covered terrace and sip a glass of Medoc. Shall we say a Pouillac?” Latourelle smiled wistfully. “I cannot produce miracles to order.”
“You’ve done it, blast you! That neutron recycler of yours—”
“That was to prove a point which interested me. My heart goes out to you, but up here—”
Latourelle tapped his gleaming forehead—“up here is a selfish animal, the subconscious mind, which must first be given an all-important motive before it will work. And as I am only to be on Mars three more years, I have no such motive.”
Magarac slumped back in his chair. “Yeah… yeah, I guess so.”
“Come on to Earth,” urged Latourelle. “Come to France and I will show you how to live. You poor Martians must wolf your tasteless synthetics and gulp your miserable beer and try to persuade yourselves you are still human. It is no wonder that prohibitionism is growing. This Blalock now, if he could ever taste a properly prepared mousse of shad roe, with a Barsac—no, let us say a Puligny Montrachet—ah, he would realize that there are higher values than his own ambition and that the goodness of God is a more alive thing than the cold charity of the State.”
Magarac braced himself. He liked Latourelle, but the old fellow was a bore on this one topic.
“I have given some thought to my first menu,” went on the physicist raptly. “I cannot now specify the vintages, for I have lost touch, but give me time when I return, give me time. We will begin, of course, with a light dry sherry. There are those who maintain the virtues of vermouth as an
He was almost crooning now. “With the
Magarac nodded. He jerked to wakefulness when Latourelle stopped and regarded him with a hurt expression.
After a moment, the Frenchman looked contrite. “But of course! Forgive me! Here you have been in battle, righteous battle but a lost cause, and I sit droning on about joys out of your reach. I promised you a surprise, did I not? Well, a surprise you shall have, one to lighten your soul and renew your manhood. I have been saving it, denying it even to myself till you should come, for shared pleasures are best. But now—wait!”
He sprang to his feet and went over to a cabinet and opened it. Bottles glistened within, row on row of them, slender bottles with labels of gentle witchcraft.
Magarac felt his jaw clank down. He pulled it up again with an effort.
Latourelle laughed boyishly and rubbed his hands. “Is it not a noble sight? Is it not a vision for the gods? I assure you, this hope is all that has sustained me in my time on Mars.”
“My God!” stammered Magarac. “It must have cost a fortune!”
“It did, it did indeed. Luckily, I have a fortune—or had.” Latourelle broke out two slim glasses and a corkscrew. “You see, it has hitherto been impossible to export liquors to other planets. Quite apart from the cost, the prolonged high acceleration and then the free fall, they ruin it. Even crossing an ocean, a good wine is sadly bruised. Crossing space, it simply dies; one might as well drink Martian beer.”
“Um… yes, I’ve heard of that. Colloidal particles agglomerate and obscure chemical reactions take place. Even whisky won’t survive the trip.” Magarac approached the cabinet reverently. “But this—”
“This is a new process. The last Fleet brought me a letter announcing success and I hastened to order a case of assorted wines. It will not be much, but it will help keep me sane until the next shipment can arrive.”
Latourelle extracted a bottle and held it up to the light. “The process, it involves a tasteless, harmless additive which stabilizes both the colloids and the chemistry. The finest Chambertin-Clos has been flown through an Atlantic hurricane and served that same night in New York with no slightest injury done to it.”
The cork popped out with a flourish. “Now, my old, we drink the first wine to cross interplanetary space!”
The living red stream sparkled into the glasses. Silently, as if performing a holy rite, the two men raised their drinks and sipped.
Latourelle went white. “
“That dauntless pioneer, the Immortal Oliver Latourelle! At a time of crisis, when the fair planet of Mars faced ruin and dictatorship, it was he and his great associate Laslos Magarac, later to become Premier of the Dominion and first President of a fully independent nation—it was those two men, driven by the need to expand humanity’s frontiers to the very stars, who created the space-warp ship.
“Think of it, gentlemen! In one month, Latourelle had worked out the principles of such a vessel.
“In two more months, he had equipped an old ship, the piously renamed St. Emilion, with a warp engine and had crossed to Earth in a few microseconds. It was only a token cargo he brought back to Mars, a case of wine, doubtless to symbolize the achievements of his own fair country, but he had proved it could be done. That simple case of wine foreshadowed the argosies which now ply between a thousand suns.
“And it was the great Latourelle’s first words when he emerged from his ship on his return from Earth and staggered across the sands of Mars—surely too overcome by emotion to walk straight—it was his words which have become the official motto of the Martian Republic and will live forever in Martian hearts as a flaming symbol of human genius:
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