Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  Sky City and Bertram both were unique. Far out in the asteroid belt the little world lay, product of the greatest engineers and artists in the System. It wasn’t large—some fifty miles in diameter, with an artificial gravity system making life tenable there. It was more cosmopolitan than Vienna, London and New York had ever been.

  Sky City was the Riviera of space—the Solar System’s Core d’Azur. Under the rugged surface lay a resort that catered to all the worlds. From Venus to Pluto its reputation had spread, carried by the red flares of rocket tubes.

  The wealthy and the distinguished came to relax, to play, to dance, to gamble—and to dine. For it was Bertram of Sky Island who had spread the fame of the resort’s cuisine.

  And now Bertram was furious.

  In the master kitchen, five hundred feet below the magnificent solar room, with its teleplate ceiling that permitted a view of space, Bertram of Sky City stood like a mammoth Gibraltar on his columnar legs and curled his fingers lovingly around a cleaver. He was an immensely big man, a little too fat now, perhaps, with a huge white face topped by silvery hair, and a pair of surprisingly gentle blue eyes. At the present time he felt like an emperor who had been offered a pension and a small farm.

  “That—that tin junk-heap!” he gasped, moving a ladle at a robot.

  Tom Fargo, the manager of Sky City, looked embarrassed. He was a neat, dapper, thin man of about forty-five, who only lately had been elected by the Board to his office. Now Fargo took out his cigarette case, scowled, and said:

  “It isn’t tin. It’s plastic. Good Lord, Bertram, that robot cost thousands!”

  “Better to have spent the money buying caviar. We can use that, at least.”

  Fargo tapped his cigarette on one lean knuckle.

  “We can use the robot, too—”

  “You cannot smoke in my kitchen!” Bertram snapped. “Do you wish my food to smell of tobacco? I am not preparing a Venusian tobac-jelly today.”

  Fargo put the cigarette away. His eyes narrowed.

  “That robot—”

  “Look at it! Ah-h! I would like to take this cleaver and chop off its head.”

  “You can’t,” said the manager. “That plastic’s tough. Why not be sensible, Bertram? You know you’re overworked.”

  BERTRAM, flexing his immense arms, said:

  “I am not yet a doddering, senile weakling. Have you perhaps forgotten that I personally secured my recipes from every inhabitated moon and planet in the System? I went among the Martian nomads to learn the secret of their ghar-meat shashlik. It was I who found where those giant Plutonian mushrooms grew. And never once did I carry a weapon. A chef is like a high priest, Tom Fargo. He serves in his own way. Our clientele know that; they trust me. When a Callistan orders the Royal Ceremonial Dinner, he knows it will be prepared within a glass tank, under the conditions of Callisto; he knows he will get the canza-bulbs and those little fat fish from our Callisto cave; and he knows that Bertram of Sky City has personally supervised his meal.

  “I overworked? Shall I then fold my hands over my fat stomach, doze on a couch, and permit robots to prepare my recipes? Sooner would I—gladly!—hurl myself into space and perish!”

  Bertram’s blue eyes blazed with excitement and fury. His silvery hair seemed to stand on end. Fargo automatically reached for a cigarette, but did not complete the gesture.

  “I admit all that,” he said, “but things change. Robots are nearly perfect these days. They do everything—”

  “They do not cook in my kitchens!”

  “Um-m. Blast it all, Bertram, that robot can cook as well as you can.”

  THE burly chef’s jaw dropped. He whispered:

  “What did you say? A—a robot—cook as well as me!”

  “Cooking is an exact science,” Fargo went on hurriedly. “You’ll have to admit that.”

  “It is an art!”

  “Well, robots have painted pictures and composed music. And they’ve done it well. Give them the mathematical formulae, and they never fail. As for cooking, that’s even more of a science.”

  “Bah! I say again, I will never permit—”

  “Will you listen a minute?” Fargo’s eyes were hard. “I can’t waste all day down here. Not with the Space Convention meeting at Sky City tonight . . . Listen I Just now that robot’s set for Dunah Martian Style.”

  Bertram jeered. “Dunah! Ridiculous. It takes years to learn how to prepare that dish.”

  “I insist that you watch,” Fargo snapped. “That’s fair enough, isn’t it? You don’t believe the robot can cook. I say it can.”

  “Well—go ahead,” Bertram said at last. “It will fail, of course. Still, go ahead.”

