New Celebrations: The Adventures of Anthony Villiers (35 page)
Read New Celebrations: The Adventures of Anthony Villiers Online
Authors: Alexei Panshin
This representation is gross and inaccurate, of course, but still it would not be unfair to say that Torve considered himself largely irrelevant to his
thurbs
, which left him free to enjoy them to a degree that would be disgraceful in a human artiste.
Chimmeroon asked, “And what is ‘imminent conjugation,’ Friend Trog?”
Torve explained at some length, speaking of lines of occurrence and other inadequate approximations. He molded air with his furry fingers by way of illustration. Chimmeroon understood hardly a word. Some philosophies are not easily exported. Villiers and Torve had traveled together considerably, and neither would claim to understand the other, so Chimmeroon cannot be blamed.
Chimmeroon did become convinced that “imminent conjugation” was not so rare an event in the Trog’s experience that he should have reason for alarm, and after a more than reasonable show of attention, he nodded his lack of understanding and changed the subject. He reached beneath his robes and produced a handsome box of trocchi wood graced by inlaid filigree. He flipped it open with a practiced thumb.
“Majoon?” he said.
There was a row of neat candies within—honey and nuts, and wondrous spices, all dipped in toasted sesame seeds. Chimmeroon took one and offered the box.
“In surety,” said the Trog, taking three. Or would it be fair to say that three pieces forced themselves upon him? In any event—three.
Chimmeroon nibbled his piece with proper respect, for majoon deserves respect, but the Trog had all three pieces in his mouth before Chimmeroon had replaced his box beneath his burnoose, and had gobbled and gulped the lot before Chimmeroon was more than begun. Ah, but it is futility to expect politeness from a Trog, or a proper appreciation of a careful blend of delicate flavourings.
Torve did smile widely. “Is good,” he said. “Already I feel seeping emanations.” It was almost as though the pleasure he took was not so much in the eating as in the digestion of the candy.
Chimmeroon may have marveled at this, but as an officially wise old man—even if only newly so—he was willing to grant the Trog his peculiarities. For Badrian Beaufils’ sake, if none other. And, as they walked, digestion proceeding, the Trog’s smile grew broader.
However, Chimmeroon was not given an extended opportunity to observe the process. Before they had progressed more than a few blocks down the sloping, winding street toward the green center of town, a party of four men came out of a side street and hailed them.
Chimmeroon groaned. “Newman, Rose, Zimmerman and Cohen,” he said. “I hope they don’t insist on singing.”
The four were of Chimmeroon’s age, or a bit younger—mature men. They were dressed in green, with little peaked and jaunty caps. One had a feather in his cap.
“They sing?” asked Torve.
“Oh, yes,” said Chimmeroon. “At every sodality meeting. And badly.” Having been named Ossian, from an early age he had looked upon poetry and song as being particularly his own and felt free to criticize as he would. If he had not criticized Torve’s attempts, it was largely because he had not recognized them as art.
“Well, how are things over at Pierrepont House?” Chimmeroon asked as the four came up.
“Well enough,” said the one with the feather. “What are you doing out tonight, Ossian? You know this is Xochitl’s night. You have your new sodality. Can’t you let go?”
“We’re just looking for Badrian Beaufils,” said Chimmeroon. “This is a pen pal of his. Torve the Trog—Xavier Newman.” And he introduced the others—Rose, Zimmerman, and Cohen. They nodded without enthusiasm. In fact, they seemed to be regarding Chimmeroon with outright suspicion. How they looked at Torve was something else again.
This is the outside of enough, Chimmeroon,” said Newman. “You don’t think we’re going to allow you to hand over a Marvel like this to Joralemon House, do you?”
“But I’m not
playing
,” said Chimmeroon in exasperation.
“But we are,” said Zimmerman. “It is our night and this is our territory. Finders keepers, Chimmeroon.”
Torve just smiled broadly. “
Thurb
,” he said.
“Oh, my,” said Rose. “That’s it. He has to be our Marvel. None of the other Houses will have anything to compare.”
“But he’s just Badrian Beaufils’ pen pal,” said Chimmeroon.
“Come now,” said Newman with no sign of belief. “You were a Xochitl long enough to know a proper Marvel when you see one.”
“Can you really write?” asked Cohen.
Torve nodded.
The four moved around the Trog and looked at Chimmeroon. Chimmeroon banged his knuckles together and looked pensively at them all. “Do you understand what this is about?” he asked the Trog.
