New Celebrations: The Adventures of Anthony Villiers (38 page)
Read New Celebrations: The Adventures of Anthony Villiers Online
Authors: Alexei Panshin
“I’m sorry, Mr. Parini,” said Villiers. “My only asset is an empty and undeveloped planet I have by bequest and could not bear to part with. All the rest is prospects and largesse, and the largesse is beyond my reach. However let me consider. Are you familiar with my uncle, Lord Semichastny?”
“Is he your uncle? I wasn’t aware that you were quite that prominently connected, Mr. Villiers.”
“Didn’t Zvegintzov tell you that? Yes, Lord Semichastny is my uncle. He has scheduled to give a party tonight, which, because of the interference of the Winter-Summer Laws, I suspect will not take place. He has as much as said that my money will be produced if I attend his masquerade.”
“I hadn’t heard of it,” said Parini. “My sources seem to have failed me.”
“He has need of guests and does not care particularly who they might be. On his behalf, I invite you and Mrs. Parini to the masque. Make what profit you can of the invitation.”
Parini’s feelings were mixed. He had passed as the offspring of a marquis to enter his daughter at Miss McBurney’s, but he preferred to operate at a lower and more comfortable level of society.
Villiers said, “As for me, I shall drum up the company for my uncle’s party, since he seems determined to have one.”
“And you will then pay me twenty royals for the name?”
Villiers said, “No. I have no great confidence in my uncle’s ‘as-much-as-saids.’ I can guarantee you nothing. Merely, I want the name and you need money. If we are to have a party, let it be one we can both enjoy.”
“Are you proposing partnership? Do I understand you?” said Parini.
“I’m suggesting mutual effort—you for your profit, I for mine.”
“A speculative venture?”
“A speculative venture. And if you should visit Lord Semichastny’s study to admire his ornamental rugs, you might have a look around for a draft to my name by the Duke of Tremont-Michaud.”
“I believe I understand,” said Parini.
They discussed the matter for some few more minutes and came to agreement. When Villiers had left, Parini returned to his breakfast.
The first thing he said to his wife was, “Villiers has changed. Five years ago he would have insisted on having the assassin’s name.”
“No money?” she said.
“No money,” he said. “I’m still to give him the papers when they come. We are to meet at Lord Semichastny’s country home. Where is Annie?”
Her place at the table was empty, the result of an altercation terminated by authority.
Mrs. Parini said, “I sent her to her room. She said
poggar
and
hobyah
and
beng
. I wish you would speak to her about it.”
“I will,” said her husband. “However, for now put on your best cherry-picking clothes. We are going to a party to raise money.”
* * *
The stars rolled apple-down-dilly in their courses overhead, painting tracks of white-gold across enfolding blackness. The night breath was sweet and heart-pounding. Sir Henry the Trog hopped through the streets of the town, minddancing with crystal cocoons, heartsprung.
He felt himself to be a Trog. He believed himself to be a Trog. It was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him. He didn’t understand it, but he didn’t want it to end.
He saw the world as he was sure a Trog must see it. Sharper. Clearer. In focus for the first time. It was a joy to run and hop and dance, to look and see things for the first time from a new angle. Close one eye. Close the other eye. Blink. Blink. And one world from two angles. Oh, so new, so rare.
The night was a frabjous treat.
Sir Henry the Trog, Sir Henry the Trog,
hallah, hallah, hallah
.
He had misplaced Lady Oliphaunt, but he hardly cared. Far more important, he had misplaced Sir Henry Oliphaunt and he was enjoying himself completely for perhaps the first time. Yes, yes, yes.
He exulted, caught in the grip of a major miracle.
But then his reverie was interrupted by someone thin and brown and dressed in Imperial Service uniform. The uniform of an Assistant.
It was Jerzy McBe, caught in the grip of his own miracle. His miracle was that he was still functioning and doing his earnest best to do his duty, and it was a minor miracle.
The usual rule in any conflict is that the minor miracle should give right-of-way to the major, but Jerzy McBe’s miracle did not extend to the recognition that was Sir Henry’s due. McBe functioned—he didn’t think.