  FARGO spoke one word of command. From a corner where it had stood silent and motionless, a shining white plastic robot came forward steadily on three hinged legs. It was shaped like a man, with extraordinary attachments—six arms of varying lengths and thicknesses, several telephoto eyes, and a gaping mouth—an unusual thing for a robot. Now it moved directly to a microphone and said:

  “Send me two pounds of Dunah. Onion. Parsley. Tombrak fruit. Cayenne. Stock . . .”

  Presently a panel in the wall slipped aside to reveal a small, fully equipped kitchen visible through double sheets of glass—an airlock. The robot entered, was bathed in ultraviolet light, and presently passed into the Martian kitchen.

  “An advantage already,” Fargo pointed out. “The robot doesn’t suffer from the low air-pressure there, or the Martian yeast germs.”

  “Bah. A small tank of oxygen is all I need for that work.”

  “You need space suits to make Plutonian dishes, though.”

  Bertram fell silent, staring through the glass at the quick, accurate movements of the robot. Deftly it seized the pale, golden cut of Dunah meat sliced it into accurate cubes. Carefully it peeled and cored the tough Tombrak fruits.

  “Ah-h!” Bertram lunged forward. “That is a bad one! Gone sour. See the blue stain on the pulp? That stupid machine of yours will ruin good Dunah.”

  Fargo seized the chef’s arm.

  “Hold on! Watch!”

  The robot had been holding each fruit up to its telephoto eyes. It paused at the bad sample, and popped a bit of the pulp into its mouth. Instantly a red light atop its plastic skull glowed. The robot hurled the sour fruit into a compartment, cleansed its tentacles with ultra-violet, and turned back to its work.

  “See?” Fargo gloated. “Its eyes check the color—catch even the slightest discoloration. And its mouth is a chemical analyzer. A bad Plutonian mushroom might even fool you, Bertram, but it couldn’t fool that robot.”

  “Tchah!”

  But the burly man was staring, lower lip outthrust, blue eyes troubled. It—it wasn’t right. Cooking was an art. It needed the personal touch. A robot—a machine—Bertram moved uncomfortably.

  “It will fail on the sauce,” he prophesied. “Wait and see. The slightest variation there, and all fails.”

  Fargo merely grinned.

  “There’s a weighing system built into the tentacles. Exactly accurate.”

  “Tchah! And bah!”

  The manager looked serious. “Bertram, Sky City has always been famous for keeping abreast of the times. Robot chefs will insure a standard of quality—”

  THE other man swelled. “And have we been noted for weevils in our soup? People come to Sky City for many reasons. But when they come to eat, that is because of Bertram. They know what the name of Bertram means. Crepe suzettes a la robot—pah!”

  “Why not? Of course, your name will still be at the top—you’ll have to supervise, that’s all—”

  “If these robots come, I go,” Bertram announced. “Would Michelangelo work with an air gun? Would Shakespeare use a dictaphone? Would you hear the music of Wagner from a jukebox? I, Bertram, am an artist, not an engineer.”

  “You can’t quit,” Fargo said. “We’ve got a contract.”

  “I shall quit anyway.”

  “Sorr
y. Can’t allow it—till the contract’s up—in six years. If you quit, you can’t work anywhere else. We’ll continue to pay you your salary—”

  “You cannot use my name!”

  “Yes, we can. And we will. Your name’s worth money to us, Bertram.”

  “In what way have I failed, eh?” Bertram pleaded. “Never have there been any complaints. My soup du jour is always the best. Ambassadors, diplomats, kings, presidents—they come to eat the food Bertram prepares. This is my life work, Fargo. Have I not given satisfaction?”

  “Of course you have. But this is Sky City—strictly modern. Don’t you see, Bertram, that robots will be a real advantage? Look at that! Dunah’s ready, and I’ll bet it’s perfect.”

  The robot emerged from the hermetic-kitchen, bearing a sealed glass platter which it placed on a nearby table. Then the machine retired to a corner, clicked thoughtfully to itself, and was motionless.

  Bertram glowered at the Dunah. It was a glowing, golden mound, dripping with ambrosial sauce. It looked all right.

  “We taste it, if you like, but—” They tasted. Fargo met the chef’s eyes.

  “Well? Anything wrong?”

