The Galactic Gourmet sg-9 Read online

  “Are you sure you are not a telepath?” asked Gurronsevas.

  “I am sorry, friend Gurronsevas,” said Prilicla, “I had no wish to embarrass you because your embarrassment affects me. You may remain in the kitchen, but Doctor Danalta will stay with you as a protector. It is not capable of hurting any other intelligent being, but friend Danalta can assume some truly fearsome shapes if attacked. Should your situation there become dangerous, make your way quickly to the wooden outer wall and onto the lip of the cavern mouth, where friend Fletcher will lift you to safety with a tractor-beam.

  “While you are satisfying your culinary curiosity,” it went on, “do you think you could widen the conversation to include general questions on the Wem social and cultural background, both past and present if possible? Do not be too obvious about it, and move away from subjects that appear to be sensitive. It may be that you will have more success with Remrath than we’ve had with Tawsar.

  “Do not waste time replying,” it ended. “I can feel Remrath’s impatience growing very rapidly.”

  “Sorry for the interruption, Remrath,” he said, doing as he had been told. “My friends, all but the one called Danalta, need to return to the ship for their own meal and this, your own eating period, seems like an opportune time. You will find Danalta an interesting being who is able to change shape at will. It can go without food for long periods, even longer than I myself can do. It is much smaller than I, a healer but not a cook, and with your permission I would like it to observe the workings of your kitchen.”

  Remrath, Gurronsevas suspected, knew as well as he did that there was another reason for Danalta’s presence. The concept of there being safety in numbers was one shared by every thinking race.

  “Your friend is welcome so long as it doesn’t obstruct us,” said Remrath, then pointed a bony digit at the spoon Gurronsevas was still holding above the pot. “Are you going to do something with that?”

  Ignoring the sarcasm, Gurronsevas dipped the spoon into the greenish-brown, bubbling mass, stirred it briefly to feel the consistency, then raised a spoonful to his breathing orifice until he judged the temperature to be cool enough not to blister his mouth before touching it to the taste pad covering the inside of his upper lip.

  “Well?” Remrath asked sharply.

  Gurronsevas thought that he could detect the presence of three different forms of vegetation, but they had been so thoroughly mixed and overcooked that he could not separate the individual tastes, much less relate them to foods already known to him. No condiments, sauces, mineral or chemical flavorings were present, and not even a trace of the salt which must have been available from Wemar’s seas. Plainly the food was being prepared too far in advance and the subsequent overcooking had destroyed any complementary or contrasting taste possessed by the original constituents.

  “A little bland,” said Gurronsevas.

  Remrath made an untranslatable sound and said, “You are being much too diplomatic, off-worlder. You have tasted our staple dish, a meat and vegetable stew without the meat, and by the time it reaches table it will be scarcely warm. Bland is a polite description for this unappetizing mess, but it is not the word we or our pupils would use.”

  “It needs something,” Gurronsevas agreed. Deliberately, he directed all four of his eyes towards the empty cold cabinet he had noticed earlier and went on, “Doubtless the meat would improve the taste, but you do not appear to have any. Is meat a part of their normal diet?”

  In his head-set Prilicla said warningly, “You are in a very sensitive area, friend Gurronsevas. Remrath’s emotional radiation is disturbed and angry. Tread gently.”

  That was a ridiculous thing to ask a physically massive Tralthan to do. Even though he knew what the empath meant, he was in the kitchen and the Wem must surely expect him to ask questions about food.

  “No,” said Remrath sharply. When Gurronsevas had decided that he must have given offense and it was not going to speak further, it proved him wrong by saying, “Only adults are entitled to eat meat, if and when it is available. It is forbidden to the young, but that rule is relaxed when, as is the case here, many of them are nearing maturity. The pupils who are old enough are occasionally given it in small quantities to add taste to the vegetable dishes, as a preparation for and a promise of their approaching maturity and the status they can expect as brave hunters and providers for their people.

  “Our hunting party is due to return soon,” Remrath ended in a quiet voice that sounded angry despite the emotion-straining process of translation. “But in recent years they have had limited success, and they will not share their meat and their mature strength with children, so they keep it all for themselves”

  Plainly some kind of verbal response was needed, Gurronsevas thought worriedly, preferably a sympathetic or encouraging or innocuous one that would not increase the Wem’s anger. Not knowing what to say, he tried to play safe by making a harmless and obvious statement of fact.

  “You are mature,” he said.

  If anything Remrath became even angrier. So loudly that the two cooks at the other end of the kitchen looked up from their work, it said, “I am very mature, stranger. Too mature to take part in a hunt, or to be given the smallest share of the kill. Too mature to have my past hunts remembered with gratitude or my feelings considered. Occasionally, out of kindness or sentiment, a young and newly-mature hunter will throw me a scrap or two of meat, but those we use to add a little taste to the meals of the older children. Otherwise we eat what everyone else eats in this place — a tasteless, lukewarm vegetable mush!”

  In his time Gurronsevas had heard and dealt with many complaints about food, although rarely when it had been prepared by himself, and felt able to speak without risk of giving offense.

