The Second Reginald Bretnor Megapack

by Reginald Bretnor

  And Sarpedon Mavronides, though still shaken by the day’s events, signed to the footmen to pick up Dr. Rumpler’s bags, and followed them.

  As for Mama Schimmelhorn, she asked for a little more tea and schnapps, which Sophia presently brought up to her. Then, finding that she wasn’t really sleepy, she first tried to wake up Humphrey and tell him the exciting news, found that he was sleeping much too soundly, and finished up by telling Gustav-Adolf the whole story, and informing him that next day he would have the very responsible job of finding Papa.

  “Dirty old man!” she said. “I tell you, Gustav-Adolf, I haff already cooked his goose vith die Prinzessin. Tomorrow, if I find him vith anoder naked voman—then vatch oudt!”

  She looked around. Suddenly she saw that, in her absence, someone had brought Papa Schimmelhorn’s denims, his polka-dotted shorts, his shoes and socks, and laid them on the bed. She frowned. She inventoried the closets, the dresser drawers. “How stranche!” she said. “All his clothes iss here. I vonder vot he vore?”

  And she went to bed worrying, not about her husband’s safety, but what he might be up to with nothing on.

  * * * *

  Mama Schimmelhorn had traveled far, and she was tired. She slept soundly until after eight o’clock, when Gustav-Adolf woke her, asking to be let out to his catbox. She opened the door for him, checked on Humphrey just to make sure he was all right, and took a long and refreshing tub-bath. Then she saw a bell-push by her bed, and pushed it. Presently, a serving maid appeared, and she ordered breakfast: bacon, two soft-boiled eggs, croissants, tea, and fruit juice. With it, the maid brought a message from the Fräulein, written the night before. She begged Frau Schimmelhorn not to concern herself unduly; every effort was being made to find her husband; she and His Excellency, Herr Doktor Rumpler, would expect her company at luncheon at noon in her apartments. After that, if Herr Schimmelhorn still had not been found, they would all join the search.

  Mama Schimmelhorn relaxed. She was enjoying herself. After breakfast, and after she had dressed, she brought Humphrey out of his compartment, woke him with a tot of honeyed brandy, and told him everything that had occurred.

  As she had foreseen, he was delighted. “Forsooth,” he exclaimed, “there’s one problem solved. Perchance this Switzer—for most of them are men of great good sense—may wean her from her savage pagan ways. Come, kind and gentle lady, let us drink to it—aye, and to your husband’s safe return!”

  He raised his thimble. Mama Schimmelhorn raised her teacup. They drank.

  “And now,” said Humphrey, “pray return me to my jar, for I fain would rest the hours away so that tonight, when you come back perchance with Master Schimmelhorn, I may have strength enough to share your joy and hear the tale of whatever adventures—let’s trust they be not misadventures!—have befallen him.”

  Reluctantly, she did his bidding; then she whiled the time away by writing postcards to Mrs. Hundhammer, Mrs. Laubenschneider, and several other friends, informing them that Papa had been very bad indeed and that she would confide in them as soon as she came back. To Mrs. Laubenschneider’s she added a PS to the effect that her fine flea collar had enabled Gustav-Adolf to kill a rat-defil vithout being hurt.

  Niobe came to fetch her, and they set out through the castle’s corridors, Niobe eyeing her curiously but not daring to ask questions.

  The Fräulein and His Excellency were awaiting her—or at least they were there, sitting close together on the chaise longue, holding hands, absorbed completely in each other.

  Vell, vell! True luff! thought Mama Schimmelhorn sardonically as Niobe announced her. Two lidtle luff birds—so cute!

  The Fräulein and His Excellency awakened to her presence. They rose to greet her. Gottfried Rumpler seated her ceremoniously. Graciously, she accepted a little glass of wine.

  Luncheon proceeded smoothly while she regaled them with stories of her travels and extraordinary experiences with Papa, quite well aware that they were much too busy playing little lovers’ games under the table to listen to her.

  Finally, dessert was served and eaten. Coffee was served and sipped. Mama Schimmelhorn sat back in her chair.

  “You haff heard noding aboudt this Gaspar Gansfleisch?” she enquired.

  For a moment, their faces fell. They replied that they had not.

  “Und you haff nodt found Papa?”