  “There is nothing wrong,” Bertram admitted grudgingly. “It is excellent Dunah.”

  “And it’ll turn out exactly this way every time. The robot can prepare any dish, once it’s given instructions. There’s no chance of failure.”

  “The human element,” Bertram contended. “That is vital. Suppose some emergency should arise—”

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Fargo. “Emergencies in a kitchen! You’ll have to admit you’re wrong.”

  “I will not work with robots!” the chef snapped. “That is final! If you introduce those horrible things into my kitchens, I go!”

  “Give me one sound reason—” Bertram’s eyes gleamed.

  “The robot has prepared Dunah—so. No doubt it can also boil water and scramble eggs. Probably it can toast bread. But one thing it cannot do.”

  “What?”

  “It cannot prepare a Callistan Royal Dinner!”

  Fargo’s lips thinned. “That so?”

  BERTRAM threw back his silver mane.

  “That is so! Only I can cook and season a Royal Dinner. It took me years to learn how, and never have I been able to teach anyone else. It is the most complicated meal in the Solar System.”

  “Uh-huh,” the manager said. “You’re quite sure of that?”

  Bertram felt a momentary twinge of uneasiness, but suppressed it valiantly. “I would stake my reputation on it.”

  “We’ve got the chemical analyses of that dinner—temperature, reactions, all the rest,” Fargo said. “I’ll bet my robot can prepare a Royal as well as you can, once I give him the information.”

  “Why do you say such foolish things?” Bertram asked plaintively. “Could a robot compose Parsifal? Or Tannhauser? You are making yourself ridiculous.”

  Fargo’s grin broadened.

  “Okay. We’ll try it. The Callistan ambassadors are here tonight for the Space Convention, and they’ve ordered a Royal. There are six of them. Suppose you whip up a Royal for three, and the robot can handle the other three. We’ll see how they react.”

  “No! Your robot would serve hash, and I would be blamed.”

  “I’ll explain the truth, later. Or are you afraid?”

  “No,” Bertram lied. “As you like. Is Bertram of Sky City to fear a robot?”

  “The Callistans have very keen palates. They’ll be able to tell if the robot fails. If it fails—” Fargo chuckled, “I’ll get rid of my automatic chef, and that’s the end of it. If you lose, Bertram, you stay on here in charge of the robots. Is it a deal?”

  “I—yes! A deal, if you like. We shall soon see whether cooking is an art or a matter of chemical analysis.”

  Bertram didn’t notice Fargo’s out-thrust hand. He whirled and went striding out, with one parting vitriolic glare at the impassive robot. The manager laughed softly to himself.

  Oh, it was unfair! Bertram’s mild blue eyes glistened. He was remembering the days when he went exploring through the worlds of the system, searching for exotic recipes, the Ionian way of blending herbs and steeping them in kala-juice, the scarcely-known rosbif tree of South Venus, the kroo-wood method of smoking meats in the fern forests of Ganymede . . .

  Never had he failed. Very often he had risked his life to search out those strange recipes; but now he was Bertram of Sky City. The clientele knew, loved, and trusted him. When a Ganymedean ordered sagara plant well done, he got just that, with the highly-spiced flavoring sauce the vegetable required. A robot would probably sprinkle sagara with cayenne. And Bertram would be blamed—Bertram!

  “I will not do it!” the huge chef muttered, his mouth working. “Every man must have some ideal—some raison d’etre. For me it has been food. Is it so ignoble to follow that career? At least I have always tried for perfection. I have never tried to cheat my clientele. And now a robot!”

  MISERABLE, Bertram took an elevator to the Planet Caverns far below the surface. He needed reassurance, and these great caves he had designed and supervised himself. In every respect they duplicated the conditions of the various worlds—so that fresh sagara could be plucked an hour before dinner, as was right, instead of being frozen and shipped in by space transport from Ganymede. Venus, Mars, Callisto, all the planets were represented, with smaller caverns for unusual temperature and climate conditions. One icy vault grew the luminous, appetizing moss that exists only at the poles of Mars. Another held a steaming, gigantic tank filled with the water denizens of equatorial Venus.

  It was an Earth cavern where Bertram wandered, large and carefully designed, with a clean, tangy freshness to the atmosphere and an odor of sage palpable. The big chef strode through fields of artichokes and grape vines, pausing as he noticed a lean figure before him. The man was short, wiry, and had intensely blue-black hair. At Bertram’s hail he turned, revealing a pleasant space-tanned Irish face.

