blue. I finally got here too.
***
Catastrophe Baker first saw the light of day in my novel, The Outpost, where he had half a dozen tall-tale adventures, each of which parodied a famous science fiction theme or story. I thought he was retired after the book came out, but several anthology editors thought otherwise and had me keep bringing him back. Among his targets have been Anne McCaffrey’s “The Ship Who Sang”, Murray Leinster’s “First Contact,” Tom Godwin’s “The Cold Equations,” and here he takes on Walter Miller Jr.’s “A Canticle for Leibowitz.”
Catastrophe Baker and a
Canticle for Leibowitz
I was standing at the bar in the Outpost, which is the only good watering hole in the Plantagenet system, lifting a few with my old friend Hurricane Smith, another practitioner of the hero trade. Somehow or other the conversation got around women, like it always does sooner or later (usually sooner), and he asked me what was the most memorable name I’d ever found attached to a woman.
Now, man and boy I’ve met thirteen authentic Pirate Queens, and eleven of them were called Zenobia, so that figures to be a mighty memorable name, and the Siren of Silverstrike was pretty original (at least in my experience), but when it came down to choosing just the single most memorable name, I allowed that there was one that won hands down, and that was Voluptua von Climax.
“You’re kidding!” said Smith.
“I wish I was,” I told him. “Because a deeply tragic story goes with that name.”
“You want to tell me about it?” he said.
I shook my head. “It brings back too many painful memories of what might have been between her and me.”
“Aw, come on, Catastrophe,” he said.
“Some other time.”
“I’m buying for as long as you’re telling it to me,” Smith offered.
And this is the story I told him that night, out at the most distant edge of the Inner Frontier.
* * *
It all began when I touched down on the pleasure planet of Calliope, which abounded in circuses and thrill shows and opera and ballet and theatre and no end of fascinating rides like the null-gravity Ferris wheel, and course there were hundreds of casinos and nightclubs. I mosied around for a few hours, taking in all the sights, and then I saw her, and I knew I’d fallen hopelessly and eternally in love again.
Trust me when I tell you that there ain’t never been a woman like her. Her face was exotic and beautiful, she had long black hair down almost to her waist, beautifully rounded hips, a tiny waist, and I’ll swear she had an extra pair or two of lungs.
She was accompanied by a little guy who seemed to be annoying her, because she kept walking away, which kind of reminded me of jelly on springs, and he kept following her, talking a blue streak.
I knew I had to meet her, so I walked over to her and introduced myself.
“Howdy, ma’am,” I said. “My name is Catastrophe Baker, and you are the most beautiful thing I’ve seen during my long travels throughout the galaxy. Is this little twerp bothering you?”
“Go away and leave us alone!” snapped the little twerp.
Well, that ain’t no way to speak to a well-meaning stranger, so I knocked out eight of his teeth and busted three of his ribs and dislocated his left shoulder and kicked him in the groin as a mild reproof, and then turned my attention back to the beautiful if beleaguered lady.
“He won’t bother us no more, ma’am,” I assured her, and it seemed likely since he was just lying there on the ground, all curled up in kind of a ball and moaning softly. “How else can I be of service to you?”
“Catastrophe Baker,” she repeated in the most beautiful voice. “I’ve heard about you.” She kind of looked up and down all six feet nine inches of me. “You’re even bigger than they say.”
“Handsomer, too,” I said, in case she needed a hint.
“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “you might be just what the doctor ordered.”
“If I was the doctor, I’d be more concerned with helping your friend here,” I said, giving him a friendly nudge with my toe to show there wasn’t no hard feelings. I really and truly didn’t mean to break his nose with it.
“You misunderstand me,” she said. “I heard you were kind of a law officer.”
“No, ma’am,” I told her. “You’ve been the victim of false doctrine. I ain’t never worn a badge in my life.”
“But didn’t you bring in the notorious McNulty Brothers?” she asked.
“No-Neck and No-Nose,” I confirmed. “Yeah, I brought ‘em in, ma’am, but only after they tried to cheat me at whist.”
“Whist?” she repeated. “I find it difficult to picture you playing whist.”
