To Sail Beyond the Sunset (2 page)

“If you are not the manager, you can’t. Do you run on testicles? Or electrons?”

“Madam, I am a machine but a very flexible one. My memories include all curricula of Procrustes Institute of Hotelier Science, including all case studies updated to midnight yesterday. If you will be so good as to state your problem, I will match it at once with a precedent case and show how it was solved to the satisfaction of the guest. Please?”

“If you don’t put me through to the manager in nothing flat, I guarantee that the manager will take an axe to your rusty gizzard and install a Burroughs-Libby analog brain in your place. Who shaved the barber? What do your case studies say about that? Moron.”

This time I got a female voice. “Manager’s office. How may I help you?”

“You can take this dead man out of my bed!”

Short pause—“Housekeeping, Hester speaking. How may we help you?”

“There’s a dead man in my bed. I don’t like it. Untidy.”

Another pause—“Caesar Augustus Escort Service, serving all tastes. Do I understand that one of our gentleman companions died in your bed?”

“I don’t know who he is; I just know that he’s dead. Who takes care of such things? Room service? Garbage removal? House physician? And I want the sheets changed, too.”

This time they gave me background music while I waited…and waited—through the first two operas of the
Ring Cycle
and well into the third—

“Accounting and bookkeeping, our Mister Munster speaking. That room was not rented for double occupancy. There will be an additional—”

“Look, buster, it’s a corpse. I don’t think a corpse counts toward ‘double occupancy.’ Blood is dripping off the bed and onto your rug. If you don’t get somebody up here right away, that rug will be ruined.”

“There will be a charge for damage to the rug. That is more than normal wear and tear.”

“
Grrrr!
”

“I beg pardon?”

“I am about to set fire to the drapes.”

“You’re wasting your time; those drapes are fireproof. But your threat has been recorded. Under the Rooming House Act, section seven dee—”

“Get this dead man out of here!”

“Please hold. I’ll connect you with the head porter.”

“You do and I’ll shoot him as he comes through the door. I bite. I scratch. I’m foaming at the mouth. I haven’t had my shots.”

“Madam, please contain yourself. We pride ourselves on—”

“And then I’ll come down to your office and find you, Mister monster Munster, and pull you out of your chair and sit down in it myself and turn you over my knee and take your pants down and—Did I mention that I am from Hercules Gamma? Two and a half gravities surface acceleration; we eat your sort for lunch. So stay where you are; don’t make me have to hunt for you.”

“Madam, I regret that I must tell you that you cannot sit in my chair.”

“Want to bet?”

“I do not have a chair; I am securely bolted to the floor. And now I must bid you good day and turn you over to our security force. You will find the additional charges on your statement of account. Enjoy your stay with us.”

They showed up too quickly; I was still eyeing those fireproof drapes, wondering if I could do as well with them as Scarlet O’Hara had with the drapes at Tara, or if I could arrange a simple toga, like Eunice in
The Last Days of Pompeii
(Or was she in
Quo Vadis?
), when they arrived: a house doc, a house dick, and a house ape, the last with a cart. Several more oddments crowded in after them, until we had enough to choose up sides.

I need not have worried about being naked; no one seemed to notice…which irked me. Gentlemen should at least leer. And a wolf whistle or other applause would not be out of place. Anything less makes a woman feel unsure of herself.

(Perhaps I am too sensitive. But since my sesquicentennial I have been disposed to check the mirror each morning, wondering.)

There was only one woman in this mob of intruders. She looked at me and sniffed, which made me feel better.

Then I recalled something. When I was twelve, my father told me that I was going to have lots of trouble with men. I said, “Father, you are out of your veering mind. I’m not pretty. The boys don’t even throw snowballs at me.”

“A little respect, please. No, you aren’t pretty. It’s the way you smell, my darling daughter. You are going to have to bathe oftener…or some warm night you will wind up raped and murdered.”

“Why, I bathe every week! You know I do.”

“In your case, that’s not enough. Mark my words.”

I did mark his words and learned that Father knew what he was talking about. My body odor when I’m well and happy is much like that of a cat in heat. But today I was not happy. First that dead man scared me and then those bleeping machines made me angry…which adds up to a different sort of stink. A tabby cat not in heat can walk right through a caucus of toms and they will ignore her. As I was being ignored.