He said, after clearing his throat, “Halt, there. Hold, Trog. I wish to see your papers.” He raised his hand.
He wondered if it would make its throbbing noise again. He took absolutely no notice of a change in color from mostly-brown and white to the silks of an agrarian gentleman in gray and olive. Mere details. He had the principle of examining the papers of Trogs down by heart and he was as convinced as Sir Henry.
And soon he was more.
“I have no papers,” said Sir Henry.
“Aha, then I have caught you. Let me formally take you into custody.” McBe did not know the pertinent regulations, but he knew there were some, for he had been told.
“But I don’t need papers,” Sir Henry said, regaining some of Sir Henry Oliphaunt. “I’m the new Empire Administrator here on Delbalso. Straighten up there, young man, and show me some respect.”
“A Trog appointed Empire Administrator? I don’t believe it. They wouldn’t do that.”
Sir Henry said, “I am not a Trog. I am Sir Henry Oliphaunt. I am wearing a costume for a masquerade. Do you like it?”
McBe said, “Well, no, sir. It makes me uncomfortable. Are you sure you aren’t a Trog? You look like a Trog to me.”
There were differences for the trained eye, but not to the eye of Jerzy McBe. It looked like a Trog to him. He kept ducking his head back from it in nervous impulse.
“No, I am the Empire Administrator.” With emphasis, he said, “It can be quickly checked, Assistant.”
“Yes, sir,” said McBe. “But couldn’t you take off your costume and show yourself to me?”
“No!” said Sir Henry the Trog. He was not ready to come out. Not yet. Not with the new angles, the new sharp perspectives, the patterns yet to see.
McBe began to insist, and the harder he insisted the harder Sir Henry resisted. And the more Sir Henry resisted, the more determined McBe was to insist.
It was a conflict in miracles, McBe given energy by his, and Sir Henry determined to defend his new view of the world at all cost. The narrower McBe’s concentration, the better he functioned, and he narrowed his universe to the Trog. He brought out a restraint and began to maneuver to fasten it to the arm of the random Trog. Now that he had decided that it definitely must be the same old Trog up to its tricks, he was angry with it for having the nerve to suggest that it was anything so exalted as an Empire Administrator.
Sir Henry’s major miracle was more fragile and could not stand exposure. He would not come out and he would not be restrained. So he backed away and wondered what noise he should make—whether he should growl, bark, or roar.
“Give me your arm—that’s a good Trog! Mind, now!”
Tentatively, Sir Henry said,
“Rrrrf . . . Arf. Grr.”
Then, loud and quite frightening:
“Rowr! Rowr!”
It was not what a genuine Trog would have said, particularly not an agrarian gentleman, but it took McBe aback.
He began to circle in again. Sir Henry padded back. Sir Henry was saved by the advent of a troop of Xochitl Sodality members in the Red of Montague. “Look,” said one. “Just look.”
And another said, “Take back the matched set of peels.”
“But they grunt harmoniously.”
“No matter. We have a new Wonder.”
McBe sighed. He almost cried. And he was suddenly aware that his schedule was sadly awry and that he needed the use of a toilet again.
Sir Henry the Trog felt Wonderful. He felt truly Marvelous. Sir Henry the Trog.
“I am your Trog,” he said.
9
H
OLIDAYS ARE NO PLEASURE FOR ANYONE BUT CHILDREN,
and they are a pleasure for children only because they seem new. Holidays are no pleasure to those who schedule them. Holidays are for people who need to be formally reminded to have a good time and believe it is safer to warm up an old successful party than to chance the untried. And they sigh in relief when the ordeal is done.
And we sigh at the stale fare we are served in the name of pleasure. And the children sigh, too, the fifth or sixth time the holiday comes round.
Holidays purportedly give excuse for joy and celebration—but so does every day. Harvest, solstice, the birth of a baby. Any day offers excuse. Sir Henry Oliphaunt would tell you so. Sir Henry the Trog.
