To Prime the Pump by A. Bertram Chandler Page B

the clothes that he had intended to wear from the wardrobe, disposed them neatly on the bed. He resented it rather; why should some complication of printed circuits or whatever take it upon itself to decide that he, a man, would be correctly attired for the occasion only in gold braid, brass buttons and all the trimmings?

    He shrugged, thought, Better play along. He got into his underwear, his stiff white shirt, his long, black, sharply creased trousers with the thin gold stripe along the outer seams. He carefully knotted the bow tie, wondering who, with the exception of officers in the various services, ever wore this archaic neckwear. The made-up variety lasted far longer and looked just as good, if not better. He put on his light, glistening black shoes. He got into his white waistcoat, with its tiny gilt buttons, and finally into the "bum-freezer" jacket, on the breast of which were three miniature medals. Two of them were for good attendance, the third one really meant something. ("It will be either a medal or a court martial," the Admiral had told him. "The medal is less trouble all round.")

    There was a knock at the outer door of the apartment. "Come in!" he called. He was expecting the Princess; surely the mechanical servitors, whatever they looked like (he had imagined something multi-appendaged, like an oversized tin spider) would not knock. The door opened and a man entered. No, not a man. Humanoid, but nonhuman, nonorganic. No attempt had been made to disguise the dull sheen of metal that was obvious on the face and hands. He (it?) was attired in a livery even more archaic than Grimes' uniform: white stockings and knee breeches over silver-buckled shoes, a black, silver-buttoned claw-hammer coat, a froth of white lace at the throat. An elaborately curled white wig completed the ensemble. The face was as handsome as that of a marble statue, and as lifeless. The eyes were little glass beads set in pewter. Nonetheless, the gray lips moved. "Lord, Her Highness awaits you."

    "Lead on, MacDuff."

    "My name, Lord, is not MacDuff. It is Karl. Furthermore, Lord, the correct quotation is, 'Lay on, MacDuff.' "

    "Lead on, anyhow."

    "Very well, Lord. Please to follow."

    It was like a maze, the interior of the castle. Finally the robot conducted Grimes along a gallery, the walls of which were covered with portraits of long dead and gone von Stolzbergs. Men in armour, men in uniform, they glowered at the spaceman; and those toward the end, those with the Crooked Cross among their insignia, seemed to stir and shift menacingly in their ornate frames. Grimes suddenly remembered his Jewish grandmother and could just imagine that proud old lady staring fiercely and contemptuously back at these arrogant murderers. And there were the von Stolzberg ladies. He didn't mind looking at them, and he had the feeling that they didn't mind looking at him. Although the earlier ones tended to plumpness, many of them had something of the Princess Marlene in their appearance, or she had something of them in hers.

    A door at the end of the corridor silently opened. Karl stood to one side, bowing. Grimes went through.

    The room beyond it was brightly lit, opulent, but in its furnishings there were glaring incongruities. Weapons, however beautifully designed and finished, look out of place on the satin-covered walls of a lady's salon. But they caught Grimes' attention. As a gunnery specialist he could not help looking at the firearms: the heavy projectile rifles, the lighter but possibly deadlier laser guns, the peculiar bell-mouthed weapons that, in a bad light, would have been antique blunderbusses but which, obviously, were not.

    "I like to have my toys around me, John," said the Princess.

    "Oh, yes. Of course." Grimes felt his ears burn. He turned to face her. "I . . . I must apologize, Marlene. My . . . er . . . professional interest was rather ill-mannered."

    "It was, but understandable. Although not many people can