McClendon's Syndrome (v1.1)

by Robert Frezza

  “Still sick as a dog, but she’ll be okay. She didn’t have any luck trying to piece together who set up the smuggling operation. She’s plugging away, but it looks like this one will take a while to crack.”

  “Good. I mean, about her being okay. I’ve been thinking, it doesn’t make much sense to go look for lattices because whoever ends up with the Scupper is probably not going to want to fix her up.”

  “Probably not,” Piper agreed, a little hastily. “Have you thought about what you’re going to do?”

  “No, but I can’t afford to stay here. Can you think of a place?”

  “There are cheaper places down the street. Why don’t you check with Witherspoon—he found an apartment, and he might want a roommate.”

  As we walked out to her car, I told her, “I ran into Ambassador Beaver last night.”

  She smiled. “Did you ask him all about Bucky Beaver?”

  “Well, yeah. I just didn’t understand the answer.”

  “Ken, Rodents love Terran literature, but they don’t understand the sex—not that humans do either. Bucky Beaver is very big. I understand they’ve printed nine editions of the collected works plus several compendiums. On the finer points, there are several competing schools of scholars.”

  I gazed heavenward. “Swell.”

  “Don’t write them off as feebleminded,” she cautioned as we got in and pulled away from the curb. “I’ve talked to quite a few of them. Once you get past the stuffiness, every last one of them has a quirky sense of humour buried someplace. They surprise you.”

  “Even Ambassador Beaver?”

  She waved a finger that wasn’t gripping the steering wheel. “Just keep an open mind, Ken.”

  “Are you suggesting the Bucky Beaver cult is a planetwide joke?”

  “Or worse. Nobody who’s studied the Rodents is really sure.”

  “How are they set up politically?” I asked, trying to digest this.

  “Well, it’s difficult to describe. Think of it as feudal anarchy. It’s actually kind of a touching story of how local boy makes good with unwitting help from pink, yellow, and brown aliens. The first contact ship ran into Beaver’s grandfather. Most of the planet was semi-industrial then, and he was running one of the less primitive societies as its semihereditary caudillo.”

  “Is this the usual story?” I asked. The Contact/Survey Corps are the Navy’s missionaries. On average, the Contact boys are noble, kindhearted, and puppy-dog eager to uplift their fellow beings—the kind of people you’d like to get into a poker game. Intelligent beings aren’t that common in the universe, but a few of the more sophisticated races have played absolute hell with the Contact boys.

  “The usual,” Piper explained. “Grandfather figured out how to talk to the Contact boys long before they figured out how to speak Rodent and sold them the usual bill of goods.”

  “What did they give him? Guns?”

  “Not guns. Not even the Contact boys are that stupid. Besides, it’s illegal. They did give him industrial technology that they thought he had, and what they thought was a small Confederation developmental loan. To prime the pump, so to speak. Grandfather turned out to be the original John D. Rockefeller in a furry suit, and the developmental loan he negotiated was approximately equal to the Gross National Product of any two of his competitors. The rest is history. He didn’t conquer the planet so much as buy it. Politically, the place is still pretty chaotic, but economically the planet is locked up. The old boy’s son—Beaver’s father—has a dozen marriage alliances and three digits in every pie that has a crust and berries.”

  “What does Bucky think of his father?”

  “Oh, he’s all right. Dr. Beaver doesn’t talk about him much. He managed to outlive all his siblings and most of his descendants, which means he’s not an idiot, although he’s still an industrial pirate at heart. Fortunately, he’s not as sharp as Bucky’s grandfather was, otherwise he’d probably own Earth by now. He’s getting pretty old, though, and the family faction fights are ferocious. Dr. Beaver is the pacifist in the family, and I understand he got shipped out here to keep him out of the line of fire. Here we are—why don’t you stow your duffel bag in the trunk?” Piper slid the vehicle into a parking space.

  Catarina was waiting for us, dressed in black silk from head to foot to protect herself from sunburn. “Come on in, Ken. We were just about to auction off the Scupper in Commander Hiro’s office.”

  “So soon?” I asked.

  “Yeoman Bunker did the public announcements yesterday while we were still in orbit. She thought it would save time.”

