Romeus Montague, 1562 (Extract from the ship’s log.)
“Made a landfall today on a hunk of rock. What navigation! We head for Virginia and end up in Massachusetts! If I ever catch the Quaker brat who stole the compass … ! ! !
The brig Mayflower, 1620
There are many more like this, but these samples will suffice to prove that Professor Hakachinik was a genius far ahead of his time, and a man to whom the students of history owe an immeasurable debt.
Since there have been many rumors about the professor’s death, I wish to go on record now and state the entire truth. I was the one who discovered the professor’s body, so I know whereof I speak. It is a lie and a canard that the good man committed suicide; indeed he was in love with life and was cut off in his prime, and I’m sure he looked forward to many more productive years. Nor was he electrocuted, though his TAP machine was close by and fused and melted as though a singularly large electrical current had flowed through it. The offical records read heart failure and for want of a better word this description will have to stand, though in all truth the cause of death was never determined. The professor appeared to be in fine health and in the pink of condition, though of course he was dead. Since his heart was no longer beating, heart failure seemed to be a satisfactory cause of death to enter in the records.
In closing let me state that when I discovered the professor he was seated at his desk, his head cocked toward the loudspeaker and his pen clutched in his fingers. Under his hand was a writing pad with an incomplete entry that he appeared to be writing when death struck. I make no conclusion about this, but merely record it as a statement of fact.
The writing is in Old Norse, which, for the benefit of those not acquainted with this interesting language, I have translated into modern English:
“… this meeting will come to order and if you don’t put those mead horns away there’ll be a few cracked skulls around here, I tell you. Now, order of business. There have been reports of tent caterpillars in Yggdrasill and some dead branches, but we’ll get onto that later. Of more pressing interest is the sandy concrete that has been found cracking in foundations of Bilfrost Bridge. I want to - just one moment this is supposed to be a closed meeting and there is someone listening in. Thor, will you please take care of that eavesdropper … .
6:
THE PAD
A STORY OF THE DAY AFTER THE DAY AFTER TOMORROW
In the expansive, expensive atmosphere of Sardi’s Topside, two hundred stories above the city, a pretty girl was no novelty, nor a beautiful one either for that matter. So the redhead in the green suit, who would certainly have drawn stares, turned heads, on the lower levels, received no attention here at all until she stopped at Ron Lowell-Stein’s table and slapped him. A good, roundhouse smack right across the kisser.
His bodyguards, who now made up for their earlier inattention with an exaggerated display of muscle, grabbed her and squeezed her, and one even went so far as to push a gun against the base of her spine.
“Go ahead and have them kill me,” she said, shaking her lovely, shoulder-length hair while an angry flush suffused the whiteness of her skin. “Add murder to your list of other crimes.
Ron, who rose at once because he was always polite to women, dismissed the bodyguards with a tilt of his head and said, “Would you care to sit down and tell me to which crimes you are referring?
“Don’t play the hypocrite with me, you juvenile Don Juan. I’m talking about my friend, Dolores, the girl whom you ruined.
“Is she ruined? I frankly thought she would be good for many years to come.
This time he caught her wrist before she could connect, proof that the years of polo, copter-hockey, and skeet shooting had toned his muscles and reflexes well. “It seems rather foolish to stand here like this. Can we not sit and fight in undertones like civilized people? I’ll order us Black Velvet, that is champagne and stout if you have never tried it, which is a great soother and nerve settler.
“I’ll not sit with a man like you,” she said as she sat down, firmly pressed into place by the strength of that polo-playing wrist.
“I am Ron Lowell-Stein, the man you hate, but you have not introduced yourself … ?
“It’s none of your damn business.
“Women should leave swearing to men, who do it so much better.
He looked up as one of his bodyguards pulled a printed sheet from his pocketfax and handed it over. “Beatrice Carfax,” he read. “I’ll call you Bea since I have no liking for these classic names. Father … Mother … born … why you sweet thing, you are only twenty-two. Blood type O; occupation, dancer.
