Then, in the great hall where Mrs. Pollard first had appeared on the magic horse, they bade their farewells. Papa Schimmelhorn kissed Ermintrude and mounted to the saddle. Mrs. Pollard waved Bluebelle a wet good-by. The general and Sergeant Leatherbee saluted and clicked their heels. There was a great ringing cheer from the assembled multitude—
And then they were back between the stalls in the Pollard stable.
“Well,” remarked the general, “things didn’t go quite the way I would’ve liked them to, but at least I saw Waterloo and Balaclava and Brandy Station—and after all I did save Western Civilization from the Mongols.”
“I must say it’s nice to be home again,” said Mrs. Pollard, “with hot water and a lovely shower just waiting for me!”
Mrs. Leatherbee met them at the side door. She regarded them disapprovingly as they walked in. “Where’ve you been, Leatherbee?” she demanded. “You went off with the general, and so I guess you didn’t get into no real trouble like that time over to Fort Myers. But you might have told me that you were going to be gone two whole days. I was about ready to call the police.”
“Two days?” exclaimed Papa Schimmelhorn. “Ve haff been gone two days?”
“That’s right,” said Mrs. Leatherbee, “and that poor old lady here waiting for you since breakfast time. Worried sick, I wouldn’t wonder, though she has tried not to show it.”
Suddenly Papa Schimmelhorn realized that possibly his extemporized repairs to the time-pony might not have been as thorough as he thought—at least in movement from the past into the present. “Und vhere iss die old lady?” he asked in a small voice.
“She was sitting right here by the window just a little bit ago,” said Mrs. Leatherbee. “I reckon the poor dear had been watching for you. I wonder where she got to?”
Papa Schimmelhorn experienced a dreadful sinking feeling. “Soldier boy,” he said, “I think maybe ve better go out to der stable und make sure about der time machine.”
The general nodded somberly, and they went out together.
They went into the stable.
The time-pony and its cart had vanished. There was no one there except Mama Schimmelhorn, and she was feeding sugar to the horses.
“Mama!” cried Papa Schimmelhorn. “Vhere iss my lidtle time machine?”
Mama Schimmelhorn smiled, and her smile reminded her husband, not too subtly, of the Mongol Conquest.
“I push die dinguses,” she said, “und then it vent avay. But do not vorry. Inshtead, ve buy der general a shtand for his umbrella in der hall.”
PAPA SCHIMMELHORN’S YANG
It was no coincidence that Little Anton returned from Hong Kong to New Haven on the very afternoon that Papa Schimmelhorn finished installing his anti-gravity device under the hood of his 1922 Stanley Steamer touring car. For a week, Papa Schimmelhorn had been in deep disgrace, if not with fortune and men’s eyes at least with Mama Schimmelhorn, his employer Heinrich Luedesing, Mrs. Luedesing, Pastor Hundhammer, and two deacons of the pastor’s church, all of whom had caught him in flagrante very much delicto with a part-time soprano named Dora Grossapfel up in the choir loft, where they themselves certainly had no business being on a lovely, warm Tuesday afternoon in June.
Old Heinrich, assuming a high moral tone, had suspended him for a fortnight from his job as foreman at the Luedesing Cuckoo Clock Factory. Mama Schimmelhorn, much less formally, had pried him off Ms. Grossapfel with her stiff black umbrella and had then applied it vigorously to both of them. Ms. Grossapfel had ruined her mascara by weeping piteously, and Mrs. Luedesing, mistakenly, had taken her for the victim either of rape or of seduction. Then Mama Schimmelhorn had led him home ignominiously by the ear, prodding him all the way with the umbrella, and hissing, “At more than eighty years—ach! Dirty old man! Now you shtay in der haus. Nefer again I let you loose all by yourself!”
So he had retreated to his basement workshop and to the more congenial company of his old striped tomcat, Gustav-Adolf, whose tastes and instincts were much like his own, and had devoted several days to assembling and installing the curious miscellany of valves, gears, tubing, solenoids, and oddly formed ceramics which, in and around a device resembling (though only when you looked at it correctly) the illegitimate offspring of a translucent Klein bottle, constituted the functioning heart of his invention.
