“Uncle protect him well!” Hugh answered sincerely. “Under the circumstances naturally you did not ask him to grant me an audience. But could I ask of you the small favor, next time-”
“We’ll talk later. Let’s see what these two helpless ones have to offer.” Head Chef Gnou and the Chief Engineer met them at the entrance to Gnou’s domain, they went on through the kitchen, through the butcher shop, and into the cold room. But they lingered in the butcher shop, Memtok impatient, while parka-like garments were fetched, the Chief Domestic having refused the ones offered on the legitimate grounds that they were soiled.
The butcher shop was crowded with live helpers and dead carcasses-birds, beeves, fish, anything. Hugh reflected that thirty-eight Chosen and four hundred and fifty servants ate a lot of meat. He found the place mildly depressing even though he himself had cleaned and cut and trimmed many an animal.
But only his habitual tight control in the presence of Memtok and his “cousins” in service kept him from showing shock at something he saw on the floor, trimmed from a carcass almost cut up on one block.
It was a dainty, plump, very feminine hand.
Hugh felt dizzy, there was a roaring in his ears. He blinked. Itwas still there. A hand much like Kitten’s- He breathed carefully, controlled the retching within him, kept his back turned until he had command over himself. There had suddenly flooded over him the truth behind certain incongruities, certain idioms, some pointless jokes.
Gnou was making nervous conversation while his boss waited. He moved to the chopping block, unintentionally kicking the dainty little hand underneath into a pile of scraps and said, “Here’s one you won’t have to bother to taste, Chief Domestic. Unless the old one returns unexpectedly.”
“I always bother to taste,” Memtok said coldly. “Their Charity expects his table to be perfect whether he is in residence or not.”
“Oh, yes, surely,” Gnou agreed. “That’s what I always tell my cooks. But- Well, this very roast illustrates one of my problems. Too fat. You’ll feel that it’s greasy-and so it wifi be. But that’s what comes of using sluts. Now, in my opinion, you can’t find a nicer piece of meat, marbled but firm, than a buck tempered not older than six, then hung at twice that age.”
“No one asked your opinion,” Memtok answered. “Their Charity’s opinion is the only one that counts. They think that sluts are more tender.”
“Oh, I agree, I agree! No offense intended.”
“And none taken. In fact I agree with your opinion. I was simply making clear that your opinion-and mine in this matter-is irrelevant. I see they’ve fetched them. Did they stop to make them?”
The party put on heavy garments, went on inside. The engineer had said nothing up to then, effacing himself other than a nod and a grin to Hugh. Now he explained the problem, a cranky one of refrigeration. Hugh tried to keep his eyes on it, rather than on the contents of the meat storage room.
Most of the meat was beef and fowl. But one long row of hooks down the center held what he knew he would find- human carcasses, gutted and cleaned and frozen, hanging head down, save that the heads were missing. Young sluts and bucks, he could see, but whether the bucks were tempered or not was no longer evident. He gulped and thanked his unlucky stars that that pathetic little hand had given him warning, at least saved him from fainting.
“Well, Cousin Hugh, what do you think?”
“Why, I agree with Pipes.”
“That the problem can’t be solved?”
“No, no.” Hugh had not listened. “His reasoning is correct and he implied the answer. As he says, the problem can’t be solved-now. The thing to do is not to try to patch it up, now. Wait a week. Tear it out. Put in new equipment.”
Memtok looked sour. “Expensive.”
“But cheaper in the long run. Good engineering isn’t accomplished by grudging a few bullocks. Isn’t that right, Pipes?”
The engineer nodded vigorously. “Just what I always say, Cousin Hugh! You’re absolutely right.”
Memtok still frowned. “Well- Prepare an estimate. Show it to Cousin Hugh before you bring it to me.”