“In that case, let me go and return again,” Villiers said. “I have other business here on Delbalso. I’ll return after peelgrunt.”
When Villiers had gone, shown to the door and into the night, Mrs. Parini said behind the closing door, “He’s really quite nice.”
“Villiers?”
“And you always make money from him.”
“Twice.”
“I don’t know why you don’t like him better.”
“Who said I didn’t like him?” said Parini. “He just isn’t our sort of people. You can’t really say so, can you? Now that he’s grown past the stage where he will believe everything you tell him, the best policy is to keep things friendly, but distant. Businesslike.”
“Well, I suppose,” Mrs. Parini said.
“Of course I’m right.”
“Yes, of course,” she said.
“I have news,” he said. “There was good word. It’s definite that Treleaven is not leaving Delbalso. The flam is still codger. We’ll strip him bare and be gone before morning.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” she said.
* * *
Night had firm possession of the quiet tree-lined streets as Villiers set out for the closest flitter central. There was a faint underlying chill in the air. There were no pedestrians on the street, and Villiers only saw a single City Car slide by on its overhead rail. People were locking themselves into their houses and tucking up, even though the night was not far advanced.
If thoughts of the names of assassins and, perhaps, of papers were on his mind, it would be understandable. His thoughts marched to the threnody of the Christian’s bells, swinging clear and cold over the streets stacked along the hill.
After some minutes, Villiers came in sight of the flitter post. It lay at the foot of the street slope, a rainbow pillar topped by a mushroom roof. There was a flitter waiting.
Villiers turned into the street, but before he had taken more than a few steps, he was surrounded by a group of men in identical blue.
The men—there were three—were all of sober years. Their suits were cut to no pattern that Villiers had ever seen on the street before. They consisted of knee-length pants, shirts of bright blue, and belted blue vests. And the men wore lively peaked caps, blue and nappy.
One of them said, “Are you a Marvel or Wonder?”
One must attribute their strange behavior to their unusual costumes. Men of that age are commonly a settled lot, not given to ask philosophical questions of strangers in the street chance-met. But even settled men can find a jaunty cap and feather unsettling. What questions they might be given to ask if they dressed like Socrates must be left to the imagination.
3
THERE ARE THOSE WHO HONESTLY BELIEVE IN the superiority of the High Culture. There are those who truly believe it is the norm of the Nashuite Empire. And there are those who believe it is the norm because it is superior.
According to this myth, the sons of Nashua, tall, bright-eyed and bursting with energy, swept forth in an unturnable tide to swamp the universe in the name of their Emperor—honor brighten his name—because their way of life made them better than everyone they encountered.
This isn’t the way things happened. Nashua did not in fact impose its power and culture on a reluctant cosmos.
People have reasons for getting together: trade, gossip, stimulation. Say that a thousand years of space travel had divided humanity—a reluctant planet might be hustled into the dirty job of putting in lines of communication and trade, and then double-shuffled into the boring routines of administration. In that case, it would be kindness to allow the planet to think of itself as an Empire.
Homage to the Emperor? Emperors are sacrificial victims. A small thing to grant them their illusions.
The superiority of the High Culture is such an illusion. In the first place, there are two “High Cultures.”
The bastard High Culture that most people know is merely the tradition of Nashua, altered and simplified into a lingua franca. It provides a convenient common ground for men who need a convenient common ground. For the simple souls who mind the machinery of empire. For merchants. For that minority of mankind which in a lifetime travels from one planet to another. This High Culture touches everyone in the Nashuite Empire in at least some small way, but it is the home style of no one.
There is another High Culture. It, too, is based on the tradition of Nashua, altered and intensified. It is the native lifestyle of a minority on Nashua, and ever smaller minorities as one travels from Nashua, until it might pertain to twenty families, or five, or one, or none. It is the High Culture of aspiration for those who never caught on to the unvoiced secret that Nashua’s power is a polite fib. And it is no general norm.
Cultures are games played to common rules—for convenience. The High Culture, while not superior to very much, is a fair-to-middling game, and that is all.
