The Baba Papagai strode to the table before the altar, turned, surveyed the audience, seated herself and folded her arms. The man with the ecclesiastical banner placed it neatly in its socket, and with a nervous gesture flicked off the cover from the cage. The light of the two candles fell on the parrot. It blinked, ruffled its feathers, stretched its neck and croaked: “Gotova!” (“Ready”)
The Baba Papagai bared her yellow fangs.
“Gotova! Yes, we are ready, my little dove! Comrades,” said the Baba Papagai, pushing back her chair, crossing her legs and shoving her cap to the back of her head. “Comrades, we are here tonight to try a foreign dog who was sent to impose the might of his capitalist masters upon the workers and peasants of the. Russian Socialist Federation of Soviet Republics. He comes from the country which above all would like to see the first Workers and Peasants Govern-men® once more enslaved by tyrants. An American! It means a dog.”
The word “dog” aroused the parrot. It squawked: “Belogvardeyetz!”
The woman’s maniac laughter shocked the echoes of the church.
“Never wrong! Never wrong! My little dove never mistakes them,” she cried. “Now, you dog of a White Guard, speak now for yourself. Say why you, a foreigner, dared invade our country.”
The American answered boldly in his childish Russian:
“Yah gavaryou ochen malo po Russky. No yah ne vinovat.”
“Oh, you speak very little Russian but you’re not guilty. You know enough to say that. And you’ve nothing more to say?” The Baba Papagai rose to her feet, placed her cap before her on the table and leaned forward. “Nothing more? Or have you some excuse?”
“Nichevo,” retorted the prisoner coolly. It was the one word he pronounced perfectly in Russian.
Her face darkened with fury. “Dog!” The word penetrated to the farthest corners of the building.
Immediately the parrot responded: Belogvardeyetz!"
“The little comrade has spoken. Let him judge the case.”
The two guards beside the American grasped him by the arms. He needed no urging. “Nichevo,” he said again, to tell them he was not afraid to play his part without coercion.
He walked straight up to the cage. Sergey held his breath. The boy’s glance shifted rapidly from the parrot’s cage to the Baba Papagai, still leaning forward on the table, her Kelpie’s eyes a-goggle at her victim.
“Hell!” said the American aloud. The foreign word rang out defiantly. “Hell!” he repeated again, and stuck his forefinger into the cage.
The parrot lifted its wings. Every spectator — save perhaps one, for Sergey’s Scotch heart beat stoutly in his breast — knew that it would strike. It lifted its wings, squawked, teetered on its perch, lowered its beak close to the proffered finger, then half flew, half hopped across the cage, beating the air, screeching atrociously: “Konchala! Konchala!” (“Finished! Finished!”)
“Well? What do you say to that, old girl?” asked the American in English, grinning at the Baba Papagai.
Her eyes were glazed. She crashed her fist upon the table.
“Dog! Dog!” she reared.
“Belogvardeyetz! Belogvardeyetz!” weakly echoed the parrot.
“Once more, you dog!” commanded the Baba Papagai.
“As often as you like,” answered the American, and put his finger again through the bars.
This time the parrot never pretended to investigate. It cowered at the bottom of the cage, buried its beak in its breast feathers, and only when the Baba Papagai shrieked “Dog!” at the top of her voice did it respond with a low croak: “Belogvardeyetz!”
“What’s the hour?” The Baba Papagai turned to the clerk beside her. Trembling, he pulled from beneath his sheepskin coat a massive gold repeater, said, “Fifteen minutes to midnight.” and returned the former property of the Prince Rashkushin to his pocket.
“Release the prisoner. He is acquitted.” The parrot woman kicked aside her table and strode down the aisle. For the sake of this one victim she could not disavow her favorite instrument of terror.
This time Sergey Sergeyitch McTavish sat up straight in his seat and stared at her as she passed him. The moment she disappeared, he ran forward and grasped the American by the hand.
“A Kelpie! I told you! A Kelpie!” he yelled crazily. “My father was right — my father knew.”
Indifferent to the buzz of congratulations and the eager hands outstretched to them, the young soldier swung Sergey aloft.
“You’re all right, kid,” he shouted in English. “You may be cuckoo, but you’re there with the goods.” Then in Russian: “What was it, malchik! I kept it in my hand until the last, but afterward I dropped it. How did you do it?”
His mouth close to the other’s ear, Sergey murmured: “Take a sniff at your finger.”
The American gave a loud yell, then checked himself.
“Yes,” whispered Sergey, “garlic — that’s the charm against Kelpies.” The two set off at a trot for the home of Marfoosha.
The Newtonian egg
by Peter Godfrey
Remember Peter Godfrey’s perfectly wonderful riddle story, “The Lady and the Dragon” which won a special award in EQMM’s Fifth Annual Contest? If you read the story, you probably remember it: the last line was unforgettable.
In introducing “The Lady and the Dragon” we called it “a parcel of paradoxes... an almost unclassifiable story” Our comments set the author’s mind wording. Could he, consciously and deliberately, write a story that is absolutely unclassifiable, or that merits an entirely new classification? Well, Mr. Godfrey confesses that he did not succeed — at least, not on his first attempt; but in the process he conceived the idea of using a multiplicity of the different types of the detective story, mixing them well, and popping the result into what Mr. Godfrey calls “the testing oven at EQMM.”
So, here we have another prize-winning tale by Peter Godfrey, and for the life of him, the author doesn’t know how to classify his own story. It cannot be fully described as a whodunit, or a whydunit, or a howdunit — for the simple reason that the tale has in it solid elements of all three ’tec types. It is also an impossible-crime story, or to put it another way, a miracle problem. Similarly, it can be designated as a sealed-room story — in this instance, a sealed-egg; and from a completely different point of view it can be labeled a broken-alibi story. It even has, the author contends, attributes of the inverted detective story.
If Mr. Godfrey had in mind subtly persuading us to classify his story, he has failed. We pass. If pressed, however, we would forego all classifications and categories, and simply offer you what can be termed, without code or catalogue, an interesting story...
“The dying man,” said Hal Brooke, “ate a hearty wedding breakfast.”
On the other side of the room Kurtz, also with a tray on his knees, sneered. He said: “It’s a funny thing about this disease. You can feel on top of the world one minute, and be knocking at the pearly gates the next. Even if you are getting married this afternoon, you could pop off just as well today as any other day.” He grinned. “Maybe the excitement will make it even more likely. You know, I’ve been thinking about it for the last few minutes — trying to imagine which would be the most appropriate moment for you to kick the bucket. At first I thought during the ceremony... but there’s a much better time.”