“Horses? Did you say horses?” The General pawed the ground. His eyes flashed fire. “CAVALRY!” he thundered. “We must have CAVALRY!”
No time was wasted. Within the hour, Lieutenant-General Powhattan Fairfax Pollard, the only senior cavalry officer who knew anything about gnurrs, was promoted to the rank of General of the Armies, and given supreme command. Major Hanson became a brigadier, a change of status which left him slightly dazed. And Sergeant Colliver (reflecting ruefully that he was now making more than enough to marry on) received his warrant.
General Pollard took immediate and decisive action. The entire Air Force budget for the year was commandeered. Anything even remotely resembling a horse, saddle, bridle, or bale of hay was shipped westward in requisitioned trains and trucks. Former cavalry officers and non-com’s, ordered to instant duty regardless of age and wear-and-tear, were flown by disgruntled pilots to assembly points in Oregon, Nevada, and Arizona. Anybody and everybody who had ever so much as seen a horse was drafted into service. Mexico sent over several regiments on a lend-lease basis.
The Press had a field day. NUDE HOLLYWOOD STARS FIGHT GNURRS! headlined many a full front page of photographs. Life devoted a special issue to General of the Armies Pollard, Jeb Stuart, Marshal Ney, Belisarius, the Charge of the Light Brigade at Balaklava, and AR 50-45, School of the Soldier Mounted Without Arms. The Journal-American reported, on reliable authority, that the ghost of General Custer had been observed entering the Officer’s Club at Fort Riley, Kansas.
On the sixth day, General Pollard had ready in the field the largest cavalry force in all recorded history. Its discipline and appearance left much to be desired. Its horsemanship was, to say the very least, uneven. Still, its morale was high, and—
“Never again,” declared the General to correspondents who interviewed him at his headquarters in Phoenix, “must we let politicians and long-haired theorists persuade us to abandon the time-tried principles of war, and trust our national destiny to—to gadgets.”
Drawing his sabre, the General indicated his operations map. “Our strategy is simple,” he announced. “The gnurr forces have by-passed the Mohave Desert in the south, and are invading Arizona. In Nevada, they have concentrated against Reno and Virginia City. Their main offensive, however, appears to be aimed at the Oregon border. As you know, I have more than two million mounted men at my disposal—some three hundred divisions. In one hour, they will move forward. We will force the gnurrs to retreat in three main groups—in the south, in the center, in the north. Then, when the terrain they hold has been sufficiently restricted, Papa—er, that is, Mister—Schimmelhorn will play his instrument over mobile public address systems.”
With that, the General indicated that the interview was at an end, and, mounting a splendid bay gelding presented to him by the citizens of Louisville, rode off to emplane for the theatre of operations.
Needless to say, his conduct of the War Against the Gnurrs showed the highest degree of initiative and energy, and a perfect grasp of the immutable principles of strategy and tactics. Even though certain envious elements in the Pentagon afterwards referred to the campaign as “Polly’s Round-up,” the fact remained that he was able to achieve total victory in five weeks—months before Bobovia even thought of promising its Five Year Plan for retrousering its population. Inexorably, the terror-stricken gnurrs were driven back. Their queasy creaking could be heard for miles. At night, their shimmering lighted up the sky. In the south, where their deployment had been confined by deserts, three tootlings in reverse sufficed to bring about their downfall. In the center, where the action was heavier than anticipated, seventeen were needed. In the north, a dozen were required to do the trick. In each instance, the sound was carried over an area of several hundred square miles by huge loudspeaker units mounted in escort wagons or carried in pack. Innumerable cases of personal heroism were recorded—and Jerry Colliver, after having four pairs of breeches shot out from under him, was personally commissioned in the field by General Pollard.
Naturally, a few gnurrs made their escape—but the felines of the state, who had been mewing with frustration, made short work of them. As for the numerous gay instances of indiscipline which occurred as the victorious troops passed through the quite literally denuded towns, these were soon forgiven and forgotten by the joyous populace.
Secretly, to avoid the rough enthusiasm of admiring throngs, General Pollard and Papa Schimmelhorn flew back to Washington—and three full regiments with drawn sabres were needed to clear a way for them. Finally, though, they reached the Pentagon. They walked toward the General’s office arm in arm, and at the door they paused.