“Of course,” said Torve. “Is imminent conjugation.”
“Oh,” said Chimmeroon. “Well, then. Go along with these gentlemen, such as they are, and I will do my best to find Badrian Beaufils, Friend Trog.”
“Do that,” said Newman. “He can find us on the green when it’s time to match Marvels.”
“All right,” said Chimmeroon. “All right.” He drew his gabardine and his dignity about him, and turned away down the street.
The four continued to stand close about the Trog.
Rose said, “Let’s show the others what we’ve found.”
Zimmerman said, “I think we had best be on our way before Chimmeroon finds Badrian Beaufils.”
Cohen said, “He was mad, wasn’t he?”
Newman said, “Well, come along, Trog. Friend Trog.”
Torve said, “You sing, is true?”
“Why yes,” said the four.
6
D
O PLACES DREAM OF PEOPLE UNTIL THEY RETURN?
* * *
“Turn on, please,” Villiers said, but only at last when he had searched on hands and knees without success for the copy of
Companions of Vinland
that he had prepared for mailing before he went to sleep.
The light roused when he did. Villiers swung out of bed and yawned and stretched, but he didn’t call for the light to fulfill itself and it lurked impotently overhead. He rose and sought his clothing, and the light followed him darkly across the room.
He dressed, and not badly considering that he dressed himself and that he dressed in the dark. In younger days he had attended a school that thought there was a relationship between character and an ability to dress in the dark. Villiers had abandoned the practice for many years with obvious sad result. His moral instructors would no doubt consider his present return to past habit a hopeful sign. He did not take the trouble to complete his robe with the garnish of a drapeau, however, which might have caused them to dwell and mull a bit.
He took up his cloak in the dark, but then was unable to locate his package. He patted and pawed and mumble-fingered the floor in the darkness, but though the feel of the carpeting was pleasant, he did not find the book. In irritation with himself, and feeling quite rightly that he was making a capitulation, Villiers at last called on the light.
It was slow to come up and only cast small shadows. It wasn’t half the light it had been at dinnertime. Villiers looked up reproachfully and with seeming politeness it moved behind the crane of his neck. There it intensified a little, keeping its private glare fixed on the back of his head.
When Villiers lowered his gaze, it centered itself again directly above him. Even with the grace of reluctant illumination, he did not find the book immediately.
Sight confirmed that it was not on the table on which he believed he had left it. It was not where he had been searching on the floor close by the table. It was not anywhere in ready view.
Only then, prompted by the lingering impression of conducting a nighttime class in Evasion—a subject he in fact had never formally taught—did he begin to lift cushions. He found the book under the second cushion.
He nodded and eyed himself with proper suspicion in the wall mirror. Then he laughed.
He dusted himself, tugged and shrugged, and then put the package under his arm. The light centered itself properly and he had one last look in the glass. Then he proceeded into the hall.
The earlier sounds of moving and cleaning and decorating had largely been replaced by faint warm simmering smells of pudding and holiday, though Villiers did catch a distant trial blat of convivial music. The sound died.
The house was dark and only robots and mechanicals were afoot. They were busy. They had things to do. Purpose. The hour of Lord Semichastny’s masquerade was not far distant, and since this year they had been allowed an opportunity for display usually denied by Lord Semichastny’s sense of economy, they were determined to do more than they possibly could in the short time remaining.
Charles, faint yellow courtesy light shining, was waiting for Villiers when he reached the foot of the stairs.
“Good evening, sir,” he said.
“Good evening,” said Villiers.
Charles handed Villiers a letter. “Lord Semichastny instructed me to give this to you when you arose.”
“Did the Duden mailboat arrive?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know. Lord Semichastny said to tell you that he discovered this in reconsideration of his desk, and apologizes for the oversight, pleading a full stomach and the lateness of the hour. He promises to look yet again when he wakes.”
“My uncle overelaborates his points,” said Villiers. “Thank you, Charles.”
The letter bore Villiers’ personal address symbol as a sign that it was not a common bill or solicitation or an anonymously addressed bit of random trash. It had been opened before it came into Villiers’ hands.
It was from Villiers’ mother and it began, “I disapprove . . .” which was not at all her usual way. It turned out, however, that what she disapproved of was Villiers’ association with her brother. The final paragraphs were even addressed directly to Geoffrey on the assumption that his habits hadn’t altered, as indeed they hadn’t.