  “I see.”

  There were about a dozen people seated in Hiro’s office. The auctioneer was a cadaverous guy in a black suit, and he was already beginning to announce the rules of the auction as we walked in.

  “Ladies, gentlemen, and other beings, for a valid auction, there must be three registered bidders and three responsive bids. The bidding will commence at four thousand, this sum to cover port fees, court costs, and auction fees against the vessel. Subsequent bids must be in multiples of five hundred. The person whose bid is highest must present cash or a certified bank check amounting to not less than twenty-five percent of his or her bid at the conclusion of the auction, and must pay the remainder in cash or by means of a certified bank check within twenty-four hours. The successful bidder will acquire complete and clear title to the vessel and its present cargo, subject to the settlement of four complete crew liens and one partial crew lien outstanding.”

  One of those crew liens was mine. I hoped for Ironsides’s sake that they gave him the death penalty—there were banks on three worlds holding what was now unsecured paper, and they were going to be very upset.

  The auctioneer continued. “The cost is one hundred to register as a bidder, and ten to reserve a place as a spectator, the sums collected to go to the Navy Welfare Fund. I would ask all persons who have not already registered or secured a place to leave at this time.”

  I turned to Catarina. “I guess we’ve got to go.”

  She laid a gloved hand on my arm. “No, I already signed you and Beam up. You ought to stay and see the show.”

  “Well, okay. I guess I ought to see who my new owner is going to be.” I’d never seen a ship auctioned off, and I was interested in seeing who would bid. A small tear came to my eye. Watching them knock down the old bucket was like seeing them foreclose the mortgage on Grandma’s farm.

  “I shall begin the bidding.” The auctioneer took a deep breath and began a quick patter. “Four thousand, do I hear four thousand?”

  One little guy I didn’t recognise in a suit and a beard raised a finger.

  “I hear four thousand, do I hear four thousand five hundred, do I hear four thousand five hundred?”

  “Somebody might actually get a bargain out of this,” I whispered to Catarina. “The wheat in Number Three is worth about four tunes that much if somebody can figure out how to get it to market.”

  The auctioneer must have seen somebody signal because the next thing I heard was “I hear four thousand five hundred, do I hear five thousand, do I hear five?”

  Catarina made a fist with the arm nearest me and held it level with her stomach. She then slapped it firmly with her free hand, propelling the point of her elbow squarely into my short ribs and jarred me somewhat. I started.

  “That’s five thousand to the man in dark blue and pale green, registered bidder number three. That is five thousand going once.”

  Looking around, I saw the little guy who had opened the bidding sneaking out the door with his beard in his hand. I also noticed that I was the only person in the room wearing dark blue and pale green.

  “Going twice... And this auction concludes. The vessel and its cargo is sold to bidder three for the sum of five thousand. Please give your cash or certified check to the cashier. Thank you all.”

  The reward check was burning a hot little hole in my pocket.

  “Congratulations, Ken,” Piper said,
pumping my arm up and down.

  I reached down and pulled my reward check out of my pocket. “Listen, Beam...”

  Piper smiled. “It’s a Navy check, and this is a Navy auction.”

  Catarina was standing next to me, brushing open her veil, and I noticed Yeoman Bunker and moved in next to her. “I don’t know what to say,” I told them. What are you supposed to say when your friends set you up for your own good? I thought for a moment. “What’s a ship like the Scupper usually run, a couple or three hundred thousand?”

  Piper shrugged.

  “About that,” Catarina said.

  “So I got a real bargain. Weren’t there any other prospective bidders?”

  “Well,” Catarina said airily, “there were a couple of people who were interested, but we talked to them.”

  “Oh,” I said, “what did you tell them?”

  “We pointed out a few obvious problems, the crew liens that had to be satisfied, the holes in the hull, the fact that a new lattice will have to be freighted in,” Catarina explained. She looked at me. “Beam and I did some more calling around to try and locate one last night.”

  “Not to mention the fact that the ship needed a new computer and has operated at a loss for the last three years,” I said agreeably. “So I now own a wrecked ship with no prospect of repairing her?”

