MYRA WAS VEXED. “It’s Mr. Dunbar. The chief chemist
at Synthetic Foods,” she added, as though he didn’t
know that. “He is here himself; he has something he insists
he must give to you personally.”
“That’s what I told him to do, Myra. Send him
in.”
Malcolm Dunbar pushed through the door from Myra’s office
with an open fiberboard carton under his arm. That had probably
helped vex Myra; Dunbar was an executive, and executives ought not
to carry their own parcels; it was infra dignitatem. He set it on
the corner of the desk.
“Here it is, Mr. Grego; this is the first batch. We just
finished the chemical tests on it. Identical with both the Navy
stuff and the stuff we imported ourselves.”
He rose and went around the desk, reaching into the carton and
taking out a light brown slab, breaking off a corner and tasting
it. It had the same slightly rancid, slightly oily and slightly
sweetish flavor as the regular product. It tasted as though it had
been compounded according to the best scientific principles of
dietetics, by somebody who thought there was something sinful about
eating for pleasure. He yielded to no one in his admiration of
Fuzzy fuzzy holloway, but anybody who liked this stuff was
nuts.
“You’re sure it’s safe?”
Dunbar was outraged. “My God, would I bring it here for
you to feed your Fuzzy if I didn’t know it was? In the first
place, it’s made strictly according to Terran Federation
Armed Forces specifications. The bulk-matter is pure wheat farina,
the same as Argentine Syntho-Foods and Odin Dietetics use. The rest
is chemically pure synthetic nutrients. We have a man at the plant
who used to be a chemical engineer at Odin Dietetics; he checked
all the processes and they’re identical. And we tried it on
all the standard lab animals; Terran hamsters and Thoran tilbras,
and then on Freyan kholphs and Terran rhesus monkeys. The
kholphs,” he footnoted, “didn’t like it worth a
damn. It harmed none of them. And I ate a cake of the damned stuff
myself, and it took a couple of hours and a pint of bourbon to get
rid of the taste,” the martyr to science added.
“All right. I will accept that it is fit for Fuzzy
consumption. Fortunately, the whole Fuzzy population of
Mallorysport, all five of them, are up on my terrace now.
Let’s go.”
Ben Rainsford’s Flora and Fauna, and Mrs.
Pendarvis’s Pierrot and Columbine were with Diamond in the
Fuzzy-room. Outside on the terrace it was raw and rainy, one of
Mallorysport’s rare unpleasant days. They had a lot of
colored triangular tiles on the floor, and were making patterns
with them. Sandra Glenn was watching them with one eye and reading
with the other. They all sprang to their feet and began yeeking,
then remembered the Fuzzy phones on their belts, whipped them out,
and began shouting, “Heyo, Pappy Vic!” He’d tried
to explain that he was Diamond’s Pappy Vic, and just Uncle
Vic to the rest, but they refused to make the distinction. Pappy to
one Fuzzy, pappy to all.
“Pappy Vic give Estee-fee, “ he told them.
“New estefee, very good.” He set the box down and got
out one of the slabs, breaking and distributing it. The Fuzzies had
nice manners; the two most recent guests, Pierrot and Columbine,
served first, held theirs till the others were served. Then they
all nibbled together.
They each took one nibble and stopped.
“Not good,” Diamond declared. “Not Estee-fee.
Want Estee-fee. “
“Bad,” Flora pronounced it, spitting out what she
had in her mouth and carrying the rest to the trash-bin.
“Estee-fee good; this not.”
“Estee-fee for look; not Estee-fee in mouth,”
Pierrot said.
“What are they saying?” Dunbar wanted to know.
“They say it isn’t Extee-Three at all, and they want
to know how dumb I am to think it is.”
“But look, Mr. Grego; this is Extee-Three. It is
chemically identical with the stuff they’ve been eating all
along.”
“The Fuzzies aren’t chemists. They only know what it
tastes like, and it doesn’t taste like Extee-Three to
them.”
“It tastes like Extee-Three to me . . . ”
“You,” Sandra told him, “are not a
Fuzzy.” She switched languages and explained that Pappy Vic
and the other Big One really thought it was Estee-fee.
“Pappy Vic feel bad,” he told them. “Pappy Vic
want to give real Estee-fee.”
