This latter got in cautiously and sat facing us in the opposite corner. She clearly wanted to keep as much distance as possible between her and me. I wasn't upset. The protectors squeezed into the front with the driver and we were off. Having driven out of the garage several times, I was surprised when, instead of turning right up the ramp, we went left.
I glanced at Madam Holiness-Personified and raised an enquiring eyebrow.
“Security,” she grunted.
“Threats to our safety or over-enthusiastic well-wishers?” I said.
She seemed slightly surprised at the question. “Both.”
I nodded. “If you would be so kind as to brief us about the restaurant.”
She explained, in a grudging tone, of the protocol we should observe, the people we would be introduced to, the media arrangements so on. I asked a couple of questions to clarify things. I’ll give her her due, she was tenacious. She had every move, every gesture, every moment mapped out and was intent on insuring we followed her itinerary to the letter. I was forced to snap, ‘next’ as soon as we had the necessary facts.
“Will I be required to speak?” I asked when she had finished.
“Only at the press conference. Keep your answers short and general. Don’t…”
“That will be enough,” I said and turned to Cherevine. “Are you okay with everything? Is there anything you didn’t understand?”
She considered it before saying ‘no’, rather than just automatically replying and my estimate of her, other than her looks, went up a notch or too.
“Thank you,” I said curtly to Madam Holiness-Personified and turned back to Cherevine. “Do you know this restaurant?”
“No. I’m told it’s one of the best in Bartimarm, though.”
“I’ve heard that, too. My limited experience of posh restaurants is that you pay more for the snootiness than the food.”
She gave a little laugh. “Yes. We’ve a few of them in Draschzdanzy.”
“Is that where you’re from?”
“Yes. It’s the capital of Orodia.”
Hooray, she was relaxing and opening up. I spent the rest of the trip, prompting her with questions about her home and family. This sounds a bit cynical, perhaps, but it wasn’t. Her planet, whose name my translator kept translating as ‘Home’, was much more Earth-like than Geretimal. Moreover, it wasn't part of the Capellan Theocracy and wasn't unified so I was fascinated to begin with. On top of that, she was an intelligent and educated girl with a slightly off-beat view of things and, to cap it all, her voice was as delicately ravishing as the rest of her. Madam Holiness-Personified pretended to be watching the passing streets but I knew she was listening avidly. Given her attitude it shouldn’t have surprised me that she had taken absolutely no time at all to get to know her charges. All too soon, the car began to slow.
“Oh, are we nearly there?” Cherevine asked in surprise. She glanced up at me and grinned coquettishly. “You’re a naughty man, Crawford MacAdam.”
“How so?”
“You've successfully kept me chattering all the journey.” She pulled my head down and whispered in my ear, “Anyone would think you wanted to get into my panties.”
“And anyone would ask if I’m likely to succeed,” I whispered back.
“Anyone’ll just have to wait and see.”
I wanted to kiss her, Madam Holiness-Personified be damned, but we became aware of hubbub on the street as the car slowed and stopped. I looked up and was struck dumb. We had stopped on the street rather than diving down into the car park. A yellow carpet spread from the kerb to the restaurant entrance. Stout barriers lined the carpet. In front of the barrier was a line of uniformed men, police I assumed, and behind was a mob of beings, cheering and waving and pointing communicators and other bits of equipment I assumed were cameras or something at the car. The protectors hopped out and flanked the door as a gaudily-dressed man trotted up and opened the door. Madam Holiness-Personified stepped out and turned impatiently back to us. I ignored her.
“This is it,” I said to Cherevine with quiet intensity. “The main event. You up for it?”
“You betcha,” she replied.
I gave her a quick peck on the lips and stepped out. Madam Holiness-Personified had insisted I emerge first and acknowledge the crowd while Cherevine got out. In my book that was not polite so I turned back and offered my hand to my companion. As she stepped onto the pavement and straightened, I slipped an arm around her shoulders.
