New Celebrations: The Adventures of Anthony Villiers (15 page)

1

Early in 1462 C.E. On the planet of Shiawassee in the Tanner Trust.

N
IGHT IS IRREGULAR.
What is not done in the daytime becomes possible at night: murder and sex and thought.

Simple men are driven to early beds by tomorrow’s daytime demands and by fear of the dark, and never dream of the irregular world outside. And all the while, a viscount and a spaceport baggage boy might be passing the night rolling bok ball in the city park. That’s more than unusual—that is irregular.

The viscount was Anthony Villiers, no ordinary viscount. He traveled under his family name for the most part, and reserved his title for moments of advantage. He was young, slight and brown-haired. By avocation he was a traveler. By profession, he was good company, and he was good enough company to live well more months than not.

Circumstances had forced Villiers to spend a night in the park. To be frank, he was being hunted. He was adaptable enough to settle comfortably into the arms of a park settee, open a book, and read in companionable silence. The book was Morgenstern. The companion was a bulge-eyed alien named Torve the Trog.

“
Thurb
,” said Torve the Trog, as was his wont.

Torve was a white-bellied, brown-furred toad, six feet tall. His eyes were a unique blue. He and Villiers traveled together. If you asked why, Villiers might say that friendship was the key. Friendship was present, but it came after the fact. In truth, Villiers did not know why they traveled together. If you asked Torve, he might say something about lines of occurrence, a Trog philosophical concept that translates best as “coincidence.” I don’t know why they traveled together, but both seemed satisfied with the arrangement.

Warm fingers of night probed between the dark silent houses and felt the texture of the midnight streets. Lights, the shadows of night, fell on the street and park, and cast true shadows as echoes.

“Thurb,”
said Torve the Trog reflectively. His compositions—this was composition—took their form in his mind. What passed his lips were occasional fragments being tested for body and shape.

“Hey, mister. What is that?”

The speaker was a red-headed young fellow in the nether regions between boyhood and sobriety. His clothes were cheap and casual. His manners were common. His question—head nod, hand wave—referred to Torve.

“I am Torve. I am a Trog.”

The young fellow was startled. “You speak.”

“Of course,” Torve said mildly.

“No offense intended, I’m sure, but I’ve never seen anyone like you before.”

“Thurb,”
said Torve, losing interest.

“
That
was it. That was the sound I heard.”

“It’s art,” Villiers said. It was a matter of faith for him. He had only Torve’s word.

“Oh, is that all?”

An opportune note on which to end a conversation, one would think. However, the boy didn’t go away. He squatted and looked at Villiers and Torve, who had returned to their own pursuits.

The boy said, “How about a few thalers? You look like you could stand it.”

“Why do you need it?” Villiers asked.

“Hey, look—no questions. Either give me the money or not. I don’t owe you any explanations.”

Villiers closed his book—no marker, he could find his place. “What’s your name?”

The boy stood at this evidence of more exacting interest. He half-turned and then said, “Gilfillian. Sergei Gilfillian.”

“Well, Mr. Gilfillian . . .”

“Hey, don’t call me that.”

“Pardon me. It’s my usual manner of speaking. Would you rather I called you Sergei?”

“Yeah.”

“I wouldn’t give you money for nothing, Sergei. I’m not sure I’m that curious, either.”

“Yeah, but why should I have to depend on your liking my story to get the money?”

“Because that’s the way the world is. Everybody is looking for entertainment.”

There was another considerable silence, but Villiers did not return to his book. Sergei shifted from one foot to another. Torve bounced his paws in the air as accompaniment to the throbs in the amphitheater of his mind. He was never bored on rainy Sundays.

Finally Sergei said, “How about some bok? Do you bowl?”

“For pleasure or for money?”

“A tithe a ball. If you can’t spare the change, just say so.”

The boy obviously did not expect to lose. Villiers regarded him steadily for a minute, then set his book aside and stood.

“Ten minims a ball it is,” he said. Entertainment should be paid for, and he meant to be entertained.

Around the park rose cupolas, steeples, towers and turrets, the hallmarks of modern architecture in the Tanner Trust. The style had been late to arrive in the Trust, and having arrived had settled. As they walked to the bowling run a spaceship split the night to the east, momentarily back-lighting the spires. One crisp rumble followed it down.

