The Second Reginald Bretnor Megapack

by Reginald Bretnor

  She frowned, and Dr. Rumpler shuffled his feet and shifted in his chair. “It seems to me, mein Herr,” she said, “that you have gone out of your way to learn perhaps too much about me.”

  “Bear with me, dear lady!” he pleaded. “Only be patient. Listen to me, and you will understand.”

  “Very well. Continue.”

  “Everything I tell you will, I’m sure, be held in complete confidence? That is—”

  Fräulein von Hohenheim did not deign to answer him. Mein Gott, what a male chauvinist schweinhund! she thought. Without a word, she managed to convey the message that she had been grievously insulted.

  He blushed again. Then, hesitantly at first, he told her the whole story of Little Anton’s visit, and all about Papa Schimmelhorn’s genius and accomplishments, and how he himself had checked on their validity. During this recital, he kept watching her expression for some hint of how she was reacting to it, and every once in a while he interjected an apology: “You understand, dear Fräulein, that while this is difficult to believe, I am assured…” or “I know definitely that this Schimmelhorn has carried out a scientific task for Pêng-Plantagenet, but Herr Fledermaus would not tell me what it was.”

  Gradually, as he watched her, her countenance began to lose something of its severity; her eyes betrayed a growing interest. Her very active mind was busy sorting out the data, evaluating it, drawing deductions from it. Long before he had finished, she had fathomed precisely what he had in mind, and had approved of it.

  He stopped. For the first time, she smiled at him, sending delicious little shivers up his spine. “And so, Herr Doktor Rumpler,” she said sweetly, “because this person Schimmelhorn has performed these wonders, you think it might not be too difficult for him to do what my great ancestor once did—to turn lead into gold?”

  “But—but you have read my mind!” he cried.

  She smiled again. “Not at all. I have simply drawn the logical conclusion. What other scientific problem could so excite the interest of the most eminent of Swiss private bankers? Why, were this to succeed, the greatest international bankers would be mere pygmies by comparison! And now I’m sure you’ll tell me that it is a great good fortune for the world that such a secret should fall into Swiss hands—and ours especially—because we are so responsible?”

  Dr. Rumpler, who had been about to express these very sentiments, declared that he had not thought of it, but that it indubitably was true.

  She laughed aloud. “Well,” she declared, “you will be glad to know that I, Philippa Theophrastra Bombast von Hohenheim, agree with you. I agree that this Papa Schimmelhorn may very well find us the secret of the alchemists, and I agree that it would be wonderful for us to get it. But before we get down to business, I must tell you more about myself.”

  She leaned forward, fixing him once again with her eyes. “While I am not the direct descendant of the great Paracelsus, for he left none, he was my collateral ancestor. I have inherited all his surviving papers, which the world does not even know exist—yes, all his records—and much more. I assure you, there is no true dividing line between science and alchemy, between alchemy and magic. I myself have repeated many of his experiments. I know. You were wise to come to me, mein Herr.”

  “You honor me.” He bowed. “Yes, and I also came to you because of your reputation for practicality, for astuteness. You understand how delicate—and, yes, how perilous—this project is. If we undertake it, we certainly can never run the risk of having Papa Schimmelhorn do his work at home or even here in Switzerland—”

  “Ah!” she broke in. “So you have heard of my retreat?”

  “Fräulein, I have heard you own a little island in the Mediterranean. Such a place would be ideal for our purposes. The man Schimmelhorn could devote himself to his, er, studies and pursuits without distraction—and without being spied upon.”

  “Yes,” she said, “I have such an island. It is near Crete. Like this”—she touched her necklace—“it was my heritage from my mother, who was of Grecian ancestry.” Once more, her eyes were fathomless. “Of very ancient Grecian ancestry. There I have—well, call it a chateau. In it, I have set up the world’s finest alchemical laboratory, under the greatest of all living alchemists—and I can make all Paracelsus’s papers available to Schimmelhorn. You say that, even though he cannot comprehend much of what he reads or hears, his subconscious absorbs it and translates it into practical processes and devices?”

