The Star Fox

“Hi-ro-de-rung! Hi-ro-de-rung!
Skinna-ma-rinky doodle doo, skinna-ma-rinky doodle doo,
Glory, hallelujah, in-ro-de-rung!
Now the poor man asked for a piece of bread and cheese-iung.
Glory, hallelujah, in-ro-de-rung!
The rich man said, ‘I’ll send for the police-iung’
Glory, hallelujah, in-ro-de-rung!”

“Hi-ro-de-rungl Hi-ro-de-rung!” chimed in a bull basso. Gunnar Heim stormed through the door.

“Skinna-ma-rinky doodle doo, skinna-ma-rinky doodle doo

(“Daddy!” “Gunnar!”).

“Glory, hallelujah, hi-ro-de-rung!” He snatched Lisa off the table, tossed her nearly to the ceiling, caught her, and began to whirl her around the floor. Vadász went merrily on. Helm took the chorus while he stamped out a measure with the girl, who squealed.

“Now the poor man died and his soul went to Heaviung.
Glory, hallelujah, in-ro-de-rung!
He danced with the angels till a quarter past eleviung.
Glory, hallelujah, in-ro-de-rung!
Hi-ro-de-rungl Hi-ro-de-rung!
Skinna-ma-rinky doodle doo, skinna-ma-rinky doodle doo,
Glory, hallelujah, in-ro-de-rung!”

“Oh, Daddy!” Lisa collapsed in a laughing fit.

“Welcome home,” Vadász said. “You timed yourself well.”

“What’s going on here, anyway?” Heim inquired. “Where are the servants? Why put a camp stove in a perfectly good kitchen?”

“Because machines are competent enough cooks but will never be chefs,” Vadász said. “I promised your daughter a goulash, not one of those lyophilized glue-stews but a genuine handmade Gulyás and sneeze-with-joy in the spices.”

“Oh. Fine. Only I’d better get me—”

“Nothing. A Hungarian never sets the table with less than twice as much. You may, if you wish, contribute some red wine. So, once more, welcome home, and it is good to see you in this humor.”

“With reason.” Heim rubbed his great hands and smiled like a happy tiger. “Yes, indeedy.”

“What have you done, Daddy?” Lisa asked.

“’Fraid I can’t tell you, jente min. Not for a while.” He saw the first symptoms of mutiny, chucked her under the chin, and said, “It’s for your own protection.”

She stamped her foot. “I’m not a child, you know!”

“Come, now; come, now,” interrupted Vadász. “Let us not spoil the mood. Lisa, will you set a third place? We are eating in the high style, Gunnar, in your sunroom.”

“Sure,” she sighed. “If I can have the general intercom on, vid and audio both. Can I, please, Daddy?”

Heim chuckled, stepped out to the central control panel, and unlocked the switch that made it possible to activate any pickup in the apartment from any other room. Vadász’s voice drifted after him:

“Now the rich man died and he didn’t fare so welliung.
Glory, hallelujah, in-ro-de-rung!
He couldn’t go to Heaven so he had to go to Helliung.
Glory, hallelujah—”

and on to the end.

When Heim came back, he remarked in an undertone, because she’d be watching and listening, “Lisa doesn’t want to miss a second of you, eh?”

The finely molded face turned doleful. “Gunnar, I didn’t mean—”

“Oh, for crying in the beer!” Heim slapped Vadász on the back. “You can’t imagine how much I’d rather have her in orbit around you than some of that adolescent trash. Everything seems to be turning sunward for me.”

The Magyar brightened. “I trust,” he said, “this means you have found a particularly foul way to goosh our friends of Alerion.”

“Shh!” Heim jerked a thumb at the intercom screen. “Let’s see, what wine should I dial for your main course?”

“Hey, ha, this is quite a list. Are you running a hotel?”

“No, to be honest, my wife tried to educate me in wines but never got far. I like the stuff but haven’t much of a palate. So except when there’s company, I stay with beer and whisky.”

Lisa appeared in the screen. She laughed and sang,

“Now the Devil said, ‘This is no hoteliung.
Glory, hallelujah, in-ro-de-rung!
This is just a plain and ordinary helliung.’
Glory, hallelujah, in-ro-de-rung!”

Vadász put thumb to nose and waggled his fingers. She stuck out her tongue. They both grinned, neither so broadly as Heim.