New Celebrations: The Adventures of Anthony Villiers (32 page)

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G
IVEN THE RIGHT PREMISES, ANY DESIRED CONCLUSION
can be reached, automatic as addition. This is plain to most of mankind after a few years of experiment. Jumping to conclusions is an easy process, akin to cooking, which in fact it rivals in age. Pick your premises, follow the rules, and apple pie.

Jumping to conclusions is not without value. It is the core of art. But it is a dangerous business. Man entertained himself for years with notions of divinity and superiority—easy conclusions from a hundred sets of premises. The result was greater suffering than life makes necessary.

It didn’t occur at first that there was a problem. Artists of the actual were too busy messing around, experimenting, to realize the results of what they did—much as a careless chef might poison thirty banquet guests through experiment gone awry. Recipes in final form are easy to follow. It is harder to invent them, and it is commonplace for men to be too close to their work for others’ safety.

Once men realized the danger in false conclusions, of course they instantly reformed themselves, and as everyone knows have ever since been far more sparing in the making of them. We should all be congratulated, but the job is not yet done. Far more serious than jumping to conclusions is its antecedent—jumping to premises. The ideal man is not only sparing of conclusions, but careful about the premises to which he commits himself. Few of us are ideal, but many strive. It is another human pastime. Morgus Grimsby strove for the ideal. Even Lord Semichastny, in his own way, was a seeker of the ideal.

Every day it is possible to see the bravest and best among us reviewing their premises. We should be heartened.

* * *

Various people made their temporary excuses immediately after dinner, and Villiers and Harbourne Firnhaber were left in the library. The shelves were an untapped cache of the wisdom of the world. The books were old, of various heights and sizes and colors, filling the shelves around the room in an order carefully designed for maximum decorative effect. They were part of the original decoration of the house. Lord Semichastny had intended to line the shelves with representations, in conventional style, when by happy accident he had been able to buy a private library at a reduced price. The original catalog stood in the corner.

“Well, Cousin,” said Harbourne, “will you tell me what we are in competition for? I like to know where I stand at all times.”

Villiers withdrew a list from his wallet. He looked up. “You are considerably taller than I. On the other hand, I wear a mustache. For what could we possibly stand in competition? By the way, would you care to lend me your services?” He finished his examination of the list and handed it to Harbourne. “Have a look at the shelves while we talk and see if you can spot any of these titles.”

Harbourne handed the list back. “There’s a catalog in the corner.” He pointed.

“How very convenient. Our uncle should be congratulated. I hardly expected his collection to be catalogued.”

“Is your name Villiers or Charteris?” asked Harbourne. “You said Villiers. Uncle said Charteris.”

“It’s both,” said Villiers, beginning to thumb his way through the catalog. “Or either. Villiers most of the time. Uncle did seem insistent on the title, didn’t he? Perhaps to impress Sir Henry and Lady Oliphaunt?” It was non-standard cataloging, and required interpretation.

“Or to impress me,” said Harbourne. “I have no title and I’m not yet ready to assume one.”

“And you take me for a standard of comparison?” asked Villiers.

Before Harbourne could answer, Lady Oliphaunt entered the library. Her composure seemed shaken, but only for the fleetest moment. She set her chin, not only demonstrating spirit, but showing herself to better advantage, since her chin when lowered was not her best feature.

“Where is Sir Henry?” she asked.

“He and Charles left some few minutes ago to grapple with the fitting and production of his costume,” said Harbourne. “Won’t you join our company until his return, milady?”

“Thank you, Mr. Firnhaber,” she said. “I believe I will.” She glanced at the doorway and then crossed and sat gracefully where she could see and talk to both Villiers and Harbourne.

She said, “Have you chosen your costume, Mr. Firnhaber?”

“I have. For a time I considered growing my beard in random tufts and passing as a High-Liver of the 940’s, but in the end I settled on Ian Steele.”

“You shall have to assume a mustache, then,” said Lady Oliphaunt.

“So much less our differences,” said Villiers. “I shall assume Elaborates and match you in height, and then we shall be in competition.”

“You don’t mean to dress as Ian Steele?” It was a matter of importance to Harbourne. Ian Steele was his model, as he was the model for ambitious romantics everywhere, and Harbourne felt that no party should rightly sport more than one copy, and he had dibs on being that copy.

