Read New Celebrations: The Adventures of Anthony Villiers Online
Authors: Alexei Panshin
New Celebrations: The Adventures of Anthony Villiers (9 page)
“It doesn’t seem much like fun,” Louisa said.
“Let’s ask,” Villiers said. “Excuse me, madam. Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Be quiet, boy,” she said without turning her head. “I’m busy. Find your own machine.”
Villiers waved Louisa to another machine. Her initial attraction to the machine had evaporated, but she went to it anyway.
While she deliberated over the keys, punching them one by one to get the maximum for her money, Srb said, “Do I take it that you are not particularly fond of gaming yourself?”
“Not of machine gambling, whatever the machine. These machines return thirty per cent of the money bet in them. I rather prefer games where my relative ability to judge odds and make a proper play decides the issue.”
Srb looked carefully at him. “It seems that you are an elitist, sir.”
“An interesting observation. If I follow your meaning, an egalitarian might prefer to trust the even-handed justice of the machines?”
Srb brought out a pipe. “Do you have any objections if I smoke?”
“None,” said Villiers. “Louisa?”
She looked up from the keyboard. Her last key yet remained to be punched. “Please go ahead. You know, I see why they punch it all at once. It’s a terrible decision to make.”
Srb tamped his pipe. “I think most pleasantly in metaphors,” he said, “and smoking brings metaphors to mind.”
Louisa punched the final key. The machine blinked and then made its own internal decision. Frozen randomly were two cold green lights, and one each of blue, red and amber. No money fell.
Louisa turned. “Is that all?”
“That’s all” Villiers said.
* * *
The persistent strain of a simple melody that he could not identify ran over and over through Derek Godwin’s mind.
He was floating slightly, knowing, numbering and naming all the mysteries of existence, feeling in control, feeling dangerous. It was time to move down to the floor but he didn’t go. He looked down through the one-way glass to the gambling tables below and savored the heightened feeling that comes before God-time. The power was within him.
He turned and inspected himself in his office mirror, the tune an obligato over his thoughts. He put a hand to his throat, played with the order of his cuffs, sniffed to clear his nasal passages, and turned to see that his drapeau (Farid Elegante) was exactly as it should be. As he patted his curdler beneath his coat, he smiled at himself and turned his head to increase the resemblance he saw in his right profile to Ian Steele. He smoothed two errant hairs in his mustache. Yes, definitely Ian Steele.
Some people are compulsively late, some compulsively early. Godwin, by his toilet training, was compelled to be early, but he never let himself arrive until precisely the proper moment. The anxiety he felt as a result added to the electric power inside him waiting to be discharged. The feeling was good. The feeling was pure. He was a self-wielded instrument of destruction, holding his power back.
He turned to the door and as he went through he hummed the tune his mind had trapped. The name of it was still lost, so he put it back inside his head to play silently.
He came down the stairs from his office, the noise from the gambling floor swelling. He paused at the bottom of the stairs. His eye found Shirabi, found Levi Gonigle, found Anthony Villiers. And then Godwin stepped out onto the floor.
A formal excuse for the discharge of power was all that was lacking. Godwin saw it as no problem, however. The excuses were roadways and he knew every access route—he’d traveled them all. Given any A, Godwin knew the B that led inevitably where he wanted to go.
He worked his way around the floor. Eventually he was standing fifteen feet behind an unsuspecting Villiers, who stood speaking to a Mithraist priest and a nondescript girl. He almost felt sorry for Villiers.
Then Godwin stepped forward. Villiers was saying in a voice that was low, but scarcely inaudible: “No, the override controls aren’t worked by the croupier. I think it’s the man in buff at the end of the table.”
Godwin was close enough to hear this. He smiled the briefest of smiles, and then he said loudly, “Is it your contention, sir, that the gambling here is less than honest?”
Villiers turned. He looked Godwin up and he looked Godwin down, as though somehow to fathom his intentions. Then, in even, calm tones, he said, “You know that it is, sir. You know that the gambling here is less than honest, and you know that it is my contention.”
