The Second Reginald Bretnor Megapack

by Reginald Bretnor

  “Ja,” she snapped. “I am Mrs. Schimmelhorn, und I do nodt vant to buy—” She broke off abruptly; she listened; then in a very different tone she said, “Ach, Herr Doktor! It iss so nice you phone, und maybe giff me news of mein old goat, und how he iss behafing”—she chuckled wickedly—“vith no lead in der pencil.”

  At the luncheon table, Mrs. Hundhammer and Mrs. Laubenschneider pricked up their ears and strained to hear; and Mama Schimmelhorn, divining that they would, delicately kicked the hall door closed. She was astounded to hear Herr Doktor Rumpler groan.

  “Vot iss?” she asked. “You haff maybe der indichestion?”

  Dr. Rumpler groaned again, striving to find the proper words. “Dear lady,” he said, “my dear Mrs. Schimmelhorn. Oh, if it were only that! I must tell you that we have—well, we have run into grave difficulties. Your husband has succeeded. He has made gold—”

  “Es ist ganz gut!” put in Mama Schimmelhorn. “Now ve can haff der shteeple for der church, higher efen than die Methodisms.”

  “Yes, yes, you shall have it!” he hastened to assure her. “But the problem with your husband—ah, it is not just a problem with your husband. It involves also—”

  “More naked vomen?” she hissed. “Dot iss impossible! Vith no lead in der pencil, how can he—?”

  Very painfully, Gottfried Rumpler’s mind had flashed him a vivid picture, in full color, of one very special naked woman. He groaned again, even more profoundly. “Dear lady!” he exclaimed. “This involvement is, I must warn you, most serious. You see, it does not concern the, well, the island girls—it is an involvement with my associate, my associate in banking, my associate in this present enterprise.”

  Mama Schimmelhorn was outraged. “Such nonsense!” she cried out. “All his life, Papa chases naked vomen, but boys?—I tell you, nefer! Und a Schviss banker! No vun vould beliefe!”

  “Dear Frau Schimmelhorn,” moaned Dr. Rumpler, “still you do not understand—my associate is a woman!”

  “A voman Schviss banker?” She gasped incredulously. “Schviss bankers alvays are all men.”

  “Not anymore, alas! Since Women’s Liberation, things have changed. She is a very competent and most successful Swiss banker.”

  “Und now mein old goat iss chasing her, nicht wahr? But how, vith no lead inside der pencil?”

  “Dear lady, it is not so much that he is chasing her. It is she who has fallen madly in love with him. It is she who gave him the antidote. You cannot begin to imagine the terrible situation we must face and solve. Somehow we must save both him and her!”

  “Safe him?” snorted Mama Schimmelhorn. “Chust vait until I catch up vith der bumbershoot!”

  “Then you can come and help us? You can leave for Switzerland right away? Dear lady, my aircraft will pick you up tomorrow—”

  “Right avay?” she barked. “I cannodt leafe right avay. I cannodt leafe until Lidtle Anton gets here. Two days from now he shtarts from Hong Kong, und I haff promised him to be here. But maybe he can come vith me to Schvitzerland. Because Papa likes him, maybe he iss a help.”

  Gottfried Rumpler remembered Little Anton well. He almost sighed with relief. Surely he could trust him—especially now that Pêng-Plantagenet were clients of the Rumpler Bank—and he realized that it would probably be easier to explain the true state of affairs to him than to Mama Schimmelhorn. “Thank you, dear lady,” he said fervently, consulting his very complicated wristwatch for Hong Kong time. “That is an excellent suggestion. I was much impressed by the young man, and I shall phone him tonight and tell him everything; then you and he can discuss it thoroughly as you’re flying over.”

  He thanked her once or twice more, promised faithfully to deliver a threatening message from her to Papa Schimmelhorn, and said good-bye. For the next several hours—until after eleven, which he judged would be a good time to put in his Hong Kong call—he worried and fretted, and imagined all sorts of painful scenes involving the Fräulein and her lover. Then, fortunately, he had no trouble reaching Little Anton, and much less than he had expected in explaining matters. However, though Little Anton chortled over the lead-in-the-pencil story, whoooed admiringly at the Rumpler description of the Fräulein, and displayed an active interest in the history, antiquities, and customs of Little Palaeon, he could promise nothing except that he’d try to come if Pêng-Plantagenet’s business did not interfere. When he said good-bye to Dr. Rumpler and hung up, it was on a rather wistful note. “Prince Papa!” he said over and over again. “Who ever would’ve thought it? Talk about smelling like a rose!”

