To Prime the Pump by A. Bertram Chandler

thawed slightly. "I suppose that the castle is home, but never forget that it is history. These stones were shipped from Earth, every one of them."

    "I thought that you came from Thuringia."

    "Yes, I did. But we're all Terrans, after all, if you go back far enough. And that's not very far."

    "I suppose not."

    She led him across the hall, past a long, heavy banqueting table with rows of high-backed chairs on either side. She took a seat at the head of it, occupied it as though it were the throne it looked like. In her scanty, flimsy attire she should have struck a note of utter incongruity, but she did not. She was part of the castle, and the castle was part of her. Like some wicked, beautiful queen out of ancient legend she seemed, or like some wicked, beautiful witch. The pale skin of her bare limbs was luminous in the semi-darkness, and her body, scarcely veiled by the diaphanous material of her dress, only slightly less so.

    She motioned Grimes to the chair at her right hand. He was amazed to find that it was extremely comfortable, although the wood, at first, was cold on the backs of his legs. He wondered what subtle modifications had been made to the archaic furniture, and at what expense. But he hadn't had to pay the bill. He saw that a decanter of heavy glass had been set out on the table, and with it two glittering, cut crystal goblets. Marlene poured the dark ruby wine with an oddly ceremonial gesture.

    She said matter-of-factly, "Angel's blood, from Deneb VII. I hope you like it."

    "I've never tried it before." (And that's not surprising, he thought, at the price they charge for it, even on its world of origin.) "But does it . . . er . . . match the decor?"

    Surprisingly she smiled. "Of course, John. In the old days, when the prince and his knights feasted here, there were delicacies from all over the then known world on this table . . ."

    Salt beef and beer, thought Grimes dourly, remembering his Terran history.

    "To . . ." she started, raising her glass. "To . . . to your stay on this world"

    She sipped slowly and Grimes followed suit. The wine was good, although a little too sweet for his taste. It was good but not good enough to warrant a price of forty credits a bottle, Duty Free and with no freight charges.
    * * *

    Away from the gloomy main hall, the rest of the castle was a surprise. Spiral staircases that had been converted into escalators—rather a specialty of El Doradan architectural engineering—spacious apartments, light, color, luxury, all in the best of taste, all in the best of the tastes of at least five score of worlds. At last Marlene showed Grimes into the suite that was to be his. It was a masculine apartment, with no frills or flounces anywhere, almost severe in its furnishings but solidly comfortable. There was a bar, and a playmaster with well-stocked racks of spools and a long shelf with books, real books. Grimes went to it, took from its place one of a complete set of Ian Fleming's novels, handled it reverently. It was old, but dust jacket, cover, binding and pages had been treated with some preservative.

    "Not a First Edition," the girl told him, "but, even so, quite authentic Twentieth Century."

    "These must be worth a small fortune."

    "What's money for if not to buy the things you like?"

    There was no answer to that, or no answer that would not lead to a fruitless and annoying argument.

    She said, "Make yourself at home. I have a few things to attend to before I change for dinner. We dine, by the way, at twenty hundred hours. In the banqueting hall."

    "Where we had the wine?"

    "Where else?" She paused in the doorway that had opened for her. "Dress, of course."

    Of course, thought Grimes. He decided that in these surroundings his uniform mess dress would be the most suitable. He looked for his bags so that he could unpack. He could not find them anywhere. A disembodied voice said, "Lord, you will find your clothing in the wardrobe in your