His eyes jumped across to her, moved slowly down her torso. “I like that,” he said, barely audibly. “Dancers have such beautifully muscled bodies.
She blushed again at the obviousness and pushed away the crystal beaker of dark and bubbling liquid that had been set before her, but he firmly slid it back.
“I do not feel that I have ruined your friend Dolores,” he said. “In fact, I thought I was doing her a favor. However, because you are so attractive and forthright I shall give her fifty thousand dollars, a dowry that I know will unruin her in the eyes of any prospective husband.
Beatrice gasped at the sum. “You can’t mean this.
“But I do. There is only one condition attached. That you have dinner with me tonight. After which we shall see a performance of the Yugoslavian State Ballet.
“Do you think that you can work your will upon me? she said hotly.
“Oh, goodness me,” he said, touching his pristine handkerchief to the corners of his eyes. “I do not mean to laugh but I have not heard that phrase in, well, I have never heard it spoken aloud, to be exact. I like you, my Bea. You are one of nature’s blessings with your sincere naivete and round little bottom and my chauffeur will pick you up at seven. And, in answer to your question, I shall be frank with you, franker than with most girls who seem to expect some aura of romanticism, yes, I do expect to work my will upon you.
“You cannot!
“Fine, then you have nothing to fear. Please wear your gold sequin dress; I’m looking forward greatly to seeing you in it.
“What are you talking about? I don’t own a gold dress.
“You do now. It will be delivered before you reach home.
Before she could protest the headwaiter appeared and said, “Scusi mille, Mr. Lowell-Stein, but your luncheon guests are here.
Two balding and rounded businessmen came up, Brazilians from the look of them. As the men shook hands, the bodyguards helped Bea to her feet and, with subtle pressures, moved her toward the exit. Preserving her dignity with an effort she shrugged away from them and made her own way out of the door. Once on the walkway, in a state of considerable confusion, she automatically took the turnings and changes that brought her home, to the apartment she shared with her ruined friend, Dolores.
“Oh, my sainted mother,” Dolores squealed when Beatrice came in, “will you just look at this!
This was a dress that Dolores held out, fresh from its tissue wrappings, a garment of artistic cut and impeccable design that shimmered and reflected the lights with an infinite number of golden mirrors, that in the luxury of its appearance seemed to be spun from real gold. In fact it was pure eighteen-karat gold, though neither girl knew it.
“It’s from him,” Beatrice said as coldly as she could, turning away, though not without an effort, from the seductive garment. Then she explained what had happened, and when she had finished Dolores stroked the dress and smiled, and spoke.
“Then you’re going to date him,” she said. “Not for my sake, of course, what’s fifty thousand, I mean, you know. Go out for your own sake enjoy, enjoy.
Beatrice gave a little gasp. “Do you mean you wish me to go out with him? After what he did to you?
“Well, it’s done, and maybe we should at least profit from it. I’ll go halfies with you on the loot. And you’ll get a good meal out of it. But take the advice of
one who knows - stay out of that backseat of his car.
“You never told me the details … .
“Don’t sound so stuffy. It’s not so sordid, not like in the grubby back of some college kid’s car. It was after the theater; I was waiting for a cab when this big car pulls up and he offers to drive me home. What’s the harm? What with a driver and two mugs in the front seat. But who was to know the windows could turn dark, that the lights would fade, while the whole damn back of the car got turned into a bed with silk sheets, soft music, drinks. To be truthful, honey, it happened so sudden and unreal, like in a dream, I didn’t even know that it was happening until it was over and I was getting out of the car. At least you’ll get a meal. All I got was a run in my stocking plus I saved the cab fare.
Beatrice thought about this, then looked shocked. “You are not suggesting for a moment that - you know what will happen to me too? I’m not that kind of girl!
“Neither was I. But I never stood a chance.
