The Second Reginald Bretnor Megapack

by Reginald Bretnor

  He took it in his stride, confiding cheerfully in Little Anton late at night.

  “You listen, Lidtle Anton,” he would say. “vith dot girl Lulu iss something wrong upshtairs. Imachine! Always she talks of science, science, science.”

  “Eight hunerd and sixty, and eighty, and a hunerd—makes nine hunerd,” Little Anton would reply, counting his ill-gotten gains. “Not bad for three days’ work, huh, Pop?”

  “Maybe I pinch a lidtle—she says, ‘No, no. Tell me aboudt der relatifity.’ Maybe I bite her ear—she says, ‘Don’dt think of me. I chust adore der dingus in der box—vot iss der princible?’ Ach, Lidtle Anton, such a voman! It iss nodt natural.”

  Then, “Ya know what?” Little Anton would remark. “I betcha she’s a spy.”

  And so it went until the afternoon before Captain Otter’s painful experience with the admirals. Little Anton had sold out all his post cards except an assorted package of three dozen, and he was taking a well-earned rest in the lobby of the Lorelei. Deep in a chair behind a potted palm, eyes crossed luxuriously, he was examining the more interesting features of three plump young matrons gossiping some yards away.

  Suddenly, almost in his ear, he heard a voice. It was low and vibrant, and he recognized it instantly as Sonya Lou’s.

  “But, Pedro,” she was protesting, “I have been using Technique Forty-four, just as the Handbook says. Can I help it if the old fool won’t respond? All he wants to do is pinch and feel and take my clothes off. My God, I’m black and blue all over!”

  A man’s voice answered her. “You must be patient, Sonya. You must remember all about detente. It is the correct technique.”

  Very quietly, Little Anton swiveled round. Forgetting the young matrons, he peeked through palm leaves—and saw a pork-pie hat.

  The man’s voice hardened. “You know the penalty for failure, do you not?”

  “Of course I do.” She laughed nervously. “I’m not giving up—I have another date with him tonight. But—oh, why couldn’t it be that stupid boy of his instead? I could use Technique One—you know, in bed with nothing on—the shoe box in advance—and you could come and rescue me in time.” She groaned. “At least I wouldn’t have to wrestle for a week.”

  For a few moments Little Anton’s face assumed the pale cast of thought. Then, silently, he took the post cards in his hand and pushed them through the leaves and dropped them in Pedro’s coat pocket.

  Presently, when the little man left the hotel alone, he followed him.

  That night Sonya Lou did not keep her date with Papa Schimmelhorn. He waited twenty minutes, thirty, thirty-five. He paced the floor. Finally, calling her room and finding she was out, he shrugged his shoulders philosophically. “Iss plenty fishes in der sea,” he told himself. “Der cuckoo iss tatooed, zo it vill vait.”

  With that, he thought of a manicurist whom he had carefully cultivated as a spare, poured out half the bag of hard rock candy which he had purchased that afternoon as bait, and, humming cheerily, went off to her apartment.

  Her almost certain lack of avian adornment did not spoil his evening in the least—and he was in a mellow mood when he came back to the hotel at four A.M. He smiled tolerantly at Little Anton’s untouched bed, tumbled into his own, and slept the sleep of conscious virtue until noon.

  On awakening, his first thought was of Sonya Lou. Picking up the phone, he shouted. “Goot morning!” to the clerk. “Iss Papa Schimmelhorn. I vant to shpeak to Lulu!”

  “Miss Mikvik checked out two hours ago,” said the flat Nantucket voice clammily. “The management would like to know when you intend to follow her example.”

  “Vot?” The cuckoo on the abdomen—so beautiful!—took wing and disappeared, perhaps forever. “Vhere did she go?”

  “No forwarding address,” snapped the receiver. It clicked offensively, and all was still.

  Papa Schimmelhorn replaced it on the hook. He understood immediately that his magnetic personality had been too much for Lulu. It had aroused hidden passions of which she was afraid, and she had run away. Pityingly, he hoped the poor girl would never realize what she had missed.

  He sat up and stretched, intending to give Little Anton a useful pointer about Life and women—and found that Little Anton was still among the missing. “Ach, veil,” he thought, “boys vill be boys. He iss vith some high school girl—necking und petting like der lidtle dofes—zo cute!” Full of sentiment, he dressed, brushed out his beard, and went to lunch. En route, a headline caught his eye:

  RED DIPLOMAT ARRESTED HERE

  Obscene Pictures ‘Imperialistic Plot’ Declares Third World Attaché.