“Papa,” said General Pollard, pointing at the gnurr-pfeife with awe, “we have made History! And, by God, we’ll make more of it!”
“Ja!” said Papa Schimmelhorn, with an enormous wink. “But tonight, soldier boy, ve vill make vhoopee! I haff a date vith Katie. For you she has a girl friend.”
General Pollard hesitated. “Wouldn’t it—wouldn’t it be bad for—er—discipline?”
“Don’dt vorry, soldier boy! Ve don’dt tell anybody!” laughed Papa Schimmelhorn—and threw the door open.
There stood the General’s desk. There, at its side, stood Brigadier-General Hanson, looking worried. Against one wall stood Lieutenant Jerry Colliver, smirking loathsomely, with a possessive arm around Katie Hooper’s waist. And in the General’s chair sat a very stiff old lady, in a very stiff black dress, tapping a very stiff umbrella on the blotting pad.
As soon as she saw Papa Schimmelhorn, she stopped tapping and pointed the umbrella at him.
“So!” she hissed. “You think you get avay? To spoil Cousin Anton’s beaudtiful bassoon, and play vith mices, and passes at female soldier-girls to make?”
She turned to Katie Hooper, and they exchanged a feminine glance of triumph and understanding. “Iss lucky that you phone, so I find out,” she said. “You are nice girl. You can see under the sheep’s clothings.”
She rose. As Katie blushed, she strode across the room, and grabbed the gnurr-pfeife from Papa Schimmelhorn. Before anyone could stop her, she stripped it of its reed—and crushed the L-shaped crystal underfoot. “Now,” she exclaimed, “iss no more gnurrs and people-vithout-trousers-monkeyshines!”
While General Pollard stared in blank amazement and Jerry Colliver snickered gloatingly, she took poor Papa Schimmelhorn firmly by the ear. “So ve go home!” she ordered, steering him for the door. “Vere iss no soldier-girls, and the house needs painting!”
Looking crestfallen, Papa Schimmelhorn went without resistance. “Gootbye!” he called unhappily. “I must go home vith Mama.”
But as he passed by General Pollard, he winked his usual wink. “Don’dt vorry, soldier boy!” he whispered. “I get avay again—I am a chenius!”
LITTLE ANTON
The day before Little Anton was due to arrive in the United States the Board of Directors of the Luedesing Time and Instrument Corporation of New Haven met in special session to determine the fate of his great-uncle, Papa Schimmelhorn.
Through gold-rimmed spectacles, old Heinrich Luedesing glared at his son Woodrow, at the Board, and at Captain Perseus Otter, U.S.N. “I haff said vun thousand times,” he puffed, “und now I say again—nefer vill I fire Papa Schimmelhorn. He iss a chenius!”
“Now now, Dad,” soothed Woodrow Luedesing, forcing his features into their second-best Dale Carnegie smile, “it’s just that things have changed. Remember, we aren’t simply the old Luedesing cuckoo clock factory any more. We’ve converted. We’ve retooled. New capital has come into the firm. We have a contract—the contract—to make those super-secret Wilen scanners for the Navy. It’s stuff that takes high-powered scientific knowhow. It can’t be handled by a cuckoo clock technology.”
Obstinately, old Heinrich shook his head. “Well, Dad.” The smile, slipping out of gear, was instant
ly replaced by proper filial sympathy and sorrow. We didn’t want to have to force the issue. But…” Woodrow shrugged, “…you leave us no alternative. After the Captain gives us the Navy point of view, we’ll have to call a vote.”
Captain Perseus Otter rose, jutting sharply forward as he did so. This accentuated his amazing likeness to Lord Nelson—or rather to a figurehead of Nelson carved by some sculptor of strongly anti-British tendencies. It was an unfortunate singularity, cruelly noticed by a long succession of superior officers and by all the ladies who might have married him. It had turned him into a bitter man.
Captain Otter fixed old Heinrich with the sort of gaze usually reserved for derelicts which refuse to sink. “Mr. Luedesing,” he snapped, “eight weeks ago, I approved your promotion of this man Schimmelhorn from foreman to superintendent of production. In my opinion, he was not qualified for the position. He is more than eighty years of age. He left school at eleven. His IQ isn’t much higher than a high-grade moron’s. His moral character is reprehensible. However, I deferred to your judgment. Here, sir, are the results.”