They stripped the top sheet off my erstwhile bedmate. The house physician looked over the cadaver without touching it, then looked more closely at that horrid red puddle—leaned down, sniffed it, then made my skin crawl by dipping a finger into the slop and tasting it. “Try it, Adolf. See what you think.”

His colleague (I assumed that he was another physician) also tasted the bloody mess. “Heinz.”

“No. Skinner’s.”

“With all due respect, Dr. Ridpath, you have ruined your palate with that cheap gin you guzzle. Heinz. Skinner’s catsup has more salt. Which kills the delicate tomato flavor. Which you can’t taste, because of your evil habits.”

“Ten thousand, Dr. Weisskopf? Even money.”

“You’re on. What do you place as the cause of death, sir?”

“Don’t try to trap me, Doctor. ‘Cause of death’ is your job.”

“His heart stopped.”

“Brilliant, Doctor, brilliant! But why did it stop?”

“In the case of Judge Hardacres for some years the question has been: What keeps him alive? Before I express an opinion I want to place him on a slab and slice him up. I may have been hasty; he may turn out not to have had a heart.”

“Are you going to cut him up to learn something, or to make certain he stays dead?”

“Noisy in here, isn’t it? Do you release the body? I’ll have it taken downtown.”

“Hand me a form nine-oh-four and I’ll chop it. Just keep the meat out of sight of our guests. Grand Hotel Augustus does not have guests dying on its premises.”

“Dr. Ridpath, I was handling such things discreetly before you slid through that diploma mill.”

“I’m sure you were, Adolf. Lawn ball later?”

“Thank you, Eric. Yes.”

“And dinner after; Zenobia will be expecting you. I’ll pick you up at the morgue.”

“Oh, I’m sorry! I’m taking my assistant to the Mayor’s Orgy.”

“No fuss. Zenobia would never miss the first big party of Fiesta; we’ll all go together. So bring her with you.”

“Him, not ‘her.’”

“Pardon my raised eyebrows; I thought you had sworn off. Very well; bring him.”

“Eric, Don’t you find it depressing to be so cynical? He’s a satyr, not a goose.”

“So much the better. With Fiesta starting at sundown Zenobia will welcome any gallant indecency he offers her, as long as he does not break her bones.”

This silly chatter had told me one thing: I was not in New Liverpool. New Liverpool does not celebrate Fiesta—and this local festival sounded like
Fasching
in Munich combined with Carnival in Rio, with a Brixton riot thrown in. So, not New Liverpool. What city, what planet, what year, and what universe remained to be seen. Then I would have to see what could be done about my predicament. Clothes. Money. Status. Then, how to get home. But I was not worried. As long as the body is warm and the bowels move regularly no problem can be other than minor and temporary.

The two doctors were still sneering at each other when I suddenly realized that I had heard not one word of Galacta. Not even Spanglish. They were speaking English, almost the harsh accent of my girlhood, with idiom and vocabulary close to that of my native Missouri.

Maureen, this is ridiculous.

While flunkies were getting ready to move the body (disguised as a nameless something draped in dust covers) the medical examiner (coroner?) got a signed release from the house physician, and both started to leave. I stopped the latter. “Dr. Ridpath!”

“Yes? What is it, Miss?”

“I’m Maureen Johnson Long. You are on the staff of the hotel, are you not?”

“In a manner of speaking. I have my offices here and am available as house physician when needed. Do you wish to see me professionally? I’m in a hurry.”

“Just one quick question, Doctor. How does one get the attention of a flesh and blood human being on the staff of this hotel? I can’t seem to raise anyone but moronic robots—and I’m stranded here with no clothes and no money.”

He shrugged. “Someone is certain to show up before long, once I report that Judge Hardacres is dead. Are you worried about your fee? Why don’t you call the talent agency that sent you to him? The judge probably had a running account with them.”

“Oh! Doctor, I’m not a prostitute. Although I suppose it does look like it.”

He cocked his left brow so high that it disturbed the tilt of his toupée, and changed the subject. “You have a beautiful pussy.”

I assumed that he was speaking of my feline companion, who is a most beautiful pussy—a flame-colored tomcat (just the color of my hair) in a striking tiger pattern. He has been much admired in several universes. “Thank you, sir. His name is Pixel and he is a much-traveled cat. Pixel, this is Dr. Ridpath.”