  He looked more closely:

  July 12: [ he read ] Pedro Gonzalez Popopoff, who identified himself as a ‘Central American’ cultural attaché, is currently in Atlantic City’s jail charged with possession of three dozen pornographic post cards described by arresting officers as “the hottest we’ve seen yet. Man, you couldn’t even sell them in an adult bookstore.” Popopoff was seized yesterday on a tip furnished by an unidentified teenager whom he had allegedly approached as a potential customer. He was…

  The news story went on to state that all Central American embassies had denied any knowledge of Gonzalez Popopoff: the Russians had stated flatly that he was an agent of the CIA; the Red Chinese had identified him positively as a lackey of Moscow revisionists, the Gang of Four, and a huge Taiwanese conglomerate.

  “Tsk-tsk, how inderesting,” said Papa Schimmelhorn, as he continued on his way, to spend the balance of the afternoon along the boardwalk and the beach, surrounded by a giggling coterie in negligible bikinis, each one of whom he graciously permitted to pull his whiskers, feel his gigantic biceps, and steal a kiss.

  It was not until after supper, when he was returning dreamily to the hotel, that other matters forced themselves upon his mind. A gray jeep whipped around a corner, slammed on its brakes, and skidded alongside. Its pair of shore patrolmen regarded him with some astonishment.

  “I reckon you’re Pappy Schimmelhorn?” one of them said.

  “Der vun und only, Chunior—dot’s me!”

  “Hop aboard, Pappy. You’re comin’ for a ride. The Navy wants you bad.”

  “Go avay!” laughed Papa Schimmelhorn, stepping back a pace. “Der funny pants I do nodt like. Alzo I am too old.”

  “Look, Pappy.” The jeep began to snort impatiently. “We ain’t recruitin’ you. There’s big brass in a hurry back at your hotel. Now tuck the spinach in and come along.”

  “Ach, dot iss different.” At once, Papa Schimmelhorn guessed that Captain Otter was in need of help. “He vants to ask me how to catch his girl. Of course I come!”

  He vaulted in. The jeep took off. Beard streaming in the wind, he was whisked back to the Lorelei, where the shore patrolmen accompanied him directly to his door.

  He entered with a flourish. “Veil, sailor boy,” he roared, spying Captain Perseus Otter, “now you haff goot sense! Soon, vhen I teach you, der vomen vill run after you like flies.” His gaze moved to the right. “Und you bring a friend!” he cried delightedly. “A cholly Chack Tar! Goot, ve get him a date too.” He looked between them. “Oh, ho-ho-ho! Und here is Lidtle Anton, der naughdy boy, who iss oudt all night.” Captain Otter rose. A mild case of seasickness had made him rather green around the gills. He looked as though he had spent some years under a moldering bowsprit in the Sargasso Sea.

  “Mr. Schimmelhorn.” He tried heroically to smile. “This is Captain Sir Sebastian Cobble, commanding Her Majesty’s Ship Impressive, now lying-to offshore.”

  Papa Schimmelhorn and Captain Cobble shook hands, expressing mutual pleasure.

  “Clever lad you have here,” said Sir Sebastian, gesturing at Little Anton with his pipe. “Frightfully well informed. We’ve been discussing smuggling—fascinating—interested in it since I was a boy.
”

  “He iss precocious,” bragged Papa Schimmelhorn. “It iss in der family. Myzelf—”

  Hastily, Captain Perseus Otter intervened. “I fear that I have failed to make our purpose clear. It is not—er, recreation. Certain—um—difficulties have come up in the plant, and—well, the long and short of it, ha-ha, is that we now want you to fix the assembly you have with you as soon as possible, and install it aboard Impressive right away.”

  “Ha, zo der vorks iss fouled?” laughed Papa Schimmelhorn. “I told you zo. Veil, don’dt you vorry, sailor boy. Now ve go shtrait to Princeton. It only takes maybe a veek for Albert’s friends to fix.”

  “A week?” Captain Otter thought dismally of his number on the promotion list. “It’s an emergency. You’ll have to do it by tomorrow noon. Please, Mr. Schimmelhorn.”

