New Celebrations: The Adventures of Anthony Villiers (29 page)

1

Early in 1463 of the Common Era. On Delbalso, a semi-autonomic dependency of the Nashuite Empire.

C
ASTLE ROCK RISES ABOVE THE TOWN,
out of the town, a massive block, a monolith. There is a steep slope behind the last gabled peak of buildings, possible to climb when green, less likely in white. And then the face of the block—black by night, and then a marbled gray-white, white and then orange, orange and then black—but always impossible. There is a door at the foot of Castle Rock and a road that leads down into the town.

To the handful of Empire administrators, petty officials and janitors who live within Castle Rock, it is “The Castle.” They take that seriously, and by a metaphorical transposition of their physical situation, they imagine themselves looming large in local lives, which, of course, they don’t. Since in the main they do not venture outside, they are seldom disabused.

To the people of the town, Castle Rock is “The Rock.” The janitors are an unknown quantity, since they do so seldom venture out of their fastness. The rock itself is a physical presence, a common fact, a landmark to be kept on the left when going out, and the right hand returning.

It can hardly be ignored, but it is only a rock, and, as you can imagine, the people of the town have difficulty mustering inordinate respect for an object held in such easy contempt by birds.

The charterboat landed on Castle Rock when the red sun was at the cold world’s edge and the Rock was orange, its best and brightest face, its brave smile bravely held in the face of coming dark. Two passengers with small luggage debarked. The wind whipped at them and then they went within the Rock.

* * *

Every human being who has ever lived has extended the range of the species. There isn’t one among us who hasn’t thought, said, or done something unique. New ideas, new recipes, new fashions. New tunes, new games, new places for people to play.

Since Jerzy McBe was human, he, too, had extended the range of the species, but not by much. He had his limitations.

He was one of the janitors of Empire, thin, brown, and at the end of unused youth. His job was uninteresting and he performed it inadequately. He inspected the papers of travelers to Delbalso and he inspected the papers of those departing. He had done the work for two years and not only had he not earned a promotion to more agreeable labor, he now knew less about his business than the day he started.

He finished checking through the family party leaving on the charterboat. Man, one; wives, two; children, four—and the crated remnants of several generations of summering on Delbalso. McBe had checked this same family on at least three previous occasions, but they were not among the very few in the world whom McBe recognized at sight. Their name was in his hand, where he knew where to find it, not in his mind, which was a less ordered place. The name was Gramineous.

The family had rather more baggage this time, as had the majority of those leaving Delbalso these days. To McBe it just seemed like a lot of baggage. The passage of the Winter-Summer Laws had escaped his attention. He slept with a night light and he had never set foot outside the Castle.

“Have a good trip,” he said, handing the man’s name back. To inbound travelers, he said, “Have a nice stay.” But he still hadn’t been outside the Castle.

McBe checked the time. He had a schedule, and the closer he came to keeping it, the safer he felt.

There were two passengers from the charterboat. One was a young man, well-born, well-dressed, but unprepossessing. Behind him was a large alien, brown, furry, and friendly in appearance. McBe didn’t trust appearances, and he didn’t like aliens. His immediate superior was an alien of a different kind and his attentions had always made McBe nervous.

“Papers,” said McBe.

The young man reached a slight hand within his coat. He was small and lean and his nose and cheekbones were prominent. His long brown hair was caught and tied, the prisoner of a light green ribbon. He wore a serviceable cloak and simple clean ruffles.

“My papers, sir,” he said, presenting the narrow maroon booklet.

McBe didn’t like his manner, so he took the papers and leaned back. He thumbed them instead of stamping them. He
hmm
ed.

He said, “In your picture you lack a mustache, Mr. Villiers.”

Villiers said, “That is correct. The picture is some six years old. I grew my mustache during a recent vacation.”

“You should have had your papers emended,” McBe said.

The alien said, “Is easy enough to change.”

He had eyes of bulgy blue and a fuzzy white belly, and McBe could not recall having seen his like before. He loomed over Villiers’ shoulder, seized pen from McBe’s pocket and book from hand, made a peculiar throbbing noise that McBe found unsettling, and drew a careful mustache of proper dimension on the picture.