Villiers said, “Oh, no, I do not. I still doubt that I will attend the party. Affairs press. And if I do attend, I promise to forego the Elaborates.”

“What about the mustache?” asked Harbourne.

Villiers smoothed the mustache. “I’m afraid that we may collide on that point, Cousin. But then a proper Ian Steele mustache should be thinner and darker, no more than two definite lines. So perhaps our collision, if it should occur, will not be that violent.”

“It is a shame, Lord Charteris, that your affairs press,” said Lady Oliphaunt. “Your company will be missed.”

“It would seem that company is in short supply,” said Villiers, “but I do thank you, madam.”

“How long will you be staying?”

Villiers closed the catalog and looked up. “Long enough to speak with Lord Semichastny. My uncle and I have some small family affairs to settle.”

Harbourne considered him carefully. “And then you will be leaving?” he asked slowly.

“So I intend,” Villiers said. “Presently.”

There was a discreet bid for attention from the doorway. A mechanical dressed in an ensemble of cleaning and polishing attachments said, “Please excuse my appearance, good gentles. I’m most heartily sorry to show you myself in this state.”

“It’s all right,” said Harbourne. “We shall attempt to take no notice.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ve been sent to inform you that Lord Semichastny would like to see you now in private conference.”

“Who was sent for?” asked Villiers.

“Mr. Firnhaber, milord.”

“Well,” said Harbourne, with some satisfaction.

“Ah,” said Villiers. “In that case, Cousin, we shall excuse you.”

Harbourne rose from his straight-backed chair, nodded and said, “Until later.”

The mechanical excused itself, rolled out of his path, and then away into the depths of the house. Harbourne’s departure reduced the illumination in the room, and may well have produced some fleeting illusion of greater intimacy. Otherwise it would be hard to explain why Lady Oliphaunt, a married gentlewoman, should have spoken to Villiers in an unsuitably casual manner.

She said, “Harbourne always sits in straight hard chairs. Why do you suppose he does that?”

“On occasion, I used to do it myself,” said Villiers. “I think it is due to some residual belief in the superstition that there is a relation between hard chairs and keen wits. I’ve ceased to believe in it myself.”

“I can remember when you did,” she said. In her mind, earth shifted and waters mingled. “You mean
that’s
why you sat on the chair all that night, Tony?”

“I was considerably younger then,” said Villiers. “Things were far more theoretical in those days and theories need testing. I believe that at one time, I had ambitions to be Ian Steele, until I tried it. And there was my vegetarian phase.”

“Truly?”

“No, not truly. I have a friend who is a vegetarian. I’m not sure I care to recall the exact letter of my own particular list.”

“You have changed, Tony.”

“Ah, yes. The mustache. I’m not sure that I’ll retain it for long.”

That was not precisely what she had in mind, but she was apparently able to accept it as an appropriate approximation, for she simply smiled.

“May I ask what was causing you distress when you entered?” Villiers asked.

“Was it that obvious?”

“I would say that it was.”

“Lord Semichastny—your uncle, Tony?—dropped an overripe melon at me on the stair. He blamed it on a careless mechanical and made it beg my pardon, but I’m sure it was he. We were acquainted once on Livermore, and he still presumes.”

“A melon?”

“Yes. He always took delight in thinking of things to do with melons, and I believe he was attempting to remind me in indirect fashion.”

Villiers said, “Yes, I do remember your acquaintances. I believe that you introduced me to several.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. She had the grace to blush, but her complexion was dark, her hand with cosmetics was heavy, and the lights were dim, and the gesture passed unnoticed. If we want to be aware of what people do for us, we must be alert. “I did. But Tony, it was Livermore, after all, and things just are not the same there. Sir Henry and I were married on Livermore, and that’s a proper measure.”

“Will you tell Sir Henry of my uncle’s attempts to renew acquaintance?”

“Renew?”

“No? No.”

“Tell Sir Henry?”

“No? No.”

She sighed. “And to what end?”

“Is it like that?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Oh,” he said. “Well, I, too, have long felt that Livermore was an unusual place. I need to recover from my second visit before I attempt a third. I don’t know if I owe you thanks for taking me there in the first place. I probably do. If so, you have them, Amita.”