The best parties in the world are unscheduled, unheralded, unrehearsed events. And the best of the best, of course, are the sort co-opted by holidaymakers.
It is the fate of holidays when they grow old to be celebrated only by historians. And the historians are kept busy because every day has been someone’s holiday. Every day offers excuse for ecstasy. And the historians remain at their posts performing their ritual celebrations until they are called outside by song.
* * *
Lady Oliphaunt did not notice that the teeth of Ozu Xenakis were unattractively large, as Xenakis could not help but be aware. He wondered again whether he should have something done about them.
“It’s no use your asking again,” he said. “Your Mr. Villiers said he would be back in time to watch the Wonders and Marvels judging and that’s all I know.”
“But I’ve been
waiting
,” she said. She came near to crying to demonstrate her distress, but decided not to on the ground that good effects should be used conservatively.
The
Centre
had more trade than earlier and Xenakis now had help. As Wonders and Marvels time approached, a few of the local curious with a taste for vulgar entertainment were beginning to stir. Those with money tended toward the
Centre
. And those without were beginning to think of finding places to watch underneath the peeltrees.
Xenakis did not mind speaking on someone else’s subject—if business was not too pressing—but the subject of waiting was one he felt had had its hour. Lady Oliphaunt was paying for the use of his Private Rooms—in fact one room, not large, but with an excellent view of the green. This entitled her to his time and attention. Still he felt that men’s subjects were more concrete and less emotional, and hence altogether more worthy.
“I’m sure he will be here soon, milady,” he said. “I’ll send him in directly as soon as he arrives.”
He made to go, hoping she might not ring again. And if she did ring again, he hoped it might be to discuss a new topic. Something he could discover thoughts about. But she said hold.
“As long as I’m waiting,” she said, “bring me a glass of hypon. And a dish of sugar-grass. Oh, and perhaps a few slices of ham. And maybe a piece of fruitcake. Do you have fruitcake?”
Xenakis said, “Yes, indeed. Would you like our domestic sugar-grass or sugar-grass imported from Moro?”
“Morovian sugar-grass,” she said. “Of course.”
“Yes, milady,” he said. At the door he said, “The fruitcake is made with domestic fruit.”
“That’s all right,” Lady Oliphaunt said.
Xenakis punched her order and picked up a waiting plate of blue cheese toasted on muffins. The plate was heaped with muffins. The white of the cheese had melted away leaving the blue tubular veins standing in a destructed landscape. Xenakis thought it looked hideous and deadly, but it was what the Orthodoxou in I.S. uniform had ordered.
Slyne was sufficiently upset to have set his sensory amplifier aside. He sat alone at a table equidistant from the windows and the door and the stimulations of the night. He was surprised and shocked by his collapse. It wasn’t at all like him. At least, it had never happened before. He would have tolerated it in no one else, and tolerated it in himself only because he had to. But he did not enjoy the discovery of new weakness.
He found himself wondering about McBe and forced his thoughts away. He turned away from the sensory amplifier. Even to see it was a strain on his overburdened senses.
He had come into the
Centre
to rest and calm his racing heart, but on the off-chance that part of his emotional state was due to hunger, he had ordered a simple favorite.
Without his sensory amplifier Slyne was revealed as harmonious if not overtly attractive. His head, as the rest of him, was covered with close black velvet. His eyes were surrounded by pink wrinkles. You might not think him pretty, but you could think him a pretty good Orthodoxou.
Slyne looked up only when his muffins-and-cheese were set before him. With his sensory amplifier in place he would have known much sooner. He ate every last muffin and found indeed they had a calming effect, but he still did not trust himself enough to don the amplifier. Instead he called Xenakis to the table.
“Have you seen any other Imperial Service personnel tonight?”
There! A solid subject. Something to talk and think about.
Xenakis said, “There were a couple of pantographers in here earlier tonight, but they got themselves taken on as Wonders and they’re out playing.”
“Pantographers? But I know them,” said Slyne. “They’re not Wonders.”