  “Free and clear,” Piper chipped in. “More or less.”

  “Well, I suppose I could always try and sell her for scrap if all else fails,” I said lightly. A little voice inside me was saying, You’d rather cut off your left arm at the navel. “I don’t suppose anyone has any ideas on where I’m going to find the cash to fix her up?” Somewhere in my stomach was that feeling you get when your friends have given you a helpful shove off the diving board and you’re wondering if there’s water in the pool.

  “Oh, something will turn up,” Catarina said, winking at me. “Trust me.”

  As I say, there’s a certain style to the Regular Navy. “Well, we’ve got a couple of hours until Frido’s funeral. Let’s go celebrate.” I offered each of them an arm.

  “We really ought to stop by the Rodent embassy instead,” Catarina said. “Beam spoke with Cheeves. The mailship is due in tomorrow, and it wouldn’t hurt to make sure Bucky’s father views our little run-in with Adolf in the best possible light.”

  “Not a bad idea. How often does the mailship come through here?”

  “It makes a monthly circuit. It stops here, loops over to Dennison’s World, comes back, and then continues on to either Brasilia Nuevo or Esperanza, depending on the schedule,” Piper explained. “It’s the Foxtrot Echo 7—’Fast Eddie.’ “

  I nodded. “I know Fast Eddie. We hit a lot of the same planets.”

  I opened the door for Catarina, and she cursed softly as she stepped out into the sunshine.

  “I’ll polarise the windows,” Piper offered as we climbed into the vehicle.

  “Thanks, Beam, I appreciate that,” Catarina replied.

  “How did you end up with McLendon’s, anyway?” Beam asked.

  “I’ll tell you later. Ken’s not old enough to hear this story.”

  “Maybe when I’m ninety,” I suggested.

  “That sounds about right,” Catarina said.

  At the embassy, Cheeves was waiting for us at the gate with—so help me—a parasol. “I thought that this might be most appropriate for the lady,” he explained.

  I gave him a look, but Catarina took it in stride. Inside, the !Plixxi* embassy was tastefully furnished, mostly with Early American beanbag stuff.

  “His Rotundity,” Cheeves said deferentially as he led us into the drawing room.

  “Ah, friend Ken, friend Catarina, friend Beam, welcome.” Dr. Beaver stood up from behind a knee-high table and solemnly shook each of our hands. “Cheeves and I were just discussing the implications of what has transpired.”

  “Refreshments for the ladies and gentlemen?” Cheeves inquired.

  “Honey and water is fine for us all,” Catarina said.

  With a nod of approval, Cheeves disappeared.

  “Where is the rest of the staff?” I asked.

  “Actually, Cheeves and I are here by ourselves for the time being,” Beaver said jovially. “The First and Second Secretaries fought the most ridiculous duel a few weeks ago—it was entirely against my precepts and the wisdom of Bucky, as I told the survivor before I put him on a ship and sent him back to Papa. And we had to get rid of the last set of servants—I don’t mind them skulking about searching for things that my demi-brothers can use against me, but I insist that they refold clothes neatly when they paw through them. It will probably be another month or two before we can get replacements. Until then, Cheeves and I will just have to soldier on as best we can.”

  Cheeves appeared among us a moment later with large and very square glasses of amber liquid.

  I took mine gingerly. The technique seemed to be to cup the glass in both hands and stick your nose in.

  “Anyway,” Beaver said, motioning Cheeves to pull up a beanbag and join us, “Cheeves is absolutely insistent that he go back on the mailship and give a personal account of what transpired with poor Adolf’s ship. He seems to think that if he does not, my other demi-brothers might try to make Papa think that there was something improper about it. Can you imagine?”

  “Well, it seems like a very good idea for Cheeves to go back,” Piper said carefully. “Just to make sure there are no misunderstandings.”

  “Oh. Well.” Beaver seemed nonplussed. “Papa was always rather sweet on poor Adolf and tended to overlook his less obvious shortcomings. Still, his guilt in the matter seems so apparent that I thought a simple report would explain things perfectly.” He twitched his whiskers, which was apparently the Rodent equivalent of a wink. “We had such fun composing it. It was so much more interesting than the usual dry economic stuff we usually have to deal with.”

