The Galactic Gourmet

There was a long silence, during which Gurronsevas wondered whether his seemingly innocent questions had given offense, before Remrath spoke.

“Unfortunately, I am,” it said. “And Gurronsevas, I do not speak of such things to off-worlders, or even to friends. Tell me more about the strange ways you serve food.”

They returned to the subject that Gurronsevas knew was safe and which he considered more interesting anyway.

Initially, Remrath’s interest was merely polite. Obviously it was enjoying the comfort of traveling on the litter and was anxious to prolong the experience. But once Gurronsevas was able to make it accept the idea that eating food might be something more than the simple ingesting of organic fuel, and described with enthusiasm the many other-world rituals and subtleties used in its preparation and presentation, and the large number of different courses that could be served as part of a single meal, its interest became more serious — if, at times, combined with a large measure of incredulity.

“I can believe that you consider a meal to be a work of art,” Remrath said at one point, “like a beautiful wood-carving or wall-painting. Of necessity a meal is a very short-lived work of art if the artist’s work is successful. But comparing the taste sensations to the pleasures of procreation is …surely that is an exaggeration?”

“Perhaps not,” Gurronsevas replied, “if you consider that one provides a moment of intense pleasure which can be expanded and heightened by experience and controlled delays, while the other is a continuing, although admittedly a less intense pleasure, which lasts for much longer, is less subject to factors of age or physical fatigue, and is not subject to premature consummation.”

“If you can do that with food,” said Remrath, “you must be a very good cook.”

“I am the best,” said Gurronsevas simply.

Remrath made a sound which did not translate and so, for some reason, did Naydrad.

Only the topmost slopes of the valley were lit by the setting sun and the air temperature had dropped noticeably when they began their return to the mine. The young members of the working parties and classes, unsupervised, were running and hopping about in small groups on the flat area outside the entrance. This was an activity which was encouraged, Remrath explained, so as to use up their surplus energy and make them hunger for both the evening meal and sleep, because non-reparable bodily damage could occur if they were to go wandering about in the dark tunnels. Even though the waterwheels provided continuous power, except in special circumstances the mine was not lighted at night because their small remaining store of filament bulbs could not easily be replaced.

“Do you intend to work these miracles of taste for us?” said Remrath suddenly. “How will you do it when you know nothing about Wem food and have eaten barely an insect’s mouthful of my stew?”

“I shall try,” Gurronsevas replied. “But first the Wem samples must be tested to ensure that they will not harm me. Should they prove edible to myself as well as the Wem, only then will I try to compose something. Naturally, any meal or course that I produce must first be tested on myself. Your advice regarding taste sensations and intensities would be greatly appreciated, since my Tralthan taste sensorium will differ in certain ways from that of the Wem, but I would not serve a meal to anyone that was not first eaten in its entirety by myself.”

“Even a project that is doomed to failure,” said Remrath, “can be interesting to watch. Do you wish to return to the kitchen now?”

“No,” said Gurronsevas sharply, unused to having his artistic ability doubted in this fashion. He went on, “The analysis and initial experimentation with the specimens may take some time. I will return tomorrow or perhaps a day or two later. With your permission, of course.”

“Will you require a guide,” asked Remrath, “to find your way back to my kitchen?”

“Thank you, no,” he replied. “I remember the way.”

No more was said until they joined the crowd of rowdy young Wem outside the mine entrance. Two of them helped Remrath off the litter, one tried to crawl through the open space between the apparently unsupported underside and the ground, then began chattering excitedly to the others about the strange, tingling sensation that the repulsion field had caused in its head and arms. Another was about to climb onto the empty litter when Remrath chased it away with threats of imminent dismemberment and other dire punishments which, considering the First Cook’s physical weakness and impaired mobility, were not being taken seriously by either.

Naydrad had begun to guide the litter back toward the ship and Gurronsevas was turning to follow it when Remrath spoke again.

“Tawsar, also, would be pleased if you visited us again,” it said, “to talk to the young about the other worlds and peoples and wonders you have seen. But of your work in the kitchen you must speak only to me lest some of your ideas about food cause mental distress or nausea.”

He was able to control his own mental distress, caused by shock and anger that anyone would even suggest that the great Gurronsevas was capable of preparing a meal that would nauseate anyone, before he came within closer range of Prilicla’s empathy.

By the time he returned to Rhabwar’s casualty deck, Naydrad had unloaded his samples and, fur rippling in anticipation, was busying itself at the food dispenser while Murchison and Danalta were doing incomprehensible things at the analyzer console. He looked around for Prilicla, but the pathologist answered his question before he could ask it.

“Cinrusskins are short on stamina, as you probably know,” Murchison said, smiling. “It has been sleeping this past four hours and we are trying not to let our emotional radiation get too noisy. You’ve had a long day, Gurronsevas. Do you need food, rest, or both?”

“Neither,” he replied. “I am in need of information.”

“Aren’t we all,” said Murchison. “What exactly do you want to know?”

As precisely as possible Gurronsevas did as he was asked. It required many minutes for him to do so, and Murchison was about to reply when Prilicla flew in to join them. The Senior Physician gestured with one delicate manipulator for it to continue.

“First,” the pathologist began briskly, “to deal with your questions about the testing of Wem vegetation for edibility by the FGLI classification, yourself, as well as the native DHCGs. We obtained more physiological information from Tawsar than it was aware of giving, and while we still have many questions regarding the Wem endocrinology, and the evidence we have found of a possible genetic rift in the area of the herbivore-carnivore, or perhaps herbivore-omnivore, transfer which may take place at puberty, these should become clear when we have more …I’m sorry, Gurronsevas, that part of the investigation is medically specialized and of no interest to you.

“What we can tell you,” it went on, “is that our study of the tongue structure and analysis of the saliva indicates the presence of a taste sensorium and an oral pre-digestive system that is in most respects similar to those found in the majority of warm-blooded, oxygen-breathing life-forms, including your own. If you identify and label your specimens and give us a few hours to process them, we will be able to tell you with a fair degree of certainty which plants, or sections of plants such as roots, stems, foliage or fruit, will be edible by the Wem and yourself, and which will be toxic to a greater or lesser degree. Frequently, material which we would classify as being toxic if introduced directly into the bloodstream can be rendered harmless by the normal detoxification processes of digestion, so it is unlikely that you would poison a Wem or yourself if the food samples tested are initially kept small. The same applies to any food material for the Wem produced by Rhabwar’s synthesizer.

“We cannot tell you how exactly any given sample will taste,” it went on. “The chemical composition will indicate whether or not the taste will be intense, but not whether it will be intensely pleasant or unpleasant to a Wem. As you more than anyone else here know, taste is a personal preference which varies between individuals of a single species, much less those with different evolutionary backgrounds.”

“It seems,” said Gurronsevas, “that the Wem palate will have to be reeducated.”

Murchison laughed and said, “Thankfully, that isn’t my problem. Is there anything else you want to know?”

“Thank you, yes,” he replied, directing all of his eyes towards Prilicla. “But it is neither a medical nor a culinary matter. I would like to know how much time I have to work on the problem? The present friendly situation at the mine could change as soon as the hunting party returns. When will they arrive?”

“That knowledge will be useful to us, too,” said the Senior Physician. “Friend Fletcher?”

“There is a small problem, Doctor,” said the Captain’s voice from the wall speaker. “Tremaar has been concentrating its surveillance within a circle of fifty miles radius of the mine and has seen