“I thought not myself at first,” said Xenakis. “They wanted to join, but they didn’t seem like Wonders. I’ve seen a fair number of Marvels pass under my windows, you know. But, then, goodness, the way they showed how the stars influence us here on Delbalso was amazing. Did you know that Delbalso is a unique place?”
As is every planet. But Delbalso was unique in its own particular fashion, and Xenakis did honestly find that Marvelous.
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they finished well,” said Xenakis.
“Have you seen anyone in uniform?”
“No one but you.”
“Oh. By any chance, have you seen a Trog?”
“I never have. Have you?”
“Oh, yes,” said Slyne. “There is a Trog on Delbalso now and I have every intention of checking his papers.”
“Well,” said Xenakis, “I would suggest that you stay right here. The Xochitl Sodality will be gathering shortly on the green, and if there is a Trog on Delbalso, he’s likely to be taken for a Marvel.”
“Do you think so?” asked Slyne. But upon consideration he found that even he thought so. Possibly. “They gather soon?”
“Soon,” said Xenakis.
“In that case, I’ll have another plate of muffins,” said Slyne. “And melt the cheese until the veins stick out.”
* * *
The gathering of Xochitl Sodality was, in fact, to be soon. Xenakis had developed a fine sense for the rhythms of a Wonders and Marvels night in exactly the same manner as his uncanny knack for weather prediction based on the timbre of peelgrunt. It was a matter of experience.
Each House had its own preliminary gathering and selected its one best choice from the collected possibilities. Badrian Beaufils, as the man responsible for Joralemon House’s Wonder, was named Official Locutor and he met with the Locutors from the other Houses. And it was only here and only at last that he was found by Ossian Chimmeroon.
“Ah, there, Friend Chimmeroon,” said Badrian Beaufils. “Sit down on the bench. Have you come to watch the Wonders and Marvels judging?”
“I came out originally to bring you your friend Torve the Trog—and what a marvelous Wonder he would have made! But he was taken away out of hand by a bunch from Pierrepont. They draw no lines when it comes to winning.”
“Oh, I’ve seen Torve,” said Beaufils. “It’s all right. We have a Marvel—now, let me tell you . . .”
But he was interrupted and called to join the conference of Official Locutors.
“Sit down,” he said to Chimmeroon. “Sit down. I’ll be back in a minute.”
He left Ossian Chimmeroon sitting on his bench recovering his breath and his poise. And he was back in a minute.
“Ossian,” he said, “as long as you aren’t doing anything, would you run up to the
Centre
and find us some judges? And Ossian, pick some new faces. Let’s not have Ozu Xenakis as a judge again.”
“But he counts on it,” said Chimmeroon. “It’s the only reason he works on a Sodality night.”
“Have you noticed that he favors Pierrepont Green?”
“All right,” said Chimmeroon. “But only if I can give the Invocation.”
* * *
Lady Oliphaunt had eaten her imported sugar-grass and was half done with her domestic fruitcake when Villiers entered the
Centre’s
Private Rooms.
“At last!” she said. “Tony, where have you been?”
There was a certain sharpness in her voice, token no doubt of five years of being Lady Oliphaunt. She had never been patient, but before her marriage she had not been given to sharpness.
“My apologies, Amita. I’ve had conflicting demands on my attention or I should certainly have been here sooner.”
“But I’ve been
worried
,” she said, taking a bite of fruitcake. Around the fruitcake she said, “I was beginning to think of all the terrible things that might have happened to you, and I was just frantic.”
“Did Sir Henry accompany you to town, or is he yet at my uncle’s?”
“Oh, let’s not talk about Sir Henry,” she said. “I’ve left him. He was
dancing in the streets
in that horrid costume and I turned the comer and he didn’t even
notice
because I peeked back and he didn’t even notice and I’ve left him. Tony, have some fruitcake?”
She said it hopefully and Villiers was polite enough not to reject offers of hospitality, at least those consonant with principle.
“Thank you,” he said.
He stood as Lady Oliphaunt cut him a piece and when he reached for it she could not help but notice that the tip of his left little finger was missing. She exclaimed in surprise, waving the knife and threatening to separate larger pieces of anatomy.
