The VMR Theory (v1.1) Read Online Free PDF

office 512 to arrange for off-loading of cargo. You will be escorted to office 512.”
    “Thank you,” Catarina said smoothly, tucking her arm I irmly in mine and moving me along smartly before he lost either his temper or his pants.
    Office 512 sent us to office 845. Office 845 sent us to office 653, which lingered over our bills of lading before finally stamping them and sending us to office 513 for payment. As Catarina had expected, the Macdonalds were in a hurry to get the stuff and had decided to cut most of the usual red tape.
    As we headed for office 513 I noticed three Macdonalds in wigs, sunglasses, and silver spandex waiting for their guitars to come in. “Elvis must be turning over in his grave.”
    “Oh, no, sir,” Bunkie rejoined, “the Scribbs Institute estimates tha,t Elvis turning over in his grave would register 5.9 on the Richter scale, and no such disturbance has been reported.”
    “Thank you, Bunkie.”
    Predictably, the boys in office 513 tried to stiff us on the money they owed by substituting payment in local currency for payment in real money. Since Macdonald currency isn’t worth spit off Alt Bauemhof, and probably isn’t worth spit on Alt Bauemhof, this was not an acceptable substitute. I let Bunkie negotiate, and we finally compromised on payment of half the balance in commodities, half in local currency, and waiver of all import taxes and port, exchange, and handling fees, which is pretty much what I expected.
    Being unduly burdened with local currency that we would have to spend during our stay or use for toilet paper on the trip home, an impulse struck me—it felt like Catarina’s left elbow—and I dropped a wad of cash into the soup bowl in front of a Macdonald seated with a white bandage over his eyes and what looked like a begging license pinned to his head covering. “There you go, old codger.”
    His Jacobson’s organs quivered, and he reached into the basket to finger the cash. “You are most gracious, effendi.”
    “Your English is pretty dam good,” I blurted out.
    “How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood? One learns to speak passable English if one wishes to work t’is comer, effendi. It is not impossible.”
    Bunkie nodded agreement. “Sir, with practice, Macdonalds can utter voiced bilabial nasals without nasal passages, and voiced and voiceless palato-alveolar affricates without an alveolar ridge. That’s pretty impressive.”
    “That’s ‘m,’ ‘j,’ and ‘ch,’ “ Catarina announced, in case inquiring minds wanted to know.
    “In fact,” Bunkie concluded, “the only thing Macdonalds have trouble with are voiced and voiceless dental fricatives and, of course, German vowel sounds.”
    “Thank you, Bunkie.”
    Bunkie executed a crisp salute. “You’re welcome, sir.”
    The blindfolded Macdonald touched his head to the floor. “I am honored by your presence and cash, effendi.”
    “Uh, I’m Ken Mac Kay. Pleased to meet you, honored.”
    Catarina stopped leafing through our messages and raised one eyebrow. Some days, I’m fractionally slow on the update. Some people claim those days are Sunday through Saturday, inclusive.
    “I am Wipo.” The blind Macdonald touched his head to the floor. “But you are tee famed Ken MacKay! It was foretold you would come.”
    “By who, er, by whom?”
    “By tee men who make up shipping schedules. T’ey speak to each ot’er in tee halls.”
    “Oh,” I said, moderately deflated.
    Bunkie looked back toward the six Macdonalds who were attempting to look casual as they followed us from office to office.
    “Wipo,” I said, “you wouldn’t happen to know who these guys work for, do you?”
    “Sorry. Not all of tee various security agencies confide in me.”
    “Ah, thanks,” I stammered. As we headed back to the ship followed by our escort, I asked Catarina, “What’s our next move?”
    “We need to get dressed.” She waved one of our messages. “We have a party to attend