by Jack Vance
Earl wore a grim smile that made Jean think of Fotheringay. Earl might be tough if pushed far enough. But not as tough as—well, say Ansel Clellan. Or Fiorenzo. Or Party MacClure. Or Fotheringay. Or herself, for that matter.
He was staring at her, as if he were seeing her for the first time. This is what she wanted. “Why do you think you’re smarter, then?”
“Oh, I don’t know…Are you smart?”
His glance darted off to the doors leading to his study; a momentary quiver of satisfaction crossed his face. “Yes, I’m smart.”
“Can you play chess?”
“Of course I play chess,” he said belligerently. “I’m one of the best chess players alive.”
“I could beat you with one hand.” Jean had played chess four times in her life.
“I wish you had something I wanted,” he said slowly. “I’d take it away from you.”
Jean gave him an arch look. “Let’s play for forfeits.”
“No!”
“Ha!” She laughed, eyes sparkling.
He flushed. “Very well.”
Jean picked up her duster. “Not now, though.” She had accomplished more than she had hoped for. She looked ostentatiously over her shoulder. “I’ve got to work. If Mrs. Blaiskell finds me here she’ll accuse you of seducing me.”
He snorted with twisted lips. He looked like an angry blond boar, thought Jean. But two million dollars was two million dollars. And it wasn’t as bad as if he’d been fat. The idea had been planted in his mind. “You be thinking of the forfeit,” said Jean. “I’ve got to work.”
She left the room, turning him a final glance over her shoulder which she hoped was cryptic.
The servants’ quarters were in the main cylinder, the Abercrombie Station proper. Jean sat quietly in a corner of the mess hall, watching and listening while the other servants had their elevenses: cocoa gobbed heavy with whipped cream, pastries, ice cream. The talk was high pitched, edgy. Jean wondered at the myth that fat people were languid and easygoing.
From the corner of her eye she saw Mr. Webbard float into the room, his face tight and gray with anger.
She lowered her head over her cocoa, watching him from under her lashes.
Webbard looked directly at her, his lips sucked in and his bulbous cheeks quivered. For a moment it seemed that he would drift at her, attracted by the force of his anger alone; somehow he restrained himself. He looked around the room until he spied Mrs. Blaiskell. A flick of his fingers sent him to where she sat at the end table, held by magnets appropriately fastened to her rompers.
He bent over her, muttered in her ear. Jean could not hear his words, but she saw Mrs. Blaiskell’s face change and her eyes go seeking around the room.
Mr. Webbard completed his dramatization and felt better. He wiped the palms of his hands along the ample area of his dark blue corduroy trousers, twisted with a quick wriggle of his shoulders and sent himself to the door with a flick of his toe.
Marvelous, thought Jean, the majesty, the orbital massiveness of Webbard’s passage through the air. The full moon-face, heavy lidded, placid; the rosy cheeks, the chins and jowls puffed round and tumescent, glazed and oily, without blemish, mar or wrinkle; the hemisphere of the chest, then the bifurcate lower half, in the rich dark blue corduroy: the whole marvel coasting along with the inexorable momentum of an ore barge…
Jean became aware that Mrs. Blaiskell was motioning to her from the doorway, making cryptic little signals with her fat fingers.
Mrs. Blaiskell was waiting in the little vestibule she called her office, her face scene to shifting emotions. “Mr. Webbard has given me some serious information,” she said in a voice intended to be stern.
Jean displayed alarm. “About me?”
Mrs. Blaiskell nodded decisively. “Mr. Earl complained of some very strange behavior this morning. At seven o’clock or earlier…”
Jean gasped. “Is it possible, that Earl has had the audacity to—”
“Mr. Earl,” Mrs. Blaiskell corrected primly.
“Why, Mrs. Blaiskell, it was as much as my life was worth to get away from him!”
Mrs. Blaiskell blinked uneasily. “That’s not precisely the way Mr. Webbard put it. He said you—”
“Does that sound reasonable? Is that likely, Mrs. B.?”
“Well—no,” Mrs. Blaiskell admitted, putting her hand to her chin, and tapping her teeth with a fingernail. “Certainly it seems odd, come to consider a little more closely.” She looked at Jean. “But how is it that—”
“He called me into his room, and then—” Jean had never been able to cry, but she hid her face in her hands.
“There, now,” said Mrs. Blaiskell. “I never believed Mr. Webbard anyway. Did he—did he—” She found herself unable to phrase the question.
Jean shook her head. “It wasn’t for want of trying.”
“Just goes to show,” muttered Mrs. Blaiskell. “And I thought he’d grown out of that nonsense.”
” ‘Nonsense’?” The word had been invested with a certain overtone that set it out of context.
Mrs. Blaiskell was embarrassed. She shifted her eyes. “Earl has passed through several stages, and I’m not sure which has been the most troublesome…A year or two ago—two years, because this was while Hugo was still alive and the family was together—he saw so many Earth films that he began to admire Earth women, and it had us all worried. Thank heaven, he’s completely thrown off that unwholesomeness, but it’s gone to make him all the more shy and self-conscious.” She sighed. “If only one of the pretty girls of the Station would love him for himself, for his brilliant mind…but no, they’re all romantic and they’re more taken by a rich round body and fine flesh, and poor gnarled Earl is sure that when one of them does smile his way she’s after his money, and very likely true, so I say!” She looked at Jean speculatively. “It just occurred to me that Earl might be veering back to his old—well, strangeness. Not that you’re not a nice well-meaning creature, because you are.”