“That’s the Intrasystem coming in from Pewamo. It’ll be going back in the morning. Red or green?”

“Green,” said Villiers. He picked up a green ball.

Sergei casually rolled a small metal boulder down the dirt run. Then with considerably more care he laid down a slow red roller that arched around the boulder and came to a stop less than a foot beyond. Villiers was an excellent fast bowler, less excellent slow. Slow bowling was called for here, however, the boulder making brisker measures impossible. It took him three balls to gently better Sergei’s shot.

Bok is the best of all bowling games. The ground changes from one game to the next as the boulder stops wherever it happens to stop. Force has its place, but so does finesse. There is satisfaction in a solidly rolled ball that takes an opponent out of play, and another satisfaction in slipping a slow ball through a guarding pack.

Sergei had the closest ball in the first game, leaving Villiers ten minims in the hole. Sergei rolled the boulder back down the run. His honors.

He stopped before bowling his first red ball. “Do you see the planet just above the roof there? That’s Pewamo.”

“I see it,” Villiers said.

“If you look closely, you can see its moon. It’s to the left.”

“I think I can see it. Yes, I see it. How do you happen to know all this?” Villiers shed his coat and drapeau. It was too hot to retain them and bowl.

“I work at the spaceport,” Sergei said. “I’m in Baggage.” If that is an explanation. He bowled and Villiers easily bettered it with his first ball.

Villiers said, “Ah, yes. I’m going to the spaceport in a few hours. We’ve got a ship to catch.”

“For Mandracore or Duden?”

“For Mandracore,” Villiers said.

“I like the sound of that name,” he added. “Mandracore. It’s not the only reason to go there, of course.”

“How do you happen to be out in the park at night like this?” Sergei asked.

“A mix-up in reservations,” Villiers said. Not true. In fact he had been the house guest of Lord Broccoli, a host as yet unaware of his guest’s abrupt departure. “A few hours in the park seemed harmless.”

“I had a mix-up in reservations myself,” Sergei said, bowling. He won that game, too.

When they changed to the other end they could see that Torve had attracted several admirers. Two boys of the same age as Sergei but dressed more expensively were watching and listening to Torve with the kind of solemn attention usually reserved for the world at large by children of three.

“Them,” said Sergei.

When they had changed ends and changed ends again, one of the two was gone, but two others had arrived. If you listened, you could hear,
“Thurb.”

“Them,” said Sergei.

“You’re an excellent bowler, Sergei.”

“Yeah,” Sergei said. “I practice, if you know what I mean.”

At first glance, Villiers was not impressive. He was young, mild, well-mannered, well-dressed, and essentially ordinary. At second glance, he had considerable charm. At third glance, he was obviously the sort of person around whom things happen, and why hadn’t you noticed that before? We won’t even mention his hidden virtues.

Villiers was curious about Sergei, as he was curious about many things. Whimsical curiosity was one of his major failings of character. He was curious to discover whether Sergei was sensitive or merely touchy.

By the time Villiers’ charm had opened Sergei enough to get his story out of him, Villiers thought sensitive, though he wasn’t completely sure. These estimates depend as much on aura and movement as on words. What Sergei
said
was:

“My mother locked me out. She’s ticked off at me.”

Now does that sound sensitive?

“I told her I wasn’t mixed up with the X Street guys anymore. They kicked me out because I argued about everything. The police aren’t looking for me, but that isn’t good enough for my mother. I was involved. So I’m out.”

The money was to get to work and for walking around. Sergei was on the morning shift.

Villiers contrived to lose four thalers thirty, the bulk of it near the end of the night.

“I don’t play often enough,” he said by way of formal excuse. “When I do, I get arm-weary. I’m going to be stiff tomorrow.”

He picked up his coat. As he put it on, Sergei saw his Grene and McKenna curdler in its coat holster.

“You carry a
curdler
?” Sergei asked.

“It’s
de rigueur
in my circles,” Villiers said in excuse.

“Oh.”

When they turned from the bok run, Torve still had three observers.

“Them.”

“Who are they?” Villiers asked.

