Galaxy's Edge Magazine: Issue 7: March 2014 by Mike Resnick;C. J. Cherryh;Steve Cameron;Robert Sheckley;Martin L. Shoemaker;Mercedes Lackey;Lou J. Berger;Elizabeth Bear;Brad R. Torgersen;Robert T. Jeschonek;Alexei Panshin;Gregory Benford;Barry Malzberg;Paul Cook;L. Sprague de Camp Read Free Book Online
beyond potentiality.”
“Glad to hear it, baby, you’re making a fine sound. You really are okay? Well, then, ta.”
Thoth-Hermes marched off into the sunset. Cordle closed his eyes and solved various problems that had perplexed the greatest philosophers of all ages. He was mildly surprised at how simple complexity was.
At last he went to sleep. He awoke some six hours later. He had forgotten most of his brilliant insights, the lucid solutions. It was inconceivable: How can one misplace the keys of the universe? But he had, and there seemed no hope of reclaiming them. Paradise was lost for good.
He did remember about the onions and carrots, though, and he remembered The Stew. It was not the sort of insight he might have chosen if he’d had any choice; but this was what had come to him, and he did not reject it. Cordle knew, perhaps instinctively, that in the insight game, you take whatever you can get.
***
The next day, he reached Santander in a driving rain. He decided to write amusing letters to all his friends, perhaps even try his hand at a travel sketch. That required a typewriter. The conserje at his hotel directed him to a store that rented typewriters. He went there and found a clerk who spoke perfect English.
“Do you rent typewriters by the day?” Cordle asked.
“Why not?” the clerk replied. He had oily black hair and a thin aristocratic nose.
“How much for that one?” Cordle asked, indicating a thirty-year-old Erika portable.
“Seventy pesetas a day, which is to say, one dollar. Usually.”
“Isn’t this usually?”
“Certainly not, since you are a foreigner in transit. For you, once hundred and eighty pesetas a day.”
“All right,” Cordle said, reaching for his wallet. “I’d like to have it for two days.”
“I shall also require your passport and a deposit of fifty dollars.”
Cordle attempted a mild joke. “Hey, I just want to type on it, not marry it.”
The clerk shrugged.
“Look, the conserje has my passport at the hotel. How about taking my driver’s license instead?”
“Certainly not. I must hold your passport, in case you decide to default.”
“But why do you need my passport and the deposit?” Cordle asked, feeling bullied and ill at ease. “I mean, look, the machine’s not worth twenty dollars.”
“You are an expert, perhaps, in the Spanish market value of used German typewriters?”
“No, but—”
“Then permit me, sir, to conduct my business as I see fit. I will also need to know the use to which you plan to put the machine.”
“The use ?”
“Of course, the use.”
It was one of these preposterous foreign situations that can happen to anyone. The clerk’s request was incomprehensible and his manner was insulting. Cordle was about to give a curt little nod, turn on his heel and walk out.
Then he remembered about the onions and carrots. He saw The Stew. And suddenly, it occurred to Cordle that he could be whatever vegetable he wanted to be.
He turned to the clerk. He smiled winningly. He said, “You wish to know the use I will make of the typewriter?”
“Exactly.”
“Well,” Cordle said, “quite frankly, I had planned to stuff it up my nose.” The clerk gaped at him.
“It’s quite a successful method of smuggling,” Cordle went on. “I was also planning to give you a stolen passport and counterfeit pesetas. Once I got into Italy, I would have sold the typewriter for ten thousand dollars. Milan is undergoing a typewriter famine, you know; they’re desperate, they’ll buy anything.”
“Sir,” the clerk said, “you choose to be disagreeable.”
“Nasty is the word you were looking for. I’ve changed my mind about the typewriter. But let me co m pliment you on your command of English.”
“I have studied assiduously,” the clerk admitted, with a hint of pride.
“That is evident. And, despite a certain weakness in the Rs, you succeed in sounding like a Venetian gondolier with a cleft palate. My best wishes to
“Glad to hear it, baby, you’re making a fine sound. You really are okay? Well, then, ta.”
Thoth-Hermes marched off into the sunset. Cordle closed his eyes and solved various problems that had perplexed the greatest philosophers of all ages. He was mildly surprised at how simple complexity was.
At last he went to sleep. He awoke some six hours later. He had forgotten most of his brilliant insights, the lucid solutions. It was inconceivable: How can one misplace the keys of the universe? But he had, and there seemed no hope of reclaiming them. Paradise was lost for good.
He did remember about the onions and carrots, though, and he remembered The Stew. It was not the sort of insight he might have chosen if he’d had any choice; but this was what had come to him, and he did not reject it. Cordle knew, perhaps instinctively, that in the insight game, you take whatever you can get.
***
The next day, he reached Santander in a driving rain. He decided to write amusing letters to all his friends, perhaps even try his hand at a travel sketch. That required a typewriter. The conserje at his hotel directed him to a store that rented typewriters. He went there and found a clerk who spoke perfect English.
“Do you rent typewriters by the day?” Cordle asked.
“Why not?” the clerk replied. He had oily black hair and a thin aristocratic nose.
“How much for that one?” Cordle asked, indicating a thirty-year-old Erika portable.
“Seventy pesetas a day, which is to say, one dollar. Usually.”
“Isn’t this usually?”
“Certainly not, since you are a foreigner in transit. For you, once hundred and eighty pesetas a day.”
“All right,” Cordle said, reaching for his wallet. “I’d like to have it for two days.”
“I shall also require your passport and a deposit of fifty dollars.”
Cordle attempted a mild joke. “Hey, I just want to type on it, not marry it.”
The clerk shrugged.
“Look, the conserje has my passport at the hotel. How about taking my driver’s license instead?”
“Certainly not. I must hold your passport, in case you decide to default.”
“But why do you need my passport and the deposit?” Cordle asked, feeling bullied and ill at ease. “I mean, look, the machine’s not worth twenty dollars.”
“You are an expert, perhaps, in the Spanish market value of used German typewriters?”
“No, but—”
“Then permit me, sir, to conduct my business as I see fit. I will also need to know the use to which you plan to put the machine.”
“The use ?”
“Of course, the use.”
It was one of these preposterous foreign situations that can happen to anyone. The clerk’s request was incomprehensible and his manner was insulting. Cordle was about to give a curt little nod, turn on his heel and walk out.
Then he remembered about the onions and carrots. He saw The Stew. And suddenly, it occurred to Cordle that he could be whatever vegetable he wanted to be.
He turned to the clerk. He smiled winningly. He said, “You wish to know the use I will make of the typewriter?”
“Exactly.”
“Well,” Cordle said, “quite frankly, I had planned to stuff it up my nose.” The clerk gaped at him.
“It’s quite a successful method of smuggling,” Cordle went on. “I was also planning to give you a stolen passport and counterfeit pesetas. Once I got into Italy, I would have sold the typewriter for ten thousand dollars. Milan is undergoing a typewriter famine, you know; they’re desperate, they’ll buy anything.”
“Sir,” the clerk said, “you choose to be disagreeable.”
“Nasty is the word you were looking for. I’ve changed my mind about the typewriter. But let me co m pliment you on your command of English.”
“I have studied assiduously,” the clerk admitted, with a hint of pride.
“That is evident. And, despite a certain weakness in the Rs, you succeed in sounding like a Venetian gondolier with a cleft palate. My best wishes to
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