* * *
“If you follow my advice,” said Lord Semichastny, “your first official act will be to review the Winter-Summer Laws.”
Lord Semichastny was an erratic prettified prune, spry and dirty, dressed in pink silks. Well he might seek review of the Winter-Summer Laws since they had been passed specifically to encourage him to leave Delbalso. That a dozen other families were affected was an accident. Lord Semichastny might have had the grace to be ashamed, but was not.
However, Sir Henry Oliphaunt, the new Empire Administrator for Delbalso, said, “From what you give me to understand, milord, it does not seem to be a matter properly subject to Empire review.”
They had impressed upon him that he should be careful in his administration, and this suited him. The position was a dull one and Sir Henry was the very man for the job. He was middle-aged, round of face, round of body, and five years married. He had accepted this position, his first for the Empire, out of a sense of duty come unexpectedly over him as an answer to his sense of finitude.
They were in the library of Lord Semichastny’s country maison. The four persons present were each illuminated by a cone of light, minor illumination which Lord Semichastny said—and perhaps believed—provided them with a feeling of greater intimacy. Lady Oliphaunt’s dark beauty was well set off by the soft lights that made her claim to only thirty years more reasonable than it might have seemed in another setting. The fourth person was Harbourne Firnhaber, introduced as Lord Semichastny’s nephew. He was a pale, thin, well-dressed, well-mannered young man and he sat upright in a hard chair.
Lord Semichastny’s summer home was set in the heart of a broad flat green farm. There were trees like furled umbrellas planted around the house and in lean graceful lines between the fields. The soil was rich and deep. The nominal crop was grass at this sod farm. The true crop, of course, was topsoil, laced together by grass roots.
There were gardens around the house, and an extensive melon patch. Lord Semichastny had a taste for melons. He raised seventeen varieties of melon, and had tasted more than a hundred of the one hundred and seventy-two varieties known to him. He was less fond of books. Of all the books he owned, he had looked at no more than twenty, and the one he read most frequently was on the subject of melons. It had one hundred and seventy-two exciting plates. Lord Semichastny thought it was a good book.
The house sat alone, without near neighbors. No one lived close enough to see or hear, though this had not kept word of Lord Semichastny and his ways from reaching the town. These matters were easier to settle in the days of banishment, plain and straight.
The house was dark, but full of noise. The mechanical staff was hard at work readying the place for Lord Semichastny’s traditional end-of-the-season masquerade. They needed no light to work, and got none. They dressed the house in gay clothes, and stuffed geese with bread and rice and mushrooms. Far from leaving, Lord Semichastny was preparing the most magnificent event he had ever offered. His usual, in fact, was nothing close to magnificent. Lord Semichastny was cheap. However, he was not stupid. It made sense to him to host a m
asquerade and invite the new Empire Administrator and his wife. They were his house guests for the night, and in the morning Sir Henry would assume his new position.
Lord Semichastny again rang the direct connection to his robot butler, Charles. Charles was in charge of the house. He had been designed to run this particular house, and had been uncanned here. It was his life. His peers had regard for his abilities, but thought him limited.
“Damn it, Charles, where have you been!” Lord Semichastny demanded.
“Answering the door, milord,” Charles said. “May I announce Mr. Nathan Treleaven.”
Lord Semichastny should have known where Charles had been. Answering the door was not a normal part of his duties. Machines do, butlers think, as Charles would have put it. Lord Semichastny assigned Charles to answer the door when he wished for some reason to humiliate him.
“Good evening, milord,” said Mr. Treleaven. Mr. Treleaven was an elderly man with only one story. He had been to Nashua once in his youth—on a Wu and Fabricant Gentleman’s Package Tour, though he never mentioned that—at the time of the notorious personal execution of Morgus Grimsby by the present Emperor’s grandfather, who did not understand Grimsby and killed him in consequence. Mr. Treleaven had considered himself traveled ever since.
