"Oh, Vernon!" the head aquarist called after him. "Tomorrow's Sunday, and I'm driving my family out to Jones' Beach. Like to come along for a swim?"
Brock stuck his grinning head back in. "Thanks a lot, Clyde, but I'm afraid I might carelessly take a deep breath under water. To be honest, the mere idea gives me the horrors. I've had enough swimming to last me the rest of my natural life!"
THE CONTRABAND COW
A bat zigzagged across the sluggish reach of the lower Nueces, and Homer Osborn piled out of the rowboat with the painter in one hand. Since most of the boat's load was now concentrated on its rear seat by Charles Kenny's broad behind, its bow rose high into the air, and Osborn had little trouble in hauling the boat well up onto the sand.
Then he took hold of the bow and braced his legs to hold the craft level. Kenny grunted his elephantine way slowly toward the bow, crouching and holding the gunwales with both hands, and lifting his feet carefully over the fishing-tackle.
"Hey," said Osborn, "don't forget the critter!"
"Not so loud!" Kenny halted, backed one step, reached under the middle seat, and brought up a package the shape of a brick and a little larger. Attached to this package by a stout cord was one real brick. As Kenny raised the package, the brick dangled revolving on the lower end of the cord.
Osborn suggested: "If you untie it, we can throw away the sinker ..." '
"Naw," said Kenny. "You don't know how a real fisherman does it. Homer. You want to keep your sinker attached until you're ready to cook your critter. Then if a Fodals shows up; you heave the evidence ka-plunk into the river. You cain't swallow half a pound of critter in one second, you know."
"Okay, boss," said Osborn, and tied the painter to the nearest pecan tree.
Kenny stretched his cramped muscles. "Now, if we can just find a dry spot ..."
"Don't think there is such a thing in this part of Texas," said Osborn with slight asperity.
"... we'll have plenty of time to get to Dinero before she's too dark."
"With no fish for the girls."
"Aw, Homer," wheezed Kenny, "you don't get the idea. A real fisherman don't care if he catches anything or not. Reckon this spot'll do."
"If that's dry," said Osborn, feeling the sandy soil with his hand, "I'm a—"
"Hush your mouth, Yankee, and help git some wood. Careful; don't go steppin' on a snake. Used to be 'gators in this part of the river too; I reckon the hide-hunters killed 'em all."
Osborn returned after ten minutes of collecting soggy scraps of firewood, to find Kenny, by some private thaumaturgy, conjuring a fire out of a heap of equally unpromising fuel.
When the fire was going, the massive department head opened a can of beans and hung it in the flames. Then he sat back, uncorked the whiskey-bottle, took a swig, passed the bottle to Osborn, and sat back looking at the deepening blue sky.
"And to think," he said, "that a young squirt like you would give this up to go back to Brooklyn!"
"No snakes in Brooklyn anyway."
Kenny sighed. "When you learned to say 'bird' instead of 'buid' I thought I'd make a real Texan out of you. Mebbe I will yet."
"Not likely. Seriously, boss, you can find plenty of biochemists, and it would mean so much to Gladys and me—"
"Not another biochemist who can make the discovery of the age. You go turnin' out discoveries of the age, and the San Antone labs will go on gettin' appropriations, and when your contract's up I'll offer you another you cain't afford to turn—what's that?" Kenny was silent for a frozen quarter-minute, then resumed: "Imagination, I guess. Unless maybe you are. bein' followed."
"I'm not imagining that," said Osborn. "You know Pedro, who runs the steakeasy on Apache Street? Well, he asked me—"
"Pedro got padlocked the other day," interrupted Kenny.
"Yeah? You don't say!"
"Yep. Damn fool insisted on servin' roast beef. It takes a long time to cook, and you're apt to have a lot left over, so the Fodals got him with the evidence. What did he say to you?"
Osborn explained: "The word got out among the leggers that this synthetic protein of mine was going to put 'em out of business. I explained that I could make a steak, all right, but it wouldn't taste like a steak and would cost twenty times as much as a hunk of prime Mexican critter delivered in San Antonio by a reliable steaklegger. He didn't seem convinced."
"So now you think the leggers are out to get you," said Kenny. "Well, mebbe the repeal act will pass when it comes up Monday in Delhi. The Bloodies have tried hard enough; I've been up all night for a week, gittin' folks to write letters and send telegrams."
Osborn sighed. "Not likely, boss. The Hindus disagree on everything else, but not on eating critter."
"Hear they lynched a Fodals in Dallas last week," said Kenny, poking at the fire. "Good idea on general principles, but I'm afraid it won't do the Bloody vote no good come Monday."
"You're a fanatic," said Osborn quietly. "Now me, I vote Bloody, but I can take my critter or leave it alone. What really gripes me is getting my research mixed up in a prohibition question."
"You wouldn't care if your synthetic steak stopped all this corruption and law-breakin'? You'd be famous."
"Nope. Don't want to be famous, outside the technical periodicals. What I want is to get back to Brooklyn."
Kenny laughed and heaved himself to his feet. "Looks like those coals are about ready for the critter. You start it; I'm going to get me some more wood. And any time you can figure how to repeal the anti-vaccicidc law, you can write your own contract, or I'll get you a new one in Brooklyn, Belfast, or any place you pick."
Kenny crunched off into the brush, muttering about the iniquity of a Union Now scheme which gave the cow-worshipping sons of India, on a straight population basis, a clear majority in the Assembly of the Federation of Democratic and Libertarian States.
Homer Osborn nervously unwrapped the package. The crackle of the heavy yellow paper seemed inordinately loud. His mouth watered at the sight of the steaks, for which he had paid Agard, his pet steaklegger, a fat wad of his and Charles Kenny's money.
He then pulled a lot of pieces of heavy steel wire out of his boot. These, when joined together, made a rickety but serviceable grid.
The sound of Kenny's movements died away. No, thought Osborn, he would never learn to like Texas, really. The Gulf Coast region was fairly comfortable this early in spring. But in a couple of months San Antonio would be a baking inferno, outside the laboratories ...
He slapped a mosquito, and extended the grid over the coals. A flame licked the fat on one of the steaks, and a pearly drop fell into the coals, sending up a brief spurt of yellow.
As the hiss of that drop of fat died out, something came out of the darkness and wrapped itself like an affectionate anaconda around Homer Osborn's wrist, and something else calmly took the grid, steaks and all, away from him.
"You," said the voice, "are under arrest for violation of the anti-vaccicide law. Title Nine, Section 486 of the Criminal Code of the Federation!"
"Huh?" said Osborn stupidly. It had all been done so swiftly and competently that he had not recovered his wits.
"Which reads," continued the voice, "Paragraph One: The eating of cattle, which term shall include all animals of the subfamily Bovinae of the family Bovidae, the same comprising kine, buffaloes, bison, zebus, gayals, bantengs, yaks, and species closely related thereto, or of any parts or members thereof, or ff any hashes, gravies, soups, or other edible products thereof, is hereby prohibited!"
"B-But, I wasn't eating—" In the twilight Osborn could now make out the turban and beard of a towering Sikh of the Border Patrol.