Well, well, thought Jean dispiritedly. Evidently she had achieved not so much this morning as she had hoped. But then, every campaign had its setbacks.
“In any event, Mr. Webbard has asked that I give you different duties, to keep you from Mr. Earl’s sight, because he’s evidently taken an antipathy to you…And after this morning I’m sure you’ll not object.”
“Of course not,” said Jean absently. Earl, that bigoted, warped, wretch of a boy!
“For today, you’ll just watch the Pleasaunce and service the periodicals and water the atrium plants. Tomorrow—well, we’ll see.”
Jean nodded and turned to leave. “One more thing,” said Mrs. Blaiskell in a hesitant voice. Jean paused. Mrs. Blaiskell could not seem to find the right words.
They came in a sudden surge, all strung together. “Be a little careful of yourself, especially when you’re alone near Mr. Earl. This is Abercrombie Station, you know, and he’s Earl Abercrombie, and the High Justice, and some very strange things happen…”
Jean said in a shocked whisper, “Physical violence, Mrs. Blaiskell?”
Mrs. Blaiskell stammered and blushed. “Yes, I suppose you’d call it that…Some very disgraceful things have come to light. Not nice, though I shouldn’t be saying it to you, who’s only been with us a day. But, be careful. I wouldn’t want your soul on my conscience.”
“I’ll be careful,” said Jean in a properly hushed voice.
Mrs. Blaiskell nodded her head, an indication that the interview was at an end.
Jean returned to the refectory. It was really very nice for Mrs. Blaiskell to worry about her. It was almost as if Mrs. Blaiskell were fond of her. Jean sneered automatically. That was too much to expect. Women always disliked her because their men were never safe when Jean was near. Not that Jean consciously flirted—at least, not always—but there was something about her that interested men, even the old ones. They paid lip-service to the idea that Jean was a child, but their eyes wandered up and down, the way
a young man’s eyes wandered.
But out here on Abercrombie Station it was different. Ruefully Jean admitted that no one was jealous of her, no one on the entire Station. It was the other way around; she was regarded as an object for pity. But it was still nice of Mrs. Blaiskell to take her under her wing; it gave Jean a pleasant warm feeling. Maybe if and when she got hold of that two million dollars—and her thoughts went to Earl. The warm feeling drained from her mind.
Earl, hoity-toity Earl, was ruffled because she had disturbed his rest. So bristle-necked Earl thought she was gnarled and stunted! Jean pulled herself to the chair. Seating herself with a thump, she seized up her bulb of cocoa and sucked at the spout.
Earl! She pictured him: the sullen face, the kinky blond hair, the overripe mouth, the stocky body he so desperately yearned to fatten. This was the man she must inveigle into matrimony. On Earth, on almost any other planet in the human universe, it would be child’s play—
This was Abercrombie Station!
She sipped her cocoa, considering the problem. The odds that Earl would fall in love with her and come through with a legitimate proposal seemed slim. Could he be tricked into a position where in order to save face or reputation he would be forced to marry her? Probably not. At Abercrombie Station, she told herself, marriage with her represented almost the ultimate loss of face. Still, there were avenues to be explored. Suppose she beat Earl at chess, could she make marriage the forfeit? Hardly. Earl would be too sly and dishonorable to pay up. It was necessary to make him want to marry her, and that would entail making herself desirable in his eyes, which in turn made necessary a revision of Earl’s whole outlook. To begin with, he’d have to feel that his own person was not entirely loathsome (although it was). Earl’s morale must be built up to a point where he felt himself superior to the rest of Abercrombie Station, and where he would be proud to marry one of his own kind.
A possibility at the other pole: if Earl’s self-respect were so utterly blasted and reduced, if he could be made to feel so despicable and impotent that he would be ashamed to show his face outside his room, he might marry her as the best bet in sight…And still another possibility: revenge. If Earl realized that the fat girls who flattered him were actually ridiculing him behind his back, he might marry her from sheer spite.
One last possibility. Duress. Marriage or death. She considered poisons and antidotes, diseases and cures, a straightforward gun in the ribs…
Jean angrily tossed the empty cocoa bulb into the waste hopper. Trickery, sex lure, flattery, browbeating, revenge, fear—which was the most farfetched? All were ridiculous.
She decided she needed more time, more information. Perhaps Earl had a weak spot she could work on. If they had a community of interests, she’d be much further advanced. Examination of his study might give her a few hints.
A bell chimed, a number dropped on a call-board and a voice said, “Pleasaunce.”
Mrs. Blaiskell appeared. “That’s you, miss. Now go in, nice as you please, and ask Mrs. Clara what it is that’s wanted, and then you can go off duty till three.”