He gathered up the offending carton and carried it into the
kitchenette, going to one of the cupboards and getting out a tin of
the genuine article. Only a dozen left; he’d have to start
rationing it himself. He cut it into six pieces, put by a piece for
Diamond after the company was gone, and distributed the rest.
Dunbar was still arguing with Sandra that the stuff he’d
brought was chemically Extee-Three.
“All right, Malcolm, I believe you. The point is, these
Fuzzies don’t give a hoot on Nifflheim what the chemical
composition is.” He looked at the label on the tin.
“The man you have at the plant worked for Odin Dietetics,
didn’t he? Well, this stuff was made on Terra by Argentine
Syntho-Foods. What do they use for cereal bulk-matter at Odin
Dietetics, some native grain?”
“No, introduced Terran wheat, and Argentine uses wheat
from the pampas and from the Mississippi Valley in North
America.”
“Different soil-chemicals, different bacteria; hell, man,
look at tobacco. We’ve introduced it on every planet
we’ve ever colonized, and no tobacco tastes just like the
tobacco from anywhere else.”
“Do we have any Odin Extee-Three?” Sandra asked.
“Smart girl; a triple A for good thinking. Do
we?”
“Yes. The stuff we import’s Argentine, and the stuff
the Navy has on Xerxes is Odin.”
“And the Fuzzies can’t tell the difference? No, of
course they can’t. Jack Holloway bought his Extee-Three from
us and gave it to his Fuzzies, and when they got on Xerxes, the
Navy fed them theirs. What did you use in this stuff, local
wheat?”
“Introduced wheat; seed came from South America. Grown on
Gamma Continent.”
“Well, Mal, we’re going to find out what’s the
matter with this stuff. Real all-out study, tear it apart molecule
by molecule. Who’s our best biochemist?”
“Hoenveld.”
“Well, put him to work on it. There’s some
difference, and the Fuzzies know it. You say this stuff’s
Government specification standard?”
“It meets the Government tests.”
“Well; Napier has a lot of Extee-Three on Xerxes he
won’t release because it’s regulation required
emergency stores. We’ll see if we can trade this for it . . . ”
“WELL, YOU GOOFED on it somehow!” the superintendent
of the synthetics plant was insisting. “The Fuzzies eat
regular Extee-Three; they’re crazy about it. If they
won’t eat your stuff, it isn’t Extee-Three.”
“Listen, Abe, goddamit, I know it is Extee-Three! We
followed the formula exactly. Ask Joe Vespi, here; he used to work
at Odin Dietetics . . . ”
“That’s correct, Mr. Fitch; every step of the
process is exactly as I remember it from Odin—”
“As you remembered it!” Fitch pounced triumphantly.
“What did you remember wrong?”
“Why, nothing, Mr. Fitch. Look, here’s the
schematic. The farina, that’s the bulk-matter, comes in here,
to these pressure-cookers . . . ”
DR JAN CHRISTIAAN Hoenveld was annoyed, and because he was an
emminent scientist and Victor Grego was only a businessman, he was
at no pains to hide it.
“Mr. Grego, do you realize how much work is piled up on me
now? Dr. Andrews and Dr. Reynier and Dr. Dosihara are at me to find
out whether there is any biochemical cause of premature and
defective births among Fuzzies. And now you want me to drop that
and find out why one batch of Extee-Three tastes differently to a
Fuzzy from another. There is a gunsmith here in town who has a sign
in his shop, There are only twenty four hours in a day and there is
only one of me. I have often considered copying that sign in my
laboratory.” He sat frowning into his screen from Science
Center, across the city, for a moment. “Mr. Grego, has it
occurred to you or any of your master-minds at Synthetics that
difference may be in the Fuzzies’
taste-perception?”
“It has occurred to me that Fuzzies must have a sense of
taste that would shame the most famous wine-taster in the Galaxy.
But I question if it is more accurate than your chemical analysis.
If those Fuzzies tasted a difference between our Extee-Three and
Argentine SynthoFood’s, the difference must be detectable. I
don’t know anybody better able to detect it than you, Doctor;
that’s why I’m asking you to find out what it
is.”
Dr. Jan Christiaan Hoenveld said, “Hunnh!”
ungraciously. Flattered, and didn’t want to show it.