The job done, he fired up the boiler and stood over it while it produced a proper head of steam. “Ach, Gustav-Adolf,” he exclaimed, “how nice it iss I am a chenius! Imagine—no vun else knows dot for anti-grafity you must haff shteam, instead of elecdricity vhich gets in der vay. Und I myself do not know vhy, because it iss all in mein subconscience, chust as Herr Doktor Jung told me in Geneva.”
“Mrreow!” replied Gustav-Adolf, looking up from his saucer of dark beer on the cluttered Schimmelhorn workbench.
“Dot’s right, und predty soon ve see how it vorks.” Papa Schimmelhorn made some fine adjustments and peered at the steam gauge on the dashboard. He closed the hood and clamped it down. “Zo, ve are ready!” he exclaimed. Thinking of Dora Grossapfel’s plump behind under easily removable stretch-pants, he climbed into the driver’s seat. “Ach, such a pity, Gustav-Adolf! Imachine, my nice Dora among der predty clouds maybe at two thousand feet!” Heaving a sigh, he eased back gently on a sort of joystick he had installed where an ordinary car’s gearshift lever would have been, and silently the Stanley Steamer began to rise—six inches, a foot, two feet. He turned the lever’s handle left, then right, and the car turned with it. He tipped the nose up and then down. “Wunderschon! How do they say vith shtupid rockets?—all systems are go. Und now, Papa, all you do is vait vhile Mama simmers down, und vunce again ve chase die predty pussycats—”
In the background, a chorus of cuckoo-clocks began to sing the hour of twelve—and at that instant Little Anton, having parked his Mercedes 300-SL just around the corner, knocked at the basement’s garage door.
“Vot iss?” Papa Schimmelhorn brought the car down to a gentle four-point landing, mentally reviewing the dames and damsels who, knowing that Mama was away for the day, might be expected to pay him a surreptitious visit.
The knocking was repeated, more emphatically. “I say!” called Little Anton. “It’s me, your grand-nephew! Do let me in!”
“Lidtle Anton?” cried Papa Schimmelhorn, dismounting. “How nice you are back from die Chinesers, but your voice iss different in der accent. Vot has happened?”
“I’ve been listening to BBC, old boy. Open up, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Donnerwetter, der door iss locked und Mama has der key!”
Little Anton chortled. “Don’t tell me a genius like you couldn’t pick that stupid lock. You just don’t want Mama to get any angrier. Well, all right then—”
In his mind’s eye, Papa Schimmelhorn could see Little Anton crossing his eyes preliminary to reaching around the dimensional corner into that private universe to which only he had access. He waited. A moment later there was the click of tumblers and the door swung open.
“Lidtle Anton!” boomed Papa Schimmelhorn, embracing him and standing back again for a better view. “How you haff changed!”
And indeed Little Anton no longer was the callow youth who had left New Haven to seek his fortune when the sudden obsolescence of the Wilen scanner caused the Federal axe to fall, putting an end to young Woodrow Luedesing’s dreams of industrial empire. He was perhaps a little plumper than before, but his smooth, pink features showed no signs of acne, his adolescent awkwardness had vanished, and he was attired, not in the rough, ill-fitting clothing he had worn from Switzerland, but in a creamy suit of fine Italian silk, shoes of the sort ordinarily afforded only by motion picture magnates and the Mafia, a pale silk shirt, an Old Etonian tie, and a gem-jade ring of the finest quality.
“Ja!” Papa Schimmelhorn shook his head admiringly. “Chust like mein own son,
a chip from der old block!”
“Quite right, Great-uncle,” replied Little Anton. “As you know, I’m a chenius too.” From his sealskin wallet he took a business card.
Papa Schimmelhorn read it. Peng-Plantagenet, Ltd., it said in English and Chinese, Hong Kong, London, Paris, Brussels, Rome, New York, Singapore, Tokyo, and throughout the world, and in a corner, modestly but decisively, Anton Fledermaus, Director of Special Services.
“That,” said Little Anton, his new accent slipping for a moment, “means I head up their department of dirty tricks. It’s a real tough job, Pop. We’re the biggest conglomerate in the world, so everybody’s trying to shaft us—Commies, Arabs, Japanese, you name it. I’m the chap who makes sure we keep ahead of them.” He smirked. “I manage.”
He related how Peng-Plantagenet had hired him, promoted him, provided him a penthouse atop one of Hong Kong’s most expensive high-rises, and enabled him to learn not only better English but fluent Cantonese and Mandarin. “Yes,” he said smugly, “I’ve changed, but—” He regarded Papa Schimmelhorn’s huge stature, mighty muscles, and great white beard. “—you haven’t changed a bit.”
