The Undesired Princess (4 page)

4

Rollin Hobart endured the second joyful family reunion and presentation with a fixed, slightly ghastly smile. He had just observed that Queen Vasalina under her funeral garb was a comfortable-looking middle-aged woman when Charion pulled at his sleeve.

“I’ll show Your Dignity your apartments,” said the Chancellor. And in they went between a pair of black cylindrical pylons the size of sequoia trunks and through an entrance big enough to admit a battleship. After the first three turns inside Hobart was quite lost; his attention was less on direction than on the architecture, which carried out the same style as the exterior. His memory clicked, and he remembered where he had seen structures of this kind before: made of a set of stone building blocks, of simple, elementary shapes, which he had received in a big wooden box on his eighth birthday. Those blocks, too, had all been red, yellow, or blue.

“Apartments” turned out to be something of a euphemism. Chancellor Charion conducted him to a single room of modest size. As the chancellor held the door open for Hobart to enter, there was a sharp click, and something hit the engineer’s shin an agonizing thump.

“Yeow!” shrieked Hobart, hopping on one leg. The missile rolled a little way along the floor; it was a steel ball the size of a marble. Inside the room, a crimson-haired boy crouched over a toy canon.

“Your Dignity!” snapped Charion; Hobart saw that the chancellor was addressing not him, but the boy. “I thought you were to have vacated your room by now!”

“Don’t want to vacate,” squealed the boy, rising. Hobart’s scalp prickled a little at the sight. There was something wrong about the boy: he was big enough for a thirteen-year-old, but he had the proportions, including the large head and smooth, characterless features, of a child of six.

“This is my room,” he continued, stamping his foot.

“Now, now,” said Charion, his voice full of obviously synthetic honey, “you don’t want your new brother-in-law to sleep outdoors, do you?”

The boy’s eyes widened, and he put his finger in his mouth: “That my new brother? What you mean? Got brother, Alaxius,” he mumbled past the finger.

“I know, but Prince Rollin Something will marry your sister soon. Then he’ll be your brother-in-law.”

“Don’t want such a funny-looking brother-in-law,” said the boy. “Let him sleep outdoors; I don’t care.”

“Will you go,” gritted the chancellor, “or must I call your father?”

The boy went, slowly, turning his head to stare at Hobart as he did so. Charion closed the door after him.

“Who’s that?” asked Hobart.

“Didn’t I introduce you? Prince Aites.”

“Is he normal?”

“Normal? Why—what do you mean?”

“Well—how old is he?”

“He’ll be thirteen day after tomorrow.”

“He—uh—looks like such a child, in a way.”

“What do you expect? You f—I mean, of course he’s a child! Being normal, he’ll become an adolescent when he’s thirteen, and not a minute sooner.”

“Where I come from,” said Hobart, “you change from a child to an adolescent gradually.”

Charion scowled. “I don’t understand you—either he’s a child or he isn’t. But then, I dare say you barbarians have peculiar customs.”

“What do you mean, barbarian?” asked Hobart sharply.

“You have yellow hair, haven’t you?” Charion dropped that subject and opened a chest full of clothes. “I suppose I should apologize for not having your room ready. In theory we always have a chamber prepared for the champion in case he defeats the androsphinx, but that has never happened hitherto, and the preparations have become lax in consequence. What color do you want?”

The chancellor held up one of the skin-tight Logaian suits. Red. Others of yellow, blue, black, and white lay in the chest.

“What? Oh—I’ll keep my own clothes, if you don’t mind.”

“Those things? My dear man, they’re literally impossible: neither tight nor loose, and a color I can’t even name! Would you prefer a robe?”

Hobart looked down at the cuffs of his shirt, the inside rims of which were showing the irregular dark stains that shirts acquire after a few hot hours of wear. But between a dirty shirt and a Logaian garment . . .

“I’ll wear what I have on,” he said firmly.

Charion shrugged. Hobart left the chancellor to his own devices while he washed up; he was agreeably surprised to find almost-modern plumbing. When he returned, Charion was seated in the best chair smoking a cigarette.