“Oh!” she said. “Tony—you’ve hurt your finger.” She then failed delicately, at least by indication.
“Yes,” he said, “but not recently.” He ate cake from his right hand and considered his left little finger as a unique object. It was more than Individuality and less than a Curiosity. It was an Object for Conversation.
“It happened in my last encounter with Livermore. The tip of my finger was exacted as a sacrifice to a beast-god in the name of wisdom.”
It was the sort of thing that Lady Oliphaunt could easily imagine happening on Livermore, for, after all, she had been married there. On the other hand, while her life had been free, it had never been kinky, and there were some unnatural practices of which she was not sure she could honestly approve.
“Did you cooperate?” she asked.
“Oh, no,” said Villiers. “It was all lightning happenstance.”
He had been caught in a circle not of his own drawing and lost a little flesh, blood, fingernail, and bone in clashing gears. But a nipped fingertip for wisdom is not a bad bargain. The established price is an eye.
“Oh,” Lady Oliphaunt said with some relief. “That’s fortunate. Tony, will you take me away from Delbalso?”
“If you mean will I escort you, of course I would be pleased,” Villiers said. “It would be an honor, Lady Oliphaunt. But I feel I should warn you of a few things. Have you the money for your passage?”
“Well . . .” she said.
“As it happens,” he said, “I do not.”
“But,” she said, “you’re using a title now.”
“Titles and money are independent variables. In fact, I seem to presume most upon my title when money is shortest.”
“I do have some pin money,” she said. “I suppose I can pay for passage.”
“Ah, but the warning. A friend would travel with us.”
Amita Oliphaunt set down the last of her fruitcake in a convult of suspicion.
“And who would your friend be?” she asked. “Do you have some
petite amie
with you?”
Inquiry after friends was a characteristic of hers that Villiers remembered well. One of her principal complaints about her husband was that he had so few active friends of any sort. It was incongruous, too, in that she herself liked to keep her family and friends well separate.
“Nothing like that,” said Villiers. “This is the vegetarian friend I mentioned to you earlier.”
It seemed to her that she did remember him making vague mention of a vegetarian friend and she was somewhat mollified. She could imagine no threat in a vegetarian, even a female.
But then Villiers added, “But this friend is a Trog.”
“A Trog.”
“Yes, a Trog. I hesitated to tell you earlier for fear of upsetting you unnecessarily, but if you are to travel with us, you really ought to know. His name is Torve.”
“Do you mean this or are you joking? You really don’t want to take me. Isn’t that it?”
“Not at all,” said Villiers. “It will be my personal delight to escort you. I simply thought that I had best warn you of your company.”
She looked at him, as unable to decide as ever what was going on in his mind. Villiers looked friendly, intelligent, composed and reserved and he was beyond her.
“I’ll ask Harbourne Firnhaber to escort me,” she said.
“If you like. I suspect, however, that it might cost you more than the price of your passage. Harbourne has neither money nor a title.”
“Oh, yes,” she said and paused to reconsider.
And it was while she was reconsidering that there was urgent approach in the hall and the door was thrown open. Lord Semichastny stood, framed in the doorway, but not filling it. Behind him was Ozu Xenakis with a plate of muffins covered with blue cheese, toasted.
Xenakis said, “In there.”
Lady Oliphaunt said, “How . . .”
Villiers said, “Ah, Uncle . . .”
Uncle said, “Where is your husband?”
And he said, “Where is your costume, Lady Oliphaunt?”
And he said, “Where is
your
costume, Nephew? You were to have one picked out.”
And he said, “I found another letter.”
* * *
Joralemon House effectively ended Harbourne Firnhaber’s hunt for Lord Semichastny’s motley crowd. While he was waiting at Joralemon House the suspicion that Lord Semichastny’s recommendation, valuable as it might be, was not worth his present eternal achronic state of wretchedness, blitzed briefly in his mind, leaving behind a glowing question. After Joralemon House, his steps slowed and he began to engage in earnest converse with himself. After Joralemon House, be began to think of quitting.