* * *
The duel took place in the Star Well dueling gallery, a long narrow room overlooked by comfortable seating on both sides. Louisa saw neither the room nor the duel, however.
News of the coming duel spread quickly. Some people left the casino immediately to get choice seats, and through them word passed out to a little world that Wu and Fabricant, good judges of these matters, had rightly found lacking in diversions. Godwin walked confidently through the hall in his patrician Sunday best. Villiers quietly asked Srb if he would act for him. Between and around were gamblers from the casino. Louisa recognized the old lady from the machines.
Louisa was quietly and genuinely frightened. She had no idea whether Villiers was. He was being quiet and formal, and certainly betrayed no fear of this large, gaudy, and insistently murderous man. But she was frightened for him. The best thing she could think to do was not inflict her fear upon him. To be there but not obtrusively. If he were to look at her, she would smile as best she could.
As they passed from the casino, however, they were intercepted by Mrs. Bogue. She hurried up, and then used her elbows neatly and knowledgeably to clear her way.
“Mr. Villiers, I thought better of you. You let Louisa go into the gambling casino.”
“Yes, I’m afraid I did.”
“Do you care to try to justify yourself?”
“At this juncture, madam, I doubt my ability.” Villiers spoke evenly, perhaps tautly. “I hope you will pardon me if I say my thoughts are not in order and my immediate presence is commanded elsewhere.”
He turned away, and Louisa said, “Oh, Tony. Be careful!”
He swung around. “I’ll try my best,” he said, and smiled.
She smiled, too, a smile that broke when it was no longer seen.
“Come, Louisa,” Mrs. Bogue said, seizing her firmly by the arm. “If Miss McBurney knew where you had been!”
“He may be killed.”
“If Mr. Villiers is killed, so much the worse for him. I’ve no objections if these men want to duel, but if they die they shouldn’t complain about it afterwards. They made the choice, after all. Now come along. This is no place for you. And what is that you have all over your face? Take it off this instant. Louisa Parini, I don’t know you! I thought you were more sensible than the rest of the lot.”
Louisa, reduced from being jaded to being a young girl again, let her face be scrubbed, but her head turned as soon as it was freed to look soberly at the people still trailing out of the casino.
When they reached Louisa’s room, Mrs. Bogue opened the door. At the sound, Alice popped out of the dressing room. She was ready for bed and had been busy cleaning her teeth.
“Oh, hey . . .” she began, and then stopped as she saw Mrs. Bogue with Louisa.
Mrs. Bogue pointed back at the dressing room. “Finish, Alice, and then straight to bed.”
Alice disappeared.
Mrs. Bogue looked at Louisa. “I’ll thank you to return my sister’s pin, which I made the mistake of lending you.”
She turned while Louisa was reaching up to unpin the silver brooch. She crossed to the service and rang.
A freckled young man in uniform appeared. “Do you know who I am?” Mrs. Bogue asked.
“No, ma’am.”
“My name is Selma Bogue and I am in charge of the girls in this room and the rooms adjoining. You may check this in your records of accommodations. I want no calls going either in or out of this room.”
Alice reentered the room and crossed to her bed, studiously minding her own business all the while. Only when she was safely covered could you see her ears prick.
“Yes, ma’am,” said the Accommodations Clerk.
“Please note that this is to continue in effect until I notify you.”
“Yes, ma’am. Would you like to have some leather sent up?”
“I beg your pardon, young man?”
“It’s just one of the services of Star Well, ma’am. We have a wide variety of instruments available for the use of people of discrimination such as yourself.”
“No, thank you,” she said. “I don’t need them. And no calls in or out.”
She rang off and turned. She took the brooch from Louisa and said, “This is not the end of the matter, Miss Parini. I’ll think of appropriate action.” She crossed to the door. “I’ll be in to check on you in ten minutes. Be in bed.”
She left and locked the door behind her. There was a moment of silence, Alice lying as before, back to the door, Louisa standing exactly where she had been since she entered.