While Villiers was reading the letter, his light suddenly brightened appreciably. He looked up to see Harbourne Firnhaber trotting down the stairs.
“You’re up early,” said Harbourne.
“I have immediate business in town,” said Villiers, holding up the packaged book by way of misdirection.
“Would you like me to mail that for you, sir?” asked Charles.
“I think not,” said Villiers. “And why are you up so soon, Cousin?”
Harbourne said, “I’m to find masquerade guests for Uncle’s party. I thought to make an early start on it.”
“Whom are you inviting?”
“Anyone, Milord Charteris. I shall sweep the streets of town.”
“You may not find many on the streets. Xochitl Sodality of the Delbalso Monist Association is playing Wonders and Marvels tonight and most people are keeping to their homes. I saw few on my way here tonight.”
“But it was late then. It’s earlier than that now,” said Harbourne.
“True,” said Villiers, “but I think it makes small difference. They seemed bent on making a full night of it. Be careful lest they take you for a Wonder and keep you.”
“Do you think they might take me for a Wonder?”
“It’s perfectly possible. I fell into their hands myself.”
“But apparently they didn’t keep you.”
“No,” said Villiers. “They found me insufficiently marvelous and cast me back into the streets again to grow to larger size. Alas, I fear I have attained a final and insufficient height, and shall ultimately disappoint them.”
In fact, Villiers had not been that disappointing. Small, yes, and no Ian Steele, but not without presence when he cared to make the point. As it had happened, Villiers had encountered the friend of a friend, and of course there had been no question about his movements once that had been established.
“Will you gentlemen have breakfast?” asked Charles.
* * *
In this world there are a million windows through which to see. There are a million mirrors, and a million prospects. The ordinary man accepts this, and if the world looks a little different to him one day and the next, or if his mirror shows him something new, it neither troubles nor surprises him. The variety lends roundness to life.
However, for those few raised to a single narrow squint, the discovery of even a second perspective on the smoke and swirl of the evanescent world can be important, shocking, and joyful. This is good if it leads to new vistas, and bad if the second perspective is mistaken for Final Truth.
Timur i Leng, vizier of Chagatay under Suyurghatmish, discovered one day that the world looks different from forty feet in the air and was overwhelmed. He gathered his army and overran Khorasan, Jurjan, Mazandaran, Sijistan, Azerbaijan, and Fars. In each place he raised a pyramid of skulls forty feet high and limped to the top in the hopes of recapturing that first thrilling rush—and missed the point completely.
Sir Henry the Trog stood in danger of similarly refining too greatly on a single new view of the world. He would not come out of his costume no matter what his wife said. He was quiet about it—when he did not forget himself and dance or sing to savor once again the puzzling and pleasing strangeness of it all—but he was adamant. He would not come out.
His mind had been busy and kept him from sleep, but at last he had fallen into warm electric dreams. When he woke he turned his woolly head and saw that his wife had risen. He did not seek her company immediately but lay awake and let the butterflies in his mind take spotted wing. He hummed.
He was still humming when be located Lady Oliphaunt eating a solitary breakfast. By the debris before her, she was nearly finished.
“Ah, my dear,” he said. “Charles said I should find you here.” And mused off into a hum again.
“No,” she said, looking at him and then looking back at her buttered bun. “I’m not here.” Meaning that she wished she weren’t.
“I don’t understand you,” he said, not wishing to.
She said, “Henry—darling—won’t you at least take the costume off for breakfast?”
She began to scour her plate with the last of her bun. To a lesser degree, she shared her husband’s failing. When she was young she would never have dared to do anything so vulgar as mop her plate. It was only eventually that she had learned that anything is proper if it is done with supreme confidence and ultimate style, and now she scoured her plate when and as she pleased, carelessly, thoughtlessly, freely. If she had been sensitive to her own easy excess she might have been more easily forgiving of Sir Henry’s.
He said, “Oh, thank you, but it isn’t necessary. In fact I think it’s a very good thing. It will give me practice in managing food. I shouldn’t want to appear clumsy before the good people of Delbalso. We want to give them every reason to think well of Empire, and we must remember that ultimately it is we who will stand for Empire out here. Charles will be serving me here at any moment, I should think.”
He began to experiment with Trog-handed shadow pictures with the aid of his light cone.