She said, “I thought you needed cheering. It was so romantic. You had just eloped with your wife to be divorced and you were such a sweet boy.”

“Is that how you remember it? I hardly recognize myself.”

“Oh, but you’ve changed, Tony—didn’t we agree? And I hope you’ll shave that mustache, for it doesn’t suit you.”

Villiers touched the mustache again. “It is possible that you may be right. Perhaps I should end the experiment.”

“Oh, where is my husband?” she asked with some impatience. Whatever reservations a wife may have with the married state, a husband is still a husband.

* * *

The fac machine was located with convenient proximity to Lord Semichastny’s game room. Its principal use was not to supply costumes for the yearly masquerade, but rather to add an extra dimension to Lord Semichastny’s occasional private parties. Where his personal pleasures were concerned, he did not skimp or scrimp. The costumes his machine produced were a redolent lot positively guaranteed to put you firmly in character. He, his guests, and relations had had many a gay romp as heroes and monsters and creatures of wonder.

Charles rolled over to Sir Henry and said, “If you will, sir, that’s a uniform, not a costume.”

“It looks like a costume,” said Sir Henry.

The set was a green polka-dotted silk sarong, a diaphanous blouse and an orange tarboosh.

“It’s a uniform, and no doubt I shall be wearing it at the masquerade, sir,” said Charles. He took it from Sir Henry and replaced it on its rack. “But I shan’t enjoy wearing it. Now, if you’ll permit me, sir, I’ll take your measurements while the fac machine is cycling.”

Sir Henry temporarily balanced on one foot while a measurement was taken. “What is it that you object to in your uniform?”

“Orange? Me in orange? Milord Semichastny chose orange deliberately because he knew I shouldn’t like it.” This seemed loose talk to Sir Henry, extremely loose. It is all very well to give robots Limited Volition, but not if it is going to be abused.

“Pardon me, sir,” said Charles, and dialed for the Trog suit. “I think you made an excellent choice, sir. This costume—Lord Semichastny himself wore it at a party last year. Mrs. Armbruster was Semiramis Among the Doves.”

Sir Henry said, “See here! There is a natural order in things. If Lord Semichastny picked your uniform, I’m sure that he had a very good reason in mind, and it isn’t your place to question his judgment. I find my Presentation Uniform unsightly, but if they ordered me to wear it, I would. You should do the same. Smile through.” That is, this is what he intended to say. In actual fact, before he was much past “natural order,” the machine began to produce the Trog costume and distracted his attention, and consequently a certain amount of conviction and force was lost. The suit was of gray shading to olive. And to Sir Henry’s eye, the great lolling empty head spoke of all the friendliness and good intentions one could ask for. “Smile through” was no better than a mumble.

“My word,” he said. “That is fine.”

“So Mrs. Armbruster thought,” said Charles. “She gave me a dove to keep. May I help you into the costume, sir?”

The costume swallowed Sir Henry exactly, so fine were Charles’s measurements and the machine’s ability to suit. Anyone who did not know a Trog at first hand—which is to say, nearly everyone—might easily think him one. A telltale sign were his eyes. The eyes of a genuine Trog are a divine and lumined blue. Sir Henry’s eyes were lumined and blue, but lacked the true sparkle of divinity. But not everyone would be able to catch him on that, lacking first-hand experience of Trogs.

“This is marvelous,” Sir Henry said. “I shall have to show Lady Oliphaunt.”

His voice was somewhat muffled because he hadn’t yet mastered the controls of the suit. It was quite an engineering marvel. With practice, one could work the controls and walk and talk and pass for a genuine Trog. The suit had sanitary features and a snack shelf and reservoirs for as many as five drinks. A cheaper version of the suit only had one reservoir, but Lord Semichastny and personal pleasures . . . Sir Henry said, “Show Lady Oliphaunt,” over and over until his voice came clear.

He waltzed a little circle to see if he could, quite forgetting himself and his proper dignity as the hand of the Emperor in this sad corner. Or it may have been the final carefree moment before the assumption of his responsibilities. In any case, it was a mistake. Creatures with Limited Volition should be treated with consistent reserved distance lest they be confused and misled into overstepping themselves.