“We p
lay a mighty fast and aggressive game of it out on the Frontier, ma’am,” I answered. Which was true. At one point in the second hand No-Nose played a dagger, and I topped him with a laser pistol, and then No-Neck tried to trump me with a blaster, but I finessed him by bringing the barrel of my pistol down on his hand and snapping all his fingers.
“Well, if you’re not a lawman, what are you?”
“A fulltime freelance hero at your service, ma’am,” I said. “You got any heroing needs doing, I’m your man.”
She stared at me through half-lowered eyelids. “I think you might be the very man I’ve been looking for, Catastrophe Baker.”
“Well, I know you’re what I been looking for all my life,” I told her. “Or at least since my back molars came in. You got a name, ma’am?”
“Voluptua,” she replied. “Voluptua von Climax.”
“Well, Miss Voluptua, ma’am,” I said, “how’s about you and me stepping out for some high-class grub? Or would you rather just rent a bridal suite first?”
“All that can wait,” she said. “I think I have a job for you.”
“Is anyone else bothering you?” I asked. “Laying out men who prey on women—especially women with figures like yours—is one of the very best things I do.”
“No, it’s much more serious than that. Come with me, Catastrophe Baker, and I’ll introduce you to the man I work for, and whom I hope you will soon be working for as well.”
So I fell into step alongside her, and soon we were in the Theater District, which is this three-block area with a whole bunch of theaters, and then we saw a sign directing us to Saul Leibowitz’s Messiah, which was the first indication I had that there was more than one of them.
Anyway, we entered the theater, and she led me backstage to a plush office, and she opened the door without knocking, and we walked in and found ourselves facing a very upset man with thinning gray hair and the biggest smokeless cigar you ever saw. She walked right up to him and gave him a peck on the cheek, but he was too upset to notice.
Finally she spoke up and said, “Solly, this is Catastrophe Baker, the famous hero, here to help us in our time of need.”
That woke him up, and he stared at me for a minute. “You’re really Catastrophe Baker?” he said.
“Yeah,” I said.
“The same one who got kicked off Nimbus IV for—”
“They told me they were in their twenties,” I said in my own defense.
“All eleven of them?” he said. “I suppose they must have added their ages together. What did the judge say?”
“The judge complained,” I said. “The press complained. The constabulary complained. But no one ever heard the girls complain.” I turned to Voluptua. “I hope you’ll file that fact away for future reference, ma’am.”
“That’s neither here nor there,” said the guy. “My name is Saul Leibowitz, and I am in desperate need of a hero.”
“Then this is your lucky day,” I said, “because you just found one. Just set me the challenge, name the price, and let’s get this show on the road.”
“Price?” he repeated. “But I thought you were a hero.”
“Heroes got to eat too, you know,” I told him. “And when you’re as big as me, that comes to serious money.”
“All right,” he said. “You name any reasonable price and I’ll pay it.”
“Let me hear the job and I’ll decide what’s reasonable,” I answered.
“I’m producing a new musical,” he began.
“I know,” I said. “I saw the sign for something called The Messiah on my way in.”
“Actually,” he sniffed, “the proper title is Saul Leibowitz’s Messiah.”
“And what’s the problem?”
“I’ll be honest with you,” said Leibowitz. “The play was in serious danger of folding. Then I hired the famous show doctor, Boris Gijinsky, to fix it. Yesterday he added the most beautiful canticle in the second scene, the cast and director were sure everyone would love it, and we were set for our official opening next week—and then, last night, our only copy of the canticle was stolen. I need it back, Mr. Baker. Without it I’m probably destitute by next week.”
“I don’t want to cause you no consternation,” I said, “but I ain’t never seen a canticle before.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Voluptua. “I know what it looks like, and I’m coming along.”
“Are you sure?” asked Leibowitz. “It could be dangerous.”
“That’s no problem,” I said. “I’ll be there to protect her from danger.”
“Who’ll be there to protect her from you?” he said.
“I’ll be fine,” Voluptua assured him.
He turned to face me. “She’s twenty-six. Just remember that you like ‘em young.”
What I mostly like ‘em is female, but I didn’t see no sense arguing the point, so I did some quick mental math, and told him I’d do the job for ten percent of the first month’s gross.
“Five percent,” he countered.
“Split the difference,” I said. “Nine percent, and I’m off to find the bad guys.”