He removed two gadgets from his brief case. “As you are aware, the critical element in the Wilen scanner—the part which enables us to detect every ship and aircraft, friend or foe, within a thousand miles—is Assembly M. It is so secret that none of us knows what it contains, so secret that it must be manufactured entirely by sealed automatic mechanisms. These machines were installed by Schimmelhorn. He alone has been told how they function. All we know,” the Captain’s voice quivered with righteous wrath, “is that Assembly M is supposed to come out in one piece instead of two—and that there should be no clockwork in it!”
The table buzzed. The gadgets passed from hand to hand—a seamless silver ovoid with six slender porcelain legs, and a toadstool-shaped vacuum tube full of odd bric-a-brac, in the center of which several brass gears were clearly visible.
“I shall summarize,” declared Captain Otter. “One, the gears do not belong within the tube. Two, the tube belongs inside the unit, where it is now impossible to put it. Three, we shall have to bring Wilen himself down from M.I.T. to remedy the situation. And four—” As though an unattired mermaid had cut across his bows, he blushed, “—since Thursday, Mr. Luedesing, there have been twenty-eight complaints from female employees. Schimmelhorn is continually molesting them.”
“Papa Schimmelhorn does nodt molest vomen,” fumed old Heinrich. “He chust makes passes.”
Captain Otter folded his arms. “I shall state the Navy’s attitude simply and directly. Mr. Luedesing, Schimmelhorn must go!”
Immediately afterward, by a vote of eight to one, the members of the Board decided to retire Papa Schimmelhorn, complete with gold watch, pension, and signed testimonial. Then, at Woodrow Luedesing’s suggestion, they sent for him to tell him the good news.
* * * *
Papa Schimmelhorn was twice as big as Heinrich Luedesing. He was attired gloriously in hound ’s-tooth-check trousers, green plaid sports coat, and devastating orange shirt—and on his ruddy cheek, midway between his left eyebrow and his huge white beard, there was a smear of lipstick.
He seated himself casually on a corner of the table, and put an arm around old Heinrich’s shoulders. “Alvays, Heinrich, vith such nincompoops you shpend your time. Iss bedter you come vith Papa Schimmelhorn, to see dot new blonde in der shipping office. I tell you—” he pointed at the Captain and favored the Directors with an enormous wink, “—she would make efen dot sailor come to life!”
Captain Perseus Otter fizzed slightly, like something starting to go off. And Woodrow Luedesing, trying to assume a friendly but executive expression, stepped into the breach.
“We’ve been discussing you, Mr. Schimmelhorn,” he purred. “We have been concerned about you—your advanced age, the strain of adjusting yourself to the swift pace of modern industry, the impact of new problems too complex for your simple skills. It is sad but true that sooner or later the torch of progress must be passed on by the failing hands of those who have so bravely carried it. The Luedesing Time and Instrument Corporation, Mr. Schimmelhorn, wants your few remaining years to be happy ones. As General Manager, I—”
There was a cheerful bellow from Papa Schimmelhorn. “Heinrich, such nonsense Voodrow talks! I tell you vot he needs,” he raised a ham-like, and by no means failing, hand, “vun goot lesson on der backside. Dot iss enough!”
Woodrow Luedesing, paling slightly, scurried to shelter in Captain Otter’s lee. Several directors quickly pushed chairs between themselves and Papa Schimmelhorn.
“Nein, Papa, nein.” A tear splashed on old Heinrich’s thick mustache. “It iss now too late. You do nodt vork here any more! You haff been retired, vith a pension, und a gold vatch, und maybe a diploma.”
“At my recommendation,” put in Captain Perseus Otter loftily.
“Ach, zo?” Papa Schimmelhorn didn’t seem the least bit stricken. “Heinrich, now ve understand. It iss because of Voodrow, who iss ashamed of cuckoo clocks. It iss alzo—” he looked the Captain up and down, “—because of him. He iss chealous because he cannodt get a girl like oder sailors!”
Two of the directors snickered, and Captain Otter began to fizz again. But old Heinrich was not comforted.
