The Galactic Gourmet

stupid. And placing me under an obligation by promising to relieve the pain in my joints was unfair because I cannot repay …”

“Friend Tawsar,” Prilicla broke in, “there is nothing to repay. But if the balancing of obligations are important to your people, you have allowed us to satisfy our medical curiosity regarding the Wem, and this would repay the debt many times over. As for your stiffening joints, the pain symptoms can be relieved easily although a cure that would allow a return to full mobility might be more difficult because the condition is advanced in your case. We might have to remove the damaged joints in their entirety and fit replacements made from metal or hardened plastic.”

“No!”

The single word sounded so angry that it must have been accompanied by strong emotional radiation, and Gurronsevas was glad that he was not seeing Prilicla’s reaction. He had moved along the tunnel and was within a few paces of the kitchen entrance by the time the empath found its voice again.

“There is nothing to fear, friend Tawsar,” said the empath. “Joint replacements are done routinely, thousands every day on some worlds, and in the majority of cases the replacement is more efficient than the original. There is no pain. The operation is performed while the subject is unconscious and …”

“No,” Tawsar broke in again, less vehemently. “That must not be done. It would render parts of my body inedible.”

Gurronsevas was moving slowly into what appeared to be a service compartment adjoining the kitchen proper, which was hidden by two swinging doors that were impervious to sight but not smell. He could see long benches stacked with trays, neatly-racked eating utensils and shelves containing cooking-pots, dishes of various sizes, and cups, the majority of which were cracked or missing their handles. But as the implications of what Tawsar had said began to sink in, he came to a sudden halt.

He could only imagine how the medical team and the listening Fletcher on Rhabwar were reacting; like himself they must have been shocked speechless. It was the pathologist who found its voice first.

“W-We, that is, all of the intelligent species we know, bury their dead, or burn them, or dispose of them in other ways. But they do not use them as food.”

“That is very stupid of you,” Tawsar replied, “to waste an important natural resource like that. On Wemar we cannot afford such criminal wastage. We honor and remember our dead if their lives and deeds warrant it, but even so, a person’s past life has little effect on his or her taste provided they remain healthy. We would not, of course, eat someone who was too long dead, or who had died from a disease, or whose body contained harmful substances like metal or plastic joints. If we are sure the meat will not harm us, we will eat anything. Because of my advanced age, I myself will probably be tough and stringy, but nutritious nevertheless.

“The tastiest pieces,” the Wem went on, “come from the young or the newly-mature adults who die by accident or while hunting …”

The double doors into the main kitchen swung open suddenly to reveal the figure of a Wem wreathed in steam, and two others working some distance behind it. All three wore loosely-tied aprons of a fabric that had been washed too often for it to have retained its original color. The one nearest the door was the first to speak.

“Obviously you are one of the off-worlders,” it said politely. “My name is Remrath. Please come in.”

For a moment it seemed that Gurronsevas’s six, massive feet were rooted to the stone floor, because he was remembering Tawsar’s earliest words to him.

The First Cook will be pleased to see you.

CHAPTER 22

I’ve been monitoring your conversation, Doctor,” said Fletcher on the ship frequency, “and I do not like what I’m hearing. About seventy young Wem and four instructors have come into sight heading for the mine entrance, and at the present rate of progress they should be there in forty-plus minutes. The other working parties have downed tools and are moving to join them, probably for lunch. Judging by what I’ve just heard, your people probably are lunch. I strongly advise you to break off contact and return to the ship at once.”

“A moment, Captain,” said Prilicla. “Friend Murchison, how long do you need to finish here?”

“No more than fifteen minutes,” the pathologist replied. “The patient is being very cooperative and I don’t feel like stopping—”

“And I share your feelings,” the empath broke in. “Captain, we will complete our investigation, excuse ourselves politely and then take your advice. The revelation that the Wem are cannibals is disturbing. But please do not concern yourself; neither Tawsar nor any of the other Wem within my emotive range are radiating feelings of hostility. In fact, the opposite holds true because I feel Tawsar beginning to like us.”

“Doctor,” said the Captain, “when I am very hungry, as these people are all the time, I like thinking about my lunch very much. But I do not have feelings of hostility towards it.”

“Friend Fletcher,” Prilicla began, “you are oversimplifying …”

Gurronsevas had to switch to the Wem translation channel at that point because, while he was capable of looking in four directions at once, he could conduct only one conversation at a time. It appeared that there was no immediate danger from the returning work parties, and certainly not from the aged Wem left in the mine, so that he, too, had a chance to satisfy his own professional curiosity while Murchison completed its medical investigation. Besides, while he had been listening to Prilicla and Fletcher, the Wem standing before him had been speaking, and common politeness demanded that he reply.

“My apologies,” he said, indicating his translator pack and telling a small diplomatic lie. “This device was not tuned to you. I heard but did not understand your earlier words. Would you oblige me by repeating them?”

“They were not of great importance,” the Wem replied. “Merely an observation that I have often wished that I had four hands. They would be especially useful in this place. I am the healer and chief cook here.”

“I occupy a similar position in a somewhat larger establishment. But there the functions of healing and food preparation are separate, and performed by different people. How do I address you, as doctor or …?”

“My full title is verbally cumbersome and unnecessary,” the Wem broke in. “It is used only during the Coming of Age ceremonies and by pupils who have misbehaved and are hoping, vainly, to avoid just chastisement. Call me Remrath.”

“I am Gurronsevas,” he replied, and added, “I am only a cook.”

As the Galactic Federation’s foremost exponent of the highly-specialized art of multi-species food preparation, Gurronsevas thought, I do not believe I said that.

“Compared with the high culinary standards said to have been achieved by our own people in the good old days,” said Remrath in a voice in which anger and apology were mixed, “that is, in the centuries before the sun itself turned against us, my kitchen is primitive. To you it must appear no more than a cooking-place for savages. But if you are interested you are welcome to look around.”

His reply was silenced by the voice of Fletcher speaking directly to him on the ship frequency. “Chief Dietitian, you are not trained in First Contact procedures. So far you have not said anything wrong, but please listen carefully. Do not react adversely to anything you may see or hear, no matter how repugnant it may seem to you. Try to show an interest in their equipment and processes, no matter how primitive they seem, and praise rather than criticize. Try to be agreeable, and diplomatic.”

Gurronsevas did not reply. The interval between Ramrath’s invitation and his answer had already stretched longer than politeness allowed.

“I am most interested,” said Gurronsevas, truthfully, “and will want to ask many and possibly irritating questions. But the sounds of activity I hear, and the complex odors of food well-advanced in preparation and perhaps ready for serving, lead me to think that you are simply asking out of politeness. From long personal experience I know that, at a time like this, visitors are not welcome in the kitchen.”

“That is true,” said Remrath, backing through the swinging doors and holding one open while it used the other hand to beckon Gurronsevas to follow it inside. He could see that its legs and tail were too stiff in their movements to enable it to turn inside the wide entrance. It went on, “But I can see that in enclosed spaces you are more agile than I am in spite of your enormous body, and you should know enough not to get in the way at the