“Well I do! ; Spoken firmly with her sweet jaw pushed forward stubbornly, the lift of righteous wrath in her gray-green eyes. “No man can force me to … do anything against my will.
“You show ‘em, honey,” Dolores said, caressing the dress. “And enjoy your dinner.
At six a liveried footman brought perfume. Aperge. And in a quart bottle, too.
At six-thirty another uniformed footman brought a mutation smoke-gray mink stole and a note, which read, “To keep your precious shoulders warm.
The golden dress was sleeveless and strapless, and the stole did go with it, and the effect in the mirror was stunning. At seven, when the door annunciator hummed again, she was ready and she stalked out, head high and proud. She would show him.
The footman who escorted her said, “Mr. Lowell-Stein has sent his personal copter instead of his car and has said …
He touched a button on his jacket and Ron’s melodious voice spoke, saying, “The hastier the transport, the sooner you will be with me, my darling.
“Lead the way,” she said sharply-though secretly she was glad not to be traveling in his automotive automated bedroom. Though there was always the possibility that the copter might hold its secrets as well.
If it did, it did not reveal them to her. Instead it carried her swiftly and surely to a marble balcony high on the glossy flank of Lowell-Stein House: that remarkable structure, office building and home, that was the seat of power of the Lowell-Stein World Industries. Its master handed her down himself.
“You are lovely, charming, welcome to my home,” he said, tanned, handsome, and respectable, the perfect host. Beatrice decided on the bold course, hoping to gain the emotional upper hand.
“This is a very nice copter,” she said, as coldly as she could. “Particularly since it doesn’t turn into a flying bagnio at the touch of a button.
“But it does, though that is not for you. For you, dinner and the theater first.
“How dare you!
“I dare nothing. You dare by coming here; you told me that. Now step inside” - the glass wall rose as they approached then sank behind them - “and have a cocktail. I am old-fashioned so we shall have a traditional drink. A Martini. Vodka or gin, which do you prefer?
Ron pointed to Goya’s Maja Desnuda, the original, of course, which whisked from sight disclosing a window behind which moved, in an apparently endless stream, bottle after bottle of every brand of vodka and gin ever manufactured since the world was young. Beatrice concealed her ignorance, quite well she thought, not only of the preferred brand but of the very nature of the Martini itself, by waving gently and saying, “You’re the host, why don’t you choose for both of us?
“Capital. We shall have Bombay gin and essence of Noilly Prat, at a ratio of a thousand to one - the way it should be served.
The automated bar heard him and the bottles whizzed by the window and stopped and Queen Victoria frowned down upon them. The glass fell away and a chrome arm plucked out the bottle, opened it, tilted it, poured its contents into the air.
“Oh,” Beatrice gasped as the liquid fell toward the rug in a transparent stream.
“A bit showy,” he said, “but I like things that are done with style,” as, at the last instant, a goblet popped out from a hidden niche and caught the drink, every drop.
It was charming to watch, a functional mobile that entertained with its sprightly motions, concluded by producing the desired drink. The silver band on the goblet was caught by a magnetic field and lifted to eye level, floating freely in the air before them. A chime sounded and an atomizer of vermouth essence sprang out on the end of a cunningly jointed arm and poised itself above the container. Ron reached out a casual finger and touched the bulb, which sent a delicate spray across the surface of the gin.
“I like the personal touch,” he said. “I feel that it makes the drink.
Then - one, two, three - a cryogenic tube of liquid helium dipped and spun and lifted away, chilling the drink exactly to within a thousandth of the required degree, and a tray, with two glasses cooled to the same temperature as the liquid, appeared on the end of a telescoping gilded arm to the accompaniment of another chime and Ron asked, “Onion or lemon peel?
“Whichever you suggest,” she laughed, enchanted by the device.
“Both,” he smiled. “Let us be sybarites tonight.
A tube delivered the onions, forked fingers the slices of lemon, and he handed her her glass.