  “That is correct. That is what Herr Fledermaus has told me. Even after he has succeeded, Schimmelhorn cannot really understand what he has done or how he did it—so much so that once he’s finished all his interest’s gone, so he never can repeat a process.”

  “For us, Herr Doktor, once should be enough.” Her teeth, as she smiled, were white and strong; and Gottfried Rumpler closed his eyes momentarily, imagining how passionately—

  “Now I shall ring for cognac,” she informed him, “so we can drink to our association and success.” She pressed a button. “But first there is the little matter of percentages.”

  Dr. Rumpler, shaken out of his brief daydream, forgot the fifteen percent he had originally intended to suggest, and when she told him that, in her opinion, a fifty-fifty partnership would be only fair and equitable, he could not find the courage to haggle with her.

  A stout young woman entered, bearing a tray with a Baccarat decanter of superb cognac and two glasses. Fräulein von Hohenheim filled them. She raised hers to her lips. “To gold!” she said, her eyes suddenly afire. “To all our gold!”

  For another half-hour, they discussed ways and means, agreeing that each of them separately would secure all the information possible about Papa Schimmelhorn—especially regarding such matters as his astonishing virility—and that they would then decide what their initial approach to him would be.

  That night, Gottfried Rumpler slept alone, and all night long he dreamed that he was chasing a naked Philippa von Hohenheim through endless labyrinths of solid gold, and never catching her.

  II.

  Papa and Mama and the Steeple

  Dr. Rumpler’s carefully composed letter reached New Haven two weeks later. It was late on a lovely April afternoon, and Papa Schimmelhorn was innocently occupied in his basement workshop, discussing the project on which he was engaged with his old striped tomcat, Gustav-Adolf, who was watching him suspiciously from the top of a large TV. He was stylishly attired in very tight blue jeans, with an equally adhesive brass-buttoned jacket, all of which set off the massive muscles of his legs and shoulders to best advantage, contrasting dramatically with his huge white beard and the scarlet cockatoos ornamenting his viridian sport shirt.

  He was pleased with himself. Amid the usual loot and clutter of the bench was an opened cardboard carton colorfully labeled JUNIOR ELECTRONIC EXPERIMENTERS KIT, AGES 9-12, from which he had cannibalized any number of components; and in his hand he held a digital wristwatch of Japanese manufacture, to which he had just finished doing things.

  “Ach! Only look, Gustav-Adolf!” he exclaimed proudly. “Imachine! A veek ago, I know noding aboudt micro-vot-you-call-’ems, und lidtle electronic chippies, und now I haff made something no vun else has made. It iss true, Gustav-Adolf. I am a chenius!”

  One of the many cuckoo clocks hanging on the wall over the bench whirred, opened its little doors, and emitted a large cuckoo to announce that it was half-past four; and Gustav-Adolf, who resented any bird neither warm nor edible, muttered “Murrow!” disgustedly.

  Papa Schimmelhorn laughed. “Don’dt vorry, now ve haff something bedter.” He exhibited the watch. Just under its display, there was a little rectangle which had not been put there at the factory. “Look!” he cried out.

  He pressed a button. The rectangle lit up—and on it there suddenly appeared, brilliantly, a tiny cuckoo. It opened its infinitesimal beak. Melodiously, it sang out f
our times—Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo! And then twice more.

  “Ja!” said Papa Schimmelhorn. “Four times for der hour, und tvice for die qvarter-hours. Der vorld’s first cuckoo vatch—but you haff seen noding yet.” He stepped over to the TV and turned it on. A ginghamy young housewife was happily displaying a super toilet-bowl cleanser to her admiring children.

  He stepped back again. He pressed another button—and instantly the small family had vanished, and in its place the cuckoo had appeared, enormously magnified, in full color, and complete in every detail. Its song filled the room.