VI
Mrs. Clara Abercrombie, however, was not present. The Pleasaunce was occupied by twenty or thirty young folk, talking and arguing with rather giddy enthusiasm. The girls wore pastel satins, velvets, gauzes, tight around their rotund pink bodies, with frothy little ruffles and anklets, while the young men affected elegant dark grays and blues and tawny beiges, with military trim of white and scarlet.
Ranged along a wall were a dozen stage settings in miniature. Above, a ribbon of paper bore the words: Pandora in Elis. Libretto by A. Percy Stevanic, music by Colleen O’Casey.
Jean looked around the room to see who had summoned her. Earl raised his finger peremptorily. Jean walked on her magnetic shoes to where he floated near one of the miniature stage sets. He turned to a mess of cocoa and whipped cream, clinging like a tumor to the side of the set—evidently a broken bulb.
“Clean up that spill,” Earl said in a flinty voice.
Jean thought, He half wants to rub it in, half wants to act as if he doesn’t recognize me. She nodded dutifully. “I’ll get a container and a sponge.”
When she returned, Earl was across the room talking earnestly to a girl whose globular body was encased in a gown of brilliant rose velvet. She wore rosebuds over each ear and played with a ridiculous little white dog, while she listened to Earl with a halfhearted affection of interest.
Jean worked as slowly as possible, watching from the corners of her eyes. Snatches of conversation reached her: “Lapwill’s done simply a marvelous job on the editing, but I don’t see that he’s given Myras the same scope—”
“If the pageant grosses ten thousand dollars, Mrs. Clara says she’ll put another ten thousand toward the construction fund. Think of it! a Little Theater all our own!” Excited and conspiratorial whispers ran through the Pleasaunce, “—and for the water scene why not have the chorus float across the sky as moons?”
Jean watched Earl. He hung on the fat girl’s words, and spoke with a pathetic attempt at intimate comradeship and jocularity. The girl nodded politely, twisted up her features into a smile. Jean noticed her eyes followed a hearty youth whose physique bulged out his plum-colored breeches like wind bellying a spinnaker. Earl perceived the girl’s inattention. Jean saw him falter momentarily, then work even harder at his badinage. The fat girl licked her lips, swung her ridiculous little dog on its leash, and glanced over to where the purple-trousered youth bellowed with laughter.
A sudden idea caused Jean to hasten her work. Earl no doubt would be occupied here until lunchtime—two hours away. And Mrs. Blaiskell had relieved her from duty till three.
She took herself from the hall, disposed of the cleaning equipment, dived up the corridor to Earl’s private chambers. At Mrs. Clara’s suite she paused, listening at the door. Snores!
Another fifty feet to Earl’s chambers. She looked quickly up and down the corridor, slid back the door and slipped cautiously inside.
The room was silent as Jean made a quick survey. Closet, dressing room to one side, sun-flooded bathroom to the other. Across the room was the tall gray door into the study. A sign hung upon the door, apparently freshly made:
PRIVATE.
DANGER.
DO NOT ENTER.
Jean paused to consider. What kind of danger? Earl might have set devious safeguards over his private chamber.
She examined the door-slide button. It was overhung by an apparently innocent guard—which might or might not control an alarm circuit. She pressed her belt-buckle against the shutter in such a way as to maintain an electrical circuit, then moved the guard aside, pressed the button with her fingernail—gingerly. She knew of buttons which darted out hypodermics when pressed.
There was no whisper of machinery. The door remained in place.
Jean blew fretfully between her teeth. No keyhole, no buttons to play a combination on…Mrs. Blaiskell had found no trouble. Jean tried to reconstruct her motions. She moved to the slide, set her head to where she could see the reflection of the light from the wall…There was a smudge on the gloss. She looked closely and a telltale glint indicated a photoelectric eye.
She put her finger on the eye, pressed the slide-button. The door slipped open. In spite of having been forewarned, Jean recoiled from the horrid black shape which hung forward as if to grapple her.
She waited. After a moment the door fell gently back into place.
Jean returned to the outer corridor, stationed herself where she could duck into Mrs. Clara’s apartments if a suspicious shape came looming up the corridor. Earl might not have contented himself with the protection of a secret electric lock.
Five minutes passed. Mrs. Clara’s personal maid passed by, a globular little Chinese, eyes like two shiny black beetles, but no one else.
Jean pushed herself back to Earl’s room, crossed to the study door. Once more she read the sign:
PRIVATE.
DANGER.
She hesitated. “I’m sixteen years old. Going on seventeen. Too young to die. It’s just like that odd creature to furnish his study with evil tricks.” She shrugged off the notion. “What a person won’t do for money.”
She opened the door, slipped through.
The door closed behind her. Quickly she moved out from under the poised demon-shape and turned to examine Earl’s sanctum. She looked right, left, up, down.
“There’s a lot to see here,” she muttered. “I hope Earl doesn’t run out of sheep’s-eyes for his fat girl, or decide he wants a particular newspaper clipping…”
She turned power into her slipper magnets, and wondered where to begin. The room was more like a warehouse or museum than a study, and gave the impression of wild confusion arranged, sorted, and filed by an extraordinary finicky mind.
