Free The Love Machine & Other Contraptions by Nir Yaniv

Scan ,” said Elijah. “It’s packed. Wait till we reach Potemkin.”
    He nibbled loudly on cardboard crackers, while Schwartz and I defiled what was described in the menu as “fried duck nibbles.” May you never know such troubles.
    Shortly thereafter, Elijah told us all about the glowing review of the VegeScan that he had read in his favorite magazine, Mess Tin . “When we reach Potemkin,” he said, “You’ll see for yourselves.”
    And so we did.
    ~
    As soon as we arrived at the Potemkin space colony, we were stopped by Customs for inspection.
    “What is this?” said the official in a heavy Russian accent, pulling out of Elijah’s suitcase a strange rod with odd protrusions.
    “VegeScan,” said Elijah. “It’s mine. You see, I’m vegetarian. And the VegeScan distinguishes between meat and non-meat.”
    “This meat not meat?” said the official. At second glance, the contraption resembled a showerhead with an exceptionally long handle.
    “This is a device which tells me if my food, yes? If my food is really vegetarian. Do you understand?”
    “This understands?”
    “I haven’t seen such a meathead since army boot camp,” Schwartz whispered in my ear. I wondered to which of the two collocutors he was referring.
    “ My device,” said Elijah, “distinguishes, yes? Distinguishes between meat, yes? Between meat and...”
    “Let it go,” said Schwartz, and addressed the official in fluent Russian. He rattled and prattled, and the official’s expression grew more and more baffled.
    “What did you say to him?” asked Elijah after we received an honorable discharge from Customs, but not before the official called all his friends over to ogle at the device.
    “I told him,” said Schwartz, “that it’s an electrical tool for removing nose hair, and that you are a butcher on a diet.”
    ~
    Elijah initiated his wondrous widget over our first lunch in orbit, in the Waystation Cafeteria. He ordered rice and tofu croquettes, Schwartz ordered a hot dog and fries, and I made do with a hamburger. As soon as the food arrived, Elijah pulled out the magic doodad from his duffel bag with much fanfare, stroked it for a moment, and then, with a confident sweep, brought its wide end close to his plate and pressed the button on the other end.
    “Boop boop,” booped the instrument, and a red light went on.
    “Um... one sec,” said Elijah.
    “It’s really duck, your tofu,” I said.
    “I think your rice said ‘cuckoo’,” said Schwartz.
    “No, no,” said Elijah. “It probably smells your plates. There was a tuning button or something here. Wait a minute, will you?”
    We spent a few delightful minutes watching while he delved into the obscurities of his glorious gizmo. Finally he held it aloft again and, with a victorious look on his face, brought it near his plate once more.
    “Beep beep!” said the wand, and a green light went on.
    “Eureka, it works!” I said with admiration.
    “Give it here for a second, okay?” said Schwartz. He took the device, held it over the remains of the hot dog in his plate and pressed the button.
    “Beep beep!” repeated the stick, green light and all.
    “Is that a vegetarian hot dog?” asked Elijah hopefully, almost wistfully.
    “You wish.”
    ~
    Having finally managed to tune said preventative measure in a way he found satisfactory, Elijah spent the rest of our stay in Potemkin stuffing it into every possible crook and nanny. The toy said “beep beep” to cheeses and vegetables, “boop boop” to anything that had to do with meat, and an angry “EEEEEP!” when I directed it at the bedpost, in the hotel.
    “What’s that?” I asked.
    “If it can’t identify the thing, said Elijah, “it lets you know.”
    I wondered aloud how many types of responses one could coax from it and Schwartz enlisted himself to the cause. It took him about an hour to find the fourth and final sound. He shoved the VegeSham’s spout into the contents of the frying pan I was