“Smile and wave,” I instructed. “This is your night as much as mine.”
We stood at the edge of the pavement, waving and smiling at the cheering mob. We stepped forwards and, as we did, people started shouting, calling out good wishes and asking questions. No different, in fact, than a mob of fans greeting a pop or movie celebrity. Suddenly I went deaf. Well, I didn’t actually go deaf but all meaning disappeared from the words the crowd were shouting and all I could hear was a solid wave of meaningless noise. It was most disconcerting and, for a moment, I wondered if I’d taken ill or been attacked or something. Then I remembered what the media lady at the stadium had said about overloading the translators and realised this was what had happened. I glanced down and saw Cherevine was looking upset. I tapped my ear and pointed at the restaurant. Still smiling and waving I led her into the relative peace of the foyer. It’s strange how thoughts occur at then most inappropriate moment for, as I stepped across the threshold, I wondered how, if my and Cherevine’s translators had cut out, those of all the people shouting at us hadn’t.
A very tall, very pompous man in a bright yellow suit, which did nothing for his lemon yellow complexion and dark blue hair, stepped forward. The suit had ludicrously wide sleeves and trouser bottoms and festooned with green, yellow and red braid. He started to speak but I held up a hand to stop him.
“I’m dreadfully sorry,” I said. “Our translators have cut out. We can’t understand what you’re saying.”
He looked mortified and held up two fingers.
“They’ll start again in two minutes?” I hazarded.
He nodded and ushered us with a flourish, to seats in a corner.
“Thank you. You are very kind.”
He made ‘no problem’ gestures and stepped away. I took the opportunity to look round.
The lobby was plush. There were a series of semi-alcoves with seats of varying sizes, heights and styles suitable, I realised, for beings with differently proportioned legs and bodies. Between each alcove was a tall potted plant giving additional privacy. Small, elegant tables were provided for supporting drinks, purses and what have you. All in all it gave the impression that this was a very exclusive, very high-class establishment. I felt strangely removed from the noise and bustle that was going on in the main entranceway and I had a fleeting ‘what am I doing here’ feeling before my public persona kicked back in.
There was the faintest of pops and everything made sense again.
“What happened?” Cherevine said, clutching my arm.
“Our translators cut out. Too many different languages. You all right?”
“Yes. I was scared for a moment, though. Thank goodness you were there.”
“It was a bit disconcerting. Shall we go?”
I stood, crooked my arm and indicated she should slip her arm through it.
“Old Earth custom,” I explained.
When he saw we were rising, the yellow man came hurrying over.
“My apologies,” I said. “Very disconcerting.”
There was a twinkle in his eye. “It is. All working now?”
“For the moment.” I decided to take a risk. “Though I fear I may experience more trouble, particularly during long and boring speeches.”
“A useful sort of translator to have,” he said with a smile. I decided he wasn't quite as pompous as he appeared. “I’d better discard mine, I suppose. I’ll need to formally welcome you in a moment but, informally, welcome to the Kitchen of the Gods. I am Sir Assian Wallonnia, one
of the owners. I hope you’ll enjoy your meal despite the brouhaha.”
I was impressed by this appearance of genuine warmth. “Thank you. I’m Sir Crawford MacAdam and my companion is Madam Cherevine Zvachnica.”
“Welcome, both of you. I hope you won’t mind me saying this but you make a very handsome couple.”
Cherevine blushed. “I don’t mind at all, Sir Wallonnia. You can never stroke a girl’s ego too much.”
He laughed then stopped abruptly. “Oops. Must observe protocol, you know. No levity allowed. Shall we?”
He led us to a room in which were gathered as many of the galaxy’s media people as could be squeezed in. There was a small clear space at one end on which everybody’s attention and all the cameras were focussed. I knew the set-up from the stadium but Cherevine was taken aback.
“Forget whatever you’ve been told,” I whispered in her ear. “Smile and answer the questions simply and honestly. If you find one offensive, just refuse to answer. I’ll back you up.”
