The Compleat Boucher

by Anthony Boucher; Editor: James A. Mann

  “Dossier,” said Hester through a mouthful of caviar.

  America’s greatest physiologist took an interest in John Smith’s problem. “I should advise,” he said, “the use of crystallized carbon placed directly in contact with the sensitive gill area.”

  “In other words, a diamond necklace?” John Smith asked. He seized a water carafe, hurled its contents at the physiologist’s neck, and watched his gills open.

  The next day John purchased a lapel flower through which water may be squirted—an article which he thenceforth found invaluable for purposes of identification.

  The use of this flower proved to be a somewhat awkward method of starting a conversation and often led the conversation into unintended paths; but it did establish a certain clarity in relations.

  It was after John had observed the opening of the gills of a leading criminal psychiatrist that he realized where he might find the people who could really help him.

  From then on, whenever he could find time to be unobserved while Hester was engaged in her activities preparatory to world conquest, he visited insane asylums, announced that he was a free-lance feature writer, and asked if they had any inmates who believed that there were Venusians at large upon Earth and planning to take it over.

  In this manner he met many interesting and attractive people, all of whom wished him godspeed in his venture, but pointed out that they would hardly be where they were if all of their own plans for killing Venusians had not miscarried as hopelessly as his.

  From one of these friends, who had learned more than most because his Venusian wife had made the error of falling in love with him (an error which led to her eventual removal from human society), John Smith ascertained that Venusians may indeed be harmed and even killed by many substances on their own planet, but seemingly by nothing on ours—though (his) wife had once dropped a hint that one thing alone on Earth could prove fatal to the Venusian system.

  At last John Smith visited an asylum whose director announced that they had an inmate who thought he was a Venusian.

  When the director had left them, a squirt of the lapel flower verified the claimant’s identity.

  “I am a member of the Conciliationist Party,” he explained, “the only member who has ever reached this Earth. We believe that Earthmen and Venusians can live at peace as all men should, and I shall be glad to help you destroy all members of the opposition party.

  “There is one substance on this Earth which is deadly poison to any Venusian. Since in preparing and serving the dish best suited to its administration you must be careful to wear gloves, you should begin your campaign by wearing gloves at all meals . . .”

  This mannerism Hester seemed willing to tolerate for the security afforded her by her marriage and even more particularly for the delights of John’s skilled preparation of such dishes as spaghetti all’aglio ed all’arsenico which is so rarely to be had in the average restaurant.

  Two weeks later John finally prepared the indicated dish: ox tail according to the richly imaginative recipe of Simon Templar, with a dash of deadly nightshade added to the other herbs specified by The Saint. Hester had praised the recipe, devoured two helpings, expressed some wonder as to the possibility of gills in its creator, whom she had never met, and was just nibbling at the smallest bones when, as the Conciliationist had foretold, she dropped dead.

  Intent upon accomplishing his objective, John had forgotten the dossier, nor ever suspected that it was in the hands of a gilled lawyer who had instructions to pass it on in the event of Hester’s death.

  Even though that death was certified as natural, John rapidly found himself facing trial for murder, with seven other states vying for the privilege of the next opportunity should this trial fail to end in a conviction.

  With no prospect in sight of a quiet resumption of his accustomed profession, John Smith bared his knowledge and acquired his immortal nickname. The result was a period of intense prosperity among manufacturers of squirting lapel flowers, bringing about the identification and exposure of the gilled masqueraders.

  But inducing them, even by force, to ingest the substance poisonous to them was more difficult. The problem of supply and demand was an acute one, in view of the large number of the Venusians and the small proportion of members of the human race willing to perform the sacrifice made by Nine-finger Jack.

  It was that great professional widower and amateur chef himself who solved the problem by proclaiming in his death cell his intention to bequeath his body to the eradication of Venusians, thereby pursuing after death the race which had ruined his career.

  The noteworthy proportion of human beings who promptly followed his example in their wills has assured us of permanent protection against future invasions, since so small a quantity of the poison is necessary in each individual case; after all, one finger sufficed for Hester.

  Barrier

  The first difficulty was with language.

  That is only to be expected when you jump five hundred years, but it is nonetheless perplexing to have your first query of: “What city is this?” answered by the sentence: “Stappers will get you. Or be you Slanduch?”

  It was signficant that the first word John Brent heard in the State was “Stap-pers.” But Brent could not know that then. It was only some hours later and fifty years earlier that he was to learn the details of the Stapper system. At the moment all that concerned him was food and plausibility.

  His appearance was plausible enough. Following Derringer’s advice he had traveled naked—“the one costume common to all ages,” the scientist had boomed; “Which would astonish you more, lad; a naked man, or an Elizabethan courtier in full apparel?”—and commenced his life in the twenty-fifth century by burglary and the theft of a complete outfit of clothing. The iridescent woven plastics tailored in a half-clinging, half-flowing style looked precious to Brent, but seemed both comfortable and functional.

  No man alive in 2473 would have bestowed a second glance on the feloniously clad Brent, but in his speech, he realized at once, lay danger. He pondered the alternatives presented by the stranger. Stappers would get him, unless he was Slanduch. Whatever Stappers were, things that “get you” sounded menacing. “Slanduch,” he replied.