“Of course nodt!” boomed Papa Schimmelhorn. “Chunior, I tell you how to keep der vinegar vhen you are old—only by chasing predty pussycats!”
“Mrreow!” agreed Gustav-Adolf emphatically. “Und dot’s nodt all—der old man shtill makes new lidtle tricks—” He gestured at the Stanley Steamer. “—I haff now an infention no vun else has made. Vait, und I show you—”
“I know,” said Little Anton. “Anti-gravity. That’s why I’m here.”
“Vhat! How did you find out?”
“You can hide nothing from Peng-Plantagenet.”
“But only Mama knows—”
“And maybe a few dozen pretty little pussycats,” said Little Anton, saying nothing about the affectionate and informative letters Mama Schimmelhorn had been writing him. “Anyhow, anti-gravity’s something Peng-Plantagenet can use. Who do you think worked up this big church social Mama’s gone to? Who fixed it so there’d be lots of vodka in their punch. Papa, you’re hired. We leave for Hong Kong right away.”
“But—but I do nodt vant a chob!” Papa Schimmelhorn protested. “I haff chust fixed der Stanley Shteamer, und I haff nodt yet taken my Dora for a ride.”
“Look, you take off in that thing, and the Air Force is sure to shoot you down. Anyhow, Peng-Plantagenet’s hiring both of you—your car too.”
“But I haff no passport!”
Little Anton smiled an Old Etonian smile. He reached into his pocket and pulled a passport out. “Oh, yes, you have. You’re now a subject of Her Majesty the Queen. Like me. I guess you still don’t get it—Peng-Plantagenet can fix anything.”
“Nein, I cannot leafe. Mama is already angry! If I go to Hong Kong—” Papa Schimmelhorn shuddered at the thought.
There was a moment of silence. Then, “Papa,” said Little Anton, “come outside and let me show you something.”
Papa Schimmelhorn nodded grudgingly. “Okay,” he grumbled, “but shtill I cannot go.” He followed Little Anton out of the basement and around the corner. There stood the sleek Mercedes, painted an Imperial yellow, complete with Hong Kong license plates.
“Peng-Plantagenet flew it here with me,” declared Little Anton proudly. “But you’ve seen nothing yet—”
He threw the door open, and instantly a great change came over Papa Schimmelhorn. His blue eyes widened; his whiskers quivered; something began to rumble in his throat. “Pussycats!” he exclaimed. “Predty pussycats!”
“From Peng-Plantagenet,” said Little Anton. “Nothing but the best.” And he introduced Miss Kittikool (which he explained was her real name,) a demure, ninety-five pound, nicely rounded package from Thailand, and a slightly larger but no less attractive Miss MacTavish, half Scotch and half Chinese, from Hong Kong.
Papa Schimmelhorn swept them a splendid bow. He kissed their hands. He rumbled happily while they giggled and pulled his beard and marvelled at his muscles.
“Lidtle Anton,” he announced, “I haff changed mein mind. This vunce I go to vork for Peng-Panflageolet. Mama vould nodt beliefe me, so you must leafe a note. Tell her I go only to make a lot of money so she can buy new dresses, maybe a new umbrella. You vait a minute vhile I change.”
“Good show, Papa!” Little Anton slapped him heartily on the back. “I knew you’d come through in the pinch.” And the pretty pussycats caroled their own pleasure at the news.
Fifteen minutes later, he rejoined them, gloriously attired in a striped blazer with brass buttons, loudly checked trousers, an orange sports shirt, and open sandals. Then, after he had been cautioned on no account to attempt a takeoff, and after his grand-nephew had mysteriously relocked the garage door, he guided the Stanley Steamer, gleaming in its freshly polished British Racing Green, into line behind the Mercedes, having insisted only that Miss Kittikool ride with him.
All the way to the airport, he decorously drove with all four wheels on the ground, and with one hand less decorously exploring those inviting areas of her thigh accessible through the slit of her sea-green Chinese gown. A new and splendid jet awaited them, also painted Imperial yellow. As they approached, it extruded a wide ramp and, while the crew saluted, Little Anton unhesitatingly drove aboard, beckoning his great-uncle to follow him. But Papa Schimmelhorn by this time was so exhilarated that he was unable to resist the temptation to fly the steamer straight into the door, a sight which subsequently sent two of the ground-control men to the psychiatrist.