“A toast,” he said, “to our love.
“Don’t be rude,” she told him, sipping. “I think this is quite good.
“To know it is to love it. I was not rude. I was just reminding you that before the night is gone you will have enjoyed ecstasy.
“Nothing of the sort. She put the drink down, and her foot as well. “I am hungry and I wish to go out and eat.
“Forgive me for not telling you, but we are dining at home. I know you will enjoy the meal, it’s ristaffel, your favorite, since I know how wild you are about Indonesian food.
As he spoke he touched her elbow and led her toward the dining room. “We shall begin with loempia, then on to nasi-goreng sambal olek, and for the wine - the wine! - I have discovered the perfect wine to accompany this exotic meal.
Music swelled as the gamelan orchestra began to play and the temple dancers glided forth. The table was already set and the first course served and steaming, the tiers of cups of spices and sauces rotating slowly. Beatrice knew that the rice would be perfect and fluffy. She did love this food, but he took too much for granted. She would be firm, even embarrass him.
“I used to like this,” she said, trying to look bored-while saliva rose unbidden, brought forth by the delightful odors, “but no more. What I prefer is …
What? She tried to think of something exotic. “I really prefer … Danish food, those delightful open sandwiches.
“To think of the terrible mistake I almost made,” Ron said. “Remove this meal.
Beatrice recoiled as the floor opened and the food dishes, table, chairs, dropped through the yawning gap. An instant before the floor closed again she heard the beginning of a terrible crash. Good God, he had thrown it all away, silverware, crystal, the lot. The orchestra and dancers were whisked from their podium and for a dreadful moment she was afraid they were bound for the incinerator as well.
“Do you like Rembrandt? he asked, pointing to an immense painting that covered the rear wall. She turned to look. `The Night Watch,’ one of my favorites.
“I thought it was in Holland … she began, then turned her head at a sound behind her and could not finish.
A long, oaken table with two matching refectory chairs had appeared and was laden with tier upon tier of food.
“Smorrebrod,” Ron said, “to be correct, since they are not really sandwiches. There are five hundred here, so I’m sure you will find your favorites. And beer, Tuborg F. F., of course. This is the only fine food that is to be eaten with beer, and akvavit, the sly Danish snaps, served frozen in a block of
ice. There are rules, you know.
She had not known, but she was learning. She served herself and ate, and her thoughts flickered like the candles before her. Before she was through eating she was stern and firm again, because she knew full well what was happening.
“You think you can buy me with your money,” she told him, as she spooned up the last mouthful of rode grod med flode. I am supposed to be impressed, grateful for all this, so grateful that I will let you do … what you want to do.
“Not at all.
He smiled, and his smile was sincerely charming. “I will not deny that there are girls that can be bought with trinkets and meals, but not you. All this, as you so charmingly put it, is here merely for our pleasure while I am determining what your excuse will be.
“I don’t understand.
“You will. In simpler cultures lovers clasp to one another in mutual agreement, no aggressor, no loser. We have lost this simplicity and substituted for it a ritualized game. It is called seduction. Women are seduced by men, therefore remain pure. When in reality they have both enjoyed the union of love, mankind’s greatest glory and pleasure, and the word seduction is just the excuse the women use to permit it. Every woman has some hidden excuse that she calls seduction, and the artifice of man is in finding that excuse.
“Not I!
“Yes, you. Yours is not one of the common ones. You will not seek the simple excuse of excessive drink, rough force, simple gratitude or anything so plebeian. But we shall find it; before dawn we will know.
“I’ll hear no more,” she said, dropping her spoon and standing. “I wish to leave for the theater now.
Once out of this place she knew she would be safe; she would not return.
“By all means, permit me,” he held out his arm and she took it. They walked toward the far wall, which lifted silently to reveal a theater within which there were just two seats. “I have hired the entire Yugoslavian company for the evening; they are waiting to begin.
Galactic Dreams Page 8