  “Dot iss imbossible. Der inzide iss shtill oudt. I get der dingus, und I show you vhy—”

  Little Anton shifted uncomfortably. “Hey, Pop…”

  “Shh, Lidtle Anton. Vhen I am busy, do not inderrupt.” Papa Schimmelhorn was on his knees, searching beneath his bed. “How stranche! I hide der shoe box here before I go, because it iss a zecret. Now vhere iss?”

  “Pop.”

  “Shudt up! Maybe iss on der oder side…”

  “Pop.” Little Anton said, “you might as well get up. Your shoe box isn’t there.”

  There was a dreadful hush.

  “Where d’ya think I been all night? That Sonya Lou of yours was after it—she was a spy. I peddled it to her…” Little Anton smirked and licked his chops. “But not for money, Pop. Uh-uh.”

  “VOT?” bellowed Papa Schimmelhorn. “Vot haff you done?”

  “Incredible!” Captain Cobble cried, ruining another pipestem permanently.

  “Treason! Cold-blooded treason!” gasped Captain Perseus Otter, turning an even more livid color than before.

  “Aw, keep yer britches on.” Little Anton remained unperturbed. “I sealed that shoe box good. I betcha she’s halfway to Europe with it now. But they won’t find no dingus in it. What kinda sucker do you think I am?” He pointed at the bare nail protruding from the wall. “Anything secret about a cuckoo clock?” he said.

  Captain Otter wiped the cold sweat from his brow. His momentary vision of Boards of Inquiry and of Naval Courts started to dissolve. “You—you mean?” he stuttered. “It’s still here?”

  “Right in Pop’s carpetbag.” Little Anton swelled his chest. “I guess I’m pretty sharp, huh, Cap?”

  Papa Schimmelhorn reached in the carpetbag. He found the silver ovoid instantly. He reached in again, and felt around—and brought his hand out empty. “But here iss only half.” He frowned. “Vhere iss der rest of it?”

  “Oh, that.” Little Anton smiled superciliously. “I fixed it, genius. I put it back inside where it belongs.”

  “Nonzense!” exclaimed Papa Schimmelhorn.

  “Okay, you don’t believe me.” Sneering, Little Anton held out a hand. “Gimme.”

  He took Assembly M. His eyes crossed quite appallingly. His fingers made one quick and curious movement…

  And there was the tube, complete with clockwork, out again.

  “Betcha you don’t know how it’s done!” he challenged them.

  But Captain Perseus Otter was not interested. “My boy,” he said, not unemotionally, “these little technical details can wait. You have done splendidly. I personally will mention you in my report. But now we have important work to do.”

  He tapped his watch. “We’d best be under way.”

  And, as they headed for the sea and H.M.S. Impressive, he told himself that now, at least, their troubles were all over.

  He had forgotten the brass gears in the tube.

  Thirty-six hours after Papa Schimmelhorn and Little Anton put to sea, the Chief of Naval Operations flew in from Washington. Accompanied by two harried persons from the State Department, he stormed into the office of that vice admiral who had made life so difficult for Captain Otter, and, in the most unfriendly tone imaginable, said, “Well?”

  The vice admiral shuddered and said nothing.

  “Speak up, Marlinson. You are aware that the British are our allies, are you not? You understand that, like most seafaring people, they much prefer to keep their naval craft afloat? And you admit, I trust, that it is to our interest to help them do so?”

  “Y-yes, sir—but…”

  “May I remind you, Marlinson, that we’ve had Otters in the Navy since the Revolution? Surely you have heard of Commodore Columbus Otter, who sailed his squadron into the Susquehanna River and disappeared, a feat no other officer has duplicated? And of Commander Leviathan Otter, who went down with the monitor Mugwump in Charleston harbor in 1863, quite certain that he was putting in to Portland, Maine? And of Lieutenant Ahab Otter, who so clearly demonstrated the impracticability of diving submarines with their hatches open?” He raised his voice, “And knowing all this, Marlinson,” he roared, “you ordered Captain Perseus Otter ABOARD A SHIP!”