  He took a deep breath and said carefully, “I have met or know of many different kinds of creatures, intelligent beings like yourselves who have developed civilizations more advanced even than that of the Wem of many centuries past, and who eat nothing but vegetation from the time they are weaned from their mothers’ milk until they die. Their meals are served hot, as are yours, or uncooked and served in a variety of different—”

  “Never!” Remrath burst out. “I can believe that they eat vegetable stew until they die, because we older Wem are forced to do the same. In all probability it precipitates our dying. But it is simply a matter of filling an empty and growling stomach with tasteless organic fuel, and eating vegetation is shameful and demeaning for any adult.

  “But eating raw growing things like a, like a rouglar!” it ended fiercely. “Off-worlder, you risk making me sick.”

  “Please excuse my ignorance,” said Gurronsevas, “but what is a rouglar?”

  “It used to be a large, slow-moving meat animal which ate and digested foliage all day long,” Remrath replied. “A few of them are rumored to exist in the equatorial regions, but elsewhere they are extinct. They were always too slow and stupid to escape the hunters.”

  “With respect, you are wrong,” said Gurronsevas. “Many intelligent species are herbivorous and suffer no feelings of shame because of it. Neither do they have feelings of mental or physical inadequacy among the carnivores and omnivores who eat meat only or a combination of both, as do you. Charge Nurse Naydrad, that is the one you will see with the long, silver-furred body and multiplicity of legs, eats only vegetation and is slow neither in its thoughts or movements. Differences in eating habits are not a cause for shame or pride or any other emotions except, perhaps, pleasure or displeasure over the taste, quality of the cooking or preparation of the food. They are just differences. Why do the Wem feel shame?”

  Remrath did not reply. Had his question given offense, Gurronsevas wondered, or was the answer even more shameful? Rather than ask questions it might be safer to continue giving information while noting the other’s reaction to it.

  “Food is a fuel regardless of its type,” he went on, “but the process of refueling is, or should be, a pleasurable experience. The taste c
an be enhanced in various ways by the addition of small quantities of substances that are animal, vegetable or edible mineral. Or a meal can be improved by using different constituents which complement or contrast with each other and make the taste more interesting. I have some small experience in this area including the preparation of …”

  Briefly, he wondered how the subordinate kitchen staff at the Cromingan-Shesk would have reacted to such a ridiculous and uncharacteristic piece of understatement, but his listener knew nothing of multi-species cooking and would not be impressed by gratuitous displays of expertise that were completely beyond its understanding or, hopefully, its present understanding.

  When he continued, Gurronsevas tried to keep the information as simple and basic as possible because this aged Wem cook, regardless of its advanced years, was the merest child in culinary matters. But as he warmed to his favorite subject and the minutes slipped past unnoticed, he grew aware that Remrath was showing signs of restlessness and possibly impatience. It was time to taper off before positive boredom set in.

  “There is much more that I could tell you about food preparation,” he went on, “including the fact that my efforts are wasted on a few rare and very unfortunate beings. The shape-changer Danalta is one. It eats anything, vegetation, meat, hard woods, sand, most varieties of rock, all without being able to sense any difference in taste.”

  He stopped suddenly with the realization that the conversations in his head-set were indicating that the medical team were boarding Rhabwar, the Wem students were about to reenter the mine, and Danalta had not yet arrived.

  Or had it.

  Standing against a poorly lit section of the wall behind the kitchen doors Gurronsevas remembered, there had been a wooden cask with the shafts of several brooms and mops projecting from the open top. Now there were two casks, identical but for a knothole in one of them that had the wet, transparent look of an eye — which slowly winked at him. Danalta had joined them.

  Exhibitionist, thought Gurronsevas, and returned his attention to Remrath.

  “We must continue this conversation at another time,” the Wem said before he could speak, “because now we have much to do. Watch if you wish, but kindly stand aside and avoid hampering our movements.”

  Gurronsevas moved away to stand beside the cask that was not a cask. The movements that he was not supposed to hamper, he saw, were painfully slow. Remrath and its kitchen staff were ladling helpings of the vegetable stew onto deep-rimmed dishes which they placed two to a tray before adding two wide, flat spoons and two cups of drinking water taken from the entry pipe of the free-running sluice. The platters were unwarmed and some of them were still damp from washing. One by one the loaded trays with their two-place servings were carried to the outer room and placed on the big table until its entire surface was covered. While this was happening, the teachers supervising the Wem working parties and classes arrived and began adding the day’s crop of vegetables to the kitchen’s storage bins while their young charges moved on to the dining area.

  Remrath told the newcomers that the presence of Gurronsevas would be explained later and to continue with their normal duties. The sight of them doing so was seriously elevating Gurronsevas’ blood pressure.

  The age-immobilized tails, the stiffness in their hands, fingers, and walking limbs and their erratic, hobbling gait meant that they could carry and balance only one small tray of two servings at a time. It also meant that the food already cooling in the outer room would be even cooler, if not stone cold, by the time it reached the dining area. But the diners were unlikely to complain about it because their impatience for a meal of cold mush would be minimal.