Her hand stole into mine and gave it a squeeze. Sir Wallonnia led us to the front. The assembled media people cheered politely. Sir Wallonnia’s introduction was brief, focussing more on his restaurant than us. I focussed on remaining calm. This time I had no minder to protect me. I had a sneaking suspicion that Madam Holiness-Personified should have been fulfilling that role but conveniently omitted to tell us. No doubt she was looking forward to seeing me make a fool of myself.
The questions started innocently enough; general stuff about how I felt now I was officially the Lottery Winner and what was I going to do with my spaceship, that sort of thing. However, they soon moved on to the breeding programme. I was asked my opinion of it.
“As a citizen of Earth, I find it disconcerting. As a galactic resident I find it intriguing and as a red-blooded, heterosexual, sentient being…” I glanced at Cherevine and smiled, “…I’m overawed.”
I was asked to expand on my answer. I’d anticipated this and had thought about what I wanted to say. I got a few laughs when I said it was a great deal preferable to dying but noticed there were more than a few puzzled faces. I knew my Lottery history better than some of them. A few questioners wanted to know more about the Earth but I refused to answer them on the grounds that this was neither the time nor the place although I’d be glad to grant all of them exclusive interviews at a later date… for a suitable fee, of course. Then came the moment I was dreading.
“Sir MacAdam, is it true you have had serious disagreements with the Commission? That you have refused to co-operate with the organisers and threatened to refuse the prize and withdraw from the breeding programme?”
“I have, at no point, refused to accept the prize or withdraw from the breeding programme. It is true I have had to withdraw from the tour of Geretimal on health grounds.”
Fortunately some of the interviewers didn’t know about the tour and I was able to discuss the effect of x-rays on the human body. Attention turned to Cherevine. For the most part the questions were civil and rather inane, as if the journalists assumed that someone as beautiful as she must, by definition, be stupid. A female journalist got the floor. There was something about her manner or appearance that alerted my sixth sense and I had the feeling that her question was not going to be friendly. I squeezed Cherevine’s hand in warning.
“Madam Zvachnica, don’t you think it’s rather demeaning for someone of your obvious class should be bred with an ignorant barbarian?”
Various expressions flitted across Cherevine’s face as she tried to decide how to respond. In the end she just looked the questioner straight in the eye and said, simply, “No.”
It went downhill from then on. The friendly journalists, mostly those from off-planet, had had their turn and the local media, who clearly had sources inside the Commission, turned up the heat. Some of them simply sensed a controversy and, hence, a good story but others were definitely hostile. I wished Honesty-in-Trust was here to note who they were. I was forced to duck and weave like any politician in an attempt not to actually answer the questions. With no-one to control them, they went to town. I became more and more flustered and knew it wouldn’t be long before I said something I shouldn’t. From the corner of my eye I noticed the restaurateur becoming more and more agitated. This press conference was running out of control but he could see no way of legitimately intervening. In the end I took matters into my own hands. As the next questioner began to speak I held up my hand.
“Sirs and Madams, enough. I thank you for your interest. Madam Zvachnica and I have a dinner appointment. I don’t know how it is here but on my world top chefs have a reputation for having fearsome tempers if their culinary efforts are not properly appreciated. Goodnight.”
I gathered Cherevine under my arm and strode out, my expression making it clear that I was not best pleased. Sir Wallonnia followed behind.
“By all the gods,” he said as we emerged. “What was going on in there?”
“No comment,” I said rudely. I took a deep breath. “Sorry. I meant that I’m not at liberty to tell you.”
Madam Holiness-Personified walked up. She could barely keep the expression of smug satisfaction from her face. I ignored her.
“Do we have time for a drink?” I asked Sir Wallonnia.
“Well, er, we are running a bit behind,” he said.
“Fine, let’s go and eat. I wasn’t joking about chefs’ tempers.”