“There,” he said. “Is mended.”

Villiers picked it up and studied it while McBe continued to stare. Villiers touched his mustache for comparison. He was young enough that six years had changed him substantially, but the alien’s adscription did much to harmonize man and likeness.

“You’re right,” he said, nodding. “I do believe you’ve caught my very spirit.”

“He held the picture for McBe’s inspection. “Don’t you agree that the addition of a mustache gives me a gravity that formerly I lacked? I don’t know why I didn’t grow one years ago when my need was greater.” McBe was confirmed in his dislike of the man.

The alien made the throbbing noise again:
“Thurb.”
He had the contented look of a toad in summer.

Villiers said, “Perhaps I should grow a beard as well.” He considered the picture again, and then looked about for the pen. “Do you mind?”

His intention caused McBe to snatch the pen up. “No!” he said, which Villiers rightly took to mean that he did mind.

McBe said to the alien, “It is a serious matter to deface official papers.”

McBe said to Villiers, “A very serious matter. There are penalties. It is a very good thing for you that you didn’t compound the offense.”

McBe said to the alien, “Do you realize . . .”

McBe said to Villiers, “Your papers, if you please.” He thumbed to the front. He moved his finger as he read.

McBe said to the alien, “Do you realize that you might be fined a full five royals, and subjected to penalties under four statutes?” He held up the book and pointed to the statute numbers.

McBe said to Villiers, whom he didn’t like, “And you should know better, sir.”

“Your pardon,” said Villiers. “I’m sure he intended no harm. If the picture needs replacement, as you suggest, then no harm has been done. Let us replace the picture, and all will be as it should.”

McBe leaned back and looked at him through narrowed eyes. The effect—for McBe was not totally without presence—was redolent of authority.

“Are you trying to teach me my business?” he asked, the age-old question of authority challenged. “Defacement is defacement. It may be enough to change the picture, and it may not. I think I shall have to have a closer look at your papers in any case.”

If Villiers had deferred properly, McBe would have been ready to let him go his own way, but instead the young man looked down his cool nose and said, “Really? A matter of routine, I suppose?”

“Yes,” said McBe. “A matter of routine. I’m sure you understand.”

He checked the time, and the thought of cost to his schedule made him more peevish. If his schedule suffered appreciably, he expected to show Mr. Villiers a thing or two about bureaucracy.

He pointed to the alien. “Next, there. Let me see your papers. Pa-pers.”

“To be sure,” the alien said, and presented his book.

McBe flipped through it. “Well,” he said. “At least you haven’t marked your own book.”

He stamped it,
bam
, and handed it back. “Listen—it was very wrong of you to mark the book. Never do anything like that again. Now follow the yellow line and it will take you out.”

Don’t think it strange that McBe challenged Villiers rather than the alien. McBe knew to a fine degree exactly what he was capable of coping with.

The alien looked at him and the black pits in his blue blue eyes pulsed questioningly. For a panicked moment, McBe thought he might make that noise again.

He drew breath and said, “Shoo. Go along. I’m done with you.”

The alien said, “I am done with you, too. Is agreed. Goodbye.”

Villiers said, “Goodbye.”

McBe said nothing. He sat unmoving until the alien had padded off to find where the yellow line had it in mind to go. Then he swished his nasal passages, rose, and said, “Come along.”

But he left Villiers’ papers on the desk. Villiers rescued them and handed them over when McBe suddenly turned halfway to the exit. Villiers raised his eyebrows. He had parallel wrinkles over each brow that rose into prominence as the brows rose, and seconded every comment they made.

It was excellent natural equipment and Villiers made good use of it. McBe was sure then that he disliked Villiers. It took little to confirm a suspicion like that. He nodded coldly for Villiers to proceed.