He seemed about to argue, then just kind of collapsed back on his chair and sighed deeply. “Deal,” he said.
“Okay,” I said to Voluptua. “Let’s get going.” I accompanied her to my ship, then came to a stop.
“I don’t want to put a damper on your enthusiasm,” I said, “but I ain’t got the slightest idea where to go next.”
“That’s all right,” she said. “I have a pretty good idea who took it.”
“Why didn’t you tell Mr. Leibowitz?” I asked.
“All he’d do is go out and hire a hero,” she explained. “And he already has.”
“So where are we heading?” I said, as I ordered the hatch to open and the ramp to descend.
“Stratford-on-Avon II,” she said, as we entered the ship. I relayed our destination to the navigational computer, and a minute later we’d shot up through the stratosphere. Then she turned to me. “Change course,” she said.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am? Ain’t we going to Stratford-on-Avon?”
“That’s what we want them to think,” she said with a triumphant smile. “And that’s why I said it: in case we were being overheard. But I’m more than just a pretty face.”
She took a deep breath, and I was happy to agree that she was more than just a pretty face.
“Take us to Back Alley IV.”
I passed the order on to the computer.
“We will traverse the MacDonald Wormhole and will reach our destination in seven hours and three minutes,” announced the computer in its gentle feminine voice.
“Well, Catastrophe Baker, it looks like we’ve got some time to kill,” she said, starting to slip out of her clothes. “Have you got any ideas on how to make it pass more quickly?”
I allowed that she was giving me more ideas than I could handle, and then she was in my arms, and I got to say that she felt even better than she looked. A minute later I carried her to my bunk, and we spent a vigorous few hours killing time, and I can testify that she was mighty well-named, and I feel sorry for those who think a climax just has something to do with the end of a video. For the longest time I thought the ship had developed a new vibration, and then I finally figured out that what was vibrating was her. She was a mighty good kisser too, and every now and then she’d get carried away and give me a bunch of little love bites, and a couple of them even drew blood, which probably wasn’t that surprising considering how white her teeth looked when she smiled.
“Approaching Back Alley IV,” announced the computer in what seemed like no time at all.
A minute later it said, “I’m not kidding. We’re entering the atmosphere.”
Another minute and then it said, “Will you get your hand out of there and put your pants on before we land? I’ve never been so humiliated in my life!”
“All right, all right!” I muttered, swinging my feet over to the deck. “Keep
your shirt on.”
“Tell that hussy to keep hers on!” said the computer.
We finished getting dressed just as the ship touched down, then opened the hatch and walked out onto the planet’s surface. As far as I could tell, Back Alley wasn’t much of a world: no trees, no flowers, no animals, nothing much but a Tradertown that had sprung up maybe half a century ago judging from the shape of the buildings. It was night out, and four little bitty moons were racing across the sky, casting their light down onto the bleak surface of the planet.
“I don’t mean to be overly critical, ma’am,” I said, “but what makes you think the canticle is here? It’s a mighty big galaxy, and there can’t be five hundred people, tops, in this little town—and as far as I can tell, there ain’t no other towns on the planet.”
“You’re right,” she said. “There’s just this one town.”
“So what makes you think it’s here?”
“Because I know who stole it,” she answered.
“Then why didn’t you say so back in Leibowitz’s office?” I asked her.
She shrugged, which is a mighty eye-catching thing to do when you’re built like Voluptua von Climax. “He’d want to know how I knew, and it would just lead to an awkward scene.”
“Now that we’re here and he’s a few light years away,” I said, “how did you know?”
“Because he stole it for me,” she said. “He’s madly in love with me, and he thought if he stole it Solly would go broke and then he’d have a clear path to my affections.”
Now personally I hadn’t noticed her putting up any blockades to her affections, but even so it made sense that he’d want to get rid of the competition, at least the part he knew about, and it had the added advantage that sometime in the future he and Voluptua could resurrect the show with the missing canticle, whatever that was, and make a fortune.
“What can you tell me about him?” I asked.
“He’s mean through and through,” she told me. “I think you should sneak up behind him and subdue him before he knows you’re there.”
“That’s against the heroing codes of ethics and sportsmanship, ma’am,” I said.