“Arrived a bit early, aren’t you?” asked Lord Semichastny. “Stay here, Charles. I shall want to speak with you. Well, Treleaven, the party hasn’t started yet. Do you presume on your invitation? Oh, your pardon. Sir Henry and Lady Oliphaunt. Sir Henry is the new Administrator. I was just speaking to him about the Winter-Summer Laws. And my nephew, Harbourne Firnhaber. I don’t believe you’ve met.”
Mr. Treleaven showed his manners. Some months before his trip he had been primed by a traveling master of manners, and had used the same repertoire ever since, gradually and happily growing old-fashioned. He displayed a Dying Swan before Lady Oliphaunt.
“How like my grandfather!” she exclaimed, very prettily and well-practiced.
Mr. Treleaven was charmed. He said that he was charmed and regretted that he would not be able to enjoy more of her company.
“You won’t be attending Lord Semichastny’s party?” she asked. There was an appealing hesitation in the manner she said “party.” She said it as though there were two words and ended with a smile and questioning eyes.
“I think not,” Mr. Treleaven said. “In truth, I’ve not had any great taste for parties since a certain occasion many years ago on Nashua.” That was a road to his story.
“Oh. Have you been on Nashua?”
“Not in recent years. But many years ago, I—”
“And Sir Henry Oliphaunt,” said Lord Semichastny. “Nathan Treleaven.”
“I believe I recognize your name,” said Sir Henry, “but I’m not sure of the connection.”
“Before your appointment I signed a petition addressed to your office.”
“Oh, yes,” said Sir Henry. He set aside his book. It was a catalog of those costumes that Lord Semichastny’s fac machine was prepared to deliver. Lady Oliphaunt had already examined the catalog and found it insufficient. Sir Henry, on the other hand, had found a costume that he thought he might like. “As I was telling Lord Semichastny, I don’t believe I have the authority to do as you ask. I passed your petition on.”
“That is what your predecessor said.” Mr. Treleaven was confirmed in his reservations about the Rock. Though he was not a native of Delbalso, he shared native opinion about the Rock and those who lived within it. Not all who labor for Empire are feckless, but if a man had a predilection for fecklessness, Mr. Treleaven felt that laboring for Empire would bring it out.
He nodded to Harbourne. “Another nephew? I’m not at all certain that we’ve met.”
“Probably not,” said Lord Semichastny. “It’s an extensive family. I have any number of nephews.”
This was not true, but Lord Semichastny liked to keep up appearances. He had only one nephew, and that should be enough. As the sage Aldahondo said, “One sip of wine, one morsel of bread—a lifetime of memory and meditation.”
To Lord Semichastny, Mr. Treleaven said, “I’m bound from here to the Rock. My son-in-law has engaged a charterboat.”
“Are you saying goodbye to them?”
“I’m saying goodbye to you. I decided on the moment to accompany them. My son-in-law and daughter and her second—a sweet girl, bless her—are all the family I have.”
“You said you’d stay until the end and lend a hand in oversetting the law.”
“I changed my mind.”
“You said you’d come to the party. And Gramineous, too.”
“No, we’re going now,” said Treleaven. “I’m dropping all my business and walking away. Fight your battles, Geoffrey, and when you’ve come away, visit us in Adeeb.”
“You lack staying power,” said Lord Semichastny. “Except for that single story.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Sir, you have only one story. You tell it twice an evening and I’ve heard it now for roundabout thirty years. It was minor when you told it first. Minor!”
“And what is it that you refer to?” asked Treleaven in some puzzlement.
“Ah, never mind,” said Lord Semichastny. “A stone. A stump. Charles, throw him out.”
Lord Semichastny waved at the door. Charles, obedient to this latest order, said, “Follow me, if you will, sir.”
Mr. Treleaven, at the door, said, “Good evening, Sir Henry; Lady Oliphaunt; Nephew. Goodbye for now, Geoffrey.”
“Goodbye,” said Lord Semichastny flatly, and opened his book on melons. The picture he turned to was of a particularly succulent Divino Abbandono with green-on-gold surface and olive interior and the flavor of heaven. He had tasted a Divino Abbandono once and he found the picture a comfort.