  They looked at her. Solemnly, with infinite regret, they shook their heads.

  She stood. “Okay,” she said, “Papa ve can find. I vill get Gustav-Adolf, und ve all go togeder.”

  “Dear Frau Schimmelhorn,” replied the Fräulein hesitantly, “there is only one place on the entire island we have not searched—that is the Labyrinth of the Minotaur. No one has ever entered it, and—and survived, or at least survived with his sanity. If Herr Schimmelhorn has really entered it—oh, it rends my heart to have to tell you this!—there is no hope that we will find him still alive. None, none!”

  “You don’dt know Papa like I know,” Mama Schimmelhorn told her. “I get Gustav-Adolf. He vill know right avay if Papa iss inside.”

  The Fräulein and her lover exchanged glances. Each conveyed the message that perhaps they’d better humor her.

  “Of course,” the Fräulein said. “I’ll have Ismail bring the station wagon.” Picking up the phone, she gave her orders. “Dr. Rumpler will escort you to your turret and bring you back.”

  Minutes later, accompanied by Sarpedon Mavronides, they were driving to the mound of the Labyrinth, to the Door of Sacrifices; and if Papa Schimmelhorn could have seen them, he would have realized that the processions he and the Princess had led in their gold and ivory chariot had been much more picturesque.

  They dismounted in front of the great bronze door. Mama Schimmelhorn put Gustav-Adolf on the ground. “You are a brafe, clefer cat,” she told him. “Now you must find Papa.”

  Gustav-Adolf looked up at her. In Cat, he growled, “You go find him! The old bastard ain’t been around fer two whole days. Let him get lost!”

  “Shniff at der door!” ordered Mama Schimmelhorn. “Don’dt just shtand there saying ‘Meow!’”

  Gustav-Adolf shrugged. “Oh, what th’ hell!” he muttered. “Okay, I’ll give it just one try.”

  He sniffed carefully around the edges of the door. Abruptly, hoisting his tail, he turned around.

  “Mrrrow!”

  “So!” said Mama Schimmelhorn. “Papa iss inside! Open der door und ve get him oudt.”

  Nobody seemed at all anxious to.

  “You are shcareed of der vot-you-call-it Minotaur?” she sneered, brandishing her umbrella. “Vell, I go in myself!” Gottfried Rumpler, his manhood challenged, stood forward. “Frau Schimmelhorn,” he declared, “we shall all go in.”

  “My Gottfried!” whispered the Fräulein. “You are a true hero, an Arnold von Winkelried, a William Tell! I am proud of you. Sarpedon, the key!”

  Sarpedon Mavronides produced it. With no enthusiasm, he unlocked the door and pushed it open.

  Mama Schimmelhorn strode into the chamber. “Vell,” she commented, “anyvay iss nice und cool inside.”

  They stood there with her. The Fräulein called out loudly in archaic Greek, asking the Minotaur to harken to their pleas, to come forth and release the poor old man who, in all innocence, had blundered into his retreat.

  There was no reply; and after a few minutes Mama Schimmelhorn announced that she was moving forward. “All ve haff to do iss follow Gustav-Adolf,” she declared. “He vill know vhere.”

  “B-but, Frau Schimmelhorn,” His Excellency put in, “how can we find our way out again?”

  She looked him up and down. “For a shmart banker, Herr Rumpler, you are shtupid. I bring a shpool of thread.” She gave it to him. “You tie it here, und vhen ve vant to come oudt again ve haff no trouble.” />
  The Fräulein, reminded of Theseus and Ariadne, flushed and said nothing.

  They walked cautiously into the Labyrinth, peering into its branching passages. Suddenly, Mama Schimmelhorn halted.

  “Listen!” she hissed.

  They stopped. They listened. From the bowels of the Labyrinth, the discordant music that had so often terrified the peasantry of Little Palaeon was sounding, getting louder.

  And over it, echoing from wall to wall, they heard the sound of massive footsteps, approaching threateningly.

  Held there by Mama Schimmelhorn, they stood their ground. It was impossible to tell from where the footsteps came. But they were coming nearer, nearer—

  Abruptly, the Fräulein screamed. “Look, look!” she cried. Their eyes followed her wildly pointing finger to a passage entrance where an enormous figure loomed. “There he is! There is the Minotaur! He—he has poor Herr Schimmelhorn! He has him in his claws!”