  The stranger nodded. “That bees O.K.,” he said, and Brent wondered what he had committed himself to. “So what city is this?” he repeated.

  “Bees, ’’the stranger chided. “Stappers be more severe now since Edict of 2470. Before they doed pardon some irregularities, but now none even from Slanduch.”

  “I be sorry,” said Brent humbly, making a mental note that irregular verbs were for some reason perilous. “But for the third time—”

  He had thought the wall beside them was solid. He realized now that part of it, at least, was only a deceptive glasslike curtain that parted to let forth a tall and vigorous man, followed by two shorter aides. All three of these wore robes similar to the iridescent garments of Brent and his companion, but of pure white.

  The leader halted and barked out, “George Starvel?”

  Brent saw a quiet sort of terror begin to grow on his companion’s face. He nodded and held out his wrist.

  The man in white glanced at what Brent decided must be an identification plaque. “Starvel,” he announced, “you speaked against Barrier.”

  Starvel trembled. “Cosmos knows I doed not.”

  “Five mans know that you doed.”

  “Never. I only sayed—”

  “You only! Enough!”

  The rod appeared in the man’s hand only for an instant. Brent saw no flame or discharge, but Starvel was stretched out on the ground and the two aides were picking him up as callously as though he were a log.

  The man turned toward Brent, who was taking no chances. He flexed his legs and sprang into the air. His fingertips grasped the rim of the balcony above them, and his feet shot out into the white-robed man’s face. His arm and shoulder muscles tensed to their utmost. The smooth plastic surface was hell t
o keep a grip on. Beneath, he could see his adversary struggling blindly to his feet and groping for the rod. At last, desperately, Brent swung himself up and over the edge.

  There was no time to contemplate the beauties of the orderly terrace garden. There was only time to note that there was but one door, and to make for it. It was open and led to a long corridor. Brent turned to the nearest of the many identical doors. Apartments? So—he was taking a chance; whatever was behind that door, the odds were better than with an armed policeman you’d just kicked in the face. Brent had always favored the devil you don’t know—or he’d never have found himself in this strange world. He walked toward the door, and it opened.

  He hurried into an empty room, glancing back to see the door shut by itself. The room had two other doors. Each of them opened equally obligingly. Bathroom and bedroom. No kitchen. (His stomach growled a comment.) No people. And no exit from the apartment but the door he had come through.

  He forced himself to sit down and think. Anything might happen before the Stapper caught up with him, for he had no doubt that was what the white-robed man must be.

  What had he learned about the twenty-fifth century in this brief encounter?

  You must wear an identification plaque. (Memo: How to get one?) You must not use irregular verbs (or nouns; the Stapper had said “mans”). You must not speak against Barrier, whoever or whatever that meant. You must beware whiterobed men who lurk behind false walls. You must watch out for rods that kill (query: or merely stun?). Doors open by selenium cells (query: how do they lock?). You must—

  The door opened. It was not the Stapper who stood there, but a tall and majestic woman of, at a guess, sixty. A noble figure—“Roman matron” were the words that flashed into Brent’s mind.

  The presence of a total stranger in her apartment seemed nowise disconcerting. She opened her arms in a broad gesture of welcome. “John Brent!” she exclaimed in delighted recognition. “It beed so long!”

  “I don’t want a brilliant young scientific genius!” Derringer had roared when Brent answered his cryptically worded ad. “I’ve got ’em here in the laboratory. They’ve done grand work on the time machine. I couldn’t live without ’em, and there’s not a one of ’em I’d trust out of this century. Not out of this decade. What I want is four things: A knowledge of history, for a background of analogy to understand what’s been going on; linguistic ability, to adjust yourself as rapidly as possible to the changes in language; physical strength and dexterity, to get yourself out of the scrapes that are bound to come up; and social adaptability. A chimpanzee of reasonably subhuman intelligence could operate the machine. What counts is what you’ll be able to do after you get there.”

  The knowledge of history and the physical qualities had been easy to demonstrate. The linguistic ability was a bit more complex; Derringer had contrived an intricate series of tests involving adjustment to phonetic changes and the capacity to assimilate the principles of a totally fictitious language invented for the occasion. The social adaptability was measured partly by an aptitude test, but largely, Brent guessed, by Derringer’s own observation during the weeks of preparation after his probationary hiring.

  He had passed all four requirements with flying colors. At least Derringer had grinned at him through the black beard and grunted the reluctant “Good man!” that was his equivalent of rhapsodic praise. His physical agility had already stood him in good stead, and his linguistic mind was rapidly assimilating the new aspects of the language (there were phonetic alterations as well as the changes in vocabulary and inflection—he was particularly struck by the fact that the vowels a and o no longer possessed the diphthongal off-glide so characteristic of English, but were pure vowels like the Italian e and o), but his social adaptability was just now hitting a terrific snag.

  What the hell do you do when a Roman matron whom you have never seen, born five hundred years after you, welcomes you by name and exclaims that it haves beed a long time? (This regular past participle of be, Brent reflected, gives the speaker something of the quality of a Bostonian with a cold in the nose.)