  As for Mama Schimmelhorn, she had replaced her phone with the iron determination she always showed in such contingencies; and, by the expression on her face, her two friends judged it might be better not to question her. She pulled back her chair. She sat. Daintily, she spread her napkin. “Vell,” she finally said, “iss more of der same. Anoder naked voman. Und now Lidtle Anton und I must go all der vay to Schvitzerland. Ach, Papa—you chust vait!” She smiled grimly to herself. “Und now, Mrs. Laubenschneider, you vere going to tell me all aboudt Dora Grossapfel und die red bikini….”

  * * * *

  Meister Gansfleisch, meanwhile, had followed through with the plans he had prepared so carefully the night before. Immediately after his call to Gottfried Rumpler, he made another, to an erstwhile colleague of his, a Transylvanian who while still a boy before the war had been strongly suspected of vampirism, who during the war had been a known and feared collaborator, and who—after his country had been swallowed behind the Iron Curtain—had connived his way into a position of great power as head of a State-operated psychiatric institution. This call took much longer to put through, and the conversation it entailed had to be couched in terms so carefully veiled that the various Secret Police monitors listening in could not possibly fathom its real meaning. Luckily, to ingratiate himself with his new masters, the Transylvanian had written a dissertation thoroughly disproving and denouncing alchemy in terms of orthodox Dialectical Materialism, and by subtle references to this, Meister Gansfleisch was able to inform him—without going into any detail—that great discoveries were in the wind, and that he himself (out of his well-known love for Socialism and the Dictatorship of the Proletariat, and of course for an appropriate reward) could make certain that they would in no way profit Capitalist Imperialism.

  At that point, things became rather more involved. The Transylvanian broke off to make a call on another line while Meister Gansfleisch waited nervously. Then he informed the alchemist that, as they both agreed, it was all superstitious nonsense, and that he should disabuse himself of the insane notion that anything could be accomplished by such means. Perhaps, he suggested, his old friend Gaspar had been working himself too hard, breathing the venomous effluvia of his furnaces and flagons? And might it not be an excellent idea for him to take a short vacation, just a day or two, perhaps in Athens, where a tourist guide of his acquaintance—a charming girl!—would be delighted to show him the wonders of the Acropolis, the Parthenon?

  Meister Gansfleisch asked how he might find her.

  The Transylvanian chuckled. “Don’t worry, my dear fellow. Just be aboard the morning plane tomorrow. She’ll meet you at the airport. I suppose you’re still wearing that same suit, aren’t you? … Good, good. I’ll describe you to her. She’ll have no trouble recognizing you. And don’t you worry. Your little holiday will be worthwhile. It’ll do you worlds of good, I promise you.”

  Hoping that he had read the omens rightly, Meister Gansfleisch went back to Little Palaeon and its chateau, sought out Sarpedon Mavronides, explained that he was truly anxious to get back into the Princess’s good graces by making a discovery to delight and honor her, and said it would be necessary for him to visit Athens for two days to procure the rare and precious substances he needed.

  Mavronides, showing no curiosity, replied loftily that neit
her his presence nor his absence would be noticed, warned him against spending money recklessly, and told him not to hurry back.

  Seething at the snub, but delighted at the way matters were progressing, the alchemist made his simple preparations. Working late into the night, he carefully wrote down as accurate a description of Papa Schimmelhorn’s gold-making machine as possible, listing all its parts as he remembered them and from copies he had made of the shopping lists, and giving as clear a word-picture as he could of the phenomena that accompanied its functioning. He also fetched out of hiding a small once-leaden fishing sinker of Mavronides’s that Papa Schimmelhorn had absent-mindedly left lying on the floor after its transmutation. He then made up his own shopping list, for appearances’ sake, packed his disreputable valise, dusted off his yellow shoes, and went to bed to dream of his revenge. In his dream, Satan himself was offering him the Princess, stripped to the buff and displayed against the tanned hide of Papa Schimmelhorn.