  XI.

  Gone But Not Forgotten

  When Papa Schimmelhorn dropped his spear at his first sight of the Minotaur, it was by no means out of fear. It was out of pure astonishment, for he realized instantly that he had seen the Minotaur before—the Minotaur or his twin brother—during his captivity on Beetlegoose Nine. He had been shown a picture of him in full color, in a book very simply written for men and backward children and entitled Strange Beings of Other Star Systems. The memory brought with it quite as clearly a recollection of the description accompanying the illustration: More than ten feet tall, incredibly long lived, horrendous in appearance but dedicated solely to esthetic ideals and pursuits.

  “But—but you are nodt a Minotaur!” he cried out in the Beetlegoosian tongue, much relieved. “You are a Jekemsyg!”

  The shouted words echoed through the Labyrinth, and at once the Minotaur stopped his roaring; he dropped his enormous hands; he goggled at his uninvited guest. “How’s this? How’s this?” he rumbled in the same language. “It’s unbelievable! You speak a civilized—well, almost a civilized tongue, that of the big women’s planet!”

  “Ja,” said Papa Schimmelhorn, “Mama und me und Gustav-Adolf vas kidsnatched by die big vomen. I tell you all aboudt—”

  “Oh, you must! You must!” The Minotaur was quite excited. “I’m terribly pleased. Why, I haven’t heard that language spoken for—let me see, more than four thousand five hundred of your years.”

  “You mean you are here so long?” Papa Schimmelhorn was incredulous. “Und all alone? How sad! All dot time vithoudt efen a lady Jekemsyg!”

  The Minotaur’s expression changed. His features were indeed taurine, but anyone should have been able to tell that he was the product of independent evolution, and not the offspring of a pliant queen and an amorous bull. Now he smiled, exhibiting his carnivorous teeth.

  “My dear fellow,” he rumbled, “I’ve not been at all lonely. My wife’s been with me. I just haven’t let the natives here know about her. You see— By the way, you’re dressed the way they used to dress when we first arrived, but you aren’t one of them, I hope?”

  “Nein,” answered Papa Schimmelhorn. “I am a Shviss, und now I liff in der United Shtates. It iss a long vay avay.”

  “Well—” The Minotaur shook his head. “They’re awfully primitive and dreadfully uncouth. At first, I tried to get into communication with them, but all they did was run away and bring me human sacrifices. Imagine that! It took them centuries to understand that we Jekemsyg don’t eat other intelligent beings, even when they aren’t very intelligent. They took me for some sort of godling, apparently a fertility god judging by the way they behaved. My wife would have been hideously embarrassed; that’s why she’s kept out of sight.” He looked down at his own impressive masculine equipment. “I don’t usually go around this way,” he added, “and my wife does frown on it, but it really does something for the natives, and after all they’ve kept us in provisions all these years.”

  “Gotts from Oudter Shpace!” marveled Papa Schimmelhorn. “Herr von Däniken should only know aboudt!”

  “You’d think that after nearly five thousand years they could learn that we’re just people, and not gods at all, wouldn’t you? But I’m afraid they’re hopeless. After we landed, and they started building that Labyrinth to keep us in—believe me, we welcomed it!” He sighed. “I suppose you’ve had your supper, haven’t you?”

  Papa Schimmelhorn nodded.

  “Well then, if you aren’t in a hurry, why don’t we just go back into the ship? I’ll get some clothes on, and you can meet my wife, and we’ll drink some of the local wine—I got a fresh supply just yesterday—and you can tell me all about yourself, and perhaps answer a few questions about this barbarous world, and you might also like to hear my story.”

  Papa Schimmelhorn thought of his now undoubtedly highly irritated Princess, and declared that he was in no hurry, none at all, and that he would very much like to hear the story. “Vhy did you come?” he asked. “Und vhy haff you shtayed so long?”

  “We came because I needed solitude—because I yearned for a new milieu, for inspiration, for what I thought would be the pristine innocence of primitive societies.” Again, the Minotaur sighed. “Instead, I found only brutal savagery. But it has not stopped me from working, no indeed! Allow me to introduce myself. I am Zongtur; my wife is Xorxan.”

  “I am Papa Schimmelhorn, but you chust call me Papa.”