  “Still, I think it would be much nicer if your father got a personal account rather than just a dry report,” Catarina said. “I’m sure it would comfort him in his grief.”

  “But, dash it all, it would be such an inconvenience not to have Cheeves here,” Beaver said diffidently.

  “If I may insist, sir, the delicate political situation at home requires my presence,” Cheeves remonstrated. “I feel that it would be most beneficial if I were to personally bring the details of Prince Adolf’s unfortunate demise to your dread and august father’s attention.”

  “Oh, nonsense, Cheeves! We need to work out all the details first. You know there’s nothing Papa hates more than loose ends. We still don’t know who masterminded the drug operation. We’ll send Papa a full report, and you can catch next month’s mailship and explain everything to him. I quite don’t know how I should manage without you here.”

  “Are you quite sure, sir?”

  “Quite sure, Cheeves. I would be utterly lost here without you,” Beaver said firmly.

  “Very good, sir,” Cheeves said in a squeaky but distinctly glacial tone of voice.

  “I’ve been wondering, could Adolf have run the smuggling operation?” I blurted out.

  Beaver stroked the ends of his whiskers. “Well, I had a very high regard for my dear, departed demi-brother, but his mental capacity was not... well... oh, you tell them, Cheeves!”

  “What Dr. Beaver is trying to say is that there is a very low probability that Prince Adolf is the criminal mastermind you are seeking,” Cheeves translated with unruffled composure. “He exhibited difficulty operating complicated modern devices such as doorknobs.”

  “A birdbrain like Davie Lloyd?” I asked.

  Cheeves ruminated over this. “Perhaps a very small bird, sir.”

  “We’ve considered that hypothesis and discarded it, Ken,” Catarina said. “Unfortunately, the investigation is still hung out to dry, with no real leads and no clues.” She gave me her “don’t mess with me” smile and added, “Clues-pinned.”

  Beaver appeared to be lost in thoug
ht. “A mystery, a true mystery. What was it that Bucky said about mysteries? ‘They hone the keen edge of one’s intellect.’ “

  “I believe he was referring to the New York Times crossword puzzle, sir,” Cheeves interjected.

  “No matter. Friend Ken, I understand that you are helping friend Catarina with the investigation. I hope that both of you are able to visit my planet to pursue your inquiries. I think that it would be perfectly splendid if you could be my guests!”

  “Dr. Beaver, hypothetically, in case your father takes this wrong, what’s the penalty for helping blow away the flagship of your merchant navy and sending Prince Adolf to his just rewards?” I asked warily.

  “Oh, ritual castration, I’m sure, but I hardly think it will come to that.”

  “Maybe a visit would be a good idea in about five or ten years,” I said, tugging hard on my belt loops. “I hesitate to ask, but are you absolutely sure that it wouldn’t be a good idea to send Cheeves? Uh, what would Bucky say? Cheeves, can you help me out?”

  “ ‘Moral fortitude sometimes requires great sacrifice,’ “ Cheeves interjected smoothly.

  “Oh, drat it!” Beaver stroked his whiskers again. “It’s so tiresome to have to waste Cheeves’s talents on political sorts of things, and I would miss him unbearably.” He slapped what could have been his knee. “It’s so hard to make decisions like this. I understand there’s a new miniseries coming on, ‘Jude of the D’Ubervilles.’ “

  “I could arrange for carry-out popcorn, sir.”

  “It’s not the same, Cheeves,” Beaver said stiffly.

  Cheeves reached into a waistcoat pocket for his ace in the hole. “Sir, I should mention that friend Ken has been earnestly searching for lattices for his vessel. He is, as I understand it, quite bereft without them. I believe that I would be able to locate some if you would allow me to return. I have even taken the liberty of preparing a contract for him to sign.”

  “Cheeves, why didn’t you mention this earlier?” Bucky scolded. “Politics is one thing, but a gesture of friendship is quite another. Of course, you shall go without delay!”

  “Very good, sir,” Cheeves said in a distinctly warmer tone of voice. “I shall extend your profound condolences to help your father bear up.”