Reginald Bretnor - The Gnurrs Come from the Voodvork Out

"R. Bretnor" sounds like a pseudonym, but it isn't. It is theby-line of one Reginald Bretnor, who lives on the West Coast and whosince 1950 has been making infrequent but choice contributions toscience fiction. This adventure of Papa Schimmelhorn and his friendswas his first experiment in science fiction, and the success of thatexperiment is shown by the long list of anthology appearances the storyhas achieved. It is a pleasure to make that list a trifle longerherewith.

When Papa Schimmelhorn heard about the war with Bobovia, hebought a box-lunch, wrapped his secret weapon in brown paper, and tookthe first bus straight to Washington. He showed up at the main gate ofthe Secret Weapons Bureau shortly before midday, complete withbox-lunch, beard, and bassoon. That's rightbassoon. He hadunwrapped his secret weapon. It looked like a bassoon. The differencedidn't show.

Corporal Jerry Colliver, on duty at the gate, didn't know there wasa difference. All he knew was that the Secret Weapons Bureau was amock-up, put there to keep the crackpots out of everybody's hair, andthat it was a lousy detail, and that there was the whole afternoon togo before his date with Katie.

"Goot morning, soldier boy!" bellowed Papa Schimmelhorn, waving thebassoon.

Corporal Colliver winked at the two Pfc's who were sunningthemselves with him on the guardhouse steps. "Come back Chris'mus,Santa," he said. "We're closed for inventory."

"No!" Papa Schimmelhorn was annoyed. "I cannot stay so long fromvork. Also, I haff here a zecret veapon. Ledt me in."

The Corporal shrugged. Orders were orders. Crazy or not, you had tolet 'em in. He reached back and pressed the loony-button, to alert thepsychos just in case. Then, keys jangling, he walked up to the gate. "Asecret weapon, huh?" he said, unlocking it. "Guess you'll have the warall won and over in a week."

"A veek?" Papa Schimmelhorn roared with laughter. "Soldierboy, you vait! It iss ofer in two days! I am a chenius!"

As he stepped through, Corporal Colliver remembered regulations andasked him sternly if he had any explosives on or about his person.

"Ho-ho-ho! It iss nodt necessary to haff exblosives to vin a var! Zoall right, you zearch me!"

The corporal searched him. He searched the box-lunch, whichcontained one devilled egg, two pressed-ham sandwiches, and an apple.He examined the bassoon, shaking it and peering down it to make surethat it was empty.

"Okay, Pop," he said, when he had finished. "You can go on in. Butyou better leave your flute here."

"It iss nodt a fludt," Papa Schimmelhorn corrected him. "It iss a gnurr-pfeife.And I must take it because it iss my zecret veapon."

The Corporal, who had been looking forward to an hour or so oftrying to tootle Comin' Through the Rye, shruggedphilosophically. "Barney," he said to one of the Pfc's, "take this guyto Section Eight."

As the soldier went off with Papa Schimmelhorn in tow, he pressedthe loony-button twice more just for luck. "Don't it beat all," heremarked to the other Pfc, "the way we gotta act like these nuts wastop brass or something?"

Corporal Colliver, of course, didn't know that Papa Schimmelhorn hadspoken only gospel truth. He didn't know that Papa Schimmelhorn reallywas a genius, or that the gnurrs would end the war in two days, or thatPapa Schimmelhorn would win it.

Not then, he didn't.

At ten minutes past one, Colonel Powhattan Fairfax Pollard was stillmercifully unaware of Papa Schimmelhorn's existence.

Colonel Pollard was long and lean and leathery. He wore Peal boots,spurs, and one of those plum-colored shirts which had been fashionableat Fort Huachuca in the 'twenties. He did not believe in secretweapons. He didn't even believe in atomic bombs and tanks, recoillessrifles and attack aviation. He believed in horses.

The Pentagon had called him back out of retirement to command theSecret Weapons Bureau, and he had been the right man for the job. Inthe four months of his tenure, only one inventora man with singularlysound ideas regarding packsaddles had been sent on to higher echelons.

Colonel Pollard was seated at his desk, dictating to his blond WACsecretary from an open copy of Lieutenant-General Wardrop's ModernPigsticking. He was accumulating material for a work of his own,to be entitled Sword and Lance in Future Warfare. Now, in themiddle of a quotation outlining the virtues of the Bengal spear, hebroke off abruptly. "Miss Hooper!" he announced. "A thought hasoccurred to me!"

Katie Hooper sniffed. If he had to be formal, why couldn't he justsay sergeant? Other senior officers had always addressed heras my dear or sweetheart, at least when they werealone. Miss Hooper, indeed! She sniffed again, and said, "Yes, sir."

Colonel Pollard snorted, apparently to clear his mind. "I can stateit as a principle," he began, "that the mania for these so-calledscientific weapons is a grave menace to the security of the UnitedStates. Flying in the face of the immutable science of war, we arebuilding one unproved weapon after another, counter-weapons againstthese weapons, counter-counter-weapons, andand so on. Armed to theteeth with theories and delusions, we soon may stand defenseless,impotentDid you hear me, Miss Hooper? Impotent"

Miss Hooper snickered and said, "Yessir."

"against the onrush of some Attila," shouted the Colonel, "somemodern Genghis Khan, as yet unborn, who will sweep away our tinkeringtechnicians like chaff, and carve his empire with cavalryyes, cavalry,Isay!with horse and sword!"

"Yessir," said his secretary.

"Today," the Colonel thundered, "we have no cavalry! A millionmounted moujiks could"

But the world was not destined to find out just what a millionmounted moujiks could or could not do. The door burst open. From theouter office, there came a short, sharp squeal. A plump young officercatapulted across the room, braked to a halt before the Colonel's desk,saluted wildly.

"Oooh!" gasped Katie Hooper, staring with vast blue eyes.

The Colonel's face turned suddenly to stone.

And the young officer caught his breath long enough to cry, "My God,itit's happened, sir!"

Lieutenant Hanson was no combat soldier; he was a scientist. He hadmade no appointment. He had entered without knocking, in a mostunmilitary manner. Andand

"MISTER!" roared Colonel Pollard. "WHERE ARE YOUR TROUSERS?"

For Lieutenant Hanson obviously was wearing none. Nor was he wearingsocks or shoes. And the tattered tails of his shirt barely concealedhis shredded shorts.

"SPEAK UP, DAMMIT!"

Vacantly, the Lieutenant glanced at his lower limbs and back again.He began to tremble. "They they ate them!" he blurted."That's what I'm trying to tell you! Lord knows how he does it! He'sabout eighty, and he's aa foreman in a cuckoo-clock factory! But it'sthe perfect weapon! And it works, it works, it works!" Helaughed hysterically. "The gnurrs come from the voodvork out!" he sang,clapping his hands. "The voodvork out, the"

Here Colonel Pollard rose from his chair, vaulted his desk, andtried to calm Lieutenant Hanson by shaking him vigorously."Disgraceful!" he shouted in his ear. "Turn your back!" he ordered theblushing Katie Hooper. "NONSENSE!" he bellowed when the Lieutenanttried to chatter something about gnurrs.

And, "Vot iss nonzense, soldier boy?" enquired Papa Schimmelhornfrom the doorway.

Colonel Pollard let go of the Lieutenant. He flushed a deep redcordovan. For the first time in his military career, words failed him.

The Lieutenant pointed unsteadily at Colonel Pollard. "Gnurrs issnonzense!" he giggled. "He says so!"