Hayford Peirce - Deep-Fried Black Diamonds

And even if she wasn’t seated between a king and queen, at least Isabel would be there. This was the Second trip she had made to Earth this year—the first had been to establish Valérie-France in her general-purpose school-home-medical center in the Swiss Alps—and she would stay another two weeks before returning to Ceres. So it was easy enough for her to slip across a couple of borders to attend a dinner that thousands of the rich and beautiful and socially connected had already been turned away from.

“It’s awfully kind of you to have invited her at all,” I said.

“It was the least I could do, after all that you have done for me and Black Diamond Farm. After this dinner, our BDF truffles will be famous throughout the Solar System. And when I return, I promise that I will cook exactly the same dinner for you and that delightful partner of yours, Mr. Alexander.”

Tyrannical boss was a far more apt description, but I merely smiled. “At least we’ll be able to watch the vid-cast of the dinner,” I said. That was true. The dinner was going to be telecast in real time all over the Earth; Jin Tshei and I would be able to watch it a few hours later after the tight-beamed transmission had made its way across the 3.8 AUs that presently separated Earth from the far side of the Asteroid Belt.

“That is true,” agreed Ling Wong Guoy. He glanced up at the nearest video cameras, moved Jin Tshei into a slightly more photogenic angle, and stood on tiptoe to kiss her gallantly on both cheeks. My own cheeks received the same treatment in a far more perfunctory manner, and then the celebrated restaurateur was marching as if to martial music to the entrance of the ship that would take him to Earth and his glorious destiny.

“I wish we were going too,” sighed Jin Tshei. “I do miss Isabel. And Valérie-France.”

“Me too,” I said. “I also wish the two of you had listened to me.” I gestured at the media people that were still gathered around the entrance to the ship. “The publicity for this dinner is already enormous—and has only gotten started. The price of BDF was up another 27 percent this morning. By the time those 250 greedy guts in Prague actually take their first bite of poached truffle, it figures to have doubled again. If you and Isabel hadn’t put all your money into those damned annuities, you’d each be worth another two million buckles.”

“Just like you are.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “just like I am.”

“Turn on your television to the Earth news!” shrieked J. Davis Alexander’s hysterical voice from his corner office overlooking the duck pond in Westlake Park. “Go back four minutes!”

Heart pounding with sudden apprehension, I switched on the screen. All I saw was a milling mass of people in archaic clothing. “Back four minutes!” I snapped.

The image broadened to become a panoramic view of an opulent ballroom. Thousands of candles in crystal chandeliers glittered upon gold and silver fittings. Long white tables stretched across the room. The tables were packed by men in black suits and women in colorful gowns. Somberly dressed waiters swept silently through the aisles. My heart pounded even faster as I recognized the scene: it could only be Ling Wong Guoy’s Diner des Diamants Noirs.

But what the devil was it doing on the headline news channel instead of on Arts and Graces III, where it was scheduled to be shown in its entirety about six hours from now?

“Sound,” I told the set, “give me medium sound.”

“—About ready to serve the second course,” came an unctuous whisper as ripe and plummy as an entire orchard of damsons. What now appeared on the screen was a medium close-up of a distinguished old gentleman with a flowing white beard and a chestful of colorful decorations. His eyes glittered and the tip of a pink tongue moved back and forth across his lips as he impatiently awaited the next course.

An arm appeared and placed before the old gentleman an elaborately wrought golden soup dish. In the dish sat a shiny black truffle.

“This,” said the plummy whisper, “may well be the highlight of the entire feast, a dish that has utterly vanished from the menus of the world’s restaurants for more than a century now: Son Majesté le Diamant Noir Mijoté à Ma Façon dans le Roederer Cristal 2258. That is to say, an entire truffle for each guest, simmered in Mr. Ling Wong Guoy’s manner, first in butter and shallots, then poached and briefly baked in a champagne whose very name and vintage move connoisseurs to tears. As you can see, the waiter is now ladling a generous portion of demi-glace sauce over the truffle. And now, as a further and final embellishment, he is sprinkling it with a few glittering petals of crystallized violets.”

The commentator sighed rapturously. “Let us watch now as Commander von Brutenberg, Chevalier des Tâte-Vins de Bordeaux, takes his first bite of this almost ethereal truffle. The Commander savors the extraordinary aroma and bouquet; with trembling hands he slices an initial morsel; eyes closed in reverential awe, he lifts it toward his mouth. His mouth opens, he—”

The grapefruit-sized truffle sitting in the solid gold soup dish exploded.

For a long, long moment it was impossible to tell what had happened. When the jumbled images on the screen cleared, it was to reveal Commander von Brutenberg thrown back in his chair, his face and torso covered with a thick black paste that dripped slowly to the floor as he attempted to wipe the hideous goo from his eyes.

Now there came a sharp rattle of popping sounds as one after another the other truffles began to explode. The last I saw before my horrified eyes refused to look any longer was hundreds of screaming guests leaping and thrashing in a lemming-like panic to escape the culinary bombs.

I was still immobilized with shock when the face of J. Davis Alexander appeared around the corner of my door. I had an instant premonition of at least a portion of the monologue to come.

“The price of BDF has just dropped 98 percent! Trading has been suspended on every exchange in the Solar System! Ling Wong Guoy is in the hospital after trying to kill himself by slashing his throat with a truffle parer! He’ll be all right, curse his incompetence!—it seems you can’t do much damage with a paring knife—but there was lots of blood all over everything, just perfect for the iV cameras!”

J. Davis Alexander’s voice sank to a barely audible growl. “Old man Choupette himself called to say that any imbecile in the firm dumb enough to have bought any of this stock on margin has to cover it at once! That’s me, White, me! Thanks to you and your lunatic ideas, I’m a ruined man!” J. Davis Alexander’s eyes bulged with rage. “White,” he screamed, “you’re fired!”

That was the premonition I’d had.

It’s no fun being a prophet in your own country.

Isabel looked as beautiful as ever upon her return from Earth—no, more beautiful, for she had a glowing tan of the sort that you can only get in the expensive air of the Swiss Alps. But she was Jin Tshei’s wife, after all, so I faded discreetly away for a day or so to allow them their own homecoming celebration. Finally, when it was my turn to celebrate, I invited the two of them out to dinner.

“I’m afraid that this is all I can afford,” I said apologetically.

Isabel and Jin Tshei glanced around at the stark rock walls of the fast-food emporium. We were deep in the bowels of the southwest corridors of what is generally called Minerstown. Faded posters of the Mediterranean Sea and other Earth scenes made a half-hearted attempt to alleviate the sense of being buried hundreds of meters below the surface. “Looks OK to me,” Isabel shrugged. “Anyway, we’ve all of us been poor before.”