As they entered the luxurious cabin, Little Anton nudged him covertly. “Would you like to know why Peng-Plantagenet sent us all the way from Hong Kong for you, Papa?” he whispered in his ear. “It’s not just because of your anti-gravity device—it’s because of your big yang.”
“My vhat? Lidtle Anton, vhat are you saying? Und right in front of predty pussycats!”
“Don’t worry,” chuckled Little Anton. “It isn’t what you think. Mr. Peng’ll explain the whole thing. He’ll tell you all about Black Holes and dragons, and how your yang fits in with anti-gravity.”
On that flight to Hong Kong, Papa Schimmelhorn enjoyed himself so thoroughly that he completely forgot his curiosity regarding Black Holes, dragons, his yang, and anti-gravity and was able to devote all his energies to Miss Kittikool and Miss MacTavish, both of whom agreed that he was unique in their experience; and even next day, during his first interview with Horace Peng and Richard Plantagenet in their teak and sandalwood paneled offices on the thirty-third floor of the Peng-Plantagenet Building, he found it difficult to concentrate on scientific matters.
Mr. Peng was a majestic, immaculately groomed Chinese with gray hair and an Oxford accent. His suit spoke of Savile Row, his tie of Brasenose College. Mr. Plantagenet was a very tall, immaculately groomed Englishman with a medieval moustache, a bold Norman nose, an Oxford accent and a Brasenose tie. They greeted Papa Schimmelhorn with great cordiality, apologized because the press of business had kept them from meeting him at the airport, and enquired as to whether Little Anton’s provisions for his comfort and entertainment had been adequate.
Papa Schimmelhorn, recalling how cozy bed had been with Miss Kittikool on one side and Miss MacTavish on the other, rolled his eyes and assured them fervently that their hospitality was absolutely wunderbar. “Chentlemen,” he roared, “I tell you, it makes me feel like I am vunce again a young shqvirt, full of vinegar!”
“What did I tell you, sir?” whispered Little Anton to Mr. Peng.
Mr. Peng nodded, looking highly pleased, and Mr. Plantagenet harrumphed with approval.
“Mr. Schimmelhorn,” began Mr. Peng, “we badly need your help. Expense will be no object. You will be rewarded richly—”
“Revarded? Don’t you worry. I haff a good chob vith old Heinrich, making cuckoo clocks, un
d here in Hong Kong I am hafing fun, zo I am glad to help. Also, bedter you call me Papa instead of Mr. Schimmelhorn, und I call you maybe Horace, und your friend, whose name somevhere I haff heard before, I call Dick.”
Mr. Plantagenet chuckled, and Mr. Peng inclined his head gravely. “Papa,” he said, “your years and genius give you the right to choose the terms of address we shall use between us. Now I shall explain briefly the sort of assistance we require from you.”
“Lidtle Anton has told you I am shtupid und a chenius only in der subconscience?”
“He has indeed informed us how your genius functions, but that is not important.” Mr. Peng leaned forward. “Papa, do you understand all the implications of your development of an antigravity device? True anti-gravity is no simple Newtonian force. It bears the same relationship to normal gravity as anti-matter does to ordinary matter.”
Two charming Balinese girls came in silently, dressed in their native costume and carrying trays of tiny sandwiches and tall, cold drinks, and Papa Schimmelhorn’s eyes and mind began to wander, but Mr. Peng paid no attention. “This means,” he said, “that only from an antimatter universe can pure anti-gravitic forces be derived—and that you, somehow, have reached into such a universe. Now, there are three ways of making contact with the many universes contiguous with ours. One is by the use of parapsychological powers, like those so highly developed in your excellent grand-nephew. Another, which so far at least has been impossible, is by generating physical forces vast enough to manipulate those awesome phenomena called Black Holes, which come into being with the final collapse of a star or galaxy, and from which not even light can escape. Black Holes are themselves portals into anti-matter universes, where we believe anti-gravity originates. You understand?”
“Ja,” said Papa Schimmelhorn. “Like shvincters.”
Mr. Peng did not contradict him. “The third way,” he continued, “which actually was known and used in India and China in ancient times, is by combining the first and second, and this you seemingly have used.”
The Second Reginald Bretnor Megapack Page 19