  Shamefacedly, the vice admiral hung his head. “And not just any ship. Fully aware of his remarkable appearance, you ordered him aboard a British ship…”

  The Chief of Naval Operations continued for several minutes more, deploring the effete age which prohibited such picturesque and useful customs as keelhauling and flogging through the fleet. Then—

  “Marlinson,” he said, “H.M.S. Impressive picked up your people on Wednesday, at 22:04. At 23:18, we received a strange radiogram. It read, SCANNER WORKS STOP PUTTING TO SEA FOR MORE EXTENSIVE TESTS STOP ARRIVE NEW YORK NOON FRIDAY STOP PAPA SENDS LOVE TO MAMA STOP (SIGNED) COBBLE. There has been nothing since. Every available air and surface craft has searched without success. We can only conclude that H.M.S. Impressive has gone down with all hands. There will be grave international repercussions, Marlinson.”

  “I can just hear the Times editorials now.”

  “Just thank God Churchill’s dead!” sighed the second, somberly.

  The Chief of Naval Operations rose to go. “We’ve kept this secret, Admiral Marlinson, so far. But after noon today it must come out. It’s your responsibility. Therefore you will accompany the British naval attaché when he goes out to meet their ship. When she does not show up, you will explain why she isn’t there. After that, you can report to me in person.”

  They left; and, half an hour later, the vice admiral dismally stepped aboard the burnished barge which, he was sure, fate had chosen to witness one of the closing scenes of his career. The British naval attaché was there, attended by two aides, sundry officers of his own staff, and a pert ensign in the Waves. So were Heinrich Luedesing and Woodrow Luedesing and Ferdinand Wilen, somewhat calmer now.

  Disciplining his voice, he greeted them. The barge cast off; and, all the way down the bay, he prayed devoutly for a miracle. But, when minutes ahead of time the point of rendezvous was reached, the sea was bare.

  The naval attaché searched the horizon with binoculars. “Strange,” he said, “very strange. She really ought to be in sight by now.

  Everyone else made similar remarks.

  Only Vice Admiral Marlinson was silent. The seconds passed. High noon came nearer quite remorselessly. Anxiety appeared on every face but Heinrich Luedesing’s.

  Finally, when only fifteen seconds still remained, the Admiral braced himself. He drew the naval attaché aside. “It is my painful duty…” he began. He stopped to wipe his brow. “It is my duty—”

  He had no chance to finish. There was a shrill squeal from the little Wave, a general cry—

  “By God, there she is!” exclaimed the attaché, pointing excitedly to port.

  And there, scarcely a cablelength away, long and gray and grim, lay H.M.S. Impressive. Her crew was mustered on the flight deck for review. Her band was striking up God
Save the Queen. And, over all, a foghorn voice was shouting, “ACH, HEINRICH! HERE I AM! YOO-HOOI BLOW DER MAN DOWN! SHIP AHOY!”

  Within two minutes, the dazed vice admiral was being piped aboard. In less than three, he had met Papa Schimmelhorn and Little Anton, both wearing jaunty sailor hats with H.M.S. Impressive on their ribbons. In five, he had recovered to the point where, drawing Captain Perseus Otter slightly to one side, he could demand, “Where in the name of all that’s holy HAVE YOU BEEN?”

  Captain Otter was unshaven. He wore his cap at an angle which, on any junior officer, he would strongly have disapproved. But there was a new light in his eye.

  “At sea, sir!” said he.

  “Indeed?” barked the vice admiral, warming up. “Are you aware, sir, that every blessed plane and ship and State Department clerk has been searching for you from hell to breakfast since you disappeared?”

  Captain Otter smiled. He began to laugh. He held his sides, threw back his head, and whooped.

  The admiral’s emotional barometer swung sharply over toward apoplexy. “And would you mind informing me just what is so amusing?” he asked dangerously.

  But it was Papa Schimmelhorn who answered him. In the most friendly fashion, he slapped him on the back. “Ho-ho-ho-ho!” he boomed, “Of courze you could nodt find us, sailor boy. It iss der Schimmelhorn Effect! Der lidtle vheels inzide der tube go round. Und right avay ve are infisible!”

  “In—invisible?”

  “Precisely, sir,” said Captain Perseus Otter, making his comeback with surprising speed. “And completely so—to the human eye, to cameras, even to radar. However, it is my duty to request that you, sir, ask for no further information.” He smiled serenely. “The Schimmelhorn Effect is highly secret.”

  “But—” The admiral started to protest. He got no further.