* * *

Slyne was an Orthodoxou. Orthodoxous are unmistakable, clothed by nature in black velvet, bodies bulbous, heads enclosed but for the wet tip of the nose in the metal lattice of their sensory amplifiers. Slyne was an unmistakable Orthodoxou, the only one in the entire Imperial Service. He was the first. He had the feeling of being watched, justified to some extent by his promotion to his present position on Delbalso after his success in a bit of amateur detection that keyed in significantly to the Diced Strawberry Affair on Able II. (That was a code name—the reality was more sinister.) His ambition was to be an Inspector General some day, an example for the Empire and for other Orthodoxous of what an Orthodoxou might be.

Orthodoxous have no talent for the construction of elaborate artificial systems, but they admire rigmarole immensely and find great satisfaction in making the most of it. Naturally, Imperial Service would have great appeal for them, so if Slyne had the feeling of being watched, it might have been because other distant eyes were peering brightly, observing his good works.

Slyne was earnest and diligent, and unable to understand why he was not loved. He was not loved because he was not lovable.

He was McBe’s superior, looking for McBe, as he so often was. He liked McBe too well for McBe’s comfort. He was always asking what McBe was doing. He was always hanging about trying to entertain McBe with a recital of Empire regulations, or some boring story of a minor exploit that had boosted him into his present position of niggling authority.

Slyne found McBe in his “office”—his cubicle. He had a young man with him. Slyne sniffed at them, his wet nose wriggling through the grillwork.

McBe shied, and then said defensively, “I have defaced and outdated papers here. I was going to run a Random Depth Inspection on them.”

The young man said nothing. Slyne wriggled his nose.

Then Slyne said, “Well, continue, then.”

McBe looked at the time. “I’m behind schedule,” he said. He shoved the papers at Slyne. “Here. Why don’t you take over? Could you, please?”

He plunged out of the room and then kitty-corner into the sanctuary of the toilet. It was on his schedule for the end of the day, but he was more abrupt about it than he usually was. The door slid shut behind him and locked and a discreet green light went on above.

The Orthodoxou looked at the young man. More properly, he looked in the direction of the young man. It was hard to tell exactly what he was looking at behind the amplifier.

“You defaced your papers?” he said.

“No,” said the young man.

“How are the papers defaced?”

“A mustache,” said the young man. He showed the picture.

Slyne took the papers and peered at them, then at their bearer. “A mustache? Ornamental lip hair?”

“True. I wear a mustache.”

“I see that you do.”

“My picture showed no mustache.”

“It should have. It is best to keep these things regular, Mr. Villiers.”

“So Mr. McBe said.”

“Is that when you defaced your papers?” Slyne eyed the door to the toilet, but the green light was still on. He turned back to Villiers. “It’s against regulations to deface official papers, you know.” He named the regulations. He knew his regulations.

“I’m sure that it is,” said Villiers, “and quite properly, too. But as it happens, it was not I who defaced the picture, but another passenger, apparently with insufficient grasp of the basic importance of official papers. We traveled here in the same ship. A most remarkable character, and not predictable.”

“You claim that it was another that defaced the papers?”

“Yes.”

“Where is this other passenger?”

“Gone. Mr. McBe stamped his papers and sent him on his way.”

“That seems unusual,” said Slyne. “McBe should have kept him in hand until the matter has had its due. I think we had best ask McBe for an explanation. McBe!”

And there you have the value of a sensory amplifier. The toilet door had just opened and McBe had emerged. Slyne spoke without turning. It was almost a good enough trick for a party.

McBe came slowly to the door. “Yes, sir.”

Slyne said, “How was the picture defaced?”

Villiers looked on with calm interest. His manner throughout was unconcerned. Whether it was innocent interest or arrogant assurance that he displayed was a matter for question. It might have been either.

McBe said, “The alien marked it.”

“The alien?”

“There was an alien in my line, just off the charterboat. He marked the picture. But the papers are still outdated.”

“You let him go?”

“His papers looked all right.”

“What kind of alien was it?”

McBe said, “I don’t know. Excuse me, sir. I’m supposed to be off duty now.”

He really did have a schedule. He needed one, since the Imperial Service did not see fit to direct his life with the fineness that he required. His schedule held his life together.

Slyne said, “Mr. McBe, you will not be done until I tell you that you are done.”