  Cuckoo! it caroled, four times and then twice again, and once more after that. “Ha!” crowed its inventor. “Der hour, der qvarter-hour, efen der minute—chust like a fine Shviss vun-minute repeater vatch made maybe by Audemars Piguet oder Patek Philippe. Listen, Gustav-Adolf, it iss vunderful—like vot’s-his-name landing on der moon! You haff nodt met lidtle Clothilde in der chewelry shop, lidtle Tilda Blatnik—ach, such a predty pussycat, vith a cute lidtle bottom, round like so”—he cupped his enormous hands—“und red hair, I think maybe eferyvhere.” He heaved a huge and hungry sigh. “It iss too bad der day after tomorrow Mama und I vill fly to Shvitzerland for dot vedding. But shtill maybe iss enough time. Vhen Tilda sees der cuckoo vatch—nodt efen X-rated!—I tell you she vill—”

  He had been about to tell Gustav-Adolf how, after vainly trying any number of amatory techniques, the sheer magic of the cuckoo watch would at last enable him to vanquish Ms. Blatnik’s maiden modesty, but at that point, upstairs, the doorbell rang.

  Mama Schimmelhorn, he knew, was off attending a meeting of the Ladies’ Auxiliary of Pastor Hundhammer’s church. “Probably it iss chust die Moonies,” he grumbled. “But ve must go und see.”

  He bent down for Gustav-Adolf to jump onto his shoulder, and together they made their way to the front door.

  It was the postman, a hulking, shaggy youth with tiny eyes and an air of absolute exhaustion.

  “Letter fer yuh, Pops,” he mumbled.

  “Und vhy nodt drop it in der shlot?” Papa Schimmelhorn retorted. “Maybe you are too tired, nicht wahr? Chunior, how many times I haff to tell you? Nefer vill you haff vinegar unless you chase die predty pussycats! Ho-ho-ho!”

  The postman only stared at him sadly. “It’s registered,” he said. “Yuh gotta sign a pieca paper fer it.”

  Gustav-Adolf glared at him and hissed, and Papa Schimmelhorn, frowning, signed the receipt and took the envelope. He looked at it and saw that it was from his native land. “Der Rumpler Bank,” he muttered, watching the postman slump off down the street. “Dot name I haff heard. But vhy? Maybe I owe somevun in Shvitzerland money?” Then the more cheerful thought came to him that possibly some countrywoman, cherishing tender memories out of the past, had named him in her will.

  He went back in, sat down in the parlor under the two ancestral portraits of himself and Mama Schimmelhorn in ceremonial Chinese robes acquired in his transdimensional tour for Pêng-Plantagenet, and opened the letter with his pocketknife.

  Dear Herr Schimmelhorn, (he read)

  Some time ago, your extraordinary scientific genius

  and accomplishments—of which, my dear sir, every true Swiss is justly proud—were brought to our attention.

  Because we, here at G. Rumpler & Co., were preparing to initiate an extremely daring and innovative research project to which your talents seemed almost miraculously well suited, we took the liberty of confirming the favorable reports we had received. Needless to say, our expectations were more than fulfilled.

  As I am sure you know, the Rumpler Bank is the most substantial of all Swiss private banking institutions, and we would be honored and delighted if you would consent to join in our exciting and challenging program. Your title will be Chief Executive Director and Administrator of Research, and you will be given every facility you may require: an idyllic place in which to work, any and all necessary books and instruments, the most capable technical assistants, and a friendly and in every way attractive staff.

  Because the project is of an extremely important and secret nature, and because the resources it requires are not generally available, it will be necessary for you to work overseas, though not on the continent of Europe, and I will ask you to inform no one (except of course your wife). We can very tactfully make the necessary arrangements for a leave of absence from the Luedesing Cuckoo Clock Factory, where you are so valued an employee.

  We will, I assure you, be generous. On your acceptance, a retainer of 75,000 Swiss francs will be paid into your numbered account here at our bank, and this will be yours whether you succeed or fail. Then, when you do succeed—as I am personally sure you will—the sum of at least one million Swiss francs, and possibly much more, will be yours.

  In addition, you will have had the satisfaction of performing a memorable and outstanding service for the land of your birth and your countrymen.

  Please be assured, dear Sir, of our highest personal and professional regard and our sincere wish that you will soon be associated with us.

  The letter was signed, very respectfully and cordially, by Dr. Gottfried Rumpler, Präsident, G. Rumpler & Co.

