Ermanaric the Replicator turned into West 35th Street, New York. At last his quest was reaching its fulfilment.

Three days ago he had landed his well-shielded spacecraft in a wood near a town with the discouraging name of “Valhalla”. Yuk! Far too reminiscent of Asgard for his liking! He had hidden his vehicle under the waters of the Kensico Reservoir and started South for New York itself, cursing the logic of his decision not to venture closer by air.

He had memorised the map and knew that he had to negotiate places with the odd names of Yonkers and the Bronx before he reached his goal in Manhattan. Transport was needed. Ah, a machine powered by the internal combustion of fossil fuel lay unattended at the roadside. Its controls were of the simplest and starting it was no problem for his nanites. He had driven cautiously but successfully into the heart of the City.

“More than two days!” he thought, “more than two days to find a parking place anywhere near our destination. All that time lost just because we omitted to learn the rules relating to the mooring of these smelly vehicles.” At first he had thought it was easy. A large open area called Times Square had been found within easy walking distance of West 35th Street, and he had therefore moored the vehicle there, next to large water tap so that he could find it again easily. Unfortunately a large and officious Tauri in some sort of blue uniform had told him rudely to move on, addressing him as “buddy” and making various comments about his parentage which he presumed a genuine Tauri would have found offensive. Sweet visions of his much-missed research table swam before his eyes, the officious Tauri strapped firmly to it. “Oh, your day will come, Tauri, your day will come!”

Finally he had spotted another of the fossil fuel machines pulling out of a space near something called the Port Authority Bus Terminal and had manoeuvred his vehicle into the space, ramming aside another machine driven by an elderly Tauri female in doing so. Now he was nearing 618 West 35th Street, the home of the great Tauri scientist Schoenberg, inventor of the aural destruction device.

But what a depressing area! Drab warehouses and rundown offices lined the street.* This was where Schoenberg had his laboratories? Surely not! But then, just consider for a moment; yes, what a cunning place to hide himself away. Who would ever think of looking for a genius here!

Number 618 itself proved to be a humble storefront, with a faded notice above the door saying,”Arnie Schoenberg – Bespoke Tailoring for the Intelligentsia.” Some form of subtle code no doubt. Ermanaric entered, filled with anticipation. A skinny youth in some sort of floppy shirt and trousers stood behind the counter scratching himself.

“Careful,” thought Ermanaric,”we must be careful and do nothing to arouse suspicion. This unprepossessing and spotty youth is obviously a ruse. We are probably being watched by hidden cameras. Fortunately Ermanaric had been to great pains before visiting the planet to obtain detailed lessons in modern Tauri from some of the subjects on his research table, who had been very willing to assist.


Ermanaric:“Good day to you, fair sir, we…er, that is I have travelled far and with much labour to exchange fraternal greetings with my distant cousin Arnold Schoenberg. Doest thou know wherein he is situated?”

Spotty youth: Wha?

Ermanaric: Where canst I find Arnold Schoenberg?

Spotty youth: You mean the old guy that used to own this dump?

Ermanaric: Probably, yes.

Spotty youth: He retired, Mac**, went South.

Was this a ruse, thought Ermanaric, designed to put off potential spies seeking to acquire Schoenberg’s secrets, like the anti-chemical armoured suit? He scanned the walls and ceiling for signs of hidden monitoring devices; none appeared to be present. Perhaps he should be a little more forceful.

Ermanaric: Prithee, sirrah, permit me to inspect your rearward regions.

Spotty Youth: Wha! Are you some kinda pervert, buddy?

”Buddy” again! Ermanaric decided he did not like this Tauri, who seemed even more stupid than most. Perhaps it was something to do with his age.

Ermanaric: Stand aside, knave!

A swift blow to the neck rendered the annoying boy unconscious. Now he had to act fast. He burst through into the back part of the premises. Various old men and women were working on old sewing machines. Only a few of them looked up when he arrived. No-one challenged his presence. There was no sign of any laboratory equipment, no sign of anything that would suggest a research facility. Ermanaric was puzzled. He grabbed the nearest old Tauri.

Ermanaric: No more tricks! Tell me, old one, where is Schoenberg? Quick or your life will end!

Old Person: He..he’s gone to Florida.

Ermanaric: Where in Florida, old one?

Old Person: There’s an address in the drawer there.

Ermanaric takes an envelope addressed to Schoenberg from the drawer and storms out. His mission has been a failure. He is not pleased. He is even less pleased when he finds his fossil fuel machine has been towed away.

Tic tic tic tic tic!




*OOC( At least this is how West 35th Street looked in 1976 when I visited it in search of the same address that Ermanaric is looking for, being one of several house numbers in that street given by Rex Stout as the Brownstone home of Nero Wolfe. Apologies to any New Yorkers if it no longer looks like this.)

**OOC( Yes, I know, my New York slang is stuck in the 1930’s – blame it on old gangster films.)