Poul Anderson - The Star Fox

“But I have told you—”

“You told me it was physically and legally impossible. I can prove the physical possibility.

And you said you were a lawyer.”

Coquelin rose too, went to the window, and stared long out across the Seine. Heim’s pace quivered the floor. His brain whirled with plans, data, angers, hopes; he had not been so seized by a power since he bestrode his bridge at Alpha Eridani.

And then Coquelin turned about. His whisper filled the silence: “ Peut-etre—” and he went to the desk and began punching keys on an infotrieve.

“What are you after?” Heim demanded.

“Details of the time before quite every country had joined the Federation. The Moslem League did not recognize that it had any right as a whole to deal with them. So during the troubles, the Authority was charged with protecting Federation interests in Africa.” Coquelin gave himself entirely to his work. Once, though, he met Heim’s eyes. His own danced in his head.

“Mille remercîments, mon frère,” he said. “It may be for no more than this night, but you have given me back my youth.”

Endre Vadász took the lid off the kettle, inhaled a sumptuous odor, gave the contents a stir, and recovered them. “Almost done, this,” he said. “I had better make the salad. Have you the materials ready?”

Lisa Heim blushed. “I… I’m afraid I’m not so good at slicing cucumbers and stuff,” she said.

“Poof to that.” Vadász scooped the disorderly pile of greens into a bowl. “For a cadet, you do very well… Find me the seasonings, will you? One must needs be an engineer to operate this damned machine shop you call a kitchen… As I was saying, small one, when I so rudely interrupted myself, we shall yet win you to your cook and bottle washer (j.g.) rating. Charge, a boar’s head erased with an apple gules in its mouth, field barry of six vert and or. That’s for cabbage and clotted cream.”

Lisa giggled and hopped onto the table, where she swung her legs and watched Vadász with embarrassing warmth. He had only tried to be good company to his host’s daughter while her father was away. He gave the herbs and spices more attention than was really necessary.

“My mother taught me a Spanish saying,” he remarked, “that it takes four men to make a salad: a spendthrift for the oil, a philosopher for the seasonings, a miser for the vinegar, and a madman for the tossing.”

Lisa giggled again. “You’re cute.”

“Er—here we go.” Vadász got to work, singing.

“Is that a real old song too?” Lisa asked when he paused for breath. He nodded. “I just love your songs,” she said.

Vadász continued hastily.

Lisa grabbed a skillet and spoon to beat out time as, she joined him in the chorus.

“Hi-ro-de-rungl Hi-ro-de-rung!” chimed in a bull basso. Gunnar Heim stormed through the door.

“Skinna-ma-rinky doodle doo, skinna-ma-rinky doodle doo, (“Daddy!” “Gunnar!”).

“Glory, hallelujah, hi-ro-de-rung!” He snatched Lisa off the table, tossed her nearly to the ceiling, caught her, and began to whirl her around the floor. Vadász went merrily on. Helm took the chorus while he stamped out a measure with the girl, who squealed.

“Oh, Daddy!” Lisa collapsed in a laughing fit.

“Welcome home,” Vadász said. “You timed yourself well.”

“What’s going on here, anyway?” Heim inquired. “Where are the servants? Why put a camp stove in a perfectly good kitchen?”

“Because machines are competent enough cooks but will never be chefs,” Vadász said. “I promised your daughter a goulash, not one of those lyophilized glue-stews but a genuine handmade Gulyás and sneeze-with-joy in the spices.”

“Oh. Fine. Only I’d better get me—”

“Nothing. A Hungarian never sets the table with less than twice as much. You may, if you wish, contribute some red wine. So, once more, welcome home, and it is good to see you in this humor.”

“With reason.” Heim rubbed his great hands and smiled like a happy tiger. “Yes, indeedy.”

“What have you done, Daddy?” Lisa asked.

“’Fraid I can’t tell you, jente min. Not for a while.” He saw the first symptoms of mutiny, chucked her under the chin, and said, “It’s for your own protection.”

She stamped her foot. “I’m not a child, you know!”

“Come, now; come, now,” interrupted Vadász. “Let us not spoil the mood. Lisa, will you set a third place? We are eating in the high style, Gunnar, in your sunroom.”

“Sure,” she sighed. “If I can have the general intercom on, vid and audio both. Can I, please, Daddy?”

Heim chuckled, stepped out to the central control panel, and unlocked the switch that made it possible to activate any pickup in the apartment from any other room. Vadász’s voice drifted after him:

and on to the end.

When Heim came back, he remarked in an undertone, because she’d be watching and listening, “Lisa doesn’t want to miss a second of you, eh?”

The finely molded face turned doleful. “Gunnar, I didn’t mean—”

“Oh, for crying in the beer!” Heim slapped Vadász on the back. “You can’t imagine how much I’d rather have her in orbit around you than some of that adolescent trash. Everything seems to be turning sunward for me.”

The Magyar brightened. “I trust,” he said, “this means you have found a particularly foul way to goosh our friends of Alerion.”

“Shh!” Heim jerked a thumb at the intercom screen. “Let’s see, what wine should I dial for your main course?”

“Hey, ha, this is quite a list. Are you running a hotel?”

“No, to be honest, my wife tried to educate me in wines but never got far. I like the stuff but haven’t much of a palate. So except when there’s company, I stay with beer and whisky.”

Lisa appeared in the screen. She laughed and sang,

Vadász put thumb to nose and waggled his fingers. She stuck out her tongue. They both grinned, neither so broadly as Heim.