“Well, I’ll do what I can, Mr. Grego . . . ”
MYRA WAS VEXED. “It’s Mr. Dunbar. The chief chemist
at Synthetic Foods,” she added, as though he didn’t
know that. “He is here himself; he has something he insists
he must give to you personally.”
“That’s what I told him to do, Myra. Send him
in.”
Malcolm Dunbar pushed through the door from Myra’s office
with an open fiberboard carton under his arm. That had probably
helped vex Myra; Dunbar was an executive, and executives ought not
to carry their own parcels; it was infra dignitatem. He set it on
the corner of the desk.
“Here it is, Mr. Grego; this is the first batch. We just
finished the chemical tests on it. Identical with both the Navy
stuff and the stuff we imported ourselves.”
He rose and went around the desk, reaching into the carton and
taking out a light brown slab, breaking off a corner and tasting
it. It had the same slightly rancid, slightly oily and slightly
sweetish flavor as the regular product. It tasted as though it had
been compounded according to the best scientific principles of
dietetics, by somebody who thought there was something sinful about
eating for pleasure. He yielded to no one in his admiration of
Fuzzy fuzzy holloway, but anybody who liked this stuff was
nuts.
“You’re sure it’s safe?”
Dunbar was outraged. “My God, would I bring it here for
you to feed your Fuzzy if I didn’t know it was? In the first
place, it’s made strictly according to Terran Federation
Armed Forces specifications. The bulk-matter is pure wheat farina,
the same as Argentine Syntho-Foods and Odin Dietetics use. The rest
is chemically pure synthetic nutrients. We have a man at the plant
who used to be a chemical engineer at Odin Dietetics; he checked
all the processes and they’re identical. And we tried it on
all the standard lab animals; Terran hamsters and Thoran tilbras,
and then on Freyan kholphs and Terran rhesus monkeys. The
kholphs,” he footnoted, “didn’t like it worth a
damn. It harmed none of them. And I ate a cake of the damned stuff
myself, and it took a couple of hours and a pint of bourbon to get
rid of the taste,” the martyr to science added.
“All right. I will accept that it is fit for Fuzzy
consumption. Fortunately, the whole Fuzzy population of
Mallorysport, all five of them, are up on my terrace now.
Let’s go.”
Ben Rainsford’s Flora and Fauna, and Mrs.
Pendarvis’s Pierrot and Columbine were with Diamond in the
Fuzzy-room. Outside on the terrace it was raw and rainy, one of
Mallorysport’s rare unpleasant days. They had a lot of
colored triangular tiles on the floor, and were making patterns
with them. Sandra Glenn was watching them with one eye and reading
with the other. They all sprang to their feet and began yeeking,
then remembered the Fuzzy phones on their belts, whipped them out,
and began shouting, “Heyo, Pappy Vic!” He’d tried
to explain that he was Diamond’s Pappy Vic, and just Uncle
Vic to the rest, but they refused to make the distinction. Pappy to
one Fuzzy, pappy to all.
“Pappy Vic give Estee-fee, “ he told them.
“New estefee, very good.” He set the box down and got
out one of the slabs, breaking and distributing it. The Fuzzies had
nice manners; the two most recent guests, Pierrot and Columbine,
served first, held theirs till the others were served. Then they
all nibbled together.
They each took one nibble and stopped.
“Not good,” Diamond declared. “Not Estee-fee.
Want Estee-fee. “
“Bad,” Flora pronounced it, spitting out what she
had in her mouth and carrying the rest to the trash-bin.
“Estee-fee good; this not.”
“Estee-fee for look; not Estee-fee in mouth,”
Pierrot said.
“What are they saying?” Dunbar wanted to know.
“They say it isn’t Extee-Three at all, and they want
to know how dumb I am to think it is.”
“But look, Mr. Grego; this is Extee-Three. It is
chemically identical with the stuff they’ve been eating all
along.”
“The Fuzzies aren’t chemists. They only know what it
tastes like, and it doesn’t taste like Extee-Three to
them.”
“It tastes like Extee-Three to me . . . ”
“You,” Sandra told him, “are not a
Fuzzy.” She switched languages and explained that Pappy Vic
and the other Big One really thought it was Estee-fee.
“Pappy Vic feel bad,” he told them. “Pappy Vic
want to give real Estee-fee.”