  “Barr Gallegher!” the chef exclaimed. “I’m glad to see you again!”

  “Hello, Bertram,” Gallegher smiled. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Yes, it has. You wanted to taste my filet mignon again, eh? Or my New England boiled dinner?”

  “I’m hoping to,” Gallegher said, strolling on with the other. “But that isn’t why I’m here.”

  “Business?”

  “Might call it so.” Gallegher was a Secret Service man, from Earth. “It’s this Space Convention business. You haven’t noticed anything unusual around here lately, have you?”

  “I have noticed robots!” Bertram could no longer contain himself. He burst out in a passionate diatribe against Fargo, while Gallagher listened sympathetically.

  “That is tough,” he nodded. “Seems plenty unfair to you.”

  “Ah, Fargo is a fool, but he believes he is right. I must show him that he isn’t. And if I fail, I—” Bertram bit his lips. “You see, Barr, I have built all this myself. Perhaps you cannot understand. But—look!” His outthrust hand showed the agricultural cavern. “Conditions of Earth exactly duplicated. Hundreds of species of plants. Even plants a chef seldom uses. I experiment, you see—sometimes I find herbs that add flavor to a sauce. That, for example, is ordinary clover. I use it in a certain Venusian dish. That is mandrake—I use that also.

  “That is St. John’s wort; next to it is a bed of nasturiums, for the leaves; those are dandelions. I know them all. I have analyzed all of them. I have devoted my life to this, and now Fargo says a robot can cook as well as Bertram of Sky City.”

  “Nobody can,” Gallegher said emphatically.

  The chef smiled, rather crookedly.

  “You see, it is not merely cooking. When I use tchela moss, I know exactly what it does, where it comes from, and that if a Venusian eats it, he dies. So many products of one world are poison on another. Potatoes will spoil in an Ionian atmosphere. And the blue fruits of Io are deadly in oxygen. No robot could possi
bly remember all that. There would be mistakes, and my clientele—who trust me—would be poisoned. And now this Callistan Royal dinner—”

  THE detective lifted his eyebrows. “Eh?”

  Bertram explained. Gallegher grunted.

  “The ambassadors from Callisto, eh? That’s why I’m here. I’m in trouble too, Bertram.”

  “Oh, I am sorry. What is wrong?”

  “Well—” Gallegher sat down on a rustic bench and rubbed his eyes wearily.

  “Uh! Been awake for a couple of days now, living on caffeine citrate and capsules. You know what this Space Convention is about?”

  “Great men come to Sky City and I feed them. That is all I know.”

  The detective laughed.

  “Great men is right! The big shots from all the planets are here. Remember the space war of twenty years ago? Ever since then, the worlds have been reorganizing. Only lately things have been shaping up so the governments could think about an alliance. The suspicion has gone now. Somebody proposed a mutually protective space organization, and the times were just ripe for it.

  “It’ll have tremendous advantages. There’ll be one Solar Space Patrol, instead of a dozen; tariffs and embargoes will vanish; the authorities can stop watching each other and get to work building—wiping out crime, working toward a Utopia. The scientists are behind this. They want a gigantic science institute, with all the worlds participating. The Martian red steel process will be released to the public, Same goes for everything. Working together, the planets will form an unbreakable alliance that’ll mean an advance of a thousand years in civilization.”

  “I am glad,” Bertram said. “Also, I will be able to find out the formula for that oil the Venusian Kan-cult uses. That is one thing I never did learn. But if all barriers are down, they can scarcely refuse to tell me.”

  “Yeah,” Gallegher said absently. “Only—there may be trouble. That’s why I’m down here. I’ve been snooping through Sky City, and there are a hundred other operatives keeping an eye on things. Trouble’s brewing.”

  “Trouble?”

  For answer Gallegher showed a tridimensional snapshot. Blurred, as though taken hastily, it nevertheless was clear enough to show four Callistans seated around a table, hunched, bat-winged, and with high, plated foreheads. On the lap of one was a Tardak, the Callistan equivalent of a dog. It somewhat resembled a Pekingese, with viciously sharp teeth, immense jaws, and bulging eyes. It was no larger than a Peke, but far more dangerous; and, since the photo was in color, it was easy to see that its shaggy fur was glossy white.