Then Alice turned over, put her chin on her hands and rested on her elbows.
“Tell,” she said.
8
I
MAGINE YOURSELF IN A DUEL:
You are going about your business—eating with friends, shall we say—talking, drinking, joking, a bit loud, perhaps, but doing no more than enjoying familiar pleasures in a familiar manner. The only thing that modifies your enjoyment is that you have to join another party at ten—your presence is expected, and this means a certain amount of travel, an interruption in the continuity of the evening. But it’s a minor point.
But then matters start to go awry. Henderson arrives with his boorish companion, Wold. Wold is red-faced, a bully, a man who enjoys picking at weakness, and he perceives weakness in you. Is it there? You are not sure yourself, but you resent his automatic assumption that it is, his joy using you as a ball to be kicked and bounced as he pleases. You resist. He drinks heavily. You counterattack as best you can, worrying all the time that you are making a fool of yourself. Then he takes exception and will not be mollified. He wants satisfaction.
Caught up in events you want no part of, you find yourself clearing an area. You cannot beg off. That would reveal you not as a man of senses, of mild temper, and of friendly mien; it would reveal you as a man of small sensibility, a coward, a man by self-admission no man. You appoint Kahane to act for you. You do your best to seem in control of the situation. Through it all, however, your most urgent feeling is one of being in the wrong place. You look at the clock and see that if the world were working as it ought now you would be leaving, should be leaving, for your other party. Could you say so? No.
You look at Wold. His face is glistening and he is smiling. He has killed before. You know he is enjoying himself as he drinks. Squat, hard-muscled, a man who affords the time and money to keep himself adept in his weapons.
The weapons are matched and found to be comparable enough to suit Kahane and Henderson. All must be fair, you know. Fair?
It all seems so slow. People swim incomprehensibly through the edges of your vision, bound on errands that make no sense. Do you see money change hands? You are not sure. You are offered a drink, and because your throat is dry, and because it is something to do, you take a glass of water.
But then, though time passes slowly, all is ready far too soon. Weapon in your hand—which of the many possible you are hardly certain—you face Wold across the room. The curdler—it is a curdler—is desperately heavy and solid in your hand. This isn’t where you ought to be. This isn’t what you ought to be doing. You want to tell somebody so, but you tighten your lips instead and concentrate.
When the words are spoken, you lift the curdler, seeing Wold doing the same, but faster, more surely. You point and pull. There is a damp, black explosion in your chest and your mind wobbles. You try to concentrate, try to concentrate, try to concentrate. Even on one thing: standing. But you find that you cannot. As the blackness becomes an expanding cloud and your knees give way, you wonder if your party will miss you. Will anybody care at all?
Duels fair? They’re a carte blanche for a man with a talent who enjoys indulging it.
Or are they? Is there not even a possibility that sweat would blind Wold, that your hastily aimed shot would throw Wold’s curdler aside, that you might be the instrument of a higher justice than you know? A possibility? Grant it.
* * *
“No lights,” said Louisa. She slipped out of bed and went across the warm fuzz of the floor on hands and knees.
“But what are you going to
do
?” Alice whispered.
It had been a slow half-hour since Mrs. Bogue had checked the girls. The time had been passed in a darkness punctuated by exchanged whispers.
“I’ve got to know what happened,” Louisa said. “And we left things
unsettled
between us.” She was sitting tailor-fashion in the closet opening off the left in the dressing room, and she leaned back to speak. She was fumbling in her bags.
“Oh,” said Alice, “you mean he was interested.”
“I guess you could say that.”
“Well!” Then she said, “What do I tell Mrs. Bogue if she comes to check?”
“You don’t know anything. You were asleep.”
Alice leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. Nobody said anything for a moment and there were only a variety of rustlings and the sound of a bag being closed.
“How are you going to open the door?” she asked at last.
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Louisa said, her voice submerged in the dress she was climbing into. “My brother, the one in the Navy, showed me how to open doors.”