  For a moment he toyed with the rash notion that she might likewise be a time traveler, someone whom he had known in 1942. Derringer had been positive that this was the first such trip ever attempted; but someone leaving the twentieth century later might still be an earlier arrival in the twenty-fifth. He experimented with the idea.

  “I suppose,” Brent ventured, “you could call five hundred years a long time, in its relative way.”

  The Roman matron frowned. “Do not jest, John. Fifty years be not five hundred. I will confess that first five years seemed at times like five centuries, but after fifty— one does not feel so sharply.”

  Does was of course pronounced dooze. All rs, even terminal, were lightly trilled. These facts Brent noted in the back of his mind, but the fore part was concerned with the immediate situation. If this woman chose to accept him as an acquaintance—it was nowise unlikely that his double should be wandering about in this century—it meant probable protection from the Stapper. His logical mind protested, “Could this double have your name?” but he shushed it.

  “Did you,” he began, and caught himself. “Doed you see anyone in the hall—a man in white?”

  The Roman matron moaned. “Oh, John! Do Stappers seek you again? But of course. If you have corned to destroy Barrier, they must destroy you.”

  “Whoa there!” Brent had seen what happened to one person who had merely “speaked against Barrier.”

  “I didn’t . . . doedn’t . . . say anything against Barrier.”

  The friendliness began to die from her clear blue eyes. “And I believed you,” she said sorrowfully. “You telled us of this second Barrier and sweared to destroy it. We thinked you beed one of us. And now—”

  No amount of social adaptability can resist a sympathetic and dignified woman on the verge of tears. Besides, this apartment was for the moment a valuable haven, and if she thought he was a traitor of some sort—

  “Look,” said Brent. “You see, I am—there isn’t any use at this moment trying to be regular—I am not whoever you think I am. I never saw you before. I couldn’t have. This is the first instant I’ve ever been in your time.”

  “If you wish to lie to me, John—”

  “I’m not lying. And I’m not John—at least not the one you’re thinking of. I’m John Brent, I’m twenty-eight years old, and I was born in 1914—a good five and a half centuries ago.”

  According to all the time travel fiction Brent had ever read, that kind of statement ranks as a real stunner. There is a deathly hush and a wild surmise and the author stresses the curtain-line effect by inserting a line-space.

  But the Roman matron was unmoved. The hush and the surmise were Brent’s an instant later when she said with anguished patience, “I know, John, I know.”

  “Derringer left this one out of the rule book,” Brent grunted. “Madam, you have, as they say, the better of me. What does A do now?”

  “You do be same John!” she smiled. “I never beed able to understand you.”

  “We have much in common,” Brent observed.

  “And because I can’t understand you, I know you be you.” She was still smiling. It was an odd smile; Brent couldn’t place its precise meaning. Not until she leaned toward him and for one instant gently touched his arm.

  He needed friends. Whatever her wild delusions, she seemed willing to help him. But he still could not quite keep from drawing back as he recognized the tender smile of love on this dignified ancient face.

  She seemed to sense his withdrawal. For a moment he feared a gathering anger. Then she relaxed, and with another smile, a puzzled but resigned smile, said, “This be part of not understanding you, I guess. Cosmos knows but you be so young, John, still so young . . .”

  She must, Brent thought with sudden surprise, have been a very pretty girl.

  The door opened. The man who entered was as tall as the Stapper, but wore the ci
vilian’s iridescent robes. His long beard seemed to have caught a little of their rainbow influence; it was predominantly red, but brown and black and white glinted in it. The hair on his head was graying. He might have been anywhere from fortyfive to a vigorous and well-preserved seventy.

  “We have a guest, sister?” he asked politely.

  The Roman matron made a despairing gesture. “You don’t recognize him? And John—you don’t know Stephen?”

  Stephen slapped his thigh and barked—a sound that seemed to represent a laugh of pleasure. “Cosmos!” he cried. “John Brent! I told you, Martha. I knew he wouldn’t fail us.”

  “Stephen!” she exclaimed in shocked tones.

  “Hang the irregularities! Can’t I greet John with the old words that corned—no, by Cosmos—came from the same past he came from? See, John—don’t I talk the old language well? I even use article—pardon me, the article.”

  Brent’s automatic mental notebook recorded the fact, which he had already suspected, that an article was as taboo as an irregular verb. But around this self-governing notation system swirled utter confusion. It might possibly have been just his luck to run into a madwoman. But two mad brains in succession with identical delusions were too much. And Stephen had known he was from the past.

  “I’m afraid,” he said simply, “this is too much for me. Suppose we all sit down and have a drink of something and talk this over.”

  Stephen smiled. “You remember our bond, eh? And not many places in State you’ll find it. Even fewer than before.” He crossed to a cabinet and returned with three glasses of colorless liquid.

  Brent seized his eagerly and downed it. A drink might help the swirling. It might—

  The drink had gone down smoothly and tastelessly. Now, however, some imp began dissecting atoms in his stomach and shooting off a bombardment stream of particles that zoomed up through his throat into his brain, where they set off a charge of explosive of hitherto unknown power. Brent let out a strangled yelp.