“I haff told them, Papa, that vithoudt you der vorks break down. I haff told them how you haff been a chanitor at der Geneva Institute of der Higher Physics, vhere you listen to der Herr Professors und become a chenius. But der Captain says der dingus iss all wrong…”
Chuckling, Papa Schimmelhorn turned his back on the directors. “You listen, Heinrich. I haff vun improfement made. From these dunderheads I keep it zecret. But, at der Institute, three veeks I miss because I meet a vidow vith red hair, zo,” he tapped his skull. “Something iss nodt in here, und der inzide of der dingus iss shtill oudt. Don’dt vorry, Heinrich, I vill fix. I vish mein old friend Albert, in New Chersey, vas alife. He vas a shmart boy in Schvitzerland—almost, like me, a chenius. Right after I bring Lidtle Anton I vill go to Princeton vhere maybe his friends can help.”
From his pocket he took a tinted photograph, showing a plump, slightly cross-eyed infant peering knowingly at a buxom nurse. “Here iss Lidtle Anton,” he exclaimed proudly. “Eighteen pounds vhen he vas born! Und now they are exhorting him from Schvitzerland to me and Mama, so he grows up to be a fine man, und nodt like Voodrow.”
He rose, bright eyes twinkling at the Board. “Don’dt you be angry vith them, Heinrich. Soon they make a big mess—und then they beg me to come back, und everything iss fixed. Und then,” he slapped his mighty chest, “oh, ho-ho-ho! Maybe, if he is goot, I show dot sailor how to catch a girl!”
* * * *
When Papa Schimmelhorn arrived at Immigration and asked for little Anton Fledermaus, the authorities concerned immediately abandoned a boatload of assorted immigrants to expedite his mission personally.
He noticed nothing unusual about this. Waiting, he flirted with a dark girl from Marrakech and congratulated himself on escaping beyond the reach of Mama Schimmelhorn’s steely eye and stiff black umbrella.
Largely on the strength of Little Anton’s photograph, he had equipped himself with a mechanical turtle, a gaudy lollipop, and a work involving a character named Willie Wabbit. Therefore he paid no heed when he saw two uniformed attendants gingerly urging forward an overgrown cherub who had suddenly erupted into the most revolting stage of adolescence. This youth wore knickers and a jacket three sizes too tight for him, and carried no luggage except a toothbrush in his breast pocket. The attendants led him up to Papa Schimmelhorn, blurted, “He’s all yours,” and hastily withdrew.
Taking off his cap respectfully, the youth addressed Papa Schimmelhorn as “dear great-uncle.” Then, in a voice alternating between a tortured treble and a bullfrog bass, he made a little speech in German, conveying the best wishes of numerous relatives and promising th
at he would be a good boy and do what he was told.
“Lidtle Anton!” Papa Schimmelhorn released the girl from Marrakech. He embraced the youth exuberantly. He held him at arm’s length for a pleased inspection. “Lidtle Anton, how you grow!”
Little Anton retreated out of reach. “Boy-oh-boy!” he said. “Am I glad that’s over.”
“But—but you shpeak English?”
“Natch,” growled Little Anton. “I see the gangster pitchers. That Dutch stuff I gave you was for effect.”
“Oh, ho-ho-ho! To think I bring a lollipop und a toy turtle!” Papa Schimmelhorn was convulsed. “Der goot choke iss on me!”
Little Anton peered at the girl. For a moment, his eyes crossed. “Pop,” he snickered, “it sure woulda been if I hadn’t come along. Well, my stuff’s due later—so kiss her goodbye and let’s take in a good old U.S. porn flick.”
These evidences of precocity delighted Papa Schimmelhorn. He pinched Miss Marrakech, who simpered prettily in Arabic. He took Little Anton fondly by the arm.
“Und now,” he said, as they departed, “ve go to Princeton, in New Chersey, vhere there are shmart people who knew my old friend Albert Einshtein. Dot must come first, before efen der mofie show. Und on der vay I tell you all aboudt America—”
At once, he told the story of Cheorge Vashington und der cherry tree—and this led him, naturally, into the subject of his own career. By the time they reached Penn Station—where they paused to reclaim a worn carpetbag and a large shoe box from the checkroom—Little Anton had been made acquainted with the private lives of several festive ladies of Berne, New Haven, and points in between. By the time they reached Jersey, he had been briefed on the necessity for a united male front against Mama Schimmelhorn’s domestic tyranny. And, before their train had been ten minutes under way, he had received technical information on the Wilen scanner, the bare, uncensored thought of which would have given Captain Perseus Otter a conniption fit.
The Second Reginald Bretnor Megapack Page 5