Lady Oliphaunt said, “I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to stay and keep you company. The sooner I go to town the better. I have still to find a costume.”
“That’s true. That’s true. But I dislike the thought of your traveling alone in the dark. Why don’t you see whether Lord Charteris or Mr. Firnhaber will bear you company?”
“Charles said that both milord’s nephews rose early and left in company for town. I’ve missed the opportunity, it seems, but I truly don’t mind going alone. Truly not.”
He gave that a moment’s consideration. Then he said, “I’ll bypass breakfast! I’ll escort you to town myself. The least I can do is see that we complement each other.”
Lady Oliphaunt was sadly lacking in apparent enthusiasm for this show of consideration. Perhaps she should never have married. The heart of marriage is a sharing of company and aim.
Instead she asked, “And would you be wearing that costume?”
“Well, yes, my dear. I thought . . .”
She turned her head to the wall and said definitely, “I won’t go.”
* * *
Lord Semichastny sat up in bed when Charles entered to serve him his breakfast melon. He had slept later than he intended, and he had contingencies on his mind. The melon was to provide him strength to cope.
Charles rolled to the bed and served breakfast. Besides melon, there was a toasted scone, sweetmold front Protopapis, an advance piece of crisply roasted skin and fat sliced from a goose in the kitchens, dogbone, drennel, and tea. However, Lord Semichastny had the courage of his compulsions and counted this mere dressing to the melon.
“Have there been any calls?” he asked before taking his first bite.
“None, milord. It has been generally quiet.”
“None?”
“None, milord.”
After a moment’s reflection, Lord Semichastny began his breakfast. He needed at least the scone as fuel for his temper, so he dug in heartily the sooner to start the steam rising.
“I have another letter for Lord Charteris,” he said. “Did you give him the first?”
“Yes, milord, but Lord Charteris has departed the house. He and Mr. Firnhaber left for town hours ago.”
“Did he pick out a costume?”
“No, milord. I did suggest it to him as you said to do—most politely—but he said his attendance remained to be seen.”
“He did, did he?”
“And he said that you overelaborate your points, milord.”
“He did, did he?” Lord Semichastny looked at his robot butler as though suspecting him of taking delight in the simple messages he was entrusted to relay. Limited Volition hardly extends so far as delight.
“Your pardon, milord. May I be excused? I should be overseeing the musical arrangements.”
“No, damn it! You’ll stay until I give you leave to go. You say that Lord Charteris and Mr. Firnhaber left for town together?”
“Yes, milord.”
“Well, perhaps Lord Charteris intends to lend a hand in locating a cross section of Delbalso for the fete.”
“I think not, milord. He spoke of mailing a package and other business.”
“Catlap!” said Lord Semichastny through his breakfast. “Catlap! Get out of here, Charles! Go answer the door. Go see to the music. Go.”
However, some fifteen minutes later Lord Semichastny, chewing his piece of goose skin, wandered through the darkened house until he found Charles, who indeed was overseeing the musical arrangements. Within the limited sphere of running this house, Charles was a versatile creature, although in the wild world outside he would have been nearly helpless.
“Where are Sir Henry and Lady Oliphaunt?” Lord Semichastny asked. “I can’t seem to find them.”
“Gone to town, milord. They too,” Charles answered. “Would you like to review the music I’ve chosen?”
“As long as you know the tunes are those I like, I’m sure you will choose adequately. Did they travel with Lord Charteris and Mr. Firnhaber?”
“No, milord. They said something of choosing a costume for Lady Oliphaunt. I took it upon myself to suggest to Lady Oliphaunt that we could do very well for her here. Semiramis Among the Doves could be both popular and successful.”
“What were you thinking of?” Lord Semichastny asked. “That’s not for Amita. Semiramis Among the Doves is Kitty-Belle Armbruster’s style.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, sir. My taste is not good. Lady Oliphaunt had the good sense to share your opinion, milord, and rejected the suggestion. After some discussion she and Sir Henry left in a flitter for town.”
“And no one has called?”
“No, milord.”
“But it’s getting later.”
“Have no fear, milord. All shall be ready here before the hour. I think you will have reason to be proud of your loyal staff of robots and mechanicals.”
But Lord Semichastny was not mollified. He paced through the empty house mumbling to himself. He took hasty notice of food, drink, music, and decoration, but he did not pause for long. He waited for someone to come. He waited for someone to call. No one called. No one came. And so he paced.