  “I can’t stand here and watch this any longer,” he said with quiet vehemence to one of the casks behind him. “The organization of this kitchen is a criminal shambles, and their food delivery system is …Don’t change or move to follow me, Danalta, unless I call for help.”

  He waited until Remrath was hobbling past close by, then went on in a louder voice, “I have been observing your activities closely and believe that I can be of assistance. As you have seen, I am more physically agile than you are and much faster in my movements. And I have four hands, all of which are presently idle …”

  The Great Gurronsevas, he thought incredulously as he was carrying the first four trays along the tunnel to the dining area, waiting at table! What was happening to him?

  CHAPTER 23

  The conversation continued after the meal was over and the near-empty platters cleared away. Nobody, it seemed, paid the cooks the compliment of leaving clean plates. Tawsar thanked Gurronsevas for his help serving and for answering questions about himself asked by the young Wem diners. At no time did he see Tawsar touch its food, and when he mentioned this to Remrath later he was told that the First Teacher held to the old traditions and would not eat vegetation where others could witness its shame. Even though the other cooks, who had to take food to the very young children, had left them alone in the kitchen when he asked for an explanation, Remrath avoided the question.

  Gurronsevas knew better than to criticize or offer suggestions about the workings of its kitchen to the cook in charge, no matter how poorly-equipped the place might be, because wars had started over less. Instead he talked about the other kitchens he had known and his criticisms were implied rather than spoken.

  “We no longer ask the young to do these menial kitchen duties,” Remrath said. “There was a time when those who misbehaved were given responsibility for clearing away and washing the dishes and cutlery, and for cleaning the next day’s vegetables. But much crockery was broken and vegetables were improperly washed as a result, and the practice was discontinued. Reluctant helpers are not worth the trouble. Besides, it is better for the aged to remain useful rather than waste resources that seem to grow scarcer by the day. Is that a food-stain or wear on your platter? Please scrub it again.”

  Gurronsevas immersed the platter in the cold, running water and rubbed at it with the piece of dense, wiry moss provided for the purpose before showing it again to Remrath who was engaged in the same activity. First a waiter, he thought, and now a dishwasher!

  He said, “With many of the species I have known, especially when the individual is no longer young, repeated immersion in cold water stiffens the finger joints. Is it so with you?”

  “Yes,” said Remrath. “And, as you must already have seen, at my age it is not only the parts bathed in cold water that suffer.”

  “That, too, is a common complaint on many worlds,” said Gurronsevas. “But it is possible that the suffering can be relieved. I say possible because I have no knowledge of the subject myself, but Tawsar kindly submitted to a full medical examination and many metabolic tests, so we will soon know whether or not our healing can be practiced to the benefit of the Wem. But if not, on my world the young can often be made to help their elders when the right arguments are used.”

  Remrath washed three more platters, examined them minutely for food stains and placed them aside still dripping wet before it said, “Do you know whether Tawsar is well or ailing? Is the age-rot that grows in all our bodies, and opens the way for other flesh-poisoning diseases, working within it?”

  Gurronsevas was trying to think of a suitable reply when Murchison joined in on the ship frequency. “You were correct in saying that we might not be able to alleviate a Wem arthritic condition, but there is a fair chance that we can. Tawsar is old and frail but not sick. It could live for another ten years, longer if it would eat more. For some reason these people are nearly starving themselves to death.”

  If the pathologist had tasted the recent Wem meal, Gurronsevas thought, the reason would be plain. To Remrath he said, “Tawsar has many years of life ahead, especially if it would eat more food.”

  Remrath scraped the congealed remains of a meal from a platter into a waste bin before sliding it into the washing trough. It said, “The young would help us if we asked them, but the old must do useful work while we are waiti
ng to deliver up our bodies at the Ending, and it is work that we are allowed to do even though we are not always capable of doing it well. And we don’t want to eat more food, not when it is vegetation. The subject is distasteful in every sense of the word. But I have questions for you, Gurronsevas. If they are improper, ignore them. Your work I can understand because it is not unlike my own, but what about the beings who spoke with and did things to Tawsar? Where do they come from and what do they do there?”

  Gurronsevas tried to describe Sector General and the work that was done there, but his description was much too simple and far from accurate because he knew that the tremendous truth would not be believed.

  “So it is a great building in the sky,” said Remrath, “filled with beings who take in diseased and damaged bodies and make them clean and fresh and whole again?”

  “That’s as good a way as any,” said Murchison, laughing softly, “of describing what we do.”

  “There used to be places like that on Wemar,” it went on, unaware of the interruption, “but their work fell far short of that which you describe. You say that your friends on the ship come from Sector General and are willing to do this service for Tawsar and the rest of the senior staff?”

  “Yes,” he replied without hesitation.

  “I–I am grateful,” said Remrath, “but I am also uneasy about entrusting my body to strangers. Although one of them, you are known to me and …You, also, come from Sector General and must have knowledge that is greater than mine. I would prefer, when the time comes, that you did the work of returning my body to the freshness of youth.”

  “Regrettably,” said Gurronsevas, pleased at the misplaced compliment, “I know nothing of these matters. My only contribution lies in the preparation, presentation and delivery of food for people there.”