This was less than total candidness. The door, in fact, was a complicated one to breach, but Louisa was able to open it quickly enough that the ordinary observer would not have thought it locked at all. If you are able to pass that sort of thing off as a common skill learned on a rainy afternoon from an older brother, you are either very good or have considerable acting talent. Louisa was good.
“She wouldn’t believe me, anyway,” Alice said.
“Who?”
Alice bounced out of bed and crossed to the dressing room. “Mrs. Bogue. She wouldn’t believe me, anyway. I might as well have the fun, too. I’m coming with you.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” Louisa said. “Please do come.”
They cracked the door on an open hall, were through it and had it locked again behind them in an instant and were around the corner. As soon as they found the time and the place to do it, they looked to their appearances, and soon were two young ladies enjoying a stroll of an evening, nicely-behaved, well-appointed, and all they ought to be.
Louisa led as best she could. Keeping a sharp eye out, she got them as far as the casino, but after that she hardly knew the way. She hadn’t gotten that far before and she had to make a blind stab.
It was odd. Perhaps because things had been out of her hands, she had felt only moderately anxious while in the company of Mrs. Bogue and in her room. Now, however, she felt a cold apprehension.
She had lost Villiers somehow. Her fear was peculiar. It was not so much that he was dead as it was that she would never find him again.
The halls began to take on a nightmarish quality. They led nowhere final, but simply led on. She and Alice were playing hide-and-go-seek in a labyrinth. Somewhere were warmth and color and people, but not here. She was cold—there were goosepimples on her arm. Everything seemed faded around her. The few people she saw were distant and their voices muted.
“Where are we going?” Alice asked.
“I’m going to ask this man,” Louisa said.
She stopped the old gentleman. “Excuse me, sir. We’re looking for the dueling gallery. Could you direct us?”
He stood only feet away, but he was distant and his voice was muted in her ears by more than his Imperial moustache.
“Certainly,” he said. “It’s not far. But aren’t you girls a little young for dueling galleries?”
“Please, sir. There was a duel tonight. A friend was challenged and I have to know if he is all right.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go in if I were you. I’d wait outside. Too rough. Walk back with me and I’ll direct you.”
They followed his directions and shortly arrived at the dueling gallery. To no real surprise of Louisa’s, there was no one outside and no noise within.
“Is this the right place?” Alice asked, looking about. “Where is everybody?”
“I don’t know,” Louisa said. “It’s probably all over.”
She was certain that it was, that it was beyond her power to hurt or help. There were stairs at either hand that led up to the galleries, and directly in front of them the brown doors to the main floor half rolled back. It was dark within. Louisa stepped forward between the doors and raised her hand to bring on the lights. They came up slowly. The narrow floor was bare and gleaming marble. There were more stairs from the floor to the galleries.
Louisa didn’t know what she expected to see. There was no public announcement posted. There was no telltale pool of blood. There was only a long, bare cold room.
“We could go back to the casino,” Alice said. “People there ought to know.”
“No,” Louisa said.
“Why not? It’s reasonable.”
“I don’t want to find out that way. Let’s go to his rooms.”
“Oh, great!” Alice said.
Louisa’s feeling of strange anxiety continued as they made their way through the halls again. As though to accentuate it, they encountered no one. She almost wanted to call to everyone to come out of hiding, but then she was afraid of what would happen if she did. She wanted to run, or cry, or claw at the wall. Above all, she wished desperately she knew that key word that spoken would make the world run right again. And in the meantime, she continued to walk as steadily as she could.
To Alice, this excursion was so far no more than an excuse for vicarious pleasure. She was stepping along happily beside Louisa, her mind filled with romantic thoughts.
If Villiers was alive, it was up to them to find him. If he were in public, public reunions are dramatic. If he were in private, private reunions are poignant. The idea of a sexual liaison between Villiers and Louisa still held her, uncertain though she was in her heart of hearts that Louisa was made of the stuff of successful mistresses. And reunions, either poignant or dramatic, along with self-concealment in appropriate closets, are the stuff on which successful fantastic passions are founded.