He led us to the dining room. The restaurant was full. As we entered, our fellow diners rose and applauded. I looked round in astonishment. This was meant to be a quiet dinner where my partner and I could get to know each other. Instead it was a circus. Then I noticed an empty table right in the centre on a small dais with a low balustrade round it decorated with green and yellow flowers and streamers.
“Our table?” I said.
He nodded. I pulled out my communicator and called Honesty-in-Trust.
“Get hold of the Chairman and Sir Devoted-Acolyte. Tell them they’ve screwed up big time. Tell them that humans do not rut in public like… whatever suitably disgusting animals you have here.”
“I saw the press conference. I’m on to it,” was his laconic response.
I led a very subdued Cherevine to the table. Serving staff appeared to seat us. Madam Holiness-Personified was hovering.
“Are you still here?” I said loudly. “You’re even stupider than I thought. If I were you, I’d be packing my bags and trying to buy a one-way ticket to the opposite end of the galaxy. Get out of my sight.”
She fled, her face flaming. I sat with a deep sigh. Right now, the last thing I wanted to do was eat. What I wanted was to be far away, back in my own house with my feet up in front of the telly with a cat on my lap. I felt like crying.
“Crawford?” Cherevine’s voice was very small.
She touched my hand. I looked up to see concern on her lovely face. I attempted a smile.
“I’m sorry. It wasn’t meant to be like this. It was…. Oh, it doesn’t matter.” I looked round at the other diners. They were all watching us while pretending not to. I wondered how much money they’d paid for the privilege of dining with the Lottery Winner and his first breeding consort. I turned back to Cherevine. “The show must go on, I suppose.”
“Crawford,” she said again in that small voice. “I know you’re angry but please don’t blame the restaurant. It isn’t their fault.”
“What? Not their fault…?” I stopped. She was looking at me beseechingly as if begging me not to make a scene. I stopped and I thought. Of course it was their fault. They had set up this spectacle and they had paid the Commission for the privilege. They had charged these voyeurs however much money to titillate themselves at my expense. They had… Wait a moment… Why had they done this? The owner had seemed genuinely glad to see us and had gone out of his way to be pleasant. He didn’t give the impression of being a money-grabbing parasite. Assuming that was the case, why this? Could it be, perhaps, because this was how he was told to do
it? It certainly had all the hallmarks of the Commission; the ostentation, the lack of privacy, the disregard for my and Cherevine’s feelings. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that the Commission, not the restaurant, had set this up. And if that was the case, I was being churlish by taking my bad temper out on the restaurant. I looked round and beckoned to the owner. Cherevine half reached out as if to restrain me. The owner hurried over looking decidedly worried.
“Sir Wallonnia, I offer my apologies,” I said quietly. “You’ve gathered that I’m not entirely happy with arrangements and I’ve been blaming you. However, I’ve been persuaded that I might be mistaken.” Sir Wallonnia flashed a quick glance at Cherevine. “You’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to set this up and I am being rude and ungrateful.” His face cleared. “Perhaps, if you’d be so kind, you could give us some idea of what’s on the menu?”
He looked at me as if deciding whether I was being serious or merely leading up to another outburst. He settled on the former.
“Sir and Madam, you gave our chefs both a problem and a great opportunity. You come from different culinary heritages yet you are biologically similar enough to eat the same food. So, we decided to combine the two to symbolise your…” he suddenly realised what he was about to say and stopped, his face red.
I glanced at Cherevine. She was grinning impishly.
“Go on, Sir Wallonnia,” she said in a saccharine voice. “You were saying?”
“Er, yes, …to symbolise the… your more intimate joining later.” He glanced nervously at each of us. We were trying to suppress our grins. “There will be dishes from both your worlds alternately. Each has been designed to highlight a particular quality of taste and each has been designed to contrast with the one before. Appropriate wines or other drinks will accompany the dishes. Between some there will be light sorbets to cleanse and refresh the palette. I hope this meets with your approval?”
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