JК
Isle Of The Dead :: Zelazny Roger
Страница: 8 из 110" His naturally ruddy face deepened a shade or two, and he fought the corners of his mouth into a straight line as he dropped his dark eyes. "I'fe enchoyed our association."
"... So, if you'd care to take a year's vacation--full salary and all expenses, of course, plus a slush fund for buying any recipes you might be interested in trying-- I'll call the Bursar's Office before I go, and set things up."
"Venn vill you be leafing, sir?"
"Early tomorrow morning."
"I see, sir. Yes. Thank you. That sounds wery pleasant."
"... And find some more recipes for yourself while you're at it."
"I'll keep vun eye open, sir."
"It must be a funny feeling, preparing meals the taste of which you can't even guess at."
"Oh no, sir," he protested. "The tasters are completely reliable, and vile I'll admit I'fe often speculated as to the taste of some of your meals, the closest situation iss, I suppose, that of being a chemist who does not really vish to taste all of his experiments, if you know vatt I mean, sir."
He held the basket of rolls in one hand, the pot of coffee in his other hand, the dish of cole slaw in his other hand, and his other hand rested on the cart's handle. He was a Rigelian, whose name was something like Mmmrt'n Brrm'n. He'd learned his English from a German cook, who'd helped him pick an English equivalent for Mmmrt'n Brrm'n. A Rigelian chef, with a good taster or two from the subject race, prepares the greatest meals in the galaxy. They're quite dispassionate about it, too. We'd been through the just-finished discussion before, many times, and he knew I was always kidding him when I talked that way, trying to get him to admit that human food reminded him of garbage, manure or industrial wastes. Apparently, there is a professional ethic against acknowledging any such thing. His normal counter is to be painfully formal. On occasion, however, when he's had a bit too much of lemon juice, orange juice or grapefruit juice, he's as much as admitted that cooking for _homo sapiens_ is considered the lowest level to which a Rigelian chef can stoop. I try to make up to him for it as much as I can, because I like him as well as his meals, and it's very hard to get Rigelian chefs, no matter how much you can afford to spend.
"Martin," I said, "if anything should happen to me this time out, I'd like you to know that I've made provision for you in my will."
"I--I don't know vatt to say, sir."
"So don't," I told him. "To be completely selfish about it, I hope you don't collect. I plan on coming back."
He was one of the few persons to whom, with impunity yet, I could mention such a thing.
"... So, if you'd care to take a year's vacation--full salary and all expenses, of course, plus a slush fund for buying any recipes you might be interested in trying-- I'll call the Bursar's Office before I go, and set things up."
"Venn vill you be leafing, sir?"
"Early tomorrow morning."
"I see, sir. Yes. Thank you. That sounds wery pleasant."
"... And find some more recipes for yourself while you're at it."
"I'll keep vun eye open, sir."
"It must be a funny feeling, preparing meals the taste of which you can't even guess at."
"Oh no, sir," he protested. "The tasters are completely reliable, and vile I'll admit I'fe often speculated as to the taste of some of your meals, the closest situation iss, I suppose, that of being a chemist who does not really vish to taste all of his experiments, if you know vatt I mean, sir."
He held the basket of rolls in one hand, the pot of coffee in his other hand, the dish of cole slaw in his other hand, and his other hand rested on the cart's handle. He was a Rigelian, whose name was something like Mmmrt'n Brrm'n. He'd learned his English from a German cook, who'd helped him pick an English equivalent for Mmmrt'n Brrm'n. A Rigelian chef, with a good taster or two from the subject race, prepares the greatest meals in the galaxy. They're quite dispassionate about it, too. We'd been through the just-finished discussion before, many times, and he knew I was always kidding him when I talked that way, trying to get him to admit that human food reminded him of garbage, manure or industrial wastes. Apparently, there is a professional ethic against acknowledging any such thing. His normal counter is to be painfully formal. On occasion, however, when he's had a bit too much of lemon juice, orange juice or grapefruit juice, he's as much as admitted that cooking for _homo sapiens_ is considered the lowest level to which a Rigelian chef can stoop. I try to make up to him for it as much as I can, because I like him as well as his meals, and it's very hard to get Rigelian chefs, no matter how much you can afford to spend.
"Martin," I said, "if anything should happen to me this time out, I'd like you to know that I've made provision for you in my will."
"I--I don't know vatt to say, sir."
"So don't," I told him. "To be completely selfish about it, I hope you don't collect. I plan on coming back."
He was one of the few persons to whom, with impunity yet, I could mention such a thing.