On the other hand, if Villiers were not alive, it was still in order to find him as efficiently as possible. Once found, his dead (or even better, dying) body was the perfect platform from which any young lady of proper sensibility could express her grief in terms and tones to inform the most unfeeling and insensate listener with an appreciation of her emotion. And once dead, well, beautiful things could be done in a school like Miss McBurney’s with an aptly handled unhappy past. She was realist enough to know that.
Alice only hoped that Louisa would make the most of her absolutely terrific chances. If she failed now, in this hour of perfect possibility, a strain would be put on the friendship for Alice, and she wouldn’t like that.
* * *
The results of what we do are hidden to us. We act as best we can and hope that what will happen is for the better rather than the worse. But we can never know beforehand.
The apparently simple—say, the ingestion of acetylsalicylic acid (C9H8O4) that was common between the vogues for phrenology and manarveling—may have unforeseen consequences: several centuries of cumulated genetic damage that requires several further centuries to repair.
The apparently complex series of interconnections when flipped and viewed from a new angle may in fact have a single key linkage. Touch it and the Chinese puzzle falls apart.
The apparently frightening and hopeless situation may turn out to have a candy-cream interior. That has been the main premise of the happy ending since the return of Ulysses.
But all you do see in fact is the simple end of a headache, the myriad interlocked pieces of a puzzle whose key cannot be found, or the frightening and hopeless.
Perhaps, if our minds were trained to accept the idea and our language permitted, it would be altogether better not to believe in causality. Perhaps lines of occurrence in which events are not caused but occur of their own volition would be more satisfactory. This might salve the hurt presently resulting either from failure or success in perceiving the results of our actions.
If Louisa had not believed in causality, she would not have been blaming herself. First, was there anything to be blamed for? Louisa couldn’t know, but nonetheless, such was her feeling of anxiety, it seemed to her that there ought to be. Otherwise, why should she feel blameworthy? Second, where was her fault? Dig deep enough and you’ll find one. Villiers wouldn’t have been in the casino if not to please her, and he would not have been saying things that could be taken so personally by Godwin. Both of these, of course, were untrue, but both were good enough for Louisa. She blamed herself.
She stood in front of the entryway to the Palatine Suite, Alice hanging a little behind her. Then she stepped forward and sounded the door, taking a pace back when she heard the ring inside.
After a moment there was a heavy trudge toward the door, there was a click while she was surveyed, and then the door slid open. Torve the Trog stood there, fur brushed and looking ruggish, eyes a luminous blue in the light, holding a book in his splayed fingers. If you had asked him and he could have put it neatly and intelligibly, Torve’s view of what had transpired was this: the bell had a life-line stretching from coincidental creation to the moment its component atoms separated themselves at the name of an anonymous urge, and stretched along this line were a number of random rings. One of these had existed at a point slightly prior to one of a number of occasions that his life-line had taken him over to open the door. No involvement at all—merely the close approach of two lines of occurrence.
“Hello. Is girl from casino, Miss Parini, and female friend from the ship
Orion
.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Torve.” Now that she was here, Louisa didn’t feel able to rip away into the subject. Tentatively, she asked, “Um, is Mr. Villiers here?”
Behind her, Alice felt ashamed. Not half what it ought to be. Louisa was just too young, she supposed.
“I have not seen him since we were together in casino.”
“But he was in a duel. He was in a duel and I wasn’t there. He may he dead.” Abruptly, Louisa burst into shocked tears.
Alice thought more highly of her then, though a faint would have been better.
Torve folded her against his fur. “He is not dead. I am sure of that. I would know instmently.”
Louisa was soothed by his warmth of manner and warmth of fur. Imagine yourself being cuddled by a giant softly furry brown toad—appealing, isn’t it? It turned her tears into occasional racking sobs, and the sobs into a quiet sniff.
“We must act,” Torve said. “We are to go separate ways in determination. They may have taken him to cellars. Secret places.”
“Oh, I know about that,” she said. “He told me.”
“Is good. You go there. Look for him as best you can. In meantime, I will rouse help and search in higher places.”