Hobart looked at this with more surprise. Evidently the chancellor thought Hobart’s stare a hint, for he rasped: “Will you have one?”

Hobart had two cigars in his pocket, which he would have much preferred. But he’d better save those for times when he could relax and enjoy them properly. “Thanks, I will,” he said.

The cigarette was vile. Hobart coughed, and asked: “What’s the program?”

“Don’t you know? There will be a grand state banquet to celebrate your betrothed’s rescue and approaching nuptials. Tomorrow there will be a royal hunt, and the day after comes Prince Aites’ birthday party.”

“Hm.” Hobart wanted to ask how to get out of this predicament, but did not trust Charion that far. He inquired: “What’s the condition of this kingdom I’m supposed to get half of?”

Charion opened his mouth halfway; it stuck silently for a few seconds before he said: “It is improving under my new policy.”

“What policy’s that?”

“Retrenchment.”

“Good.” The word had an encouraging sound to Hobart. “But I’d like some more information—area, population, funded debt, and so on?”

Charion stared coldly, muttered something about having to get ready for the banquet, and left.

A queer bird and far from ingratiating, thought Hobart, staring after him as he finished the cigarette. Maybe Logaia was a gift horse whose mouth deserved scrutiny. Not that it would make any difference to Rollin Hobart’s determination. This half-world was interesting enough; a fine place to spend a vacation, if Hobart had been in the mood for vacations. And if his firm had not been snowed under with work, and if Hoimon had come with a sensible, contractual business proposal—a job as public works overseer, for instance—and if . . . But if anybody thought they could kidnap him and high pressure him into the silly fairy-tale king’s-daughter-and-half-the-kingdom business—well, they didn’t know their Rollin.

He was still masticating his plans when a gong boomed through the palace. Almost immediately Charion stuck his head in without knocking. “Dinner, Your Dignity,” said the chancellor, who had changed from his black skin-suit to a loose blue robe which struck Hobart as a sissy garment for a grown man.

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The banquet hall was as big as a railroad terminal. People made way for them in most courtly fashion. As they approached the royal end of the table—or rather, the interminable meandering line of tables placed end to end and end to side—they passed a trough-shaped thing on one of the tables. It was too big for any reasonable platter, and had too low a freeboard for a coffin. Hobart asked what it was.

“That,” said Charion with a wry smile, “is the dining trough of Valturus, the gunsmith. He has the table manners of a pig.”

Prince Alaxius appeared before Hobart, with another exquisite in tow. “Look, Rhadas,” exclaimed Alaxius, “didn’t I tell you?”

Rhadas shook his head wonderingly. He reached out and fingered Hobart’s dark-green necktie, whereat Hobart stiffened with ruffled dignity. Rhadas said: “ ’Tis true that in days of yore, certain philosophers proclaimed that in theory at least it was possible to have colors other than those we have. But since they could not produce examples of the same, their claims were held to be but the loose-tongued license of the learned.”

“See?” said Alaxius. “Oh, before I forget, this is my brother-in-law to be, so they tell me, the mighty Prince Rollin. Actually it was the social lion who finished off the androsphinx. This is my friend Rhadas, Rollin; mustn’t mind him; he’s an aesthete, too.”

Hobart found a place-card reading:

which he supposed to be “Prince Rollin Something”—he was apparently going to be saddled with that spurious surname from now on—spelled in Logaian characters. Come to think of it, the Logaian alphabet seemed to be made of letters from the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic alphabets. And had he been speaking English all the while? Or had he just thought he was? If he had, how come English was the language of Logaia? . . .

“Greetings, my love,” said the princess’ clear voice. She was going to sit beside him, naturally, he thought with some pleasure and more panic.

While he fumbled for a reply, a trumpet tooted, and the king and queen came through the door behind the royal chairs. Everybody bowed toward them; they sat; everybody sat.