  He awakened early, hitched a ride with Ismail down to the jetty, and persuaded a grumbling boatman to ferry him over to the main island just in time to catch the first flight to Athens. There he looked around. No one answering the description of his Transylvanian colleague’s charming girl was anywhere in evidence. However, he saw that he was being closely observed by a very large woman of uncertain years, with very hairy legs and definite secondary male characteristics, who looked more like the less-pleasant sort of prison matron than like a tourist guide. Presently, her eyes narrowed and, with an almost imperceptible gesture to a pair of blocky, expressionless off-duty secret policeman types, approached him. She smiled with a mouthful of threatening teeth, and said, “You are nice tourist, sir? Yes? Perhaps you would like to see the Parthenon, the Acropolis, also those places where the Greek gentlemen maybe took their boys?”

  Then, out of the corner of her mouth, she whispered, “Meister Gaspar Gansfleisch, yes?”

  “Yes,” replied the alchemist, and mentioned his Transylvanian friend by name.

  “Then you will want refreshment, is it not?” stated the matron. “My name it does not matter. You may call me Hulda. We go to a fine restaurant, in a private home. You do not even pay. It is—ha-ha!—on the house.” She crooked a finger at her male counterparts; she grasped Meister Gansfleisch’s arm. “Now you come with me, yes. Eat, eat.”

  The alchemist wasn’t hungry, but he decided that it all was probably part of the protocol of plotting, and besides, there wasn’t anything he could do about it. He went along. Outside the terminal, a cab awaited them. They climbed in. Behind them, another cab picked up their followers. Hulda familiarly squeezed his knee. “Pretty soon,” she promised him, “you have a good full stomach, yes, like me.”

  The driver needed no directions. He threaded his way through narrow streets, sped down wide boulevards, entered a section of the city that looked as though, in its day, it must have harbored Spartan spies and Trojan terrorists. The cab halted in front of an especially sinister establishment with flies in the window and a cracked sign saying food was served within.

  “We have private room, very nice,” proclaimed Hulda, dragging him from the cab.

  They entered smells and shadows; they were ushered through a feeding throng into a curtained room; they sat. Then waiters came, plying Meister Gansfleisch with mutton and pilaf, with grape leaves and sour wine, with comestibles he didn’t even recognize. Hulda, to encourage him, devoured great gobbets of the stuff and insisted that he do the same, until finally he could eat no more. He belched unhappily.

  At that point, as though on cue, two more men entered. One was tall and cadaverous, with corded muscles and pale, blank eyes. The other, with his shaven head, looked like a B-movie android. They sat down at the table. They stared at Meister Gansfleisch.

  The taller man leaned forward. “Tell,” he said. “All.”

  And Meister Gansfleisch, stuffed like a Strasbourg goose and thoroughly traumatized, did as he was bidden. He did not speak of alchemy, except to refer to it slightingly and as a hobby of the Fräulein’s. He emphasized falsely that his own background was definitely modern and scientific, and he conveyed the notion that, while Papa Schimmelhorn’s subconscious genius was genuine enough, it would never have gotten off first base had it not been for the solid Gansfleisch knowhow. As for the curious customs of Little Palaeon and the Fräulein’s sacerdotal role, he passed them over contemptuously as rank superstition—which, however, might very well serve a useful purpose.

  Occasionally, as he talked, the tall man interrupted with a pointed question, while his androidal companion took it all down on a minicorder, but it was when Meister Gansfleisch produced the golden sinker and passed it to him for examination that he became really interested. He asked for a complete list of the components of Papa Schimmelhorn’s device; he asked intimate questions regarding the growing of its essential crystal, the electrical values involved, the meters and mechanical devices governing its operation, and the phenomena that occurred when it was turned on.

  Gaspar Gansfleisch stuttered out the explanation that, while his role in its construction had been crucial, Papa Schimmelhorn had been so secretive that many details remained hidden even from him.

  The tall man fixed him with his eyes. “Well, it is not important,” he declared. “What is important is how big it is, and can you operate it?”