Lord Semichastny? He was not a simple man. He heard or did not hear as it suited him. He understood or did not understand as it suited him. He had his plans and he changed them frequently. He was not above abusing his hospitality with Lady Oliphaunt on the stair—and well for him that she had not taken it to her husband. As a child he had enjoyed mud, and his taste had not altered, though his definitions had broadened.
After a moment he looked up, “Where did Charles go?” he asked.
Sir Henry said, “I believe he is seeing Mr. Treleaven to the door. By the way, I think I have the costume I want right here. This Trog costume. You see? Friendly, wouldn’t you say, milord? I think it will make a proper impression. Demonstrate to everyone the excellence of my intentions.”
The picture to which he pointed did present a friendly appearance. A large furry toad.
Lord Semichastny rang irritatedly for Charles. “An excellent choice, I am sure. I’ll have Charles assist you.”
Lady Oliphaunt had risen and begun a desultory examination of the shelves, Lord Semichastny’s compounded rows of untouched books. She was joined by Harbourne Firnhaber, having explicitly and wordlessly invited him. Lord Semichastny appeared not to notice, and did notice. Sir Henry looked at them vaguely, and noticed nothing.
She said, “Tell me, Mr. Firnhaber. Will there be a party?” She asked it in a low voice.
Her eye, because she had that kind of eye, had looked at him carefully. And her head, which was intermittently cool, had thought not. Times had changed and five years of secluded marriage had altered her notions of the desirable.
The noise of preparation was audible. Harbourne touched a finger to his ear and raised his eyebrows.
“Yes,” she said. “But who will be there? These laws seem to be driving milord’s guests away.”
“A few,” said Harbourne. “Isn’t it fortunate that you and I aren’t affected? As a transient and the wife of an Administrator, we have nothing to keep us from either traveling or staying.”
He had entertained ideas himself. He recognized that he and she had much in common in their approach to life, and was consequently interested, if wary.
“Ah, at last, C
harles,” said Lord Semichastny. “At last.”
“I was just answering the bell, milord.”
“I told you that I wanted to talk to you, did I not?”
“Yes, milord.”
“I told you to stay, did I not?”
“Yes, milord, but subsequently you ordered me to escort Mr. Treleaven to the door. And then the bell rang. I do have your order to answer it, milord.”
“True,” said Lord Semichastny, “but insufficient. You will simply have to learn better how to distinguish one order from another.”
“Yes, milord.”
“All right, Charles, grovel.” Lord Semichastny rose so as better to dominate the robot. “No, no protests. No excuses. Grovel and declare your fault properly.”
Charles did not grovel immediately. No protests, no excuses, but he did produce a strangled inarticulate grating sound. He rolled in a tight frustrated little circle, round and round so tightly that it was more a shimmy than a circle.
“Down, Charles. Grovel. I want the feeling of real penitence.”
Lord Semichastny shook an imperative forefinger. At last, and with great reluctance, Charles flopped onto the carpet. He looked at Lord Semichastny with reproach, and then began to dig and whimper. He put no heart into it.
“Louder,” said Lord Semichastny. “More feeling. And who are you, sir?” This to the young man standing in the doorway.
“Your nephew, or so I believe,” the young man said. “My name is Anthony Villiers.”
“I should have known, of course,” said Lord Semichastny. “It’s that mustache. It doesn’t suit you at all. It makes you look older. If you take my advice, you’ll have it off.”
“Pardon, milord,” said Charles from the floor. His grovels had slackened, but increased again when Lord Semichastny looked down. Voice obscured against the carpet, Charles said, “Milord, dinner is ready for service. I’ve just received the signal.”
“All right, Charles,” said Lord Semichastny. “No, don’t stop. Not until I tell you. Charteris, you’ll stay for dinner, of course. And there is my annual masquerade later tonight. You’ll want to join in the occasion, I’m sure.”
New Celebrations: The Adventures of Anthony Villiers Page 32