He gathered up the offending carton and carried it into the
kitchenette, going to one of the cupboards and getting out a tin of
the genuine article. Only a dozen left; he’d have to start
rationing it himself. He cut it into six pieces, put by a piece for
Diamond after the company was gone, and distributed the rest.
Dunbar was still arguing with Sandra that the stuff he’d
brought was chemically Extee-Three.
“All right, Malcolm, I believe you. The point is, these
Fuzzies don’t give a hoot on Nifflheim what the chemical
composition is.” He looked at the label on the tin.
“The man you have at the plant worked for Odin Dietetics,
didn’t he? Well, this stuff was made on Terra by Argentine
Syntho-Foods. What do they use for cereal bulk-matter at Odin
Dietetics, some native grain?”
“No, introduced Terran wheat, and Argentine uses wheat
from the pampas and from the Mississippi Valley in North
America.”
“Different soil-chemicals, different bacteria; hell, man,
look at tobacco. We’ve introduced it on every planet
we’ve ever colonized, and no tobacco tastes just like the
tobacco from anywhere else.”
“Do we have any Odin Extee-Three?” Sandra asked.
“Smart girl; a triple A for good thinking. Do
we?”
“Yes. The stuff we import’s Argentine, and the stuff
the Navy has on Xerxes is Odin.”
“And the Fuzzies can’t tell the difference? No, of
course they can’t. Jack Holloway bought his Extee-Three from
us and gave it to his Fuzzies, and when they got on Xerxes, the
Navy fed them theirs. What did you use in this stuff, local
wheat?”
“Introduced wheat; seed came from South America. Grown on
Gamma Continent.”
“Well, Mal, we’re going to find out what’s the
matter with this stuff. Real all-out study, tear it apart molecule
by molecule. Who’s our best biochemist?”
“Hoenveld.”
“Well, put him to work on it. There’s some
difference, and the Fuzzies know it. You say this stuff’s
Government specification standard?”
“It meets the Government tests.”
“Well; Napier has a lot of Extee-Three on Xerxes he
won’t release because it’s regulation required
emergency stores. We’ll see if we can trade this for it . . . ”
“WELL, YOU GOOFED on it somehow!” the superintendent
of the synthetics plant was insisting. “The Fuzzies eat
regular Extee-Three; they’re crazy about it. If they
won’t eat your stuff, it isn’t Extee-Three.”
“Listen, Abe, goddamit, I know it is Extee-Three! We
followed the formula exactly. Ask Joe Vespi, here; he used to work
at Odin Dietetics . . . ”
“That’s correct, Mr. Fitch; every step of the
process is exactly as I remember it from Odin—”
“As you remembered it!” Fitch pounced triumphantly.
“What did you remember wrong?”
“Why, nothing, Mr. Fitch. Look, here’s the
schematic. The farina, that’s the bulk-matter, comes in here,
to these pressure-cookers . . . ”
DR JAN CHRISTIAAN Hoenveld was annoyed, and because he was an
emminent scientist and Victor Grego was only a businessman, he was
at no pains to hide it.
“Mr. Grego, do you realize how much work is piled up on me
now? Dr. Andrews and Dr. Reynier and Dr. Dosihara are at me to find
out whether there is any biochemical cause of premature and
defective births among Fuzzies. And now you want me to drop that
and find out why one batch of Extee-Three tastes differently to a
Fuzzy from another. There is a gunsmith here in town who has a sign
in his shop, There are only twenty four hours in a day and there is
only one of me. I have often considered copying that sign in my
laboratory.” He sat frowning into his screen from Science
Center, across the city, for a moment. “Mr. Grego, has it
occurred to you or any of your master-minds at Synthetics that
difference may be in the Fuzzies’
taste-perception?”
“It has occurred to me that Fuzzies must have a sense of
taste that would shame the most famous wine-taster in the Galaxy.
But I question if it is more accurate than your chemical analysis.
If those Fuzzies tasted a difference between our Extee-Three and
Argentine SynthoFood’s, the difference must be detectable. I
don’t know anybody better able to detect it than you, Doctor;
that’s why I’m asking you to find out what it
is.”
Dr. Jan Christiaan Hoenveld said, “Hunnh!”
ungraciously. Flattered, and didn’t want to show it.
“Well, I’ll do what I can, Mr. Grego . . . ”