  “I am delighted.” The Minotaur bowed. “Yes, I have worked here,” he went on. “I have composed two thousand and nineteen symphonies, almost thirty thousand concerti and shorter pieces, any number of magnificent operas on the most tragic and romantic themes, and songs innumerable. My latest and greatest symphony was being played when you came in, electronically of course. It takes seven of your years—naturally with intermissions. Would you like to hear it?”

  “Maybe some oder time,” Papa Schimmelhorn said politely. “But vhy did you shtay so long?”

  “I hadn’t intended to,” the Minotaur replied, “but something happened to our spaceship after we came down.

  When we tried to take off again, it just wouldn’t run. All our auxiliaries work. The lights and all the other electric gadgets go on, and the security devices and all that, so we know it’s not the power plant. But when I turn on the ignition, nothing happens. The drive doesn’t respond at all. It’s really very irritating—it was the latest model, and quite expensive, and it was still under warranty.”

  “You haff nodt fixed it?”

  “My dear, er, Papa”—the Minotaur looked down at him in stark surprise—“I am an artist, a composer! I am not a scientist or a spaceship engineer. And all I have is the owner’s manual, which I can barely understand. Goodness only knows when we can get away!”

  “Maybe I can fix,” suggested Papa Schimmelhorn.

  “You aren’t a spaceship technician? Surely not! Not on this planet!”

  “Nein,” admitted Papa Schimmelhorn. “I am chust a chenius. Vhen ve get back inside der ship, I tell you vhat I haff infented.”

  He and the Minotaur conversed pleasantly all the rest of the way, until finally they reached what looked like a stainless steel door behind the limestone wall. His new friend opened it and bowed him in, and he saw that it was furnished very cozily, with several strange musical instruments in the background and a number of holographic portraits of Jekemsyg family groups here and there.

  “And this is my wife Xorxan,” said the Minotaur proudly as she entered. “My dear, this gentleman comes from Switzerland, a planet far from here, and he speaks the language of the big women’s world fluently! It’s astonishing. His name is Papa Schimmelhorn, but he wants us just to call him Papa.”

  Compared to her husband, Xorxan was petite. She was scarcely eight and a half feet tall; instead of huge, hooked horns, she had dainty little nubbins; and Papa Schimmelhorn was re
lieved to see that she had only two breasts and that they were where breasts ought to be. She wore a glossy garment of lavender and silver, cut very much like the lounging pajamas favored by vamps in 1920ish films.

  “I am so glad you came,” she said, offering him her hand, the claws of which were neatly manicured. “We haven’t had a caller for simply years and years. Do take your helmet off and stay awhile.” She waved him to a seat, to which he climbed, and hung his helmet up for him. “I’ll pour some wine. It’s a native vintage, but years old and really quite acceptable. We can talk while Zongtur’s dressing.” She looked a little askance at Papa Schimmelhorn’s goatskin miniskirt. “Well,” she said, “different peoples do have different customs, don’t they?”

  “Ja, ja,” agreed Papa Schimmelhorn, “und iss like I alvays say—die different customs make life more inderesting.”

  They chatted, comparing the climates of Earth and Jekem, until Zongtur returned, now decently attired in a beautifully tailored pearl-gray jumpsuit over which he wore his jeweled belts and pouches.

  He accepted a glass of wine from his spouse. “To your health!” he said, and drank. “And now, please tell us your whole story. I can hardly wait….”

  So Papa Schimmelhorn filled them in on his background and accomplishments, telling them about how he vas a chenius only in der subconscience, and how he had infented der gnurrpfeife vhich brought gnurrs from der voodvork out, and a time machine that looked chust like a hobbyhorse, and a steam-driven device using a small black hole that had opened the way into a parallel universe. To dramatize his recital, he demonstrated his cuckoo watch, explaining that it employed really advanced electronics which he, its inventor, could not consciously understand.

  Xorxan clapped her hands delightedly, with a sound rather like that of a dolphin beating the water with its tail; and her husband exclaimed in astonishment that Papa Schimmelhorn’s mind worked just the way his did. “My dear sir,” he said, “you, like myself, are a true artist! With all my advanced degrees in musicology, with all my centuries of study at our most prestigious institutions, had it not been for my subconscious, I never could have written my greatest works.”