  Papa Schimmelhorn read it through once, frowning; he read it through again; finally he slapped the paper contemptuously. “Such nonsense!” he exclaimed. “Crazy bankers, alvays they are der same, even die Shviss—business, business, business, money, money, money, und funny titles—Chief Grand Executive Adminishtratings! Bah! I tell you, Gustav-Adolf, I do nodt need. I haff mein goot chob at Heinrich Luedesing’s. I haff mein nice Stanley Shteamer vith der antigrafity from die Chinesers. Und now I haff a lofely cuckoo vatch vich goes also on TV—und soon, oh-ho-ho-ho!—predty lidtle Clothilde!”

  “Mrreo-ow!” agreed Gustav-Adolf emphatically, which meant You tell ’em, chum! in Cat.

  Papa Schimmelhorn scratched him around the ears. He scrunched Herr Doktor Rumpler’s letter into a ball and tossed it with its envelope into the wastebasket under Mama Schimmelhorn’s little desk. “Und now,” he said, “ve haff vun more dry run vith der vatch before ve make our date vith lidtle Tilda.”

  Back in the workshop, chuckling, he tried the cuckoo watch again several times, on each occasion finding it even more perfect than before. Then the phone called him upstairs again.

  “Ja?” he answered it.

  “You dam’ well right, ja!” It was his neighbor to the south, a retired policeman. “Schimmelhorn, what th’ hell you doin’ bustin’ up my ball game with your goddam cuckoo? You got a license from the Audubon Society or something? It’s on every channel—and don’t you go denyin’ it—I know it’s you!”

  Genuinely astonished, Papa Schimmelhorn mumbled an apology: he was sorry; he vould make adchustments…

  His neighbor hung up, grumbling unintelligibly; and instantly the phone rang again. This time it was his neighbor to the north, fat Mrs. Clausewitz, who disapproved of him and was a teatime crony of his wife’s. She too was indignant; no one should be permitted to interrupt her favorite doctor-nurse show right in the middle of a tensely emotional operating-table scene, especially not with cuckoos, and she would see that Mama Schimmelhorn heard all about it, and—

  Papa Schimmelhorn listened to her without interrupting, not wanting to make matters worse; he didn’t even realize that Mama Schimmelhorn had come home until he heard her authoritative step at the front door.

  He bade Mrs. Clausewitz a quick good-bye, and called out, “How nice! Mama, you are home!” trying to sound delighted and not quite making it.

  Ominously, she did not answer. He looked up. Tall and forbidding in her black hat and stiff black dress, her hands hefting her rigid black umbrella, she looked at him like a female Torquemada contemplating an especially juicy heretic.

  He tried again, with a feeble smile. “You—you come home early, ja?”

/>   “In der lifing room!” she ordered, gesturing with the umbrella.

  He obeyed reluctantly, Gustav-Adolf following him.

  “Und sit!”

  He sat. So did she. Gustav-Adolf promptly abandoned him and jumped into her lap, purring.

  “So!” she hissed. “Now you vill tell me all aboudt Miss Clothilde!”

  Papa Schimmelhorn shuffled his feet, smirked, and tried to pretend he didn’t understand.

  “Don’dt lie! Dirty old man! Her Papa, Herr Blatnik, tells der Catholic priest, who tells der rabbi, who tells his vife, who tells Mrs. Hundhammer in der chain shtore. Ach, you should be ashamed! At more than eighty years…”

  She went on to recite the long tale of his infidelities, hitting only such high spots as naked dancing girls at the 1915 San Francisco Exposition, a female Viennese string quartet, and a dozen others.

  She snorted. “Maybe on Beetlegoose I make a bad mistake—bedter I had sent you to der vet! Shnip!” She made an appropriate gesture. “How can ve go to Shvitzerland to der vedding—my own grandniece, Minna Schwegelheimer, to such a nice young man, vith all der family in church? Vith such an old goat I vould be ashamed!”

  Papa Schimmelhorn hung his head abjectly. “Maybe—maybe I bedter shtay here in New Hafen und take care of Gustav-Adolf?” he suggested hesitantly.

  “Ha!” she cried. “To shtay up late at night, und chase die predty pussycats, und molest poor Fräulein Blatnik? Nefer!” Her eyes narrowed. “Don’dt vorry—somehow this time I fix.”