  The alchemist replied that the entire device was mounted on an insulated plastic base perhaps four feet by seven, that at no point was it more than five feet high, and that he was an expert in its operation, Papa Schimmelhorn having instructed him and permitted him to watch the entire procedure. He also added, untruthfully, that he himself had used it during its inventor’s absence.

  They went over all these points several times, until finally the tall man appeared satisfied. He gestured to his companion, who gave Meister Gansfleisch a small alarm clock. “It is not a clock,” he stated. “It is a very secret, most efficient instrument for communicating with us. You must wait until almost everybody in the castle is away. It must be at night, at a time when you are sure they will be away for at least three hours. Then you must set the time and alarm just as you would if you wanted it to wake you. We will know instantly that all is ready. Do you understand?”

  Meister Gansfleisch rubbed his hands together gloatingly. “I understand, Comrade!” he declared. “I do understand—and I know just the time. It has something to do with the phases of the moon, when they’re going to hold the most important of their horrid pagan festivals. And there’ll be times when everybody at the castle will be away. Sometimes they’ll be at the island’s other end, where the great mound is, over the—the Labyrinth, where all the ruins are. Sometimes they make pilgrimages there, and go there with their sacrifices. Oh, we’ll have opportunities, Comrade, indeed we will! And when the time comes, I will pretend that I am very ill, and I’ll await you.” He showed his teeth like Twitchgibbet. “Oh, I can hardly wait!”

  “You will wait very patiently,” declared the tall man, “and I would advise you to let no one know that you are waiting. Try to worm your way back into the favor of this man Schimmelhorn and of the Swiss woman capitalist. That is all. And now Hulda will show you the famous sights of Athens, and you will make a great deal of fuss about your shopping, so no one can suspect.”

  The two men left by a back door, and Hulda escorted Meister Gansfleisch to the street again. All that day, she hustled him from one famous ruin to another, from one shop to another, and at suppertime to another restaurant worse, if anything, than the first one. Finally, they went to a hotel, where the alchemist rejected her comradely offer to share his bed.

  Next morning, when he awakened, she was gone; and he spent a few more hours shopping ostentatiously before catching the afternoon plane back to Crete.

  Ah, ah! he kept telling himself during the flight. How lucky I have been that I wasn’t able to sell my soul as I sta
rted out to! Oh, I shall have a fine revenge indeed. The comrades will reward me richly. They will load me with their medals, and make me an Academician. I shall be world-famous! Certainly, I shall be director of my own laboratory. Probably…

  A cheerful Ismail was waiting for him at the airport. Mr. Mavronides, he said, had sent him specially, for the Princess had issued orders that, after supper, everyone on the island was to attend in the great courtyard of the castle, where His Highness, the Prinz Owgoost, would be formally presented to them, and they would be allowed to give him gifts and do obeisance.

  “His Highness who?” grunted Meister Gansfleisch foolishly.

  Ismail gave him an enormous smile. “His Highness the Effendi,” he replied, “the great Effendi Schimmelhorn, who has promised to restore my manhood. Come, I have a cab waiting. We must hurry!”

  * * * *

  The ceremony at which Prinz Owgoost was to be presented to his enthusiastic subjects had been carefully and lovingly prepared by the castle’s staff under the supervision of Sarpedon Mavronides. Before the great doors, on a dais, stood the Princess’s Throne; next to it, on only a slightly lower level, stood another, equally ornate and somewhat larger, brought out of storage for the great occasion. Tapestries and banners hung down at either side, and a purple carpet stretched from the thrones themselves into the courtyard where the commonalty were to assemble.

  The Prince and Princess banqueted together, sipping their wine from golden vessels newly manufactured by the Prince that morning. They kissed. They murmured endearments. Night fell.

  “And now, my hero,” said the Fräulein, “for a short while we must part, for my people will expect us to be attired in the antique style, and Ismail is waiting in your turret to help you dress.” She touched a finger to her lover’s lips to silence the enquiry he was about to make. “No, do not worry—you will be a splendid sight, for you will wear the costume that last belonged to my great-great-grandfather, and it will fit you perfectly, I promise you. Now go!” And with a final kiss, she sent him on his way.