“They’re yagoots,” Sergei said with distaste.

“Oh. Money and nothing to do.” Villiers nodded.

The type is familiar throughout the Nashuite Empire. Hoop-rollers and kite-flyers, at best they are harmless wastrels, at worst public nuisances. The Gilfillians of the world have no use for them, of course.

“Come on over,” Villiers said.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that.”

“Look, Sergei, you can talk to me. If you can talk to me, you can talk to them.”

“But you’re different, Mr. Villiers. You’re not like them. Besides, I got to get off to work.”

Villiers simply pointed toward Torve and then waved Sergei forward. Such was his strength of personality—or perhaps it was the force of an unpaid four thalers thirty—that Sergei actually walked in the indicated direction.

At closer range only two of the young men with Torve were yagoots. The third was dressed with impoverished flair. A student, obviously. He was seated a separating distance from the yagoots and watched Torve with penetration.

Villiers said to Torve, “It’s time to go. Mr. Gilfillian is going to share our flitter to the spaceport.”

This time Sergei made no objection to being called Mr. Gilfillian. In fact he stood taller. He smiled.

Torve stood on his great flat feet. “Evening has been most pleasant. Tony, they understand
Frobb
much better than you.”

Frobb
is no more accurate a representation than
thurb
. The true sound of Frobb is a pulse-note to stir the heart. That Villiers was unstirred now, had been unstirred throughout their mutual acquaintance, and no doubt would remain unstirred, feast or famine, high water or low, may mean only that he was
Frobb
-deaf.

One of the yagoots stood. His clothes were an exaggeration of Villiers’. They tagged each other immediately as “young” and “old.”

“Are you leaving now, sir?” the yagoot asked. “Torve wasn’t certain when you were leaving or where you were going.”

“Is essentimentally unimportant,” Torve said.

“We’re off to Mandracore,” Villiers said.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” the student said.

The second yagoot said, “I might as well be going now. Torve. Ralph. Excuse me.” He went his way, striding briskly off under the mother-of-pearl skies. However, before he was out of sight he began to skip.

The student folded his notebook. “I’m John Kettleborough. I’m studying Renovation Theory, but I’m really a poet.”

Sergei stirred uneasily.

“Anthony Villiers,” Villiers said. “And Sergei Gilfillian.”

The yagoot said, “Ralph Weinsider. I sing. I’ve got perfect pitch.” He sang a more-than-acceptable chorus of “Dawn Passage” to show that he could.

John said, “I was going to say that this has been the most stimulating night of my life. I can see that it’s been that for you, too.”

There was cinnamon in his voice. Ah, but you know—students and yagoots.

Ralph nodded. “It has been. Nobody like Torve ever comes here. I wish you were staying longer. Say, would it be possible to chip in on the cost of the flitter and go out to the spaceport with you?”

“Me, too,” John said belligerently.

“Of course, you, too, John. I meant you, too.”

Villiers considered the suggestion and then said, “Certainly. Come along, gentlemen.” He looked around him. “I had a book. Let’s see, it was there, I think.”

But plainly it was not where Villiers had left it. The trouble with books as pets is they can never completely be trusted.

After a moment, Ralph said in a subdued voice, “Fillmore took it.”

“Your friend stole my book? Morgenstern?
Color Selection in Galactic Pantography
?”

“Yes,” said Ralph. “We all matched for it. He won.”

“You, too, John?”

John nodded.

“But why Morgenstern? I’ll never find another copy of that around here.”

“That’s just it,” John said. “Admiral Beagle would never allow that radical a book to be sold.”

“Radical?” Villiers said. And, “Admiral Beagle?”

“Censorship,” said John.

“He’s my Uncle Walter,” said Ralph, in apology.

“He won’t allow anything but Mrs. Waldo Wintergood stories.”

“He’s married to my mother’s sister.”

“There’s nothing going on around here, and he’s the reason.”

“That’s right,” Ralph said, and John seemed half-pleased at the agreement. Half-pleased.

* * *

At the spaceport, Villiers bought some compromise clothes and rented a room. The compromise was between style and availability, with the emphasis on availability. While Villiers was changing, Torve wandered away in company with Ralph and John. That left Villiers to do his own hanging and draping.