One thing about the Logaians, reflected Hobart, was that when they ate they ate, with a minimum of chatter. The food startled him: instead of the ultra-fancy super-sauced Byzantine concoctions he had braced himself for, he was given generous helpings of roast beef, baked potato, and peas, with a large sector of apple pie for dessert.

Another curious thing was the behavior of Valturus the gunsmith. This fat, smiling individual, a few places away, waited until several helpings had been put in his trough. Then he climbed into the trough and wallowed.

Hobart murmured to Argimanda: “I see Charion didn’t exaggerate when he said Valturus had pig’s manners.”

“Not that time,” smiled the princess. “But beware of believing Charion when he answers any question of importance. Now that I observe our friend Valturus, I must say that he seems uncommonly cheerful for a man facing ruin.”

“Who’s going to ruin him?”

“We—the government, that is.” She indicated the royal family, conspicuous by their red polls in the black-haired assemblage, and the ministers sitting in a row on the far side of the king.

“What for?”

“Oh, we’re not doing it deliberately, but his business will not survive the disbandment of the army.”

“The disbandment—what’s this?” frowned Hobart.

“Charion’s idea; he says that expenditures must be reduced, and that besides we should set a good example for other peoples.”

“Is this such a peaceful world you can afford unilateral disarmament?”

“On the contrary, the barbarians . . .”

At that moment Queen Vasalina, on the other side of the princess, touched the girl’s arm, Hobart heard the queen’s stage whisper: “Argimanda dear, Gordius wants to know whether your young man has his speech ready.”

Speech! Hobart had not thought of that. He had no idea of what he was expected to say. To be more accurate, he supposed he was intended to give them some conventional guff, when he would have preferred to tell them to go plum to hell . . . but that wouldn’t do for a number of obvious reasons . . .

King Gordius took a last gulp of wine and rose as the trumpets went off. Oh, lord, thought Hobart; it would have to be something, and quick . . .

“. . . and so, ladies and gentlemen of Logaia, the puissant champion, the successful suitor, will tell you in his own words how he, the unknown barbarian, by unflagging resource and unremitting effort, gained that insight which enabled him to save our darling princess, and which has made him worthy and more than worthy to be enrolled in that line of heroes, the Xerophi family, of which we are—ahem—a modest representative; wherefore, ladies and gentlemen, we give you, with high hopes and fatherly affection: PRINCE ROLLIN!”

The applause was tremendous. The king smiled all over and sat down. Hobart pulled himself angularly to his feet.

“I—” he began. A thunderous burst of applause stopped him.

“I—” Again the roar of handclapping.

“I—” He paused deliberately, but this time there was no applause. He glanced over at the king and saw why: Gordius had his finger to his lips. The king winked at Hobart. The engineer drew breath and began: “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen of Logaia. Perhaps I should have warned somebody that I had used up most of my words on the androsphinx today. In any case I am more adept with a pencil and a slide-rule than with my tongue, so I—uh—trust you won’t take it amiss if I—uh—

“Concerning the means whereby I acquired the knowledge necessary to answer the monster’s riddle, I can do no better than to refer you to the works of Ogden, Richards, Brouwer, Tarski, and other leaders of modern logic. I could I suppose give you an epitome of their doctrines, except for the facts that, first, it would take all night, and second, I haven’t read any of their books myself. But if you wish to—uh—

“To conclude this mercifully brief address, I ask you, how did it happen? Again, how? Ah, ladies and gentlemen, that’s the question! And what’s the answer? I’ll tell you; I admit—nay more, I assert, frankly and unequivocally, that, not being able to state with any reasonable degree of accuracy, and fearing lest I should deviate from those paths of rectitude and veracity in which it has been my unwavering custom to perambulate, I experience a certain natural hesitancy in giving oral expression to an opinion, the correctness of which might be interpreted somewhat erroneously! I thank you.” Rollin Hobart sat down.

There was a short interval of silence, then a patter of applause, then a mighty surge of it. Hobart grinned a little; either they were glad of the brevity of the speech, or it was a case of “If this young man expresses himself in terms too deep for me, why what a very singularly deep young man this deep young man must be!”