The doctor put out a finger close to the little pink nose. “Howdy, Pixel.”

Pixel was helpful. (Sometimes he is not—a cat of firm opinions.) He sniffed the proffered finger, then licked it.

The doctor smiled indulgently, then withdrew his finger when Pixel decided that the ritual kiss had gone on long enough. “He’s a fine boy, that one. Where did you find him?”

“On Tertius.”

“Where’s Ontershus? Canada? Mmm, you say you have a money problem. What’ll you take for Pixel, cash in hand? My little girl would love him.”

(I didn’t swindle him. I could have but I didn’t. Pixel can’t be sold—he can’t stay sold—because he can’t be locked up. For him, stone walls do not a prison make.) “Oh, I’m sorry! I can’t sell him; he’s not mine. He’s a member of the family of my grandson—one of my grandsons—and his wife. But Colin and Hazel would never sell him. They can’t sell him; they don’t own him. No one owns him; Pixel is a free citizen.”

“So? Then perhaps I can bribe him. How about it, Pixel? Lots of horse liver, fresh fish, cat nibbles, all you want. Plenty of friendly girl cats around and we’ll leave your spark plugs right where they are. Well?”

Pixel gave the restless wiggle that means “Let me down,” so I did. He sniffed the doctors legs, then brushed against him. “
Nnnow?
” he inquired.

Dr. Ridpath said to me, “You should have accepted my offer. I seem to have acquired a cat.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it, Doctor. Pixel likes to travel but he always comes back to my grandson Colin. Colonel Colin Campbell. And his wife Hazel.”

For the first time Dr. Ridpath really looked at me. “‘Grandson.’ ‘Colonel.’ Miss, you’re hallucinating.”

(I suddenly realized how it looked to him. Before I left Tertius, Ishtar had given me a booster treatment—it had been fifty-two years—and Galahad had given me a cosmetic refresher and had overdone it. Galahad likes ’em young, especially redheads—he keeps my twin daughters permanent teenagers, and now we three look like triplets. Galahad cheats. Except for Theodore, Galahad is my favorite husband, but I shan’t let anyone find out.)

“Yes, I must be hallucinating,” I agreed. “I don’t know where I am, I don’t know what day this is, I don’t know what became of my clothes or my money or my purse, and I don’t know how I got here…save that I was in an irrelevancy bus for New Liverpool and there was an accident of some sort. If Pixel were not still with me, I would wonder if I were me.”

Dr. Ridpath reached down; Pixel allowed himself to be picked up. “What was that bus you mentioned?”

“A Burroughs shifter. I was on Tellus Tertius at Boondock on time line two at Galactic year 2149, or Gregorian 4368 if you like that better. I was scheduled for New Liverpool in time line two, where I was to base for a field trip. But something went wrong.”

“Ah, so. Hmm. And you have a grandson who is a colonel?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And how old are you?”

“That depends on how you count it, Doctor. I was born on Earth in time line two on the Fourth of July, 1882. I lived there until 1982, one century minus two weeks, whereupon I moved to Tertius and was rejuvenated. That was fifty-two years ago by my personal calendar. I’ve had a booster just recently, which made me younger than I should be—I prefer to be mature rather than girlish. But I do have grandchildren, lots of them.”

“Interesting. Will you come down to my office with me?”

“You think I’m out of my head.”

He was not quick to answer. “Let me put it this way. One of us is hallucinating. Tests may show which one. Besides that, I have an exceptionally cynical office nurse who can, without tests, almost certainly spot which one of us has slipped his clutch. Will you come?”

“Yes, certainly. And thank you, sir. But I’ve got to find some clothes first. I can’t very well leave this room until I do.” (I wasn’t certain that this was true. That crowd that had just left obviously did not have the attitudes on “indecent exposure” that were commonplace in Missouri when I was born. On the other hand, where I now lived on Tertius nudity at home was unremarkable and it didn’t cause any excitement even in the most public places—like overalls at a wedding: unusual but nothing to stare at.)

“Oh. But Festival is about to start.”

“‘Festival’? Doctor, I’m a stranger in a strange land; that is what I’ve been trying to say.”

“Uh—Our biggest holiday is about to start. Starts at sundown, theoretically, but there are many who jump the gun. By now the boulevard out front will have quite a percentage of naked people, already drunk and looking for partners.”